Dragging my arse

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Having loaded the car and found I could litrally walk into the boot without bending my legs it was time to fit some uprated springs and give the Landrover some pride in her appearance as she had spent the last thousand miles dragging her fat arse all the way here. So after a day in Chefchaun spending most of my time avoiding the Kif merchants, a loud wistle is the first sign one wants your attention and for at least the first 10 times it works, you always look up. The route from the border is mainly hashish farms so without warning they run into the road holding up there packets in attempt to entice you.

While in Chefchaun I meet an American Dave who tells me how he ended up in Morocco via Captaining yauchts for rich men he ended up in Spain and thought he would love to see a bit of Africa, we spend the late hours on the roof of the hotel taking in the sights and sounds of Chefchaun and its coloured buildings which rise above us covering the Mountains. Having just found Bush is back in you can imagine the topic, we both agree its not a good thing for us world travellers. I inform Dave of my route and suggest he may want to join further on, however having taken his email down by match light, hotmail is telling me its wrong despite altering it in an ametuer attempt at code breaking.

Having replaced the springs and Shocks in Meknes I am duly invited back to Samir s the Chief Mechanics house and find out Ramadam is not so bad after all as a feast is laid on by our hosts. Feeling I have probably paid for a number of these with my 400Dhs spent today I tuck in without an ounce of guilt or shame and still it keeps coming.

The next day is spent in Meknes having found an excellant welder who unlike many in his trade take a bit of pride in there work as opposed to the very African way of patch over patch, weld after weld the temporary fix route. That night I cook up a delicious omlette and share the remnants with the campsite dog who looks like he is on his last legs, not the case. After building up some confidence he procedes to pinch my frying pan and for such a weak looking dog high tails it into the dark, in toe I find my ankle lets me down and I am beaten by a half dead dog. The occasional glimpse of two green glowing marbles off the reflection of my torch points me in the right direction alas he knows this site far better than me and I retire to my tent having learnt my lesson on the sympathy vote.

The trial began at dawn, the accused stood there head bowed trembling in fear he refused to look me in the eyes, utter guilt written all over his pathetic face. With such overwhelming evidence and at least two credible witnesses this must be the fastest trial since Guy Fawkes was found beneath the hoses of parliment with ten barrels of gunpowder chain smoking 3 feet of fuse.
However the proceedings were brought to an early closure as the evidence could not be found and the language barrier prevented any real justice. Well the dustmen found it funny as I attempted to describe which way the mut ran with my omlette dish, yet to try dog meat but its getting more tempting by the minute.

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