Taking a shit my arse smelt like Moroccan cooking – it’s true … My shit was alluring, scented with lemon and herbs and not at all offensive as it wafted into my nostrils like I was ready to eat yesterdays meal again. Tagine. That conical-clay-vase of simmering casserole: pickled lemon, tomatoes, olives, peppers, carrot and in this case fish; other times chicken with potato. Yum.
Classic Moroccan cuisine – Tagine (fish)
Talking of nice arse – Fatima, the Moroccan woman I shacked up with for 4 days in Adagir had some booty to adore … best arse this side of a Chicago blues bar.
And so how did I meet her you ask?
I was in a café on the street of Adagir’s New Talborjt district, eating dinner. A Moroccan man with a limp soon sat at the table next to me and preceded to play tunes on his cell-phone – from some pop-rock to Pink Floyd – Wish You Were Here – to trance and techno and I could see him glancing my way, hoping for my attention but I knew he was looking to sell – SOMETHING and so I ignored him and ate. But after maybe 15 minutes of this charade I heard Salaam Aleikum – thrown my way – Peace be Upon You – and so I replied with Aleikum as Salaam – And Peace be upon You – and so that was how he began to sell me hashish.
And so now a spliff … am too wasted too write … Later.
Well yuk, as the day/evening wears on and the shits become more frequent and texture-less I realize that my first bad belly maybe approaching – but I reckon it’s the alcohol, as I been really overdoing it these past days (months actually, if I include Korea) ; with Fatima shacked up in our total sex mission it was beers - at least 10 per evening – plus a bottle of whisky with Redbull, or a bottle of Tequila done in shots -across galaxies of frantic animal orgasms, of which little I remember – ouch, sex for money with little recollection only a week after – must consult my audio diary but do remember it be mad hard-porn, her licking my arse out like a lesbian starved for oral sex and our 69s were just too hungry. She drunk alongside me, glass for glass, and fucked much – cappuccino smooth skin and wired afro Rasta hair and that killer smile and arse rounded well and that Mohawk-public hair pussy that she joking pointed out matched my hairstyle; yeah, really intense. We connected like young lovers crazy on hot, inter-racial heat.
And now the summer fog from the Atlantic has come in over the desert cliffs and hill-top villages to smother the sunset in Sidi Ifni, 7:26 pm. I lock out a mosquito trying to zip in thru the patio door. It’s not hot like the other evenings; overcast mostly; here middle of summer at the western-most reaches of the Sahara nearby and … don’t know what the fuck I’m on about now … Thinking pussy, but Morocco is not Thailand.
And Morocco is how I remember it – but it’s gotten more modern in the big cities, the youth more sexy and hip but some scapes are still wretched and broken down, and then there’s the gorgeous traditional villages, and the yeah, touts and hustlers are still here annoying tourists and also many French expats have set up glossy cafés, hotels, tourist ventures – yet despite time and the march of modernity most of Morocco remains crazy and exotic like an India chaos with more edge.
Crazy things happened here with me and my last true love Robyn, back in 1991 traveling Morocco (but that’s another story) and now everything is familiar but fresh as I venture to different corners than before – that was before I got fucked-up on this smoke and thought about serious stuff like past love but I suppose it’s hard to avoid when you revisit a country for the first time in 17 years and the last time here was with her.
Time to revisit the toilet …
