Friday, March 24, 2006
The Auction
News in from the Gambia tells us that Dusty Springs raised 48,000 delasi at auction – that’s around £945. Considering we only paid £50 for her, that’s a tidy sum which will go directly to benefit local charities in the Gambia. Dusty’s future is secure as a taxicab – and no doubt in the coming months she will be repainted green and yellow. We left the wooden ergo-ball seat cover with Dusty for her next taxista owner. Uber-styling.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Silence of the Rams
After several days relaxing in Banjul, the Terranauts decided to spend a few days exploring the inner Gambia, or the bush. We’d already witnessed the darker side of the burgeoning Gambian tourism industry, which attracts thousands of European package tourists to the beaches of Banjul every year. Blistering red blobs playing bingo by the swimming pool, Club Wow, and some excellent local cuisine (gravy and soggy chips) to name but a few highlights, it was time to get out of town. Destination: Tendaba – 125 kilometres inland over the worst potholey roads of the whole trip. We didn’t realise that before we set out. A Gambian friend I met last year – Solomon (who this year was awaiting us, mysteriously, at the border) advised us that “the road South is bad, man – you better go North.” Feeling a tad overconfident after cruising over Saharan sandbogs and axle breaking dirt roads in Senegal, we reassured him that Dusty was indomitable and headed South.
5 hours later we were still going up and down over 4 foot dirt crevasses on a road that seemed to have been peppered with minor explosives. Dodging cows and suicidal bush taxis, it was interminable hell on wheels. We were interested to see that at the entrance and exit of each small village there were handpainted signs educating people about HIV/AIDS written in Wolof and then Mandinka as we moved inland. This is part of a national government program. We passed 3 young women on the road wearing HIV/AIDS T-shirts and swung the car around to say hello. They didn’t speak English but we pointed to the YouthAIDs posters on the car grinning and gave them some tags. They looked bewildered and we wondered whether they understood what on earth we were talking about.
We made Tendaba by nightfall, to a Gambian run eco-camp set up by a Swiss sea captain in the early 1970s. There we met our friends, 3 fellow rally teams – the Swiss mix, the BMW boys and Air Freshener. What a location – on the Gambian river, a bird spotter’s paradise, with a little wooden jetty jutting out over the water where we sat supping cold beers and looking at the stars.
The next day we spent Tobaski – the Muslim equivalent of Christmas – in the nearby village, Kwinila,where a local family dressed us in traditional clothes and sat us in the hot sun at a religious ceremony in a nearby field. We returned to the family compound to witness the throat slitting of 2 freshly shampooed rams. Despite the blood and guts, the ensuing stew we shared with the family was a rare honour. All the girls were getting ready for the festivities later in the evening, drawing bucketfuls of water from the well to wash their clothes and hair. Traditional clothes were replaced by tight fitting lycra and crop tops and ceremony turned into a pulsating dance party in the village hall – the only place with a lightbulb in the whole village. Wherever we stood, there was a wall of small children flanking us, staring up with enormous chocolatey eyes. “Minty Toubab, minty toubab” – “Sweetie sweetie white man”. When they started pinching my bottom, I decided they weren’t so sweetie.
Next day we returned to Banjul on an empty tank (no gas stations apparently, or electricity inland) with Dusty’s engine fan making strangled metallic sounds. The bearings were going in the fan motor which meant major league repairs for her new owner to be. We feel a bit guilty for putting Dusty through such brutal final days. It’s hard to describe exactly what the car sounded like but imagine driving a combine harvester over a field of barbed wire, and you’ve just about got it.
5 hours later we were still going up and down over 4 foot dirt crevasses on a road that seemed to have been peppered with minor explosives. Dodging cows and suicidal bush taxis, it was interminable hell on wheels. We were interested to see that at the entrance and exit of each small village there were handpainted signs educating people about HIV/AIDS written in Wolof and then Mandinka as we moved inland. This is part of a national government program. We passed 3 young women on the road wearing HIV/AIDS T-shirts and swung the car around to say hello. They didn’t speak English but we pointed to the YouthAIDs posters on the car grinning and gave them some tags. They looked bewildered and we wondered whether they understood what on earth we were talking about.
We made Tendaba by nightfall, to a Gambian run eco-camp set up by a Swiss sea captain in the early 1970s. There we met our friends, 3 fellow rally teams – the Swiss mix, the BMW boys and Air Freshener. What a location – on the Gambian river, a bird spotter’s paradise, with a little wooden jetty jutting out over the water where we sat supping cold beers and looking at the stars.
The next day we spent Tobaski – the Muslim equivalent of Christmas – in the nearby village, Kwinila,where a local family dressed us in traditional clothes and sat us in the hot sun at a religious ceremony in a nearby field. We returned to the family compound to witness the throat slitting of 2 freshly shampooed rams. Despite the blood and guts, the ensuing stew we shared with the family was a rare honour. All the girls were getting ready for the festivities later in the evening, drawing bucketfuls of water from the well to wash their clothes and hair. Traditional clothes were replaced by tight fitting lycra and crop tops and ceremony turned into a pulsating dance party in the village hall – the only place with a lightbulb in the whole village. Wherever we stood, there was a wall of small children flanking us, staring up with enormous chocolatey eyes. “Minty Toubab, minty toubab” – “Sweetie sweetie white man”. When they started pinching my bottom, I decided they weren’t so sweetie.
Next day we returned to Banjul on an empty tank (no gas stations apparently, or electricity inland) with Dusty’s engine fan making strangled metallic sounds. The bearings were going in the fan motor which meant major league repairs for her new owner to be. We feel a bit guilty for putting Dusty through such brutal final days. It’s hard to describe exactly what the car sounded like but imagine driving a combine harvester over a field of barbed wire, and you’ve just about got it.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Arrival in the Gambia
Another quick update from the road with more news of our desert adventures to come. Dusty and the team made it through Senegal on Friday, driving 10 hours in a convoy of 45 cars along rough roads with the customs police all the way to the Gambian border. When we arrived, we had a warm welcome from two rally volunteers who ushered us through customs and passport control. Also waiting for us were a group of boys Vivi and I met last year. We spent a couple of hours hanging out, taking photos and distributing tags. Two guys asked us for help setting up a youth program on HIV/AIDS awareness. They said they had just started a community project to sensitize young people about the issue but needed help – expertise, ideas, and money.
Word gets out fast and the last few days every young person we meet makes a gesture with their hands around their necks about the tags – there simply aren’t enough to go around!
On the rally front, we were given a state welcome by the government and the Mayoress of Banjul in an official procession through the city yesterday afternoon – including the honour of passing under “Arch 22” through which only the President can drive….Lost of bewildered looks and a few rotten tomatoes from locals who don’t know much about the rally. Nevertheless, we’ve been getting offers for Dusty left right and centre – the petrol station owner, taxi drivers, and a bank manager have been clamoring to buy. She will be auctioned on Saturday to the highest bidder with proceeds going to local charities, as with the rest of the rally cars. After looking quite dusty for the last few weeks, Dusty is gleaming white after a complete scrub down by our rasta friend at the Leybato beach motel. He even cleaned the engine bay with a toothbrush.
Today we drive inland to explore some eco-reserves on the Gambia river delta. Banjul is a big tourist hell – Blackpool meets West Africa. Time to see some back country…
Word gets out fast and the last few days every young person we meet makes a gesture with their hands around their necks about the tags – there simply aren’t enough to go around!
On the rally front, we were given a state welcome by the government and the Mayoress of Banjul in an official procession through the city yesterday afternoon – including the honour of passing under “Arch 22” through which only the President can drive….Lost of bewildered looks and a few rotten tomatoes from locals who don’t know much about the rally. Nevertheless, we’ve been getting offers for Dusty left right and centre – the petrol station owner, taxi drivers, and a bank manager have been clamoring to buy. She will be auctioned on Saturday to the highest bidder with proceeds going to local charities, as with the rest of the rally cars. After looking quite dusty for the last few weeks, Dusty is gleaming white after a complete scrub down by our rasta friend at the Leybato beach motel. He even cleaned the engine bay with a toothbrush.
Today we drive inland to explore some eco-reserves on the Gambia river delta. Banjul is a big tourist hell – Blackpool meets West Africa. Time to see some back country…
Wednesday, January 4, 2006
Out of the desert and onto Senegal
Just a quick update to say we made it out of the desert…in one piece, just. After an astounding 3 days traversing dunes, sliding over sand bogs, chasing camels and driving down beaches in the Sahara, we arrived in Nouakchott the capital of Mauritania. No major breakdowns to report beyond ripped exhausts, broken axels, steaming radiators and burst cylinders. Dusty sailed over the dunes like a boat. We only got stuck in the sand a few times. What a trip.
Yesterday we drove to the Senegalese border where after hours of bargaining with the border guards, all 45 or so cars still in the rally were let into the country for the bargain price of 130 Euros each. A small price to pay to save sleeping in the car all night. The HIV AIDS tags are even more of a hit here in Senegal. We are in St Louis in the north of the country this afternoon where we have been followed around by gangs of hawkers and children all wanting a tag! We insist on everyone understanding the reason behind the tags and asking them what they know about HIV/AIDS before giving them out. This is sometimes easier than other times as unfortunately, the shiny silver necklaces are all some boys and girls can concentrate on…Language is a barrier too of course, hopefully by the time we get to the Gambia our discussions with people about HIV/AIDS will get easier.
More news of our expolits in the desert will follow, as we return now down the river to Zebrabar, a camping ground for travellers run by a Swiss couple where we are having a giant barbeque and party tonight to celebrate getting this far! Almost there now.
Yesterday we drove to the Senegalese border where after hours of bargaining with the border guards, all 45 or so cars still in the rally were let into the country for the bargain price of 130 Euros each. A small price to pay to save sleeping in the car all night. The HIV AIDS tags are even more of a hit here in Senegal. We are in St Louis in the north of the country this afternoon where we have been followed around by gangs of hawkers and children all wanting a tag! We insist on everyone understanding the reason behind the tags and asking them what they know about HIV/AIDS before giving them out. This is sometimes easier than other times as unfortunately, the shiny silver necklaces are all some boys and girls can concentrate on…Language is a barrier too of course, hopefully by the time we get to the Gambia our discussions with people about HIV/AIDS will get easier.
More news of our expolits in the desert will follow, as we return now down the river to Zebrabar, a camping ground for travellers run by a Swiss couple where we are having a giant barbeque and party tonight to celebrate getting this far! Almost there now.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Into Mauritania, prepping for the Sahara desert
From Mirleft in Southern Morocco, Dusty Springs and the Terranauts set out on the long 2 day drive down through Western Sahara. Breathtaking scenery surrounded by undulating desert rock and the Atlantic ocean on our right side, over 450 km on a long flat straight road to the ends of the earth – at least thats what it feels like.
Toward Laayoune – the largest town as we move South and a small UN presence keeping the peace in the Western Sahara territory. They have had a lot of rain here which is extremely rare – and we came across a flooded desert road where 50 trucks and many more cars were waiting to cross 2 foot of water. After this delay we arrived by sundown at Camping des Bedouins, a remote desert campsite run by a Belgian couple who escaped from Rwanda just as the knives were drawn in the civil war. Camel stew and beers, and bed.
Next day was another epic drive to Dakhla, around 450k – it really gets remote on this stretch of road with little or no traffic apart from other rally cars. We drive all day through moonscapes as the red clay desert turns to fine beige Saharan sand. We started to feel quite small as the road stretched on ahead mile after mile, hour after hour. Every now and again we meet a police checkpoint, grin at the officer, say bonjour in our best French and hand over our affiches. Usually they are friendly – curious about the journey and ask about the YouthAIDS posters on the car. It has become a point of conversation and the tags are a big hit! We feared some people might be put off by the association with AIDS but have been surprised at how many officials praise the effort.
Dakhla by nightfall and our rest stop for 2 nights. Time to meet the group and prepare for the desert crossing. We crashed in a fleabag hotel and got up early to fit a sumpguard over Dustys front underside. You can find someone to fix anything in this town. Car wash and new tire and on to the market for camping provisions… We have a meeting with the teams in the afternoon and divide off into groups of 6 or 7 cars for the desert crossing. Greatest surprise is seeing Benni, my guide for the rally last year. We both yelp with surprise while he gives me a bear hug almost wrapping me up in his jelaba, a heavy wool coatdress with a pointed hood worn by men. Benni is from Nouadibou in the north of Mauritania and was awaiting our arrival for several days with some other desert guides. Grinning he says he will take us through the desert again this year.
Dusty and ourselves are travelling with a multinational group of 16 – a few Brits, 2 Norwegians, 3 Swiss, 1 German, 2 Mexicans…and 2 Americans. Apparently I have an American accent. Urgh.
Writing now from Nouadibou after a long day crossing the Moroccan border and into Mauritania. We arrived at the frontier just as the guards left for lunch, literally. The whole border crossing took 6 hours and no toilets. Roaming off to a craggy hillock wasnt an option as the area is still heavily mined.
We just ate Chinese food – lots of Chinese here in town – but rather surreal. The tags are in hot demand and are now proudly worn by the money changers, the guides, the jewellery salesman and the young men and women at the campsite. AIDS is a big issue here.
Tomorrow into the desert – we will be off roading for the next three days through the dunes. Happy New Year – hope we make it out OK!!
Toward Laayoune – the largest town as we move South and a small UN presence keeping the peace in the Western Sahara territory. They have had a lot of rain here which is extremely rare – and we came across a flooded desert road where 50 trucks and many more cars were waiting to cross 2 foot of water. After this delay we arrived by sundown at Camping des Bedouins, a remote desert campsite run by a Belgian couple who escaped from Rwanda just as the knives were drawn in the civil war. Camel stew and beers, and bed.
Next day was another epic drive to Dakhla, around 450k – it really gets remote on this stretch of road with little or no traffic apart from other rally cars. We drive all day through moonscapes as the red clay desert turns to fine beige Saharan sand. We started to feel quite small as the road stretched on ahead mile after mile, hour after hour. Every now and again we meet a police checkpoint, grin at the officer, say bonjour in our best French and hand over our affiches. Usually they are friendly – curious about the journey and ask about the YouthAIDS posters on the car. It has become a point of conversation and the tags are a big hit! We feared some people might be put off by the association with AIDS but have been surprised at how many officials praise the effort.
Dakhla by nightfall and our rest stop for 2 nights. Time to meet the group and prepare for the desert crossing. We crashed in a fleabag hotel and got up early to fit a sumpguard over Dustys front underside. You can find someone to fix anything in this town. Car wash and new tire and on to the market for camping provisions… We have a meeting with the teams in the afternoon and divide off into groups of 6 or 7 cars for the desert crossing. Greatest surprise is seeing Benni, my guide for the rally last year. We both yelp with surprise while he gives me a bear hug almost wrapping me up in his jelaba, a heavy wool coatdress with a pointed hood worn by men. Benni is from Nouadibou in the north of Mauritania and was awaiting our arrival for several days with some other desert guides. Grinning he says he will take us through the desert again this year.
Dusty and ourselves are travelling with a multinational group of 16 – a few Brits, 2 Norwegians, 3 Swiss, 1 German, 2 Mexicans…and 2 Americans. Apparently I have an American accent. Urgh.
Writing now from Nouadibou after a long day crossing the Moroccan border and into Mauritania. We arrived at the frontier just as the guards left for lunch, literally. The whole border crossing took 6 hours and no toilets. Roaming off to a craggy hillock wasnt an option as the area is still heavily mined.
We just ate Chinese food – lots of Chinese here in town – but rather surreal. The tags are in hot demand and are now proudly worn by the money changers, the guides, the jewellery salesman and the young men and women at the campsite. AIDS is a big issue here.
Tomorrow into the desert – we will be off roading for the next three days through the dunes. Happy New Year – hope we make it out OK!!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Marrakech and on into Western Sahara
So, when we left you last, our exhaust had just fallen off again 2 hours from Marrakech in the dark, in the middle of nowhere. Dustys luck again as two friendly Morrocans pull over in a clapped out VW Golf and we ponder what to do. The best solution, with 20 tonne trucks zooming past, was to yank off the exhaust pronto and shove it in the car. Our new friends wanted to put it in the trunk Moroccan style – i.e. with about a meter of the exhaust pipe overhanging into the road. We explained that in the interests of not taking out every pedestrian and moped en route to Marrakech, perhaps the exhaust should go INSIDE the car. After some headscratching we got the exhaust nestling nicely in the car from back left to front right and out of the passenger side window. After giving the Moroccans a push start, Dusty was back in action sounding like a prehistoric fanged beast.
Marrakech. Finally. Navigating traffic chaos under the admiring gazes of fellow Mercedes taxi drivers, we eventually found Group 1 in Hotel Tazi near the main square. Sharing news of our escapades so far over beers and chicken tagine, it was time for bed – mainly because the waiter had turned out all the lights. The next day we sharpened our bargaining skills in the souk buying pointy slippers, leather bags, trinkes, a kitchen sink, some apricots and figs. Bartering like berbers said one store owner – the Terranauts found that hugely flattering.
Time running short and the rest of the group zooming ahead, we said goodbye to Marra and set out on the road toward Agadir, 250 miles south. Our destination by nightfall was Mirfelt, a sleepy coastal village with a crescent of white sand on the Atlantic ocean. As the green Atlas mountains fell away behind us, we entered the clay red plains that turn to desert as we work our way into the Western Sahara.
Chugging along in the rain, Jimmy valiantly manoeuvring in the dark, it was tough going. Where the edge of the road begins and ends was lost in the glare from truck headlights, spray and mud. Wihth the exhaust pipe still poking out the window, sitting in the back is like being in the midst of a mini tornado. Urgh. The rain finally cleared as the road snaked into Agadir and we pushed on through the night to Tiznit, a small walled town famous for its silver Berber jewellery. Beyond Tiznit, the road stretched out long and straight into the wilderness and dark. This is where Morocco ends and the Western Sahara begins. 11pm and the rain started lashing down again – all we could see left and right were ominous looming shapes of the sand cliffs.
At Mirfelt we were welcomed by 2 Morroco-Rasta boys, Hassan and Ahmed. They noticed LL Cool J on the car and we talked about music. At the height of the hippy invasion Jimi Hendrix came to the village and chilled out, they said. He gave someone a guitar which was later used for firewood on a particularly cold day. We gave them some tags and they told us how cool it was that we were telling people about HIV/AIDS.Tomorrow we leave with the group for Laayoune, close to 450 km on the long desert road to Dakhla, the furthest point south before the tarmac ends and the sand begins.
Marrakech. Finally. Navigating traffic chaos under the admiring gazes of fellow Mercedes taxi drivers, we eventually found Group 1 in Hotel Tazi near the main square. Sharing news of our escapades so far over beers and chicken tagine, it was time for bed – mainly because the waiter had turned out all the lights. The next day we sharpened our bargaining skills in the souk buying pointy slippers, leather bags, trinkes, a kitchen sink, some apricots and figs. Bartering like berbers said one store owner – the Terranauts found that hugely flattering.
Time running short and the rest of the group zooming ahead, we said goodbye to Marra and set out on the road toward Agadir, 250 miles south. Our destination by nightfall was Mirfelt, a sleepy coastal village with a crescent of white sand on the Atlantic ocean. As the green Atlas mountains fell away behind us, we entered the clay red plains that turn to desert as we work our way into the Western Sahara.
Chugging along in the rain, Jimmy valiantly manoeuvring in the dark, it was tough going. Where the edge of the road begins and ends was lost in the glare from truck headlights, spray and mud. Wihth the exhaust pipe still poking out the window, sitting in the back is like being in the midst of a mini tornado. Urgh. The rain finally cleared as the road snaked into Agadir and we pushed on through the night to Tiznit, a small walled town famous for its silver Berber jewellery. Beyond Tiznit, the road stretched out long and straight into the wilderness and dark. This is where Morocco ends and the Western Sahara begins. 11pm and the rain started lashing down again – all we could see left and right were ominous looming shapes of the sand cliffs.
At Mirfelt we were welcomed by 2 Morroco-Rasta boys, Hassan and Ahmed. They noticed LL Cool J on the car and we talked about music. At the height of the hippy invasion Jimi Hendrix came to the village and chilled out, they said. He gave someone a guitar which was later used for firewood on a particularly cold day. We gave them some tags and they told us how cool it was that we were telling people about HIV/AIDS.Tomorrow we leave with the group for Laayoune, close to 450 km on the long desert road to Dakhla, the furthest point south before the tarmac ends and the sand begins.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Happy Holidays from the Terranauts
Merry Christmas from the Terranauts! We are on the road from Fes to Marrakech. Rufus Wainwright is on the stereo, and it has been a mellow Dusty day so far; our only a contretemps was getting locked out of the car thismorning, but that was okay because our window pops out with a bit of bendy wire.
After dashing through France and Spain, we feel much more athome in Morocco because everyone thinks Dusty is a taxicab. We are hailedconstantly, “sorry, we’re not a taxi!” White Mercedes W123s are the most common car on the roads here and Moroccans will pat her on the back and people will with knowing affection how good a machine our Dusty is.
We are charging hard to Marrakech, where we hope to meet up with the other rally teams for the first time. We were supposed to meet in southern Spain for the ferry to Morocco, but some inevitable repairs set us back almost an entire day. Dusty dropped her exhaust in front of a trucker’s restaurant/hotel on Wednesday night, luckily only 10km from a Mercedes-Benz garage. They also repaired our hydraulics, which lifted up Dusty’s back end and made her into the smooth-cruising honey we are sailing in tonight.
Dusty’s two other breakdowns have also come in convenient places: “Dusty’s luck”. When a certain smell of burning rubber turned out notto be from the truck ahead of us, but the rich black smoke billowing from our right front tire, the team of locals who rushed to our aid sent us to a mechanic less than a mile down the road. He diagnosed jammed brakes and went into hammer the disk straight.
Of course, the bent disk was due to a minor incident on a high Atlas mountain pass, where under challenging driving conditions one of theTerranauts sent Dusty sliding gently into a drainage ditch. We’re not saying which one, but evidentiary photos are reminiscent of a New York City parking job.
But no sooner did Dusty deposit her nose downwards than helpful Moroccans appeared from all directions,which was refreshing in the Rif valley because everyone else there wants to sell you hash.
The brake job was cheap, and we sweetened the transactionwith a few YouthAIDS dogtags, which are proving to be the coin of our mobile realm.We have 1,000 of these shiny necklaces in the trunk, and they are charms which open conversation and ease our passage. The Moroccans love them, and we have given them to guides, mechanics, parking attendants, hotel managers, road saviors, and anyone who asks about the car or shows us a simple kindness, like the gas station mechanic who gave Emily two bright oranges as she waited in the car.
We gave tags to Omar the olive oil presser as well. I’ve never seen olive oil fresh from the press before, and when Omar handed me aliter of the divine stuff, deep green and cloudy with life-giving properties,and wanted only $6 in return, Emily and I had to show that our appreciationwent further than the price at hand. Out came the tags, and within a minute tenmore people had appeared, smiling and asking for one. But the point of the tags is to raise awareness of HIV/AIDS, and so there by a roadside oil press in the middle of the Atlas mountains, Emily engaged Omar and his friends in a serious conversation that they were ready to have. “Yes,” said Omar, who is no olderthan 35, “I know AIDS is a serious problem, and especially a problem here inMorocco. But no one talks about it.” One of his friends was in the Moroccan army, and told us that the military was just starting to warn its soldiers of the dangers of contracting AIDS. There was much more to say, but that small opening was enough, and we had to be on our way.
There is also much more to write, but…our exhaust just felloff again and is dragging in the road! There are sparks flying out behind thecar and we are pulling over…amazing. Already a Moroccan man has stopped to help…he pulled over as soon as he saw the sparks. Dusty’s Luck! More next time….
DONATE!
Best,
Jimmy
After dashing through France and Spain, we feel much more athome in Morocco because everyone thinks Dusty is a taxicab. We are hailedconstantly, “sorry, we’re not a taxi!” White Mercedes W123s are the most common car on the roads here and Moroccans will pat her on the back and people will with knowing affection how good a machine our Dusty is.
We are charging hard to Marrakech, where we hope to meet up with the other rally teams for the first time. We were supposed to meet in southern Spain for the ferry to Morocco, but some inevitable repairs set us back almost an entire day. Dusty dropped her exhaust in front of a trucker’s restaurant/hotel on Wednesday night, luckily only 10km from a Mercedes-Benz garage. They also repaired our hydraulics, which lifted up Dusty’s back end and made her into the smooth-cruising honey we are sailing in tonight.
Dusty’s two other breakdowns have also come in convenient places: “Dusty’s luck”. When a certain smell of burning rubber turned out notto be from the truck ahead of us, but the rich black smoke billowing from our right front tire, the team of locals who rushed to our aid sent us to a mechanic less than a mile down the road. He diagnosed jammed brakes and went into hammer the disk straight.
Of course, the bent disk was due to a minor incident on a high Atlas mountain pass, where under challenging driving conditions one of theTerranauts sent Dusty sliding gently into a drainage ditch. We’re not saying which one, but evidentiary photos are reminiscent of a New York City parking job.
But no sooner did Dusty deposit her nose downwards than helpful Moroccans appeared from all directions,which was refreshing in the Rif valley because everyone else there wants to sell you hash.
The brake job was cheap, and we sweetened the transactionwith a few YouthAIDS dogtags, which are proving to be the coin of our mobile realm.We have 1,000 of these shiny necklaces in the trunk, and they are charms which open conversation and ease our passage. The Moroccans love them, and we have given them to guides, mechanics, parking attendants, hotel managers, road saviors, and anyone who asks about the car or shows us a simple kindness, like the gas station mechanic who gave Emily two bright oranges as she waited in the car.
We gave tags to Omar the olive oil presser as well. I’ve never seen olive oil fresh from the press before, and when Omar handed me aliter of the divine stuff, deep green and cloudy with life-giving properties,and wanted only $6 in return, Emily and I had to show that our appreciationwent further than the price at hand. Out came the tags, and within a minute tenmore people had appeared, smiling and asking for one. But the point of the tags is to raise awareness of HIV/AIDS, and so there by a roadside oil press in the middle of the Atlas mountains, Emily engaged Omar and his friends in a serious conversation that they were ready to have. “Yes,” said Omar, who is no olderthan 35, “I know AIDS is a serious problem, and especially a problem here inMorocco. But no one talks about it.” One of his friends was in the Moroccan army, and told us that the military was just starting to warn its soldiers of the dangers of contracting AIDS. There was much more to say, but that small opening was enough, and we had to be on our way.
There is also much more to write, but…our exhaust just felloff again and is dragging in the road! There are sparks flying out behind thecar and we are pulling over…amazing. Already a Moroccan man has stopped to help…he pulled over as soon as he saw the sparks. Dusty’s Luck! More next time….
DONATE!
Best,
Jimmy
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