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?