Snow Way, Dude!

Marrakesh, Morocco. Travel writers tend to exaggerate a bit. Flowery language is used to create a picture perfect world; one of far off realms, exotic locales, and endless beauty. They do this because they have to sell their literature in order to make a living, and strangely, romantic notions tend to sell better than ferocious diatribes. Nobody buys the travel book titled The Drunken Hellholes of Mexico. Sadly, hyperbole can become a necessary evil for these dreamy travelers. If they can't manage to sell their poetic pontifications they would just become a bunch of hopelessly unemployable hippies with no travelling money. Unfortunately, this desire to succeed makes for an extraordinary conflict of interest. Case in point, though little is written about it, prior to his career in politics Dick Cheney honed his particular brand of malevolent duplicity whilst writing cheery passages about the Middle East for Fodors. It's a shame really. A typical blurb about Morocco, from Lonely Planet, might read as follows:


If Fes is Morocco's spiritual capital, then Marrakesh is it's beating heart. Follow its twisting arteries to its pulsing energy source - the Place Djemaa el-Fna - a huge square in the medina where jugglers and storytellers jostle for position with snake charmers, magicians, and acrobats. Only in Marrakesh does this medieval pageantry survive.

Now I'm in no position to argue with Lonely Planet, they probably have lawyers. Let's just say that I strongly disagree with their word choice. For example, where they say storytellers, I might choose to precede that word with Arabic; and where they use the term medieval pageantry, I might use the phrase filthy pack of travel writing lies. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy Marrakesh, I most assuredly did. It's just that it really wasn't what I was expecting.

Arriving late, with our stomachs empty, Xander and I were hungry for food and excitement. Putting our trust in the infinite knowledge of our guidebook, we headed to the Place Djemaa el-Fna, in the center of the medina. The immense square was packed tight, everyone having obviously followed their own guidebooks. I'll be the first to admit that there was definitely energy in the air. As we entered the fray a traditionally dressed musician danced around us, his castanet-style palm cymbals clashing rhythmically. As he spun, a frilly tassel at the peak of his skull cap twirled skillfully around his head. It was exciting...and it lasted for about three seconds. He stopped, held out his hat, and aggressively pleaded for a tip before hastily moving on to the next set of tourists. We moved on to the celebrated snake charmers, a sight I was definitely excited to see. Now I don't know much about zoology, so perhaps it was merely the chill night air that had created the stupor in these venomous reptiles - or maybe they were dead. Three of these harmless critters lay on a carpet, limp and lifeless, the purported snake charmer playing neither fiddle nor flute. I think he was busy clipping his toenails. Upon our advance, one was quickly scooped up and placed over Xander's neck. They it lay, developing rigor mortis. "Take picture...take picture", crowed the handler, then proffered his hand for the fee of this charming service.



We hoped the food stalls would take our mind off this shameless hucksterism. Exotic smells filled the air, my nose blindly leading my body, as Jewish noses tend to do. There were over a hundred food stalls and visions of succulent meats braised, baked, or fried made my mouth water. The first stall was encouraging: piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. We fended off the hoard of hawks who tried to get us to sit and moved on to the next stand. Hmmm....piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. I looked further down the row but it was like looking in a fun house mirror, the same scene repeating into the distance. Everyone was selling the exact same thing, we had unwittingly entered some sort of culinary Twilight Zone. Even the prices were the same - too little for too much. In the end we found about a half-dozen unique stalls amongst this throng. Some were decidedly interesting, like the place where you could eat a lamb's face. I respect anyone who can look their food directly in the eye before peeling off the skin, removing the jaw, then happily munching on the cheeks. Personally I'm not much of a face eater, so I set my sights on the other end of the beast. As I gaze absently at a woman who is sucking on the marrow of a skull, I can't help but wonder if she feels the same touch of revulsion when she sees an American chomp down on a rump roast.



As for the title of this Tale, I once again have skirted the entire point. Having tired of this medieval farce, we decided to take a day trip to the Ourika Valley. Deep in the mountains of Morocco, about a two hour ride from Marrakesh, is a town called Oukaimeden; home to the most unlikely sight in all of Africa - a ski resort. After a confusing day of travel, involving, amongst other things, a clown-car taxi ride of eight people, and a late arrival, we found our hidden gem closed. The snow cover was light, as would be expected in Africa, if at all, so, downtrodden, we hiked as high as we could before giving up. As we hiked back down, the ski lift started to move. We could ride it up to the top, they said, sans skis, to see the view. So up we went. The snow cover was thicker at the top of the mountain and there stood a man renting skis. We strapped them on, of loose fit, and ancient age, and took one steep run about 200 yards down an untouched bowl, carving fresh tracks in immaculate powder. I can now say that I have skied in Africa. We were the Lord's of Creation -- that is, until we realized we had to hike back up to give back our skis.

Here's Looking At You, Yid

Casablanca, Morocco. The elevator slows, comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. Our escort leads us down a long, poorly lit corridor. It is painted a dull, drab, beige and is completely silent, empty. The only sound is our feet as we walk, each step echoing lightly. We pass no one in the dusky hall, but this is not particularly surprising given the late hour. Our escort leads us around a corner and through a large door. The room is cavernous, bare, the walls completely unadorned. Not all of the bulbs are lit and much of the room is dim. Long windows grace the outermost wall, but they are tinted, and nothing but a few pale points of light filter through. A few old computers sit atop basic desks, though no one is at the keyboards. There is too much space and not enough to fill it. It feels abandoned, cold, lifeless. There are two men at the far end of the room, tapping away at one of the computers and talking in Arabic. Our escort leads us over and we are told to sit in a set of folding chairs behind them. A rapid exchange takes place between the three, then the escort leaves. As he walks away my eyes follow his weapon, a snub-nosed, semi-automatic machine gun. As the two officers swivel in their chairs to face us, I have to wonder: How in the world have we wound up here, on the fourth floor of the massive Casablanca police headquarters in the middle of the night?


Let me explain. A few days ago we were killing time in Rabat. We were supposed to be in Casablanca getting visas for Mauritania, but it was Friday and the embassy was closed for the weekend. Figuring it was better to explore than continue to sit in one place - unlike that month I spent at home playing video games until my eyes started to bleed - we set our sights on the capitol, though we heard it was a rather characterless place. Rabat was not nearly as dull as I had presumed. In fact, it has both the frenetic energy and motion of a motor rally. The motorized carriages that Moroccans have dubbed CARS (Camels Are Really Slow) race through the street at break neck speed - as do motorcycles, mopeds, bicycles, and thousands of pedestrians. Truly the most fun you can have in Rabat is dodging traffic. Even the most major of intersections have no crosswalks, nor crossing lights of any kind. To make matters worse, the traffic lights themselves are no where to be seen. For the life of us we could not figure out how traffic knew to stop; perhaps a sudden realization that even the most standard of vehicles come with brakes plays a roll. Regardless, the best way we found to cross a busy intersection was by carefully listening to the sounds of the road. If you hear a loud thumping noise, for example, you know that your body was just hit by a car. This means that you shouldn't have tried to cross at that particular moment. Wait a few minutes, and if you can drag your battered body back to the sidewalk, try again. Unfortunately this method gets progressively more difficult. Better to watch what the locals do, I suppose. The pedestrians of Rabat have developed a fiendishly clever way of counteracting this particular menace. It is quite amazing, really. First, people slowly begin to mass at a point on the sidewalk. Like a malignant tumor they grow, rapidly expanding, until - with no audible or visible communication whatsoever - they all step into oncoming traffic at once. The traffic has no choice but to stop or plow into everyone, risking not only extensive damage to their car but a significant increase in their monthly insurance payment. It is a sight to see.
On Sunday night we headed to Casablanca. The name itself evokes strong images of romance and intrigue. In my opinion nothing could be further from the truth; unless you find Hilton hotels intriguing or skyscrapers get your pulse pounding. Still, we had a great time. Casablanca has one thing that all the other cities in Morocco lack - namely, bars. The Islamic religion prohibits the imbibing of devilish liquors like BudLight and Zima, so heretical pubs are few and far between. These have been tough times for us. Those who know my travelling buddy Xander are aware that without a constant supply of liquor he slowly devolves into a thoughtful, well-spoken, intellectual. It's quite scary, really, but we seemed to have dodged that particular bullet.
Early Monday morning we dropped off our passports at the embassy, hoping to have them back by mid afternoon, as our guidebook said. Unfortunately the bureaucrats at the embassy had a better idea - not giving them back until 10am the next morning. Though we were a little disappointed to have to stay another night, we certainly made the most of it. As we hopped from bar to bar we met some fascinating locals. At one joint we met a drunk-as-a-skunk magistrate. Speaking slowly, with a thick Moroccan accent, his words slightly slurred, he gave us a surprisingly cogent civics lesson. He asked what we had done to defend our civil liberties since the institution of the Patriot Act. I could only shrug, surprised that a Moroccan judge could be so passionate about the outcome of a New England football game. This seemed to upset him. With each word getting louder he said "You...are all...contr'lled...by...da MED-IAH". Unfortunately I wasn't paying much attention, an old Pepsi ad was replaying in my head. He repeated it again, this time much louder, a few people turning their heads. I felt...well, I felt like Chicken Tonight, Chicken Tonight! Hmmm, maybe he had a point. I agreed with him, suggesting that I felt the same way about my government and national media that he did. The judge bellowed: "No d'ffrence...between you and govn'ment. No d'ffrence! I can NOT SEPARATE THE TWO". We calmly assured him we did not agree with the current political regime. Once again he barked: "No d'ffrence!". He rotated his chair to face me and - much to my surprise - palmed the front of my skull with one large hand. Spit flew from his mouth as he roared in my face, "YOU BRAIN....IS...WAR!!"
I'm sure you've guessed by now how we ended up at the police station. If you haven't figured it out yet it's because we had left our passports at the Mauritanian Embassy and all hotels require a passport to check in. We had photocopies but these weren't sufficient. When we came back to our hotel in the evening they forced us to get the copies verified by the authorities - which we promptly did, though it was quite late. You didn't actually think I was stupid enough to get into a fistfight with a local judge, did you?

Take You Wonder By Wonder

Fes, Morocco. It is dark and cold. Two thick opaque blankets cover my head, blocking out all light, sheltering me from the world. The chill air has penetrated my weak defense, seeped deep into my flesh, sent slivers of ice through my bones. The call of the Muezzen has roused me from my frigid slumber, a shrill cry eminating from the top of the minaret; first one, then another, and another. The sounds joined one another, jostled with one another, a rising crescendo, a blaring cacaphony of prayer. Dogs started to howl in solidarity, a barking benediction, or perhaps they just have no way of covering their ears as I had now done. It was pitch black under my woolen shroud, permanent night, and I had no concept of time. I let out a soft groan and pushed the button that lights up my digital watch. The luminous, blue indiglo blinded me and I cringed, trying to focus my eyes. It was 4:48am. Holy mother, mercy, of Christ, Yaweh, Zeus, or Allah. The Quran is very explicit in one regard: the Muezzen does not have a snooze button.


Now I'm not one to criticize another man's religion - unless they wear funny hats - but for a major religious movement, this pre-dawn zeal strikes me as preposterous. I'm not sure who or what god is, if he/she/it even exists, but what otherworldly being, what purportedly benevolent deity, would demand a call to prayer before the sun comes up? Hell, most people can't even put their underwear on straight until they've had a couple of cups of joe. That black, spiritless libation has surely roused more spirits than even the most purified sanctification. Nevertheless, every morning the call begins: "Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" and my feeble brain, crushed beneath twenty-eight years of constant media bombardment, finishes for him: "Yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh." In truth it continues in Arabic but I always get a kick out of the beginning. This occurs every morning without fail. Piety in today's world can be refreshing but it would be nice if they took a morning off sometimes. Maybe even just once a month--sleep in, have a late breakfast, maybe read the paper. Afterwards, by all means pray. I'm sure it would help retention rates. I can even imagine the billboard: Islam, Now With More Coffee!" Obviously I jest. The morning call, when not accompanied by the howling canines, is often beautiful. I have lain awake carefully listening to the melodic words, the almost hypnotic tone, appreciating the sanctity of the burgeoning day. Then I roll over and go back to bed.



The medina of Fes beholds a fascinating array of sights, sounds, and smells. Wandering the ancient, medieval streets, one has a sense of being transported back in time - to about 1983. Seriously. People are dressed in one of two ways here: either in traditional garb or in street gear from the 80s. Faded flourescent jackets, old addidas jumpsuits, and worn Nike sneakers pass by at random intervals. One vendor had a pile of mismatched snow gloves and I'm positive I spied a couple of sets of Freaky Freezies atop the mound. I'm not sure where it all comes from but the denizens of Fes have unwittingly attained the heights of retro fashion. We walked for days around the winding streets and endless markets. Clothing, jewelry, art, rugs, a variety of crafts, and an immeasurable array of junk. The junk is the best. Countless rugs are spread out in the street, the vendors selling the most incongruous of items side by side: two dozen watches, a pile of remote controls, some potatoes, a doll with a missing head, three tampons, and a large bolt cutter. Persumably this last item has been used innumerable times to collect the junk on display. It boggles the mind. Food vendors abound: piles of juicy, ripe tangerines; hillocks of potatoes and onions; mounds of artfully arrange dates, figs, and nuts; barrels of beans and pasta; towering pyramids of brilliantly colored spices. Meat vendors display the choicest of cuts and proudly present the pieces we throw out--heads, tails, toes, stomachs, brains, kidneys, livers, and testicles. The only thing that might go to waste is your appetite. I even saw an entire camel head hanging limply from a hook. My personal favorite has definitely been pigeon. Cooked into an unlikely dish containing layers of pastry dough, secret hobo spices, lemon, and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar, it is amazingly good. If anyone happens to notice a dearth of pigeons trotting around Central Park in the coming months it probably means I'm back home in New York.



Fes is incredibly large and complicated. 9400 twisting streets and alleyways. 350 mosques. Dozen upon dozen of site of interest. Despite our aversion to touts we decided we might need a guide for this one. Couscous (as he called himself) seemed a genial sort. He seemed to know the city, spoke decent English, and had a good sense of humor. Though skeptical at first, he won us over, and we arranged to have him lead us around the next morning. We were mildly surprised when he showed up with a replacement, claiming to be too busy. We hemmed and hawed a bit but agreed to go with the new guy anyway. The price was still too good to beat. The new guy ran us around the back alleys, occaisionally showing us an ornate doorframe or some ancient buildings, claiming all the while we were seeing what very few tourists saw. Our tour was supposed to last approximately three hours. I wasn't the least bit surprised when after sixty minuted he wanted to show us something extra special. You guessed it--his cousin's carpet shop.

Livin' Medina Loca

Tetuan, Morocco. After our initiation in Tangier we decided to head south, to the small city of Tetuan. Similar to our first stop, Tetuan is dominated by an old Medina filled with a cast of colorful characters. We wandering around the twisting streets without much enthusiasm, gazing at the markets and avoiding the touts, until the sound of distant chanting voices began to permeate the air. We paused and listened as the voices steadily grew louder, bolder, more urgent, a wailing Arabic cry. It grew closer and closer until suddenly, our doom had arrived. Here in the tight Medina alleyways, with no where to run and no place to hide, an angry mob had rounded a corner and rushed headlong towards us.


My mind reeled. A few moments earlier Xander had mentioned to an inquisitive tout that we were American. It stood to reason that a furious cabal had now gathered to kill us. America is not very popular these days, what with our growing national debt, unbalanced trade deficits, and mishandling of prescription drug coverage for seniors. Oh right, and that pesky war with Iraq--nearly forgot that one. I was not certain whether we had done anything to Morocco directly, though I had heard rumors of a plan to open a Walmart in the Medina. Perhaps they were inflamed by the prospect of rock-bottom prices on everything from figs to camel-hide coats.
From around the corner they streamed: twenty, forty, sixty men--I lost count. The narrow corridor forced them to bunch up tight, forming a ferocious river of heads and bodies. The chanting intensified, fists pumped in the air, and stamping feet rattled the ground. Swiftly they descended upon us. This was definitely the end. We stumbled backwards into an intersection. I froze upon seeing the wooden casket they held to bury what would remain of my tattered corpse. I prayed quickly to God that when I died no one would ever uncover my secret obsession with Ricky Martin. And then the most curious thing happened--the crowd veered away from us. Onwards they flowed, passing us by, a harmless brook. They were nott coming to kills us at all. We had merely stumbled on a funeral procession. As they passed I noticed more and more people joining the crowd. It seemed anyone could jump in and participate, so we shrugged, and followed.
The throng turned left and right, back and forth, winding their way through the Medina towards (for us anyways) an unknown destination. Lagging behind, we were stopped by a policeman as a second funeral procession appeared. Followed by an array of smartly dressed individuals--some in formal military uniforms--we believe we witnessed the procession of a dignitary of some sort. Eventually allowed to pass, we continued following the masses through an ornate gate to a large, open-air stone plaza bordering a cemetery. A group of old men dressed in traditional robes (called djellabah) sat chanting on a stone bench. They seemed unconnected with the ceremony, in their own world, a permanent chanting section for the deceased. We stood back, taking in the experience, soaking in it, until the body was interred and the crowd dispersed.

Ootini!

Tangier, Morocco. The engines roared to life as the boat pulled away from the dock. An angry tempest spewed forth from the stern, propelling us forward, into the deep blue waters of the Straight of Gibraltor, that thin blue band that seperates these two incredibly disparate lands. Europe and Africa, a stones throw away, a world apart. My stomach unsettled as our vessel raced towards the shore of the Dark Continent, as if realizing I had chosen an express elevator to Hell. That's a bit harse, I suppose. After all, Africa was my intended destination, and though the temperature in Africa often exceeds that of Hell, it's rather pleasant this time of year. I steadied myself as the boat docked at the port. Our first destination: the infamous port town of Tangier, Morocco.


Filled with hustlers, touts, con-men, smugglers, and the like, Tangier leaves one indelible thought in most tourists minds: leave now. In fact, so many people have hopped in taxis and told the driver to "step on it" that there are actually deep grooves in the pavement leading from the port to the edge of town. Many a traveller had warned us about the scum and villainly of this vile place, with its unsavoury characters and complete lack of Starbucks. Truth be told we were both a little frightened by the stories we had heard about this rough and tumble town -- so we stayed for two nights.
The Medina (old town), where we spent our time, is built into a series of steep hills that begin just a few hundred yards from the shore. Row upon row of boxy, white houses pile on top of one another in a curious jumble up the hills, spilling across the top and down the sides. Hiding beneath this white-washed facade is a labrinyth of narrow twisting alleys, endless markets, and spurning dead ends. Beyond the Medina a more modern (but still seedy) city emerges, but where's the fun in exploring Moroccan Harlem? The Medina was buzzing with life. The streets are packed with fascinating individuals, and I mean no disrespect, but a large portion of them are dressed exactly like jawas, which raises Tangier's stock immediately in my book.
After deboating (you can deplane, why not deboat?) Xander and I wandered the streets, getting lost every fifteen seconds, until a helpful individual led us to the hotel we were looking for. In this case helpful means that we paid him a couple of bucks to leave after we got there. I cringed a little bit upon seeing the shared squat toilets we needed to use, but hey, this was Africa -- it was time I lowered my expectations a little. For example: where one expects a traditional toilet, expect two footpads with a hole in the ground; where one expects a bus, expect a bush taxi jammed with more people than a clown car; and where one expects potable water, instead expect fatal amoebic dysentery. Such was our new life, and once we got settled we quickly threw ourselves into the fray.
Tangier is a trial by fire. Though strangely quiet at first--we thought the stories exaggerated--we were soon beseiged by incessant touts hawking everything from guiding services to magic carpets (aka, pee-stained carpets). And they don't take no for an answer. They follow, they beg, they bribe, they threaten, they guilt--come to think of it, it was a bit like the last time I went on a date. The first time you are approached you speak with them and decline. The second time, you decline a bit more forcefully but still politely. The third time, the politeness has vanished and you beg them to leave you alone. The forth time, you avoid eye contact and keep your lips tightly sealed to prevent any words from leaking out. By the eighty-seventh time, you proactively knee any Moroccan you see directly in the groin. It is a daily battle. As a grizzled veteran of these wars did tout: ?Welcome to Morocco, my friend. If you are very curious, would you like to see what is behind the door?? Indeed I do.

Something Wicked This Way Went

The National Express bus deposited us unceremoniously at the entrance to Stanstead airport, an hour or so out of London. This regional airport is home to RyanAir, the budget airline of choice for countless backpackers and those trying desperately to cash in on life insurance policies. Ryanair, whose motto Fly for Less with Less that Flies doesn't exactly inspire confidence, has an interesting business model. They actually just give the seats away, perhaps hoping their progressive socialist approach will save the company's shareholders money while flying, thus negating the need for any actual profits. Since it takes more than Monopoly money to run an airline, the company has come up with some incredibly creative synergistic strategies to help cut operational costs. For example, in the back pocket of every seat is a standard barf bag; one that doubles as a 35mm film drop-off envelope. No shit. I took it with me to prove to everyone that this item actually exists, though it's tempting to vomit into it after a rough night and mail it to Kodak. I'm curious to see what they develop, perhaps the reconstructed remains of the fried fish that necessitated the bag in the first place. Despite all this, RyanAir managed to get us to our destination, Seville, with only a bit of turbulance.


This was my second time in Seville, my first visit having been just a few months earlier. Our plane landed late in the evening and after a brief wait we caught the airport bus to the center of town. I got extremely lost the last time I was in Seville, where the narrow, winding, street plan was undoubtedly engineered by a toddler with an etch-a-sketch. Luckily I remember quite a bit from my last experience and we quickly made our way towards the massive cathedral which dominates the old quarter and where many of the hostels are located. After examining a few without much enthusiasm we finally settled on a clean and quiet little place tucked in one of the many alleyways off the main shopping grid.
Several travelers had told us about a bar with a free flamenco show so organized our belongings and headed out to look for it. The air was cool, crisp, and delightful. Seville is spectacular at night, and the seasonal holiday lights adorning the buildings and trees (not present on my last visit) only added to the majestic grandeur of the city. The stunningly classic architecture is a wonder to behold at any time of year, but lit with a thousand lights it transceded its normal beauty to become a vision ripped from an angelic dream. Occaisionally checking a compass, we walked the curving streets looking for this place. Finally, after about forty minutes, we saw something we recognized?our hostel. Somehow in all the twists and turns we had walked in a giant circle. Frustrated, but not about to give up, we gave it another whirl. With the help of a local woman we eventually found the place; its single entry a signless, nondescript red door in an alley wall. Elated to be there we sat down for the show. We expected beautiful Andalusian women, glinting castinets, vigorous and rhythmic dance. Instead, an old man took the stage. With a Spanish guitar strumming in the background he bellowed some deep, throaty, Spanish songs. It was an auditory nightmare. You could visibly see the crowd revulse. I imagine a similar sounds would eminate from a man pinned underneath a Greyhound bus. We took in a few more songs then headed back home.

Our second day had a completely different feel but was no less interesting. Xander and I crossed to the western side of the river, away from the old quarter and into a more modern Seville. I had never explored this part of Seville before and it is shockingly different. Strange, modern, and incongruous buildings formed an unlikely skyline. Now here was the strange part - it all looked like it had been recently abandoned. Cars were definitely passing by on the streets but as we walked down wide pedestrian boulevards - in the middle of the day - we were alone. The walkway, though modern in appearance, was cracked and buckled. Dead plants hung limply from artistic metal tubing which ran overhead. Fountains in this large median were flowing but looked dirty and unkempt. We walked a good mile along this Path of the Modern Day Damned before it dead-ended at a decrepit train station. Two arcing metal struts at least 100 feet high crossed from opposity corners, making a giant X in the sky that held aloft a torn and sagging sunscreen. A lot of effort went in to building whatever we had encountered but now it looked nothing more than a future lost, a shell that was once full. We never found out the cause of the decay or even the reason for the construction itself, but one thing was certain, something wicked this way went.

North By West South

Mentally preparing for a trip into the untamed regions of Africa is quite exhausting. There is much to think about: disease, civil war, banditry, wild animals, endless expanses of desert and mosquito plagued jungles. How does one take it all in? My preferred method is to take a deep breath, slowly count to ten, clear my mind of complexity, then try to refocus my attention on whatever is playing on the Game Show Network. It usually works; those cartoon Whammies on Press Your Luck are endlessly entertaining. Still, as soon as a dozen or so episodes fly by, my mind invariably drifts back to the difficult path that lies ahead. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me catch you up to speed on a few things.


Still unsettled after my jaunt around Europe I decided to keep on the move for a while. Having allowed my lease to lapse, I packed up my apartment and divested myself of some of my most valued possessions, including my collection of mint condition Steven Segal Hard to Kill action figures and my Don King Chia Pet. It was a sad and liberating experience. I'm lucky enough to have some of the best friends in all of explored space, so I moved what little remained into one friend's apartment, dumped my death-trap of a car on another friend, and left my heart in San Francisco.
I had been thinking of travelling again for a while now and several ideas floated around my head like dead bugs on the surface of a stagnant pool. Conversations passed between me and my buddy Xander, an old friend and experienced world traveller who was ready for another adventure himself. We tooled around with the idea of South East Asia but alarmist concerns about sneezing chickens and phlegm hocking roosters gave us pause. With avian flu hysterics at a fever pitch - I believe a Canadian goose was found passing out toys at a children's hospital without wearing a mask - it seemed prudent to redirect ourselves on a safer trajectory. So we finally kinda-sorta settled on a trek across North and West Africa.
Now came the tough part - procrastinating. Though always somewhat of an art form our procrastination became downright avant garde. A few weeks ticked by with nothing more than some vagaries about airline tickets and some crude jokes about camel humps. Finally, in the waning moments, a flurry of activity: tickets bought, apartments vacated, jobs discard...oh wait, we didn't have jobs. All of a sudden the trip seemed very complicated. Africa is no walk in the park, it requires visas, immunizations, med kits, mosquito nets, antibiotics, insurance, currency strategies and more. Yikes. I made an appointment at a travel clinic and found myself staring down the needle of a syringe. I was inoculated against typhoid, yellow fever, hepatitis A, hepatitis B, diphtheria, measles, small pox, large pox, tetanus, and the ill effects of watching too much political news. I also paid hundreds of dollars for the latest malaria medication, a combo drug that not only destroys your liver but leaves your breath feeling minty fresh.

Visas seemed to pose an entirely different problem. At first it seemed we wouldn?t be able to get them in time, but we soon found that if we follow a certain path we could get visas along the way for every country we wanted to visit. To do this we needed to amass an asinine amount of photos, lots of copies of our passports, and - if we could get it - what's known as a "letter of introduction" from an American embassy. Presumably, this reads as follows: "Dear Senegal, Xander and The Wandering Jew are two intrepid, though perhaps foolhardy, travelers. My understanding is that their parents love them. Please see that they are not arrested, kidnapped, gang-raped, or shot. Sincerely, John Smith, American Ambassador to Africa"
Indeed the excitement generated by the thought of this exhilarating journey was growing with each passing day. Things happened rather quickly after that. Gear was hastily bought and haphazardly stuffed into borrowed bags, debts were settled (or a return address was surreptitiously changed), good-byes were said, and before we knew it we were on our way. So I'm sitting here in an internet cafe in London, typing away, letting you all back in to my world. Tomorrow we fly to the south of Spain. In a few days we make our way to the coast and a ferry will shuttle us across the Straight of Gibraltar, where the real adventure beings. Our bags are packed, our flight is booked, and we are ready. Are you?