Another Week on the Beach

Kester forgot to mention two important things. One, Taghazoute is drier than Zion. And two, the surf doesn't really kick in until November.

Our apartment is excellent; a kitchen, a cat, and a balcony that, if you fell off at high tide, would land you in the ocean.

We found a liquor store in the hub city on an errand day. It requires a passport just to browse, but the wine is cheap and delicious and three bottles cost less than a tube of sunscreen.

The Saudi Royal family has a place about ten kilometers down the road. It's five times the size of this entire town, gated, and surrounded by military. They arrived with police escorts yesterday. We showed up relatively unannounced a few days before that.

Ramadan Saves You Money

The most noticeable difference in the souk this morning were the piles of severed goat heads, billies on one side, nannies on the other. In separate piles feet were bound together for...ah, soup? Muddly, bubbly red puddles in the street which even the dogs let alone. The meat will go toward a great feast at the mosques on Monday at the Eid ul Fitr, possibly the biggest Muslim holiday of the year.

When one month ends and another begins is not scientific, it's observation (or lack thereof) of a new moon. I'm told there are people “on it” in Fes and it is now only a matter of days until Ramadan is over. The new month, Shawwal, begins either Sunday or Monday, fingers are crossed all over Arabia for Sunday, but, alas, it is Monday. One more cranky afternoon.

Admist all the disruption and chaos of Ramadan, it does save you money. Though, ironically, a lot of muslims put on weight this month, so rich and indulgent are the post sundown meals.

The Groove is ON

Time no longer matters. There is day and then there is night.

We read and we sleep. There is feast and there is fast.

Our bus surfs the countryside, mosques and souks, oases and dunes, rock and trail. And the trails roll on forever and our pace has hit its groove.

Where Goats Climb Trees

From the twisted branches of the Argan tree hang a fruit irresistible to the industrious goat, whose gastronomic engine delights in the hard outer fruit before the terminal end deposits the inner pit to sun dry in the scorched fields. Later collected, these pits are pressed for their oils, delicious in their own right or mixed with honey and almond paste as a spread.

So very pleased to be in the land where goats climb trees.

Not Exactly Fluent

Parlez-vous francais? Non?! Well so much for all those books, tapes, and tutors.

Hmm, is that Arabic? Or Berber. And would it really matter? Naw, we are doing just fine.

Second Biggest

I love Islamic mosques for the peace and serenity of their design work, quite the polar opposite of the macabre suffering that bombards you in Christian imagery.

Here Darlene looks out through the gates of the second largest mosque in the world, Casablanca. Only Mecca in Saudi Arabia is larger.

Unsubscribe Me

If I don’t recognize it, haven’t used it, or remember why I bought it…I trashed it. I unsubscribed from everything. I didn’t even do a change of address, I simply cancelled everything and went paperless.

And at the zero hour, while the airport cab idled, Darlene cancelled my cell phone subscriptions with one powerful blow of her hammer, a tool she uses like a leatherman, an all-in-one which I bought her when her rock wore out.

To the airport. The international terminal, please.

Ellie Claire

She came naturally this morning, in the early light of a new day while my own mother raced across the state's frosted hills to aide my sister exhausted from the good fight.

Today I wear the thrilled smile of an uncle, Ellie Claire. Rest up, beautiful girl all tightly wound in your blanket. Rest those eyes, you are in for one hell of a ride.

This is serious

It was the most alarming news, probably because it was completely unexpected.

With the Red Sox a half game out and the Yankees in the basement, I dropped my guard on the Patriots and woe and lo and behold: Tom Brady gets his knee knocked sideways in the first quarter of the first game of the season.

He is out; watching the entire year from his livingroom.

Well, I did what any good New England sports fan would do. I bought two east bound tickets, grabbed the sexiest orthopedic, knee fixin' medical expert I could find, and (seeing as it's still lobster season) headed immediately to the scene of the crime.

Hang tight Brady, Darlene'll get this knee knocked back right. Darlene, pack your hammer, you got work to do.

And what better place to do it than under the granite walls, fall foliage, and lobster traps of New Hampshire. Such is my dedication to that fine corner of the world.

Don't Forget to Tip Your Gods

"Microburst [mahy-kruh-burst]: A sudden, violent downdraft of air over a small area (less than 6.24 sq mi) that lasts at least 25 minutes. Microbursts can cause winds with speeds as high as 167 mph. They are difficult to detect and predict with standard weather instruments."

We returned to the River of No Return with truckloads of respect. You have to respect your gods, the River Gods.

We rigged our boats and set off. Each morning we toasted our gods with sacrificial beer and every evening we feasted over fires, danced, played music, sang, and hoola-hooped our way across the Salmon's beaches. We loved our Gods. On the fifth night, we donned red dresses in ceremonial honor of their benevolence.

Yet despite it all, on the sixth day, the burst came. I'm not one to point fingers, but someone seriously disrespected a God. We had no idea what we were about to endure. In fact, we all pretty much stood there complacently watching a massive weather system come soaring up the canyon, snapping full grown ponderosas as it came. Reality dawned on us in the form of blinding sand-whipped winds. It trashed tents, battered bodies, released rains, and dispensed confusion as people took cover behind whatever they could find.

When it finally passed, we blinked, spat, and rubbed sand from our eyes. The camp was in shambles and trees were down all around us. Our beers were full of sand, so we uncorked the well-sealed Whiskey.

"...some of you looked better in red
dresses than others." -Dorian Parker

The next morning, in quiet awe, we floated our final miles in deep respect. Relenting, the sun came out, spirits returned, rapids rock and rolled and we remembered how much we love our gods.

It was a simple reminder: Always Tip Your Gods.

(Photos:  here.)

Perfectly Temporary

Temporary. It's my size, it's my color. It just fits.

I'm back at work temporarily, I'll be working there thru October. I've moved off the yatch, but the yatch was temporary. On my desk is a two quart jug of carrot juice. I've stopped buying the single pints at the cafe. I could drink this stuff all day.

I use to drink coke all day. Hey, I'm a software developer; it's the culture.

It wasn't that I craved the soda, but rather I was completely addicted to the shiny red can. It called to me. I could hear it's siren song a mile away and when I saw one glimmering in the soda aisle, I would go mad for it.

I don't keep cokes in my fridge at home. I don't have a fridge at home. I don't have a home. In fact, I'm living in a buddies attic. I know it doesn't sound as luxurious as a yatch, but it's really quite grand with an enormous antique shiny round red metal coke sign hanging in the center. It's not my sign.

The attic has a completely open floor plan. In fact, it's nothing but studs and skylights, but it has three of it's four walls. If I stand in the enormous shower and turn around, I see nothing but neighborhood and open sky where the wall use to be.

Whatever, it's not permanent.

Last meal

Second Time? Second Time?

Yes. Second time, we nod.

About ten minutes from the airport is a lesser known hotel that offers all the amenities at affordable price. We stopped on the way in and we stopped on the way out.

Down the street, we returned to an outdoor restaurant which treated us well the first time through. A large concrete slab with a tin roof and plastic tables, they remembered us and catered dutifully to our whims. There was no English, just a plethora of fresh fish, soups, and smiling faces despite turning down their proffered chicken foot soup.

In the warm night, the rains came down hard and the canvas walls were lowered to lash about in the wind. We soaked it up one last time, a second time indeed. And we’ll be back.