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