One of the good things about living in the south of Spain is that Morocco is so close. Spain as it gets more and more like the rest of Europe is becoming as antiseptic as Germany. The streets are almost clean, all that remains of the good old days of general filth are the sounds of hawking and globs of spittle. To which one has to add the new symbol of new wealth: dog shit. And not the excrement of mongrels and mutts but steaming Marie Antoinette shit of Rotweillers, Afghans, Alsatians and a wide assortment of unspellable aristocrats of the canine world. The other feature slowly disappearing from the street scene are the smells of home cooking. Gone are the aromas of peppers roasting in the oven, magical stews and soups slowly bubbling on the stove, fish being fried in extra virgin olive oil straight from its country press. To be replaced by the fumes of scooters with no exhaust pipes bearing pizzas the the homes of the nouveau dog owners.

Morocco, where the smells and colours of the spices are literally on the street. Where the colours of the people's clothes dazzle the eyes and where it must be admitted the smells of human existence assail the nostrils and send the head spinning. But at least they don't wash their hands before blowing their noses, it's one snort from each nostril in turn and if need be, a quick wipe on the back of the pants. Moroccans are alive, vibrant, pulsating, they don't pay taxes and don't worry about the Euro. And then there's the desert. The desert was just filling my mind when a doctor prodded my swollen and blackening ankle asking how I had done 'this'.

I wanted to tell him that I had been riding the dunes of the Sahara on my trusty steed, Karmel the camel. The night stars my witness, the cold of the night my blanket, the foul breath of Karmel my company, crushed testicles my pain.

When all of a sudden a band of twenty or so blue-robed and turbaned riders swept across the the tops of the sands. Their slitted black eyes boring through the infinity of the night, their hoarse cries exhorting their beasts to greater speed, their arms brandishing mighty swords. And from this midst came a plea: "Save me, save me from a life of slavery, a life in a harem full of eunuchs and fat women with only one man once a year". A damsel in distress! I spurred Karmel and with stentorian farts we were off in pursuit. Over the sands we flew. Across Mauritania, Niger, Mali........ Across mythical lands as one by one the brigands fell to my sword until the princess was almost within my grasp. Only four remained to be dispensed with, I'll make short work of this, I thought. Then as one they turned and in one swish they cut the four legs of my faithful Karmel from under him. I fell to bite the sand.

"How did you do this?" repeated the voice. There was nothing for it. Nothing but the truth.

"Silly really, I got out of my car, took three steps and twisted my ankle in a pothole."

"Broken actually," he said, looking at the x-ray. "We'll put a plaster on it." "Relax your leg!" The doctor and the nurse said in unison as they attempted to force my foot to be at right angles to my leg so as to set the ankle correctly. The nurses' pretty fingers were trying to force my gnarled toes back, the doctor was putting his weight against the sole of my foot. "Relax your leg or the ankle won't set correctly." I can't relax, I need to fart. Am I going to limp for the rest of my life for want of a fart? Oh the ignominy of it all. I wanted to spend Christmas and New Year on the desert sands not in the pits of a pothole.

Patrick
Seville
January 1998

You can email Patrick at logik21@arrakis.es