I Want to Moroccan Roll All Night, and Part of Everyday.

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My last post spoke of Sevillan shit-stained sidewalks, sanitation sorrows, sodomizing Senoras (that is to say, Senoras who sodomize, not the act of sodomizing any particular Senora…Vincent…), sumptuous 90’s sing-along songs, Spanish semantics, spontaneous Scottish sprees, and supper-table shame. All alliteration aside, for some reason or another it turned out to be an excrement heavy entry. Perhaps I view the world with shit colored glasses (these days, I’m not even sure what color that would be…), but whatever the reason, I seem to be inextricably linked with bathroom goings-on. I have recently contracted a bit of stomach sickness. I find myself entering the bathroom these days with what I call an anti-Jellybean mentality; upset when I get red, orange, or yellow, and elated with the blacks and browns. I spend more time in the bathroom than a burn victim spends changing bandages and Marisol has even begun rationing our toilet paper. I speak so unreservedly about my toilet troubles because it transitions nicely into the central topic of this post. The source of all this chocolate chaos is a little, intriguing country filled with brown people, brown things, and brown parting gifts and is situated just past the shaft of Africa, on the northern tip; a phallic land mass unsuccessfully trying to penetrate Spain.

Morocco

A group of 6 of us went with no tour guide and shockingly little preparation. We were the picture of diversity: a Cuban, Mama Africa, a Jew, a faux French female, a Mexican (or maybe Ecuadorian…doesn’t really matter, they’re all the same anyways!), and a Keith. Later we met up with a Canadian (b o r i n g) and a ginger (dangerous and angry), making the final group count 8. We took a ferry from the wind-surfer bum coastal town Tarifa to Tangiers, not without a brief lost passport incident, and commenced the journey. I had never been to Africa, and my thoughts of dilapidated clay orphanages with swollen black babies and good-looking, but rugged, white, pony-tailed blonde women cradling them, were the first things that came to mind. But Morocco is certainly not a very representative slice of Africa, being a Muslim country caught between a strange integration of two extraordinarily distinct cultures, set amidst a diverse and uneven terrain, it is largely separated from most of these African clichés. And anyways, I think one of the prerequisites for any sort of humanitarian aid to occur in a country is that the babies must be past a certain dark shade of brown and open to Christian conversion - Moroccans don’t make the cut.

Tangiers was actually quite modern and far more appealing than any guide book would have you believe. There is obviously an enormous disparity between standards of quality in Morocco than in the US for example, but it’s all relative I guess. The biggest culture shock for me was not being able to speak the language, French or Arabic - I felt more useless than Tiny Tim at a track meet. Lucky for us we had Emma Din (aka Mama Africa), who spoke fluent French, to take care of us. The first night we romped about the bustling streets of Tangiers, visiting bars and restaurants and having fun abandoning the girls near large groups of seedy Moroccan men (sorry…). I learned quickly that set prices do not exist, apart from the restaurants, and genuine help was hard to come by. It’s like when a 16-year-old dollar store clerk intentionally gives a blind man the wrong change; there’s some intuition of bad intent but he can never be sure whether he’s getting ripped off (he got ripped off.)

The next day we took a taxi ride to a nearby cave of Herculean proportions that was aptly named so. The cave opened up to the ocean, and the contrast of light made for some interesting silhouette pictures, the best of which was a group shot of the guys posing as Charlie’s Angels. Later we had a mani-pedi day, watched 13 going on 30 in our lingerie over a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, and gossiped about Channing Tatum and other super hot male actors. In reality, the Charlie’s Angels pose irks me greatly and it shames me to admit I participated in this picture. Another thing that annoys me, to an exponentially greater degree, is young, pop-locking, Asian actors in “edgy” urban dance movies (Channing Tatum - Step Up - it connects) that perpetually wear do-rags and have Nubian attitude towards what ever white person is trying to enter their social circle. I mean, come on! Aren’t you supposed to be doing math problems and obnoxiously flashing peace signs around the world!?

Anyways, after the cave we returned to the city center - the Medina - and proceeded to get harassed by multiple vendors and other colorful characters. One especially persistent man followed us around for more than an hour. Imagine having to listen to a tape recorded version of Hellen Keller attempting to read the script of Spy Kids 3 in its entirety. It might drive you crazy. Despite our complete disregard of this man, he was still kind enough to say “Phuk yoo” to us when we left, which we were told is Arabic for “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your company, I hope to see you again sometime soon.” We left Tangiers heading to Fez, the self-proclaimed spiritual and cultural capital of Morocco, and arrived at 10 pm with no certain place to stay. Upon arrival in Fez, our whole world was turned inside out as we embarked on the most bizarre, delirious, 28 hour journey of all time.

To begin, we were specifically told not to walk around Fez at night because it’s the most dangerous city in Morocco…

10:30 pm: Aimlessly walking the streets of Fez searching for lodging, encountering hobo’s, whores, and crack heads that use us as a barrier between them and approaching policeman.

11:45 pm: A man yells at us and simultaneously reaches into his coat pocket, as if grabbing a gun - we round the corner furiously.

12:00 am: We pass the police station. There seems to be a mass of criminals rioting directly inside with no visible restraints...I piss myself, then try and twitch and scratch my skin like a crack head so I don’t stick out.

1:00 am: The 10th hotel rejects us. We find out it’s because the King is in Fez. We curse the King profusely and review our options.

2:00 am: Return to a nice, pricey hotel next to the train station. They have one room. The girls try and lie to the receptionist about how many we are. The receptionist sees there are actually 4 more of us. A w k w a r d.

2:30 am: Receptionist agrees to let two of us stay in a room and the other 4 in the hotel lobby, on a single couch.

2:45 - 5:30 am: Pass in and out of sleep in a couch in the corner, shivering and seated, as hotel employees walk past us like zoo animals. I feel vulnerable.

It turned out to be quite the experience, setting a solid foundation of delirium for the rest of our stay in Fez. We toured the famous Medina in the morning, a bustling marketplace comprised of hundreds of crooked alleys and cheating shopkeepers. After being ditched by our guide, Catherine (the ginger) and Lori-Ann (boring Canadian), two girls who we were supposed to meet at some point, miraculously happened upon us at a café in the Medina. Almost immediately after this, we watched in horrific fascination as a retarded man threatened to launch a giant piece of stone at another mans skull. This was one of like 6 public fights we saw while in Fez. Right around this point the guys and girls split up to do some shopping.

Fast forward 5 hours and we’re all sitting around a table in some henna ladies apartment/house. There’s a turtle painted red on the table, along with some mint tea, and three Moroccan men who have been rolling and smoking hashish joints nonstop for the past 2 hours are cheerfully singing along to a Tracy Chapman song playing from the speakers. Music videos of Outkast and Moroccan dancers are displayed on the television, which is on mute. Right around the 3rd time “We are the children” comes on, the lady serves us some couscous she’s prepared. Her brother at this point has now smoked no less than 15 joints and is on his way to polishing off an entire bottle of vodka to absolutely NO effect. At no point did I think we were not going to get robbed, raped, stabbed, ripped off, probed, tickled, any combination of these things, etc. I eat ravenously, confused, and culturally infused. After more than 4 surreal hours at this ladies house, we say our goodbyes and head off back to the new town to indulge (or so we think) in the Hammams (Arab Baths). I’m still unsure about whether any of this actually happened.

What is a Hammam? Spain would have you believe they are various spa-like pools of varying temperatures in an aromatic, tranquil setting. FALSE.

Searching for the baths, I see various homeless looking men walk into an entirely ordinary entryway - this is the door to the Hammam. We step in tentatively and find ourselves in a locker room. Men are disrobing, revealing skimpy tighty whities and backs and chests caked with hair like grizzly bears. A subtle, but thick stench of body odor mingled with various other man juices hangs in the air like sex. We self-consciously take off our clothes and after a stint of befuddlement over where the actual baths are; we pay an old man in a diaper for a “massage” and walk through another door in the right direction.

We walk into an area with two square, tile rooms and buckets. The stench in here is not so subtle and twice as thick. The air smells like AIDS. Little boys are pouring water atop of older men, who are seated on the floor. Hopelessly confused, we try and grab some buckets and are thwarted by the old man in the diaper who we paid. He motions for us to sit. We do as instructed and the man hands us some axel grease while emphatically pointing to his crotch. I begin to nervously clean my genitals with the axel grease, my darting eyes catching penetrating glances of Moroccan men. The old man and one other man, completely indistinguishable from any other person in the bath, identify themselves as the masseuses. Ricky and Jordan are first. I watch in astonishment as the old men forcefully contort Ricky and Jordan into shapes I didn’t think possible, rubbing up and down their bodies with their sturdy, firm hands, periodically dousing them in hot water and grunting all the while. Ricky’s underwear has now been converted into a man thong and the masseuses hands seem to make a little too much peripheral contact with his weiner and balls. At this point I’m trying to figure out if I’ve passively been watching a stranger rape Ricky, but then I realize he is quite literally being given a bath. The scrubbing, shampooing, child-like awe, and public genital cleaning all add up.

My eyes wandered to another man lying down, an older masseuse straddling him missionary style. His penis was very clearly raised at half-mast, but this did not deter the masseuse. Instead, he began massaging with a more intense, concentrated fervor, and as the intensity increased, so did the erection. Meanwhile, my penis did quite the opposite, burrowing as far as it could into my pelvic bone.

My experience was unbelievably painful. The scrubbers chafed my nipples like sandpaper, and at the end of it all I was sore, red, and swollen. We also had to lie face down on the tile floor at times, and I could just taste the ball sweat pouring onto my pursed lips. I’m 60%!s(MISSING)ure I contracted an STD in those baths. At least the first one won’t be so lonely anymore.

We left Fez at 2:30 am en route to Marrakech and the world turned right side up once more. On the train we all had an insatiable urge to offend and trivialize the Islamic culture and religion, so we decided to play a nice, rousing game of Big Allah (played just like Big Booty). Great idea Elizabeth! Marrakech was touristy and modern, playing up every conceivable Arabic cliché. It was absolutely amazing - a giant, frenetic plaza with snake charmers, chained monkeys, exotic fruits, goat heads, music circles, etc. From here, we left to ride dromedary (uni-humped) camels over arid dunes into a blazing desert sunset. The ride itself can be described as a testicular onslaught of pain; as if a paperweight is constantly being dropped directly onto your sack from 3 feet up while a small, indigenous, and very talented drummer boy, drums mercilessly on your left testicle like a bass drum. We spent a night in a Nomad tent, drinking mint tea, dancing primitively around fires to the beat of small, indigenous drummer boys. It was at this point us four men convened and collectively decided to sell the women to local men for 2 camels each.

It took some haggling on our part considering each girl was probably only worth 1 ½ camels, but in the end it all worked out. I do wish them the best where ever they are and hope some of their bitterness and intense hatred towards us has faded. It did pain me slightly to see their forlorn faces as they were hauled off in trucks, but it quickly subsided after a few minutes of playing with my camels (I got Bon Jovi and Serenity!).

Aventuras con Marisol

“Dear Kitty,

As previously noted, a sickness has settled in. I pray it is some common stomach virus and not the dreaded typhus fever. I’m certain that would be the death of me…probably sometime in March. So often these days I forget I’m a 20 year old man, feeling more like a fragile 15-year-old Jewish girl, just hiding away all my hopes and passions in the attic of my mind. In a moment of weakness at the dinner table one night, I disclosed my sickly state to Marisol. She chortled (a verb reserved only for the obese) for a good while and then began telling David and I an anecdote about a woman who pees in her husbands liquor bottles. There was a tense, awkward pause at the conclusion of the story. Uneasy, anxious eyes averted contact - the silence was shattered by an explosion of howling laughter. “I pee in your food!” she told us between fits of glee. “I pee in your food and that’s why you’re sick!” She pointed downwards as she said it, towards her puffy vagina, as if the words alone weren’t enough to elicit the proper nauseous response. A bit of vomit escaped my throat and spilled onto my tongue. I swallowed it down, trying to repress the visual, but I could not block it out.

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Nude, and impressive in mass, her amoeba shaped flesh hung loosely off her elephantine bones. Her skin, built up around the knees, creased as she began to squat over two pristine white plates of hotdogs and fried eggs. Urine spilled out of some unknown orifice, presumably where her whispering eye would be, dribbling down the side of her engorged legs. Legs so colossal it seemed as if the overlapping skins were battling each other amidst an untamed forest of wiry pubic hair. Her trunk of a neck was tilted back, mouth open, a primordial cackle bellowing out. I snapped out of it, ran to the bathroom and permitted a greater allowance of vomit to spill out in the toilet. At that moment, I prayed for typhus…”

I am very aware of the demand to see a picture of Marisol. But I will not put such a picture on this blog; it is not the appropriate medium. Rather, if you are so inclined, you may friend Marisol ‘Orangutan’ Barrero on Facebook and meet her yourself…

-BRAVO OUT-

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Photos

Uncredible
Yes, that is an exclamation point on the end.

Wisest Man on Earth
How cool is this guy?

'Lil Muslim
He wasn't happy I took this picture.

Dreamland
Turtle, tea, henna. Out of shot: T. Chap, illicit substances

Alien Ricky
Beaming up.

Pensieve Bitch
Profound.

Sunrise
Rising sun in desert.