Almost did a solid poo this morning. Progress is definitely being made.

Got up and booked flight to Tunisia for Tuesday (tomorrow) morning.

Leaving the hotel this morning I was offered a part in a Moroccan made for television movie. The comedy sketch involved 5 tourists, of which I would have been ‘touriste un’ (one), trying to book into a single hotel room. The punch line was the tourists calling the hotelier a racist after they were refused. I think some of the humor may have been lost in the translation. I had to turn the role down of course. The director was an idiot who couldn’t see why my character should be renamed touriste prime. Which worked out well as today was my only chance to see the Moroccan capital, Rabat, an hour up the coast.

Rabat is nice and a lot lest bustly than Casablanca.

Here’s a travellers tip for you. If you have a bad case of the squirts don’t look for a McDonalds. Look for a five star hotel. The bogs at the hotel Sofitel Diwan make it a veritable pleasure to have a runny bum and the roll of bog paper I stole is by far the best I have seen in all Morocco.


I tried to get into the YHA Hostel again and succeeded. This is great because it’s cheaper, cleaner, has a working shower and comes with free breakfast. Best of all I might finally be able to have a conversation with someone who speaks English as a first or even second language. After a much needed shower I was repacking my pack and the though struck me that the place has an eerie lingering stare feel to it. As if on queue a guy ‘appears’ out of the shadows of the bunks and invites himself out to dinner with me. He doesn’t speak a word of English but by the way he holds his two fingers up together the message is clear. Now I don’t want to sound like a paranoid homophobic but that’s not really my thing and I didn’t want to lead the poor bastard on so turned his kind offer of dinner down.

My dinner alone was an authentic Moroccan harira (delicious spicy lentil soup) and karaouni tajine (cows tail served with olives), which was served up in an authentic Moroccan diner called Restaurant California (recommended by Lonely Planet). The chef went to great lengths to point out that only men are allowed karaouni tajine and that it is like viagra for the Moroccans. He even drew me a picture of a bull with great emphasis on the penis and tail. This was followed by laughter, back slapping and hushed conversation about the problems with women today. I didn’t really understand a word of it but I sympathised anyway.

Back at the hostel I note that 10 or so of the 12 beds in the men’s dorm are now full. Later that night I am awoken from my sleep by the noise of a sleeping bag being vigorously rustled. My first though is that someone is having a wank and wants the whole room to know. I dared not look over the side of the bunk to see who the culprit is but from the direction of the noise I suspect it’s the ‘lets go to dinner’ guy. After a while it stops and I think thank god. Then a torch goes on. The last thing I see before it goes dark again is a clear silhouette of a condom cast on the wall of the dorm. Something akin to what Batman might shine on the clouds if he wanted Robin to pop back to the Batcave for a thorough seeing to. I’m definitely not looking over the side of the bunk now.

Some time later I actually manage to sleep.