CURRENT MISSION

Why I’m on Couchsurfing

HOW I PARTICIPATE IN COUCHSURFING

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COUCHSURFING EXPERIENCE

I have stayed with some wonderful families and was able to see a culture up close and personal. Authentic travel experiences away from prepackaged sterile touristic agencies. I like to be able to give something of myself also. The best experiences have included learning how to cook local food dishes and learning meditation-yoga practices.

Interests

I am interested in traveling and meeting great new people. Lists of favorites are movies, history, politics, sci fi, sports, scuba diving,living life to the fullest.

• animals
• cats
• dogs
• birds
• fish
• arts
• culture
• books
• singing
• architecture
• beauty
• beauty pageants
• festivals
• oktoberfest
• dancing
• dining
• cooking
• chocolate
• wine
• beer
• desserts
• yoga
• running
• working out
• meditation
• walking
• partying
• drinking
• clubbing
• shopping
• clothing
• flowers
• politics
• news
• cartoons
• movies
• tv
• traveling
• billiards
• cars
• socializing
• drawing
• magic
• stamps
• music
• country music
• equestrian
• fishing
• hiking
• backpacking
• camping
• scuba diving
• bungee jumping
• christian
• muslim
• sports
• boxing
• business
• emergency services
• history
• journalism
• languages
• military science
• religion
• sign language
• tourism
• beaches
• mountains

Music, Movies, and Books

I love classic movies first of all, sci fi, drama and comedies. Love the Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Dune, Narnia (all Tolkien and cs lewis books). Read hundreds of good and bad books. Love most all music but favorites are ska, zydego; raeggae, jam bands, pop music and then all the rest.

One Amazing Thing I’ve Done

The close melting pot of countires and cultures in my European Vacation...... HERE IS JUST A SAMPLE...IF YOU LIKE THEN READ ON...When I left off Palermo Sicily and Catania Sicily were in the middle of a wonderful and long lasting festival of litter. Even the birds like seagulls or pigeons took time out of their busy schedules to endlessly bring more garbage to the glorious pile and spend much effort in the constant sorting and rearranging the small piles of garbage. The interesting life of the pigeon must be explored in depth at another time. The people were also participating in this exciting activity of adding potato chip packages, cigarette butts, containers, shopping bags and other necessary additions to the otherwise bleak and dreary landscape of the glittering Mediterranean. These objects seem to flutter endlessly into bushes of bright colour and add texture to otherwise un-unique places such as gutters and palaces. In all of the activity I became amazed that in other places we waste such a unique opportunity and put those things into garbage bags and hide them in large piles.

After the New Year I took a side trip to Africa. It was so much easier than imagined; from Sicily I simply boarded a ferry to Tunisia. I was a little worried about the safety record of the ferry/ transporting company. Having a record that includes the leaving of the ferry bay doors open while leaving dock is the nautical similarity of forgetting to take your hat and boots off before getting into the bathtub. Or walking down the streets wearing nothing but boots and a hat.... I have been having recurring dreams along that theme...I hope it does not mean anything more serious to look out for in the recesses of my brain.

Arriving in Tunisia I was pleasantly surprised to find that country to be very safe, stable, clean and friendly. I am not sure what factors have lead to it being such a self sufficient and stable place because they do not have oil or any exceptional national resource other than political stability.

Tunis is the old colony and then capital of the Phoenician Empire and after some nasty wars with Rome became a Roman colony. The remnants of the old settlements in Carthage and archaeology sites were easy to walk around and to visit. The art was good, the archaeology museum was amazing; the markets were very fun to walk around in and try to haggle for the best prices. I am not sure that I wanted any rugs or fun outfits, but the process was fun and I did end up carrying some things that I only marginally wanted in the first place. That could be an interesting metaphor for life itself, but lets not go down that path. There were such good sales pitches, in order to visit the old palace and harem roof with a view of the city you have to view all of the rugs and hear the well researched sales pitch. It’s all so difficult to walk away from. Also, whenever there is a price to be haggled over or just looking at interesting things in a store a cup of tea will appear as if by magic. Even if I am on the side of a mountain and someone is selling something a tea will appear. Thank God that the amount is small otherwise I would have to go to the toilet every ten minutes. I think that my bladder has already evolved into the size of a small country.

The little town of Sidi Bou Said was quaintly beautiful with white buildings, blue trim and unique doorways. It looked like the buildings in the Greek Islands with only the addition of Islamic doorways. It was very quaint. The most interesting thing was that the second day there was an Islamic festival and everyone sacrificed a sheep and ate it for dinner. The next day was devoted to cooking and eating the heads of the sheep. All over the city people were burning off the hair on heads and legs before cooking them in the street over open fires. Not the greatest delicacy I have ever had, but it was tasty. Horse meat had become a commonly eaten food for the previous week also. But, don't tell my equestrian friends.

Southern Tunisia was where Star Wars was originally filmed at the city of.....get this.....Tatoonie. The local people actually wear the Ben (Obi Wan Jedi Knight) Kenobi robes and a close version of the sand people outfits. I was very tempted to buy one, but resisted the force.

I took the ferry back to Palermo Sicily and then a flight to London. For a few days I was able to see the sights and sounds of good old London. I have seen many of the tourist things there before, but since there are so many things to do there I was not lacking in options. My favourites are still the changing of the horse guards and the changing of the Queens guards at Buckingham palace. The British are expert in the art of pomp and ceremony. Nobody does it better. It is magnificent to watch.

Another highlight is the speaker’s corner at Hyde Park. There were mostly religious people spouting off every brand and flavour or Christianity and Islam. The biggest crowds were around a silly man with a dog who was mostly having fun and talking about how the problems of the world can be attributed to women and especially women driving the streets of London. He was good at getting the women in the crowd mad and talking back to him and making comments. I don't think it was possible that he believed everything he spouted, because he was so off the charts in thinking and he was far too quick to laugh at himself also.

The British are quite cool and very ready to have a good laugh. I love those people some of the best in the World. They are not able many times to see that they are fun and unique in the world. They don't see themselves as unique, the most frequent idea is of an old empire with tons of old trophies, but none of the ability to win a sports game because the old colonies beat them every time. But go with me here for a minute and see if you don't recognize the great quality of the British in the ability to be happy and laugh. Watch two stiff upper lip Brits in conversation and sooner or later one will say something to make the other laugh over some joke or quip or dry ironic idea. It won’t be more than a minute or two. Other nations will spend hours talking in Businesslike ways and not let it get humorous. The Brits cant help it...except on public transport, where nobody but the terribly strange, mentally ill, beggars, train enthusiasts (who also masquerade as mentally ill or backpackers) are the only ones who speak and nobody want to be stuck in rush hour talking to a loony (or a backpacker) so that is the main humor exception. Even the political debates are funny and cool. In America we don't have anything to translate “taking the piss out of someone”. It’s in Bloody English and yet the idea can’t translate and is so fundamentally essential to being British.

Also, little treats and teas and desserts can elicit the best squeals of pure delight from Brits. They have the best delight from some of life's littlest pleasures and I love that about them. It’s like when holding out a box of something really tempting like, rich chocolates or treats in a box and a Brit will be hesitant and worry that it is excessive, as if pleasure beyond the acceptable modest threshold might be written upon an ancient stone tablet somewhere against them.
"Oh, I really shouldn't have it," they say.
"I really insist, it’s your favorite," I prod them more.
"Well, since you went to all the trouble, Ill just have a small one then." With the glance over the shoulder and a gesture they look guilty as if they have done something truly evil, like as a true fruit of the devil himself. How fantastic can you get?

The area of Greenwich was also very interesting. I was at the prime meridian line playing hopscotch over the center line of the Western and Eastern Hemispheres. I’m in the West, no, now I am in the East. Ha. Can't do that sort of thing everyday can you?. I am sure that some truly interesting and rich person with their own airplane and few normal hobbies could do just that sort of thing. That person might be a lot more interesting, but I don't know him either.

Where to next?

I would have loved to go into all of the unique and different places in Britain. I spend just an hour with the index of any given British map or Atlas and am just tickled pink with all of the unique names of exotic things and places. Their flowers are called; get this, stitchwort, lady's bedstraw, bluefleabane, feverfew and hundreds more entertaining names. The Brits are just genius for this naming things, but never more evident than the abundant and amusing use of place names. If there are truly 30,000 place names, then half are amusing, interesting, or weird enough to take note of and have an intense instant desire to do a serious socialism study as to if the weird names effect the inhabitants in any lasting way or just jump on a Bus and go there right away to confirm suspicions with my own eyes. There are villages without number that conjure the idea of a lazy summer afternoon sipping on a mint julep with swarms of butterflies and running through a meadow: Winterbourne Abbas; Weston Lullingfields; Theddlethorpe All Saints, Little Schmadling, Straford upon Avon. Names that conjure the idea of mystery, hidden things not to be scratched beneath the surface, ancient and dark secrets......Husbands Bosworth, Rime Intrinseca; Whiteladies Aton. Some have doubled as toilet cleaners....Potto; Sanahole; Durno. Shoe deodorizers..Powfoot. Skin conditions….. Scabclech; Whiterashes, Scurlage, Sockburn. Attitude problems... Seething; Mockbegger; Wrangle. Harry Potter Magic and Socories....Meathop, Wigtwizzle, Blubberhouses, Prittlezell, little Rollright, Chew Magna, Titsey, Woodstock Slop, Lickey End; Stragglethorpe; yonder Bognie; Nether Wallop. With just a short peruse down the listings of the British index gets your imagination bubbling and wanting to throw all caution to the wind and just explore these exotic places that deserve for some mysterious reason to be named something unique.

Great dreams and beautiful inspirations, but instead, I just took a flight to Jarez, Spain. A little town of not much noteworthiness nor a really cool sounding name. The next town was Cadez, Spain. Some good history, very pretty, nice beaches but a brutal Atlantic wind that made every layer of clothes I had on feel like paper and paper clothes are not my stylistic taste. In Milan they wear crazy things like that, but I am not in Milan and also, my name is not Bijork. Therefore, I was off to Seville, Spain. Here is a real treat. This old city has the greatest architecture, with a mix of Christian and Arab styles; the huge Cathedral was once a mosque and has numerous additions in different styles. There was a World Exhibition that left many old beautiful buildings with tiles everywhere inside and outside and is mesmerizing to the eyes. The royal palace was built by Christians, it looks like a Muslim building that was stolen or converted, but the truth is the Christians adopted....copied the Muslim style. It’s terribly interesting and beautiful.

Next stop was the city of Cordoba Spain. For hundreds of years it was a Muslim town with over a million residents. The mosque was therefore a massive affair and still is even after being converted into a Christian Cathedral. The most interesting feature is the rows and rows of columns that are toped with double arches painted with red and white striations. There are a few double horseshoe arches also and some very beautiful tiles and inlaid marble for the mihrab. It’s a very architecturally unique and special place. There were great gardens and statues to famous Muslim philosophers, doctors, hydrologists and architects that have contributed to the spread of classic knowledge of society. They had contributed so much in the times of the dark ages in the West when so much was lost and the classic thought and philosophy of Greece and Rome was almost lost. It is too bad that some radical and extreme elements have made such a strong impression on the world about a religion or how those ideas are warring in everyday society today? A good example is that of the Cartoons from Denmark and the resulting rage. I randomly wandered into a protest about this issue two days ago, but that is another story altogether that I will save for a different day.

Went to Granada Spain next and that deserves a totally different day and different message.
I hope that things are looking good on your side of the pond. I am in Morocco right now; in Marrakech to be exact. I am heading down to Mauritania through the Western Sahara Desert and through the occupied territories next.
There is nobody to speak to and nothing to do in Dakhar. It is the last town of note before the Mauritanian border and is a military outpost. I had an extra hour before leaving so decided to mail a small package for my parents. Six hours later after a distressingly difficult mailing experience that turned out to be the hugest diplomatic red tape can of worms. I could never have imagined such a silly long process to mail a package.

Note to self and all involved...... Never!!..... and I repeat never!! try to mail something from a military occupied territory!!!

Let me do a bit of raving myself to get this off of my head. I
went to the post office and waited in the longest disorderly line of an hour
only to find out that I could not just mail the package internationally; nor
buy a box or stamps, I had to go to another location. Thankfully, one of
the people there wrote the name of the place on a piece of paper. The taxi
driver went to the general location and to the street, but did not know
where the office to inspect packages was, so we drove around for half an
hour before giving up. But, I went to the first soldier I saw and he knew
exactly where the place was a half mile down clearly marked in three languages off the main road. Thankfully, there are more soldiers than townspeople living here so you would think that directions would be easy. Anyway, after waiting in line for the inspector
to look at the items he tells me that he cannot look at the package without
everything inserted into a partially taped box. I had to go back across
town to the post office to wait in line to get a box, buy a roll of tape and come back.
After getting the box, buying the tape, going back to the inspector, getting
everything examined closely, taping up the box very, very securely, going
back across town to the post office, standing in another long line only to
discover that it is the same price as a huge package I mailed two weeks ago
in Marrakech, they only offer airmail (or so they said).

The price to mail the package was double the value of the contents. I removed the contents, regular mailed the postcard and paper souvenirs, ate the food gifts, gave away the tea to the cool restaurant I have been going to three different times and repacked the rest. I have had
enough of this lonely frustrating day so took a diazepam to calm the day.
As a little side note, those little things can be collected out of a pharmacy here like candy and
for the same price...am I in México and did not realize it§§ ......guess not since the question mark key is mislabelled. After the fiasco now permanently named 'Operation Going Postal' I can join the ranks of abused civil servants and understand the previously unknown attraction for postal workers to suddenly blow their lids off and everyone around them.

After such a harrowing day I returned to the oasis of a hotel only to find further calamity as I collected my dry laundry that decided to migrate off of the nice clean clothesline onto the really dirty patio, repacked and left in time to finally see an internet cafe and partially compose this message.

On a funnier note, I try to follow the customs of any place that I am in so therefore in this area of Western Sahara I will be forced to close down all functioning along with every business, do nothing in the heat of the day. Suddenly, when the blaze of a sun is setting I will in a semi liquid state walk around, or more appropriately name it after the dance move that it so closely resembles and term it "sashaying". Along with the entire local population just to walk, do the shopping and socialize. It was during this period that I followed the crowd and ended up walking for one hour. Finding myself tiring from the endless walking I played foosball with some local boys until my coins ran out and then went to a little restaurant because
there was nothing else to do, even though I was not terribly hungry. After
doing the prerequisite determination, or bartering as is necessary in other
places but clearly not here, of the exact cost of the meal. The kindest
older gentleman who owned the restaurant brought out not a fish sandwich as I
had ordered, but six small fried fish, chips, water, sauce and bread. After
I had finished he brought four more little fish and even though I was
getting full he insisted I eat them. This marketing ploy of overfeeding and overcharging has occurred before and so I was a bit wary, but his attitude was honest. At the end he still insisted on
charging me only the prearranged ten Durham for the fish sandwich. I tipped
him heavily, left the restaurant all the while making note of how to find it
the next day and followed the half hour long route back to the hotel to
reread "The Alchemist", a book I have read already twice. Stopping only briefly to listen to
the oddest, most displaced country music barrage coming from a small
clothing store that looked no different from twenty other stores with the
exact same products, but Shania Twain was the first voice I could
understand in the past four days and I did not realize how badly I needed
just a little bit of home. In the morning I went for a small walk and found
the foosball store just two blocks away from my hotel and the little
restaurant just a few paces around the corner. Boy, did I feel stupid and
lucky at the same time since I found myself hungry and it was one of the
only open things in the daytime.

Later that day the restraint owner would unwittingly find himself the proud recipient of the tea, biscuits and other things that were destined to oohed and aahed over as tourist oddities by my family members if it were not for the evil conspiracy of postal workers in "Operation going Postal".

While I am on the subject of good stories I will relate an event that struck
me as culturally significant. As I was aimlessly walking down some random
street in Marrakech a large procession of people came up the street singing
and yelling very loudly. Behind them were large carts filled with plates
representing tons and tons of food, another cart for gifts, another cart for
sweets. The most interesting thing about the procession was the high
pitched ah ya ye ye ye eye ye from the women that is reminiscent of American
Indians on the warpath. I am not sure if I was witnessing a wedding
procession, a circumcision procession; a war procession or something
in-between. Just joking, but I felt really special to be able to witness
something so dramatic and culturally cool.
Tarroundannt

As my second day in Tarroundannt Morocco going with my host Isham (who is a
beginning real estate agent and I am helping him by photographing numerous
properties) I realized that I was very tired. I was totally ready to collapse into bed at the deliriously late hour of 11:30. I stumbled towards my cheap hotel.

After the customary greetings and good nights that are certain to fill at
least ten minutes of time before making it into my room. I then plodded
upstairs only to find that there were way more people on the patio then I
remember since the morning. I don't think much of it except for seeing a
three or four year old child outside of my hotel door playing. I made a
mental note to the effect of thinking it is truly past the young child's
bedtime if the parents want to have any semblance of control over the child’s tired screaming the next day. But the joy of backseat driving and
childrearing is that you can be the perfect diver and the perfect parent
without any of the hassles of paying for gas and vehicle maintaining and
never having to deal with things like dirty diapers, sleepless nights of
crying, desperately trying catch the runaway toddler who was there a moment
before and the ever present fear of teenage years. Also there is the
reality check that as a backseat drivers and sideline parents really doesn’t have any power to enact your opinions except to annoy others into getting your bullying way. With that thought following closely on the heels of sending the child off to a reasonable bedtime myself I quickly sidelined
that idea, unlocked my door and entered hopefully going towards the lumpy
concave mattress.

During the act of undressing and brushing my teeth at the same time I
have worked up a slathering mouthful of white foam. It is filling my
gaping maw and beginning to drip down my bearded chin. I know that I
closely resemble a rabid dog frothing from the mouth and don't care in the
least. Not remembering that the sink is hopelessly clogged I begin to spit
only to be reminded by the leftover pieces of my own facial stubble. I know
that spitting will require ten more minutes of helping the white goo down
the drain. I stand without moving for a minute or two trying to make my
sleep deprived brain make a decision. I decide it might be faster not to
brave the throngs camped on the terrace on my way to the communal toilet and sink and the embarrassment associated with having to shuffle around in
slippers or to put back on my pants with a now toothpaste filled hand and
trying my best not to do an impression of a rabid animal. Therefore, I
carefully spit and let a tiny drip do the work for me.

The moment I climbed into bed I swear that the decibel level doubled. I lay
in bed thinking that my exhaustion would overtake the noise. Instead, a
half hour later I realize with increasing frustration that the noise was not going to abate, but was only destined to increase. This is not a night in my Munich youth hostel dorm room during the beer drinking festival of
Oktoberfest; this is a hotel of families and older people. At midnight I
think that I have every right to assume that the other people also paying
for a hotel room would be interested in sleeping in the rooms that they have parted with their hard earned thirty dirham. Therefore, there must be some kind of cultural confusion that I am so apt to be a part of.

I try to be sensitive to different cultures and customs, but inevitably I
screw up. One recent example is my discomfort in not having anything to
drink at mealtimes only to be presented with sticky sweet tea at the end of
the meal. At different times my requests for water with food and and less
sugar in the tea have brought looks of horror to the faces of hosts and I
knew the cultural blunder has just occurred. I come to find out drinking
anything during mealtime signals you would rather fill up on water instead
of the hosts cooking and less sugar in the tea I still don't understand so
therefore I just accept the earlier onset of diabetes as matter of course.

Since the assumed cultural mishap must therefore not be intentional I try to wait it out. Only the noise still does not get less and the hour is not
getting any earlier I truly do not want to be another tourist that does
not care about the customs of the areas. I believe that I try very hard to
be sensitive to the local customs. I am not used to the hours that many
cultures have; case in point.... the entire Mediterranean. I don't care if
it was in Italy, Spain, Tunisia, Sicily or now Morocco I can not get used to the restaurants being closed at dinnertime because it is not convenient to the local siesta time. Dammit, I still get hungry at 6:00 or 7:00 in the
evening no matter what I do. I realize that it can be sizzling hot in the
summertime and sleeping through the intense heat of the day is the only
possible thing to do. Therefore, they must have lots of energy late at
night. This theory is being proven right now as I am typing because it is a
Thursday night thirteen minutes after midnight and the local Hammam
(bathhouse) was completely full so I have retreated to the next door internet cafe and am happy to spot two free computers out of forty.

But in regards to my tired brain and not being able to fall asleep in the
cockroach infested hotel with the slimiest shower I have ever seen outside
of cultivation chambers and Petri dishes I must admit I was ready to blow my lid. Since there was going to be cultural confusion I was going to add to it in a most demonstrative way. I cracked the door to make sure the kid was not there and no women were present, knowing full well that my next action would have crossed far too many cultural boundaries to not end up in jail or closely watched by the tourist police. The coast was clear and so to the five men camped directly outside my door I opened the door wide to present myself clad only in my brief (not boxered) self. In broken French I
requested some quiet for sleep. Hell, in that state of undress I could have
asked for world peace, Al Gore's election recount with hanging chads and
all, or even a slice of German Chocolate cake, anything .... and they still
would have speechlessly had to close their open mouths then quietly move to
loudly talk in another location far away from the weird tourist.

After the apparent late night party the day started with the customary call
to prayer by the mouadin at the wee hour of 6:30. I usually am able to fall
back asleep but all of the late night friends were checking out of the hotel at the same time and decided to rearrange the furniture in the process. I did make it back to sleep; but my nerves did not get the deep relaxing sleep that they deserved. I got up desperately realizing my need to run to the bathroom; as I am much better at not peeing on my shoes in this new process of hole in the floor Turkish toilets I proceeded without caution. After my much needed toilet break I used the customary bucket of water flush only to discover that the toilet was plugged and I have only added to the problem.
I did not realize that it was possible to clog a simple hole in the floor,
but I can attest to the fact that it is possible. I must realize that it is
more common than I would expect, because included in the small room is a
handy plunger. I reached for it unhindered only to find out that the last
user of the plunger deposited a small present on the handle and carefully
concealed this small deposit towards the wall to give the most pleasure to
the next user.....me. As my fingers closed around something that squished I
recoiled in horror and for a few moments refused to look at my hand. When
the appropriate amount of courage was built up I looked at the offending
glob sticking to my fingers only to confirm my worst suspicions that I was
the proud holder of someone else's turd.....literally.

I used the bucket to clean the plunger and my hand and then used the plunger
on the toilet. After finishing I tried to work out a new and different way
of applying a fresh layer of turd to the handle of the plunger but my adult
conscience would not let me get away with a prank that would have been
second nature to my adolescent brain. I decided immediately attend to the
cold shower that has the most mysterious ability to grow a fresh new layer
of funky floor mold each morning. I wonder how I can be the first person to
use the shower each day. I know that I am the first because the door is
locked and I have to get the key each morning and then use the squeegee to
clean the floor. Where are the herds of people that were awake so late,
rose so early, got dressed, joined the chorus of call to prayer at sunrise,
packed, rearranged all of the furniture and then checked out? Where did
they shower?

After carefully examining each article to be packed for hitchhiker
cockroaches I packed and left the hotel gladly never to return.
______________________________ ______________________________ __________________

I did more photos for real estate today. Saw many houses and took many
photos. There was an important person in town for some reason or another
and the police force was especially intrusive. Therefore, we had to forgo
some of the adventures for safety and went different directions for a few
hours. Murad went off in a different direction behind a couple of very
snotty European girls that I never could figure out what country or
even language group they belonged to. After I found my way to the palace of
the sultan now made into a hotel. I tucked in my shirt, put my sunglasses
on top of my head, put my scarf on like a painter, journalist or homosexual
prowler and walked right past the concierge like I belonged. So I treated
myself to a few luxurious hours by the pool along with the over sixty
British crowd that could afford such a hotel. At just five nights in that
hotel my entire trip would have to come to an end and I would be without any
transportation money from the airport, not to mention eating no extra
airplane snacks.

During a brief interlude in taking photos of houses for sale my host (and
the true brains behind the real estate adventure) talked Adil into letting
me ride the motor scooter. After a quick fill up at the gas station I began
to make a sight of the city walls only to have the power suddenly and
inexplicably give out. The motor scooter was running fine until suddenly a
new noise appeared and the power ended. I found myself on the side of the
road trying to bring the scooter back to life and fearing that I had
inadvertently done something to kill it permanently. I then proceeded to walk the scooter back to the cafe in the heat of the day. I was greatly relieved to later discover the trouble was only a spark plug.

Its 11:30 at night here and I am still mystified about the schedule here in
Africa. In Islamic countries Friday is the biggest day of the week with
special food, special festivals, bath day and most of the stores closed.
Last night the bath house was completely full and my host friends and I
could not get in until 12:30. I can take my typical daily shower and shave
in about 10-15 minutes, but the common timeframe is two hours of stretching,
scrubbing, talking, more scrubbing, more stretching, more talking, someone
possibly a total stranger giving you a painful stretch, more talking, some
laying around on your back or front in the dead skin of the previous person,
shaving, removing the last layer of skin left in a final dry scrub. Oh,
each scrub is done with a mitten that has the coarseness of number 2
sandpaper....I’m not kidding it sometimes burns when you use it. You can't
reach the middle of your back, but everyone seems to be expected to rub each
other. It’s just the cultural norm. It’s not just the back, its the entire
backside. I was told to lie down on my chest and open out my arms full
eagle spread. I expected this in the typical scrub down, what I did not
expect was to be scrubbed all the way up in my crotch until my testicles
were touched. That frankly was a bit higher than I expected, but it was in
no way sexual or erotic. Anyway, you can literally see huge clumps of your
dead skin ball up. That is something that I can accept as normal on a
weeklong camping trip when I scratch behind my ears and a little ball of
dead skin forms, but not really across my entire backside. Nor is the
thought of twenty five other men having shed equal amounts of skin in the
same location before me. It is normal and I am getting used to it. We were
done at 2:30 in the morning and went back to the house. What I did not
expect was to have a full Tanjine supper ready and waiting. I was not
really hungry, but to refuse would be rude. Eating dinner at three in the
morning as normal routine is just still very different. Thank goodness
there was no pressing business to get up to until 10:30 the next day.

We in the West are mystified about the inclusiveness of the Islamic culture,
everything is done together, very few things are alone, very few people do
things that draw attention to themselves and they are very happy about it.
Inversely, they are just as mystified about our Western Individualism, they
cannot understand how someone would travel alone, but it gives a special
status, because they assume I have no family that can travel with me and
therefore I should be adopted into their family. Case in point... I typed
this about five minutes ago and had to scroll up to add this story about a
man in an arm cast that is walking around the computer cafe giving out cups
of tea to the patrons. It’s very thoughtful and cool even though it is
exclusively the domain of an even dozen 20-30 year old males including me.
It’s not an upscale place where I am paying for this kind of special service,
just a regular cyber cafe where even the seemingly individual use of a
computer is done communally. The music is for everyone to hear, and its
been really good classic 70's rock, Cat Stephens mostly. Right now it is
Peter Frampton Live album, really excellent piece of home.

______________________________ ______________________________ __________________

I am on the south slopes of the high Atlas Mountains area so I was headed
out to the mountains for a hike. I could not change the plans since the
backpack was safely stored in my hotel. I packed everything up and got
ready to walk only to discover that it rains even in the Moroccan spring.
But, I have come prepared with my clear plastic raingear. I get it out of
my daypack and attempt to put it on. Normally I can dress myself with
relative ease, but give me a pair of rain slickers and I immediately forget
how to do the simplest of things. I become a cross between McGoo and Mr
Bean. I stumble around the room knocking over things, hopping on one leg
for expended periods. At one point of hopping on one leg for what felt like
five minutes I stumble into not only the wall, knock over a table, hit my
head on the exposed bulb posing as the rooms only lamp, spill my water
bottle, hit my shin into the upturned table, put my stocked foot into the
spilled water and then manage to get my other foot caught up in the straps
of the backpack. After all of this I manage to get the slicker on and go
out the door. After only a few minutes I realize there is something
terribly wrong......

Try this little experiment with me, take you fingers and begin to tap them
repeatedly on top of your head. Continue this for ten minutes or until you
notice that it really bugs you and that everyone in the room is looking at
the demented person tapping fingers on their crown. Now that you look as
stupid as I looked in my rain gear, imagine that your fingers are hundreds
of raindrops falling on your head and you have no power to stop it. You are
really annoyed with the rain because now each step produces more and more
mud caked onto the bottom of your shoes. I begin to look like Frankenstein
or Herman Munster from TV, or maybe one of the fruit of the loom guys,
possibly the 'can't control your bladder' or 'plastic pants' fruit of the
loom guy who never made it onto the TV commercials for obvious reasons. The
rain slicked path is treacherous and one single bad step could send me
hurling down to the base of my little mountain valley squashed like the
overblown overripe piece of condom fruit I resemble.

On the other side I made it to the piece of semi pavement that passes for a
road and decided to stay on that easier surface. My legs ached, my back was
sore, I could feel developing blisters, my feet were beginning to squish
around in my shoes and life was a bit unpleasant. When a car passed me I
gave up my lofty ideas of spending the whole day hiking, so I stuck out my
thumb to hitchhike. When they stopped to pick me up I breathed a sigh of
relief. I have learned many things in my travels and one of them is to be a
successful you must know when to stop.

Teach, Learn, Share

COME TO RABAT BUT DONT DO THE STUPID THINGS I DID AT FIRST. IF INTERESTED THEN READ ON........
I had trouble following the directions of the tourists I had met in the bar of the overpriced closing Hotel Chellah, because I received the directions IN A BAR!!!!!! But, I soon found myself in the Bar California which my guide book said stayed open late most nights. I was too happy to even consider heeding the fatalistic warning of the classic 60’s song “Hotel California” by the Eagles pumping out of the bad jukebox. The good news it was full of locals who welcomed me to come over and join them in a fresh round of beers. The bad news was the bar was fifteen minutes away from closing. The other good news they were all heading to another party and invited me to join them. The other bad news is the rest of this story…….

We all trooped outside and jammed ourselves into a petit taxi, which it turned out to be owned by one of the party crowd. I presumed that we were heading to a night club or after hours joint, but we were soon speeding towards the river and the outskirts of the city. Possible travel tip: do not get into a car full of strangers you've just met in the middle of the night in some seedy North African bar.

I asked where we going, fully expecting that the answer would be out into the desert. But for me it would be a one way trip. "Salee" someone replied, and that sounded like the desert for certain. So I summoned up my best fatalism, confessed my sins and tried to enjoy the slippery slope down to the burbs.

My guide book had told me that it was illegal for petit taxis to operate between cities, that privilege being reserved for grand taxis only. I guess someone forgot to tell our driver that. But it was not as big of a deal as the guy who forgot to explain what the little white lines on the road are for and why the rest of us drive on the right side of the road. But no where near as bad as the guy who did not explain the hidden meaning of traffic signals and wanting to arrive alive to the destination. Just after the third time we crossed a red light and before we reached the bridge, he pulled off to the side of the road. He did it in an unmarked unlit little alley lane which didn’t help my rather addled thought process. My fatalism did not have enough time to properly work and I began to sweat.

It turns out that the car guy did tell him those things and he only now remembered the removable taxi sign. He jumped out and quickly removed the illuminated taxi sign, which was held into place by a couple of bungee cords, and stored it in the trunk with two of our passengers. Now we were just another beat up old Renault. A few minutes later we rolled over the bridge, up the hill and into Salee. Shortly after that we pulled up to one of the endless streams of unremarkable dark and seedy apartment buildings that just screamed low income housing units in any language or hemisphere. This was the party and I was ready because my buzz was wearing thin.

The party consisted of lots of Berbers, young and old staring at me, while music blared from a boom box in the corner of a desperately poor two room apartment. I did not think they were strictly practicing Muslims since we met in the Bar California so I was expecting some typical form of sin like alcohol or hash. There was of course nothing to drink aside from water and overly sweet tea and my new pack of cigarettes have all been long ago smoked in the bar and taxi. It seemed everyone was under the impression that I, as the foreigner, non Muslim and only gainfully employed member of our party should be the one to provide the booze and more cigarettes…….. Of course no one had mentioned that before we got into the cab. I can still remember at this point how to get more, but of course the single French grocery store selling booze has been closed for hours and all of my desperate attempts at magically changing water to wine have thus far failed.

Things got much more awkward when one of the ladies began to imply through a mixture of Berber, Arabic, and pidgin French and English that I might be interested in going into the other room with her. Everyone else in the room seemed to agree with her and wanted to slap my hand in congratulations. The reality dawned on me in the middle of the hand slapping, but she proceeded to reinforce this proposition with rather universal and explicit sign language. She also implied that of course there would be a financial transaction involved. The super low amount of money requested was not the only warning sign…….

I was not really interested in taking her up on her rather generous invitation for several reasons. First and foremost, I was trying and so far succeeding in remaining AIDS free. Secondly, while Morocco does have some very beautiful women, lets just say that the lady in question wouldn't be wearing the winning scarf for Miss Morocco in any international beauty contests in the foreseeable future (unless it’s a dentistry rejuvenation). Finally I really don't consider that particular activity a spectator sport, and it was a rather small two room apartment with thin walls.

Thankfully the fatalism was back in full force and now I had the socially acceptable answer of no money on me thanks to the overpriced hotel bar tab (yin/ yang at work?). I'd tried to use an ATM earlier in the night and the system had been down (predestination?). I only had a couple of twenty dirham bills in my wallet and a secret emergency stash of $20.00 = 200 Dirham secreted inside my sock (skepticism!!!).

So we went back to the staring game again. Of course now we added a lot of smiling and head nodding just to break the monotony……….

After about another half hour of this raging fun party, which was fitfully dull by any standards. I decided it was time to leave. I smiled, nodded, stood up, wobbled, stretched, did the yawning universal sign language for tired, said my obligatory ten minutes of handshakes, god ‘s peace upon you (Salam Al’ Lekum), goodnight (M’SharFeen) and take care of your head (T’hella F’ Rasek) and then exited the apartment door and flew down the stairs. A couple of seconds later I was on the street.

Now of course there was one other problem. The taxi driver that had brought me here had promptly drove off after dropping us all of. Not so promptly as to get me to shell out for the fare of course while the other passengers stood sheepishly around giving the universal hand gesture for "I haven't got any money." Come to think of it I wasn't even too sure exactly where here was.

There were a couple of cars parked across the street. One of them was a twenty year old Mercedes with the words TAXI badly painted on it. I crossed over to it and looked in. Yup the driver, or at least someone, was passed out in the front seat. Repeated banging on the window and door achieved the desired effect, the driver woke up with a start.

"Taxi?" I yelled through the window. After he seemed to get over the shock of waking up and discovering some poor dumb bastard standing in front of his cab in the middle of the night, he nodded yes. I jumped into the taxi and yelled out "Rabat." I got another nod and away we went. I don’t even remember if he started the taxi meter.

Now the fun really began. It seemed that my driver didn't speak any French. Obviously English was out of the question and to be honest I don't think he was too up on his Arabic. Once we crossed over the bridge he looked at me and shrugged as if to say where to now. I’m sleepy, not the most coherent and have no idea what to tell him. Of course my guide book and city map are back in my room, so no pictures available. I vaguely remembered the beginning of my night and must of mumbled… "Chellah, Hotel Chellah"… and he smiled and we sped off.

The problem is that the Hotel Chellah is of course named after a famous Rabat landmark, the Chellah Necropolis an excavated Roman archaeological site in the south of the city. Guess where we started heading to????? I opened my eyes at one point to find myself in a déjà vu repeat of earlier events and almost freaked out. My petrified state of shock transformed into simple pissing my pants. Thankfully, I realized the error and proceeded to attempt my bad French and Arabic to get him to turn around, but it did not work. Banging on the car seat failed also to have him stop the car. Banging on the back of his head did get the desired effect …….

Desperate situations require desperate measures. I seriously considered throwing him out and driving the taxi myself. Then I realised that I had no idea where I was at the moment. I instead resorted to pantomime.

I remembered that there was a rather large Mosque near the hotel. If I could get him to drop me there, then I could find the hotel. Of course it never occurred to me that in a major city in a major Muslim country that there just might be more than one Mosque per square mile…...

I frantically began pantomiming praying, both Christian and Islamic interpretations of Allah Ak’bar in the hope that he'd get the idea. All this succeeded in doing though was to make him break out in fits of hysterical laughter. This by the way allowed me to observe that he thought little of the Moroccan dental system. On the bright side, he did seem to respect and use it more than the girl back in the apartment did.

Then it hit me. There is a railway station a few blocks from the Mosque. If I could get to the railway station, then I could find my way back. Frantically I began doing imitations of trains complete with sound effects and body movements since the obvious words of “Gare Agdal” produced no discernable results.

At first all this did was get him laughing again, along with applauding my amateur theatricals. Then all of a sudden the light bulb went off, his face changed and he realized I must not have been interested in Roman archaeology in the middle of the night after all. With a wink we sped into the night and ten minutes later pulled up in a recognizable location somewhere between the Mosque and the Agdal railway station. Not wanting to chance my luck any further and seeing the taxi meter at the extent of my remaining money, I jumped out and paid him off with the last of my Durham’s.

Ten minutes later I was dead asleep back in my bed with nothing left in my pocket but this story.

Countries I’ve Visited

Albania, Algeria, Austria, Barbados, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Canada, Colombia, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Dominica, Egypt, Estonia, France, Germany, Gibraltar, Greece, Hungary, Israel, Italy, Jordan, Latvia, Lithuania, Mexico, Monaco, Palestine

Countries I’ve Lived In

Barbados, Italy, Mexico, Morocco, Netherlands, United States

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