Moroc - January 10th, 2008

Monkeys.

When one does not perhaps know where to begin, one should always begin with one's best, which is, normally, monkeys. And in the relating of the last week of traveling through Morocco, that just so happens to be the end of the tale, and so from there I must admit, all things spiral outwards and downwards. (So if you find yourself in the reading suddenly lost, or rather, unfound, then think back to the beginning, and let the primative power carry you hence.)

As I mentioned before, Jessica gave me a trip to Morroco for Christmas, a stunning gift made possible only by audacity and EasyJet. (See: Discount Air Lines) With a week to spend traversing an entire country, we were excited at the prospect of abandoning our usual hardened travel routines, in some cases, that meant cultural sensitivity, but in most, it meant soap.

Giving in to the blitzkrieg style of backpacking that is often seen desecrating decorating international hostels, we wolfed down a formidable chunk of Moroccan highway during our visits to Marakkech, Ouarzazate, Zagora, Fes, Tangiers, and Gibraltar. In so returning to our frost-bitten London, I come to terms with the fact that I have not bathed since the year two thousand and eight. Which, I mean, come on, was a pretty banner year in hygiene for everyone.

Tomorrow morning I'll start the story in it's proper place, but for tonight, as the evening inches into the dawn, I'll content myself with chipping the sand and dirt from my skin, fumigating my clothes, and welcoming to my flat the growing menagerie of African skin tics I have no-doubt brought across the Mediterranean.

Araka fi ma ba'ad,

Nick.