In no particular order:

1. To politicians and sportspeople and the ludicrously named, so-called “elites” and other ingrates who feel the need to be ashamed of their first world countries where opportunities abound, where you can attempt a triple somersault with pike and know there’s a safety net, where everyone who criticises them is a racist or a “phobe”, I say look outside your bubble. In Morocco I have never seen so many national flags with not a council bureaucrat with a cease and desist notice in sight. They love their country. I’ve seen the same in India. We go to places like India and see something entirely different to what Indians see, which, in all of its complexity and contradictions is still “Mother India”. The Moroccans, for their part are bound by three pillars – God, the Nation and the King. If only our spoilt brats, professional complainers and cultural traitors had even a third of that or the equivalent.
2. The second language in Morocco is French. Without bothering to look it up I’m guessing that “escalator” in French doesn’t mean “escalator” in English. So we didn’t have a nice comfortable ride down to the bottom of the Ouzoud Falls and a nice comfortable ride back to the top. We took it step by step by bloody step by interminable step. Similarly “douche” has a rather different meaning to that usually referred to in your bog-standard American teen movie. So the contents of the douche bottle are to be used to wash oneself in the shower rather than squirt…. never mind.
3. The CB and I agree that this is the toughest trip we’ve done physically which is mainly down to the heat and the amount of walking and climbing. If there is a God he gave me red hair and a fair completion. He could have completed the job by stamping across my forehead “Not to be taken into the desert”. It wouldn’t have mattered because we’re stubborn buggers. So the heritage listed Ait Benhaddou kasbah a 13th century fort (prominent in Game of Thrones as it happens) was rocked all the way to the bit on the top of the hill. I didn’t think anything could top the 29 flights (according to Mr iPhone) at Ouzoud Falls but we did 38 mostly here. Stupid is as stupid does as a great philosopher once said.
4. There are unfinished shells of houses and bigger buildings scattered through every town and village we encountered. It’s almost like after putting up the outside the builder ran out of money or lost interest. A lot of these buildings aren’t run down or derelict so maybe they will eventually get finished. I’ll probably never know.
5. Our guides also double as our drivers. Their lot can get a bit boring with sometimes long drives between stops although for us it’s never boring with ever changing landscapes and some mind-bogglingly spectacular scenery which you hope the driver isn’t looking at. So when they get on the soft sand in a four wheel drive vehicle they are straight away in the Paris to Dakar rally which incidentally came through this area some years back. So they can follow part of the actual route which makes throwing the vehicle into a sand dune like a snowboarder into a half pipe even better.
6. There are football as in soccer fields all over the country. I am yet to see one with a blade of grass on it. And most have been constructed by moving the larger rocks beyond the touch lines. These guys would be either the most fearless and fearsome sliding tacklers in the game or they don’t do it at all – no inbetweens.
7. There is so much more to this incredible country than I’ve been able to report here but we have to move on. Well worth a visit but take the 50+ sunblock and a hat.

Yesterday we drove through the northern part of the Sahara Desert, not far from Algeria, and were in a sandstorm. Not the sort you see in the movies where visibility is practically zero and Lawrence can’t see his hand in front of his face but one where I’m glad we were in an air conditioned pressurised vehicle and the sand scudding across the road was staying outside. And here’s a turn-up. It rained. Actually, if a few drops on the windscreen qualifies as rain, it rained. I’m claiming it. I’ve seen it rain in the Sahara Desert.

Seeing how people live out here can be quite confronting. Culture shock is a clear and present reality. First they have to put up with sandstorms. Then there’s the heat. The absence of creature comforts that we take for granted. The list goes on. Isolation would be a bit more of an issue if it weren’t for the electricity and phone lines that criss-cross the landscape and the occasional communications tower on a bare, craggy hill. But every kilometre closer to Timbuktu increases the IQ (isolation quotient).

But some things never change. We had lunch (Berber “pizza”) at our guide’s family home in Erfoud and his four year old son and seven year old sister proved that kids are the same the world over before they become culturally conditioned.

Actually, we’re all mostly the same all of the time if you can strip away that cultural stuff. Human nature and common sense are universal traits that reduce us all to the same approximate base line. These traits are however respected and abused to various degrees across all cultures. Man, where did that come from. Now back to normal programming.

Yesterday, after arriving at our desert camp the child bride and I went for a camel ride as the sun went down. Very romantic except when I got off the camel, I realised I should have been riding it side-saddle if romance was to get out of the dugout let alone to first base.

Notwithstanding, it was cocktail hour and Sex on the Beach (sort of) beckoned. Two uncold beers and a bottle of room temperature white wine – drinkable after the sun went down and room temperature was survivable – was as close as we could get to cocktails. I’m reminded of Frankie Boyle’s Scottish pub where an Englishman asked for a lager and lime and was told by the barman in a gruff, deep voice “we don’t serve cocktails”.

We did however drink in the serenity. I said to the CB “it’s quiet”. “Too quiet” she said. Then the drums started, slow and faint to begin with but gradually increasing in urgency and volume. I noticed a distinct increase in activity round our camp. “What’s happening?” I said, somewhat alarmed. “The dancing competition at the next camp down the road has started and we’re getting dinner underway”. “No worries” said I.

So we got up this morning at sparrow fart (5.30am in desert parlance) and headed for the dunes astride our trusty ships of the desert. The objective was to see a desert sunrise. It was about 6.45am before the sun put in an appearance and by that stage it was a few degrees above the horizon thanks to the haze. Our desert sunrise was like our desert storm the day before. But we’d been there for both and that’s 99% of the experience.

It’s time to talk about survival skills.

A life skill (only a survival skill in certain circumstances) that we all need to learn is the ability to say “no”. This can come in handy in all sorts of situations – marriage proposals, bungee jumping invitations, children who don’t know the difference between wants and needs, politicians who want pay rises – you get the drift.

Walk through a Moroccan market and if you don’t have to say “no” three or four times a minute check for spiders. You are invited to buy, to eat, to consider, to look, to try-on, to chat. And word gets around. The first day the CB and I were in Marrakech we asked a few restaurant spruikers if they sold beer and wine. The answer was generally “no” (see, they can do it too) but afterwards grubby individuals were sidling up to us inviting us, in whispered tones, back to their no doubt salubrious premises to partake of beer and wine. The answer to this invitation is “no”.

After a week in Morocco, we have to face up to (and survive) the inevitable. It’s the same when you go to Bali or other places in Asia like India. I’ve been to both, India many dozens of times so the inevitable is …… inevitable. You know what I’m talking about right?

People who know about these things say don’t drink water from the tap, don’t put ice in your drink and don’t eat salads (the lettuce is washed in that horrible water, don’t you know). What they don’t tell you is not to sit anywhere near those fans blowing clouds of fine water spray out over where you happen to be sitting because it’s a hot day and that spray feels so cool as it settles on your food and in your drink and gets breathed in. They should also tell you not to breathe. Precautions be damned. Bow to the inevitable. But don’t eat street food under any circumstances.

And be prepared because anything lurking in the bowel will be evicted with extreme prejudice. If you haven’t experienced this, imagine sitting down, relaxing and the hangman releases the trapdoor. Sound and fury ensues. Anyway the process is so efficient I’ve dropped two hat sizes.

Harking back to The Iberian Intervention it was pointed out by our guide that Americans are uncomfortable with the word “toilet” and prefer something less confronting like “washroom” whereas Europeans couldn’t care less. So you never see someone go to the toilet in an American movie (unlike in European movies) unless it’s actually the butt (mirth mirth) of the joke. I guess it’s not something that’s generally vital to the plot like gratuitous nudity.

The toilet stop is an integral part of life in this part of the world. In fact “Life of Brian” would have been much more believable with the occasional bog-stop.

And how can we talk about survival skills without talking about the roads. Not just the roads actually. In the tight winding market alleys you’re constantly avoiding motor scooters. A silent electric one went past us once and I thought there was an accident waiting to happen.

And be warned if you happen to be driving through the High Atlas Mountains. There’s a lot of roadworks so if you get too close to the stop/go man there’s a chance you’ll be showered by rocks loosened by the digger about 20m above the road, as a tourist bus in front of us was.