Passage to India, volume 2

I've just realised, dear reader, that every post will start with journey back in time and space etc etc, as I am unable to offer a live feed.......

So please, dear reader, journey back with me through space and time to early March etc etc

I missed out a few things about the journey from Fez to Marrakech; it snowed on us in the Atlas; the many people that appeared at every hairpin trying to sell precious stones; the round of applause and kiss I got for overtaking two lorries; the overturned lorry around the next corner.

And the fact that all the hotels are called Auberge (doo do do do do do). Auberge (doo do do do do do). Auberge.

And the lovely; snake-hipped Abdul en route to the desert, he's the one on the right.

And the crazy spelling

Here is a lovely photo of me just after the second bout of the trots in Marrakech.

FLYING SOLO

After waving goodbye to Elena, I retired to my hotel room to sleep off the trots. Met Hassan (he's the one who wants a British bride, for papers, I'm surprised that so far no takers) and then took the bus to Essaouria. The coast!

Famous for surfing, it has a beautiful old town (medina) and a large, windy beach, plus shed loads of gulls. Smaller and friendlier than the big cities, the first two days I spent meeting folk and sitting in the sun.

 

Then came the rain. There are no real hostals (Auberge) in Morocco, so you meet people on hotel terraces or in cafes etc. This rain was neverending. For four days and nights it was thunder, lightning and rain rain rain. No one was around. Even the shops stayed closed most of the day.

I went from having company at all times to seeing no one. I signed up to go surfing. A Swiss couple joined up too. A more boring and wordless couple you will scarce find.

The surfing in the storms was great, big waves, lots of falling off, but did manage to catch a tube on a couple of occasions. Just growing the long hair now.

Two hours is your maximum time in the water as it's quite tiring. So lots of time - in the rain, hotel (Auberge doo do do do do do do) and the storms - to kill.

The end result of this solitary confinement was me taking this rather cheery photo of a sketch of the moon drowning.

I think we can all agree it was time to move on from Essaoira.

As Dire Straits sang so beautifully on their Why Worry track, there's always sunshine after rain, these things have always been the same, so why worry now.

SIDI IFNI

An 11 hour bus ride, 5 hours in Moroccan time, on a soaked bus, on the inside, meant the trip here started with a dose of the dreaded bum fungus. Let it not detract from a lovely place, warm, friendly people and the good times returned.

The hotel (Aubegre) I stayed at had live music and I even had my own roof terrace to practice some yoga

I met lots of crazy locals, including Bashir Madri, a musician who invited me for dinner with his family. It was lovely, gave me the first chance to speak to a non tourism industry lady in the form of his wife, and see how folk live.

What I wasn't ready for was the chicken purchase. Morocco is covered with shops like this, where I thought people bought the eggs produced.

The date is on the picture, how odd. Anyhoo, they just grabbed a chicken; lopped its head off and then cleaned it in front of the other chickens. Crumbs. Tasty though.

So Bashir and I had confusing conversations inbetween somed jamming and food and the Sidi Ifni dream continued with a visit to a Hammam.

These public baths are gender specific and is a sort of sauna with lots of buckets of water for throwing over yourself inbetween lathering up and scrubbing. You can pretty much lather and rub who you want.

I was befriended by a sailor with a stammer. We did some yoga together, he playfully rubbed my belly and took a sneaky peek at my behind when changing some two hours after I first went in. The homo-erotic experience was completed when I went back to his squat for a cup of tea. He told me he was looking for one special friend and did I want to stay the night. He had one single bed. I politely declined (he had a terrible moustache) and wandered home.

Legzira is a beautiful beach just up t'road from Sidi Ifni with spectacular arches in the rock.

As quiet as Sidi Ifni is, there is trouble afoot. Apparently, the demonstrations in this 15000-strong town have a huge  bearing on the national psyche. The good people of the village obediently had a demo on March 20, National demonstration day, but cheekily added another one on March 24. Watch this space.......

After a sun-drenched week, it was time to head 30k up the road to the 'hippy' village of Mirleft, using the ubiquitous Grandes Taxis. All of these are big Mercedes, and take six passengers; two in the front seat, four in the back.

Stayed in a house with a nice German guy called Philip, played table football with the locals, found 37 pence tripe and lentil dinners, and went to the beach. The old hippies complain that it ain't like the 60s and 70s no more, the kids just surf, play football and dance about.

I just talked to the animals. Gone were the scabby cats of Moroccan cafes, and in their place, canines. This little cutey stayed with me all day. 

Hmmm the date thing is back on. Will contact I.T.

TAFROUTE

Mountains!!

Rocks painted by bonkers Belgians!!

Cycling!!

It's about 30 degrees here, so am off for a swim in a river the locals have shown me. Lovely place this and thats everything bang up to date.

Am heading to the Happy Valley next week, for sight seeing, eco tourism and a trek......

Pip pip

xxxx

Passage to India, volume 1

Welcome, dear reader, and step with me, back in time, to January 25, 2011, at 0953 GMT, just outside Bristol bus station, England.


Our host was striding to catch the 1000 GMT bus to Bristol airport: The final supper in the UK was a delicious fajita mix, cooked by Rhiannon Shearman, as we see here.

And now dear reader, step into the warm comfort, on this biting winter's day, of my pants, and sit back, relax and stare up at the plump, pink clouds of my sphincter, where this tale begins.............


Checking your watch, as you break your gazing at my winnet free bum hair which sprouts from soft skin, you see it's 0954 GMT. Suddenly, the sphincter in the sky opens and a potent mix of loose stools, spices and liquid rains down, covering pant, skin and, dear reader, your good self.


Yes, with 6 minutes until the last bus for the flight, I had sharted, for the first time in many a moon.


With Rhiannon with me, I leapt into the toilets, threw my pants on the floor - nice pair of undies they'd have made for the finder - and smeared as best I could. Rhiannon; outside, laughing, whizzed me to the stop, gave me Imodium and water, and sent many texts of mirth as I made my uncertain and pantless way to the airport.


Relief came after going through security and finding wipes and open toilets, and a semi fragrant Tom headed to Barcelona, where a sympathetic hostess allowed me a shower before the festivities began.........




BARCELONA


Five weeks in this lovely city, with highlights too many to detail. Sobremesas (basically, put loads of food n booze on the table, gorge, and leave/sleep/pass out when you want), lovely people, beach walks, love hotel, terrace yoga, gin, general confusion about what on earth most people were saying, which everyone kindly explained especially Artu an Eu, concerts, food and wine, I had a great time.


They also go nuts for roasted calcots, a sort of not-so-oniony- leek type fella. Here's the lovely Arty-Party roasting them at a sobremesa

He ate about 100 of 'em. Emi made a wicke dsauce to go with them, everyone sagely adding that the secret is in the sauce. 


And a litre iof wine for 1.50 Euro. Can you beat it?




MOROCCO


First time for me in a Muslim country, marked by importing two litres of Venezuelan rum and a sausage the size of a horse's wanger. Morning locals.


Elena and I started in Fez in a posh Riad. Most chats with locals started thus:


To Elena: Where you from? Spain! Where? Barcelona.....Catalan.....Lionel Messi.....5-0 (reference to Barca beating Madrid 5-0 this season), wanna buy some hash?


To Tom: Where you from? England! London? No, ah ok, fish and chips, chicken tikka masala, bread and butter, wanna buy some hash? Good stuff


This was a constant theme, and remains so. I don't know how to explain I don't like bread and butter, or that you have it with fish and chips. Still, it's generally cheerier than the greeting you get for being English in Scotland......it never ends eh? hahahahahaha


Fez's famous Medina had us foxed as to where the good lord anything was, and it was as giddy as it was frustrating, but there was always time for some of the lovely sweet mint tea, get your hair cut or teach kids in town squares how to crack their knuckles before giving them a date to stop em crying......oops

We had a four poster bed too.


Next up, car hire, little Fiat, and how on earth to describe driving in Moroccan cities other than bonkers. It took me 3 days to work out that you just do what you want; as everyone else does. Simple, but still alarming. And look out for occasional lorries with men on top. As these men throw bottles at you. Not much to do up there I guess.


The open road to the mountains and the desert was beautiful, punctured with occasional stops at cafes for confusing conversations with people, the end result being some nice food and a coffee at most places. My French was slowly coming back, slowly, and Arabic was being practised with fervour.




HOTEL DOG


Not run by Bryan, but by Abdul, who is; at least, a lot taller than Bryan. But it smelt of dogs, so drinking plenty of rum and some firey orange stuff was the only answer. And that led us to Merzouga, the gateway to the Sahara, via an Oasis as the desert dream started to unfold....

The Sahara was great, the food, the sunset, the stars the ruddy force 9 gale at night, a great place.

Would have stayed longer if we'd had more time, but on to see the geological faultline of Morocco, the Gargantas of Toudra. This is me just pushing it a little further apart

My work is done........


And then


Sharia don't like it.......
Rock the Kasbah
Rockin the Kasbah


(Consider yourself lucky; I considered a Lionel Ritchie theme at first)


Amazing what folk can make out of mud.

MARRAKECH


Bonker's plqce, bonkers start. Drove into a croded market place while trying to find the airport. Elena kindly pointed out I was about to hit a motorbike, just as I was deciding whether to a) smash into oncoming car; b) hit a donkey or c) take out the crutch of an old lady. Happy times.


Then the taxi driver who tried to rip us off was a good start. Still, got sorted, went out, met some nice folk at the bread with mash and boiled egg stall (anyone want a Moroccan husband? Just for papers, Hassan, very nice, doesn't want to marry me, I asked) and giood times beckoned.


But the soup I had and Elena didn't meant only one thing - the trots for Tommy on Elena's last day. A lovely evening was spent with me on pan or asleep. No real photos of Marrakech then, but we did have a wander about.


More on Marrakech later as I will return there.


Tune in, in the coming weeks, for the next instalment, as Tom goes solo........I've been typing on this crazy Arabic keyboard for two hours and I can't do it anymore hahahaha, if anyone has any grammer hahaha points or says anything about my semi colon use (not related to sharting), hell mend ya.


Here are some sneak preview photos; everyone loves a teaser eh??

Pip pip
xxxxx