A question

Perhaps the seemingly endless array of weddings we have attended in the past 6 months inspired me.  Perhaps the years of playful sledging, subtle hints and not so subtle threats, and once proud men tumbling like dominoes all around finally wore me down. Or, more likely, I simply felt the time was just right… 

On a fine summer’s Sunday, which also happened to be M-A’s birthday, I led her on a bike ride to a mystery location (although the fact that she started leading the way makes me believe she may have figured our destination).

The destination was the University of Queensland’s Great Court; metres from where we first met; where we spent much of our early time together, studying, working, and playing; and surely a beautiful spot in its own right.  We shared a picnic lunch on a shaded patch of grass, before I asked M-A if she would like her birthday present.  I handed her a poem I had composed in stolen minutes over the preceding week. 

I had attempted to have the poem pose the question.  Evidently, it was too subtle, for when she had finished reading it, M-A simply smiled at me expectantly.  I suspect she realised she may have missed something when I handed her the distinctively shaped box.

But still she made me ask the question.  She answered in the affirmative.

Wounded Part III: Paper underpants

‘I am Jack’s swollen head’.

The voices start to fade in. I open my eyes. It feels like one second ago that the room disappeared. In reality over four hours have passed.

I have a tube feeding saline solution into my left hand. I have a tube draining blood from behind my right ear. I am an over-complicated machine for turning water into blood.

My head is bandaged, and throbbing a little. I am wearing nothing but ill-fitting paper underpants, and some anti-DVT stockings.

And now, just to complete the utter demolition of both my comfort and dignity, the nurse informs me that if I can’t urinate in the next 45 minutes, she’s going to insert a catheter.

But I’m not going down that road without a fight. I drink so much water that I’m surely violating water restrictions, and strain so hard to piss that I’m at risk of popping some of the 56 staples holding my head together.

Fortunately I succeed.

Considering what has just been done, I’m in surprisingly little pain. I assume it is due to the morphine they injected before I woke up, but the hours pass and the pain stays away.

The combination of sharing the room with three other patients, the nurse injecting antibiotics every few hours, and the constant beeps, wheezes and clicks going on means I don’t sleep much that night. Eventually the sun rises, and soon after one of the surgeons comes to admire his work. He’s pleased with the result, and that I’m not in pain. He says I need to have some x-rays taken, and I can go home.

Thank-you sincerely to everyone for the well-wishes and thoughts. It really does help to know you all care.

And thank-you to the nurses and doctors, who did a great job. I am still very satisfied with our public health system.

‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again’.

Humpty really should have seen a maxillofacial surgeon.

Brain-injury smurf is one of the lesser known smurfs

I don’t know if the reverse-sideways-Mohawk will catch on

Two weeks later: Sporting a few scars and a new hairstyle, but feeling pretty good

Wounded Part II: Not invincible

Actually, I suppose that’s a double negative. Maybe it should just be ‘vincible’. Anyway, I’m broken.

Once the dressing had been removed and the swelling had subsided, I had a strong suspicion that I may have fractured my skull. Perhaps it was the canyon in my forehead that gave me the clue? I went back to my GP who referred me for some scans.

I was expecting confirmation of a fracture. I was not expecting this:

You don’t need a decade of medical school to see there’s something wrong with that picture.

I’m booked in for surgery on Thursday (10/09/09). I had already accepted my fate before I met with the surgeon. I was actually quite keen just to get it over and done. That was until he told me how they were going to access the fracture: A coronal-flap with a mid-facial de-gloving.

If you’re imagining something like this:

then you get a point.

If you’re picturing this:

…you can have half a point.

I’m only joking because if I don’t I’ll cry. I don’t like having my blood pressure taken…and they’re going to peel my face off!

The worst part is waiting. No, that’s probably not true; I imagine the worst part will be when I wake up and my face is attached by staples. But the waiting is bad. I just want it to be over.

Before:

After:

Wounded

It was always going to happen. Given enough trials, all possible events will occur.

I've been playing football of various codes for almost twenty years and never had an injury serious enough to be hospitalized. Last Friday night (18/08/2009), my turn came.

There were ten-ish minutes remaining in the Custard FC v Centenary Stormers Commercial League Soccer fixture. The score was 2-2. I went for a header; so did one of the Stormers boys.

Imagine the sound of an axe hitting a particularly hard log. The blood came quickly, and there was plenty of it. The cut was above my right eye, so I couldn't see it. Despite the quantity of blood, I still held some hope that the first person to inspect it would say 'It's nothing. Just a scratch. Get up.'
The reality was closer to 'Urrgghh. Don't move Richo. Somebody call an ambulance!'

I really didn't want to be that guy; the one who gets hurt and just sits in the middle of the field, preventing everyone else from continuing the game. I was insisting that I was OK to move off to the side, but I was encountering some resistance on the issue. So, I became that guy, and the remainder of the game was abandoned.

You know how the story goes from here: ambulance, waiting room, nurse, doctor, operating room, home.

The paramedics took all precautions. They put me in a neck-brace, and onto a stretcher. They took my blood pressure, and put one of those little clips onto the tip of my finger (to measure pulse, maybe?). They then performed a series of neurological tests, stuck an IV into my arm, and pumped in some Maxalon to prevent me from vomitting; I don't blame them; I wouldn't want to clean the van either :)

'Public or private?' asks one of the ambos. I realise that I haven't re-activated my suspended health insurance since returning from the UK. Who knew that procastination wasn't always the best approach? M-A requests that I be taken to her home-ground; the Mater.

In the hospital, once the doctor was satisfied there was no spine, brain or bone damage, there was nothing left to do but some sewing. Ten jabs of local anaesetic and eight stitches later, and it was time to go home.

I have heard some unfavourable reports of Australian hospital emergency departments. I feel the need to counter with my own. My experience could hardly have been better: The ambulance arrived in less than ten minutes; I was seen quickly in the ED; And I was treated well by everyone. From the time it happened on the field, to the home I arrived home stitched up, was perhaps three hours. And totally free.

A week later, and the stitches are out. I have the scar as a perma-memory, but more interesting is that I have lost sensation in my forehead above the wound. It seems my supra-orbital nerve was damaged. So I've become a James Bond villain, with an evil looking scar above my eye and impervious to pain (at least in my right forehead - the remainder of me is just as pervious as ever). And while I'm making movie comparisons, walking around the office, I felt like Edward Norton in Fight Club. I wanted to wear a badge: "It didn't happen in a fight". It was an interesting social experiment though. Some people, despite being complete strangers, couldn't contain their curiosity and inquired what happened. Others nearly jumped out the window to avoid making eye contact.

The motorhome diaries: Track us

For anyone who wants to play along at home, I've created a google map of our route.

The place-marks are where we camped; usually accurate to within a few metres. The routes taken between points are obviously not accurate. It would have been way too much effort (even when you have no job, live in van, and your biggest decision is which beer to drink that afternoon, there's still only so many hours in day).

I'm going to try to keep it up-to-date. I'm also going to do some investigation into whether I can import our geo-tagged Picasa photos into it somehow (or maybe vice-versa). No promises though (now back to more important business: hmmm, Leffe or Peroni).

The motorhome diaries: The good, the bad and the ugly

The good

Just when we think France can’t treat us any better, we pull into Biarritz and begin the reconnaissance for potential campsites. Usually this requires some imagination and often some audacity too (anything that doesn’t have a sign with a picture of a campervan with a red line through it is fair game; and okay, sometimes there is a sign, but it never looks exactly like ours); which is why we assume our eyes have been deceived by a mirage when we first spot the oasis.

Metres from the beach, an easy walk from the heart of Biarritz, and signs indicating it is only for campervans; regular vehicles prohibited! And, there are power-outlets so we can plug-in. And a dumping station. All for free! Gotta love France!

Immediately after parking, we get ribbed by a good-natured pom, telling us we are far too young to be ‘on the tour’, and that we should be working. I reassure him that we have already paid enough tax in England to fund his pension for the next few years.

So Biarritz is home for the next three nights; riding our bikes along the cliff-tops, running along the foreshore, afternoon drinks watching the sun set.

We also finally encounter a fellow vanner who isn’t of retirement age; an English lad known as ‘Fish’, who’s been living on the road for nearly 12 months. We chat for a while; he seems a nice guy. He tells me that one of the other guys camped in the park is celebrating their birthday that night, with a fire and a few drinks down on the beach, and invites us along. Eager enough for some company other than our own, I tell him we’ll be there.

That night, before we’d joined them, I hear Fish arguing loudly with someone else. I look out the window and see him storm back to his van, only to reappear brandishing a hand-gun like he was Dirty Harry. After some more vigorous debate, and having a loaded firearm aimed at his face, Fish’s opponent must have conceded the argument, because he departed rapidly with squealing tyres as Fish launched flying-kicks at the side of his vehicle. Having left my Kevlar vest back in London, M-A and I decided to stay in that night.

Finally, and reluctantly, we leave Biarritz. We don’t travel far, but we do say au revoir to France for now, and hola to Spain.

San Sebastian was always going to struggle to provide us with a campsite on a par with Biarritz, but the one we find is still quite impressive. On the promenade that runs around the headland; it is pay-parking but free overnight. And it doesn’t explicitly say you can’t camp there, right? The only problem is that it is too water-front. The spray from the waves crashing against the rocks provides salt-water rain all night.

San Sebastian looks spectacular. It has urban beaches like nowhere I’ve ever seen. It seems you can walk out of an office building and step onto the sand. When first arriving, we join a crowd watching an unsuccessful rescue attempt of a sailboat, capsized and beached right on the Playa de la Concha.

We climb up Monte Urgull, and enjoy the views of San Sebastian and the Isla de Santa Clara from atop the castle walls.

The next morning I get my first surf of the trip, at the Playa de la Zurriola The water is colder than I expect, and I’m grateful for the thicker wetsuit I borrowed from Sean. My fitness is terrible; my arms quickly turn to custard. But the surf is clean, and there are only a few other surfers out (no one in Spain wakes up before 10:00). I’m eventually reluctantly forced to return to the beach to regain some feeling in my feet; now I understand the booties other surfers are wearing.

Coffees by the beach warm us up, and then we say good-bye to San Sebastian.

Good times...

The bad

We shouldn’t have even been there. The only reason we headed to Bilbao was to visit the Guggenheim museum. But as we enter the city’s outskirts, we realize: It’s Monday. Museums are closed Monday.

The mission should have been aborted then. It wasn’t.

Having vowed never again to enter urban areas in the van without a clear destination in mind, that’s exactly what we find ourselves doing. Attempting to find a parking-space, we turn down a lane. That the cars parked on both sides of the lane were all facing toward us didn’t tip us off. The car travelling down the lane towards us did. It was a one-way street, and our way was not the way. I press the clutch, grab the column-shift and push it away and down; into reverse.

Situation update: Maybe 20cm of spare width either side of the van; Only side-mirrors (the central rear-vision mirror simply looks into the living quarters); Approximately 30 metres back to the intersection; An angry-looking taxi-driver a metre in front, impatiently inching his front-bumper towards ours. I slowly reverse, my eyes repeatedly switching between the two side-mirrors, constantly adjusting the steering-wheel, trying to maintain that sliver of air between either side of the van and the parked cars. We make it back to intersection. Confident now that I’ve cleared the narrow lane, I turn the wheel sharply, swinging the rear of the van back onto the larger, two-way road we had turned off. Just as I’m about to halt the reverse and drive off forwards, that moment every driver dreads.

M-A shouts, simultaneously with the slight jolt I feel.

I quickly check both mirrors but can’t see any obstacles. M-A, who had exited the van, returns to report what I dreaded and expected; ‘You’ve hit a car.’

‘How bad?’ I'm scared to ask.

‘There’s some damage, but it’s OK.’ I fail to see how that can be a valid outcome.

Two vultures ladies who had witnessed the incident are already circling.

Situation update: We’ve just hit a vehicle; we are now sitting in the middle of an intersection; two ladies, one old and the other ancient, are in our faces and yammering Spanish; the taxi-driver still can’t get past, and is looking even less impressed.

I assume that these ladies, like almost everyone over a certain age, see it as their duty to uphold law and order; vigilantes with perms and too much lipstick. M-A remains to convince them that we aren’t fleeing the scene. I attempt to, not flee the scene, but slightly relocate; to a location preferably not in the middle of an intersection.

I quickly re-encounter our original problem: the streets are narrow and there are no parking-spaces. I have moved away from the intersection, finally allowing the traffic past. Having turned down another one-way street (after carefully checking the one way is my way), and travelled about the same distance down it that we had down the original lane, the cars parked either side had narrowed the road to a width that was clearly insufficient for the van to fit.

Situation update: I have left M-A alone at the scene of the accident; I am faced with either attempting an even more daunting reverse (and look how well the last one turned out) solo this time, or sitting and waiting for traffic to come behind me and block me in, creating a lovely jam, and making me the least popular person in Bilbao.

This is one of those moments where you hope to wake-up, startled, and realize it was all a nightmare. I click my heels three times, ‘There’s no place like home’.

I open my eyes. Fuck, still in Bilbao. The only option is reverse again. I hate that gear.

Again I play the game. Again I think I’ve won. Again as I swing back onto the two-lane road where M-A is still talking to the ladies, CLUNK. No way. This cannot be happening. This is the worst day ever. I jump out as M-A runs over. I’ve hit a small bollard. Fortunately, it was just the tow-bar. No damage done.

I double-park some cars, but at least manage to get the van into a position where it is not blocking traffic, and we can deal with the situation.

The ugly

I believe we are good people. We intend to do the right thing. The problem is we’re not sure what the right thing is. Do we call the police? It is only a fender-bender. We rifle through our paperwork, looking for our insurance documentation. The two ladies are writing a phone number down; I assume it is for the local police station. We can’t find a phone number for our insurance company. Another man approaches us and speaks to us, in Spanish of course. From what we can interpret, he says the car is illegally parked (it definitely was), got what it deserved, and that we should make like Speedy Gonzales.

The little guy sitting on my right shoulder, dressed in shining white robes, and wearing a golden halo says ‘You have a couple of options here: You can call the police; you can wait by the car until the owner returns; or you can leave your phone number and email address, along with your registration and insurance details’.

Another little dude, with red skin and horns, sitting on my left shoulder and carrying a pitchfork interjects ‘Are you fucking crazy? Do you really want to deal with the police? Do you really want to spend the next five hours waiting for this chump to return to his car, only to have him call the police, and have to wait another two hours? Sure, leave your phone number; he’ll call, you won’t be able to understand a damn word each other is saying, and he’ll call the police and give them your registration number. Then you’ll have to explain to them why you fled the scene of an accident. Listen to the man. “Arriba arriba, andalay andalay!”’

He also mentioned killing the two old ladies and storing the bodies in the van, but I cut him off there.

So M-A puts on a show for the witnesses, scribbling away on a piece of paper before folding it and securing it under the windscreen-wiper. Cue the chase music. We get back in the van and make the slowest getaway in history. I ask what she wrote on the paper. ‘Hello’.

We assume Bilbao’s entire active police force is pursuing us. Why doesn’t the sat-nav have an ‘Anywhere but here’ button?

We make it a few blocks away. It’s not the police that halt our escape, but our guilt. I pull over, and tell M-A that I can’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. She agrees, but we’re still unsure what to do. ‘How much cash have we got?’ M-A asks.

We scrape together €150 and decide to leave it on the victim’s windshield. Obviously there are plenty of flaws in this plan, but at the time it seems our best option. We return to a spot a few hundred metres from the scene, and M-A goes and places the money in an envelope next to her original note. When she returns, she mentions that the original note had moved.

‘You didn’t take it?’ I ask incredulously, as if I’m a veteran of these situations. I run and grab the original note; luckily as it turns out. It seems the two ladies had been unimpressed with M-A’s original manuscript, and had replaced it with their own. Written in Spanish, I can’t read much of it, but I certainly recognize our registration number. ‘Rude English’ also seems to make an appearance.

We wait in the van a little longer, concerned that someone else may take the money. The driver returns to the vehicle just as we’re about to give up. He finds the envelope before he sees the damage. We can’t see his expression, but I imagine he may be slightly confused. He does a lap of the vehicle and notices the damage. One more lap, a bit of a look around, then he gets in a drives off.

We do the same. Propelled by paranoia and guilt, we make a bee-line for Portugal; in our minds pursued by a bigger police convoy than O.J. Simpson’s Bronco.

We agree to never speak of Bilbao again.

The motorhome diaries: Chateau de Figeac

Gotta love France: Two-hour lunch breaks; Mondays off; Bakeries with the world’s best bread and even better pastries; Great beer; Shop assistants with the attitude ‘If you approach and ask for help - you’ve got it - otherwise I’m going to leave you to it’; Citizens that understand that if the government makes a decision you disagree with, why wait until the next election and vote for someone else, when you can fill a bottle with a highly flammable liquid, stuff a rag in the top, light it, and throw it at the nearest police.

And, of course, wine that almost explains all the wars that have been fought over its soil.

We made the drive from Bordeaux to the Saint Emilion region. The narrow roads wind through acres of vine-yards gnarled stumps; the foliage must all be holidaying somewhere warm for the winter. We arrive at the Chateau de Figeac.

The other guests who were to be on the tour are late; so our now private tour of the sandstone chateau begins. We hear some history; the estate dates from the 2nd century AD. We see some wine-making in action; they buy new oak barrels for each batch at €600-a-pop. And we learn about Saint Emilion wines and Chateau Figeac in particular; Figeac blends 35% Cabernet Sauvignon, 35% Cabernet Franc and 30% Merlot; unlike most St. Emilion wines which are more typically 70% Merlot and 30% Cabernet varieties.

Then, we get to the real reason people take tours of wineries: To drink wine you could never afford to buy. We sample a ’98 (apparently a good year) Figeac. The mandatory spit-barrel is present, but I sense eyebrows would be raised if someone actually chose to use it. Why would you?

What do you follow some of the finest wine humankind has produced with? Tinned-tuna for lunch in the van parked outside, natürlich.

From the chateau it is only a short drive into the village of Saint Emilion. It’s straight out of medieval times; paved streets; buildings of sand-coloured rough-hewn bricks. A biting-wind runs through the narrow lanes. We walk the steep hills, past endless wine cellars peddling their wares. The first fat drops of a rain shower chase us back to the van. We decide to camp nearby and return in the morning.

M-A returns from her morning run to our camp-site; a picnic-stop beside a small stream, a few kilometres from the village. We drive back in and walk the cobblestones once more. The aroma of freshly baked treats and coffee cannot be resisted; we enjoy cappuccinos and macaroons. (I should say I enjoy a macaroon. If you ever want to see M-A truly disappointed, hand her a tasty-looking treat that contains even trace amounts of marzipan.) Caffeinated and sugared, we ascend the tower, and look down upon the picturesque walled-village, surrounded by vineyards as far as our sight allows us to see.

Gotta love France.

The motorhome diaries: D-Day beaches

I’ve seen the cinematic recreations so many times (thank-you History Channel); the doors on the boats open and the allied soldiers hit the beach; sand, water and flesh shredded by thousands of German bullets.

But now that I’m standing at the shore where it took place, even with Steven Spielberg's assistance, I actually find it difficult to imagine.

The beaches are still referred to by their Operation Overlord code-names. We camp a short ride from Juno, the beach where the Canadian soldiers landed.

We drive around to Arromanches, a small seaside town where a surprising amount of Port Winston - one of the Mulberry harbours the allies established for unloading cargo - is still intact.

Continuing west, we come to Omaha, where the Americans landed and the heaviest fighting took place. My military-strategy training starts and ends at playing Command and Conquer, but if I had to choose between manning a machine gun in the dunes and storming the beach from the boats...I wouldn’t want to be playing this mission as the Allies.

65 years after D-Day (Jour-J in French) there’s not much to mark these beaches apart from any other; the odd crater, a few concrete bunkers and some remaining hardware. Of course there are memorials scattered all along; including a giant, shining-silver monstrosity on Omaha that’s just way too abstract. Even with the thousands of white crosses in the American military cemetery, it is difficult to contemplate just how much blood was spilled here in such a short amount of time.

The motorhome diaries: The road to Rouen

Thwack. The black bee hits the windscreen. Although I suppose from its point-of-view, the windscreen hit it. Its frantic struggle to fly away makes me believe it may survive this unfortunate encounter. The leash of insect-insides tethering it to the windscreen makes me believe it probably won’t.

Most French camping-grounds don’t open until April, many even later. So although our destination is the D-Day beaches, the need to recharge essential items (laptop, sat-nav, mp3 player, phones) convinces us to take a detour via Rouen, and a camp-site we know is open in Les Andelys.

We drive into the ancient city of Rouen’s medieval quarter; picture a fat rat running a narrow maze. I rely on the ‘just look straight ahead and hope for no bad noises’ defense when faced with ‘surely this street is one-way – nope, here comes a car in the opposite direction’ situations. It works for me this time, but I vow to try another strategy in the future; preferably abandoning the mother-ship and launching the pods (bikes).

Rouen is history. The city got the shit kicked out of it in WWII; the buildings are mix of old, new, and patched-up. Amazing to think that some of them were standing when Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake in the main square...

We leave Rouen and head for the tiny town of Les Andelys. Our cigarette-lighter still isn’t working, so we power-on the sat-nav only long enough for M-A to note down the directions with pen-and-paper, before we shut it off again. However annoying you imagine this may be, believe me, it is worse. No roads in France have their actual names signed, and for our distances we are constantly converting between kilometres and miles. We miss virtually every turn. Not surprisingly, the sat-nav’s batteries run dry before we reach Les Andelys.

Somehow, right on dusk, we find the campsite. The location is fantastic. Just out of town on the banks of the Seine, we have the place almost entirely to ourselves. And, we have power; and a shower; and on the overlooking cliff an old tower; and by the river a pretty flower...what’s that? Enough already with the rhyming? Done.

The next day, M-A, still in hard-training for the London marathon, runs most of the way around France. I throw down a few laps of the camping-grounds, just enough to keep the guilt at bay. Later, we climb the hill to where the ruins of a castle lie. The day is perfect, and we can see the whole area. We spend the afternoon drinking beer, watching the barges slowly carrying their cargos up and down the Seine.

As we are departing Les Andelys, we stop in at a mechanic and M-A manages to explain our cigarette-lighter issue. The check the fuses (ahem, as had I), and conclude (ahem, as had I) that the fuse is fine (confession: it took them 20 seconds; it took me half-an-hour). They kindly abandon the tasks they had been working on, and repair the wiring for us immediately. They also charge us only 5 Euro. And people say the French aren’t helpful? M-A asks the two mechanics if they’d like to join us on our travels. The two of them, plus the camping-store attendant from Calais – this van’s going to be crowded. But, with our sat-nav powered, we are fully functional. Roll out troops.

The motorhome diaries: Bourgeois du Calais

Past the white cliffs of Dover, the ferry takes us across the channel and into Dunkirk.

Our unintended discarding of possessions continues; M-A and I both leave our jackets on the ferry, realizing only long after we’d driven off.

There are a few mundane realities to deal with before the good times can roll. We drive down to Calais, hoping to obtain the few, but crucial, items still on our list. In doing so, M-A discovers a number of phrases not taught in high-school French classes. These should perhaps be added to the curriculum:
‘Our regulator is for a German gas-bottle. Do you have one which will fit French bottles?’
‘Our cigarette lighter won’t power our sat-nav. Could it be the fuse?’
‘Do you have any rim-tape for bicycle wheels?’

We find a camper-stop by the entrance to the Calais port. In the summer it would cost, but those intrepid enough to travel in shoulder-seasons stay for free.

Nearby is the ‘Fritterie des Nations’, a small, greasy chippy selling the biggest chip-sandwiches I have ever seen; easily a foot-long, and six inches high and wide. Most of the people ordering them are also enormous. Perhaps this is coincidence, not causality; perhaps.

We walk out on the pier, and then along the soft-sand. We return to the van, where we have canned-fish –for me the third time today. At least it is washed down by some excellent beer: Bourgeois du Calais. A European-style blonde, it is strong: 7% alcohol. We become slightly inebriated as we finish the bottle overlooking the entrance to the port. The sun has barely set. The red-eye of the light-house is blinking in the distance; in the foreground is a crucifix-shaped monument. Our view is occasionally obscured by the passing of giant cruise-ships.

The morning brings my first experience of emptying the toilet. Not a task I’d been eagerly anticipating, but in the end not too bad. You open the cap and pour the blue water down the drain; easy.

We find a camping store, where a helpful (at least as helpful as someone who doesn’t speak English can be to us) employee shows us why our gas cooker wasn’t working: Turns out there was a cut-off tap located in the adjacent cupboard. I feel a little foolish. M-A asks him if he’d like to travel with us. It would probably be for the best.

Content that we can now at least heat our canned-fish, we depart Calais.

The motorhome diaries: Are we having fun yet?

My recommendation: Don’t leave your job, move out of your house, prepare to permanently relocate to the other side of the world, and set off for three months travelling around Europe in a van all within twenty-four hours. The plan made perfect sense written in a box on a calendar. Real life always has to spoil the party.

Major relocations always provide an opportunity for a possessions cull. ‘I might wear it again one day’ might be sufficient criteria to let something remain in a drawer. Having to haul it through Europe in a van and then on your back through airports across the globe raises the bar somewhat. Unfortunately, the speed of the cull ’09 meant not everything that was jettisoned was a conscious choice. My beloved mp3 player was one item I would prefer to not have left on the curb of Fortune Green Road.

But finally, as the sun begins to set on Saturday the 14/03/09, we depart.

The gravitational-pull of London ensures we don’t escape too quickly. After driving for an hour, I can just about still see our street in the rear-view mirror. We rely completely on the sat-nav for directions, but the route it chooses takes us right through London’s beating heart. Or maybe it’s lower-intestine. King’s Cross Station, Madame Tussaud’s, Victoria, the lights of Canary Wharf in the distance to the west. We should have painted the van red and charged admission.

After finally covering some ground, we pull over in Faversham. Cemetery to our right, football field to our left. Should be quiet enough. Our first-night facilities are limited: We haven’t obtained a gas bottle; no mains power; no water. We’re almost too timid to turn lights on for fear of draining the battery. But pissing on tombstones could be considered offensive by some, so I’m gonna coronate the WC. After filling the bowl, I turn the dial to open the trap-door and let the yellow river flow into the chemical-filled briefcase below. It won’t budge. Solving this problem is probably going to involve going outside and opening the compartment that contains the chemical toilet. But, outside is dark and cold, so the yellow dam can remain until the morning.

If only it had. Mopping my own urine from the floor with paper-towels will not make my life’s highlight reel. Then we dine on tinned tuna for breakfast. Are we having fun yet?

Morocco: Part I (ft. The Incident)

0330hrs, December 31st, 2008
Our cab arrives to take Tim, Kate, Anna (Tim's younger sister), Jacqui (Kate's younger sister), M-A and I to the airport. The sun is still asleep. The temperature is below zero. The moon didn't show-up to work. Who can blame it? The fog is thick. We can barely see 20 meters ahead of the car. Our driver obviously possesses some form of bat-like sonar system - he sits on 60mph most of the way. I would be nervous if he was relying on vision like the rest of us.

Perhaps its the amount of traveling we've done lately, or maybe the size of our group, but we realize during the flight that we're suffering from an acute case of traveler's-complacency. Armed with the combined knowledge of the six of us - we would be lucky to spell 'Morocco'. In our defense, we are carrying a Lonely Planet. Shame it is a Europe Lonely Planet, and not for the continent we are actually traveling to.

The few preconceptions we do possess are gone soon after landing in Marrakesh. The airport is, umm, ... nice. And modern. And organized. I thought this was Africa? As six ridiculously uninformed tourists exiting the airport with pockets full of large-denomination dirhams, we expect to be overwhelmed with offers of transportation. In fact, we have to walk a hundred meters to where the taxi-drivers are lounging on their vehicles. One of the drivers approaches us, and Kate does the talking. He very actively not listens. At least not to Kate. He makes it clear that to be heard, our words are going to have to come from someone in possession of a Y-chromosome. So the girls pull the strings and the boys mouths move. We agree on a price. We walk towards a nearby mini-bus. He approaches a regular taxi.
Us: "Ummm"
Driver: "What? It is a six-seater?"
Us: "Ahh, even if it was a six-seater, six of us plus one of you equals seven. And that is a five-seater."
Driver grumbles something along the lines of, 'I have already put your bags in the back. I'm driving off now.'

We cram in. M-A and I in the front, the other four in the back. Now this is more like Africa!

So, we arrive at a bus station. A local gentleman appoints himself as what I would describe as our travel agent. Here's how it works: We agree on a price and mode of transportation with him; He runs off and arranges it for presumably substantially less; He keeps the difference. Fair enough.

Improbably, we manage to meet up with Harrow (Tim Harrison). Eventually, after our helpful travel agent had run every play he knew on us ([in Maxwell Smart voice]: ahh, the old agree-on-a-price-for-a mini-bus-that-conveniently-disappears-leaving-only-one-in-all-of-Marrakesh-which- of-course-wants-a much-higher-price trick hey?), we agree to hire two taxis for the journey to Agadir. I'm pretty confident we bargained him down from roll-around-on-the-ground-laughing-overpriced to only cynical-under-breath-chuckle-overpriced.

The drive to Agadir:
Crawling through congestion to escape Marrakesh. Necks craning, trying to keep an eye on the other car. Not wanting to get separated. View impaired by shade-cover completely obscuring rear-window. Driver obviously doesn't care to see what he's left behind. We dodge through pedestrians, bicycles and donkeys. Our cars are banged-up Mercedes from the 80's. No seat-belts. Civilization becomes less dense until we aren't seeing buildings for many kilometers at a time. We stop at a rest-stop. Squat-style toilets. Again I'm grateful for that Y-chromosome. The only food we're confident to order is a round of naan breads. Our drivers order complete meals. We sit and wait. Once back on the road, we quickly enter the Atlas Mountains. [Without hyperbole:] We traverse the mountains as fast as is humanly possible in these vehicles. The car containing Anna, Harro, M-A and myself leads. While our cab driver in London earlier in the morning may have possessed bat-like sonar, this one should have his own Marvel comic. His super-power is overtaking on blind-corners with a cliff one on side and only one hand on the wheel while listening to strangely hypnotic Arabic music and appearing half-asleep. I dub him - Suicidal Cab Man. But, we do arrive at the Residence InTouriste (our hotel) in Agadir. And pants can always be cleaned. Our cab drivers appear to be arrested by the police shortly after we pay and exit the vehicles. Presumably for attempted murder.

We're alerted to the fact we've arrived at the correct hotel by a slightly intoxicated man wearing Moroccan robes, yelling at us from a third floor balcony. We reply "Good-day to you too, Chris".


Approx 03:30am, January 1st, 2009: The incident
The tick of the clock from 2008 to 2009 also marked 42 consecutive waking hours for me (Excluding some brief plane-sleep - commonly acknowledged to be a distant relative of actual sleep). Soon after the fireworks launched from Agadir beach have faded from the sky, sleep arrives with a vengeance, claiming my fellow early risers and I.



Chris, Sean and Krystal (works with Chris) had arrived in Agadir the previous day. One day in Morocco was apparently enough to overwhelm them with home-sickness. The three of them, joined also by Harro, having flown over a thousand kilometers from the English pub in which they live, welcomed '09 in a venue named: 'The English Pub'.

BANG BANG BANG.
"Richie. Open the door." Sean's voice.
BANG BANG BANG.
Anna is sharing the room with M-A and I. She comes into our room. Apparently M-A is awake too, both having been woken some minutes ago by the pounding at the door. Both lighter sleepers than I (an exclusive group which can also claim the long-term comatose as members). They advise me not to open the door. A neat summation of the next 24 hours would be: I should have listened. But even with my judgement clouded by sleep, I'm not stupid; I'm only going to open the door wide-enough to proffer some words of wisdom, before closing it firmly.

[Michael slightly opens door]
Hmm. Chris is holding a fire-extinguisher canister; This cannot be good.
[Michael slams door closed]
SLAM.
Hmmm. I have just closed door on the nozzle, which is pointing into our room.
Hmmmmm. That is definitely not what I expected to come out of it. What is that?
[A thick, blue cloud fills the room]
[Michael, blinded and choking, runs blindly in various directions]

Okay. So we all learn an interesting lesson; It turns out not all fire-extinguishers contain water. I believe this particular species contains a dry-chemical sodium-bicarbonate agent. Which in a few seconds, completely coats our entire room. Even the main bedroom, in which M-A and Anna have barricaded themselves, is not spared. The pale-blue powder goes under the door, and attaches itself to items on the opposite side of the room. Anna's backpack was in the lounge, and regrettably, open. It now contains equals parts fire-retardant and clothes. Chris and Sean, having run away giggling, are unaware of the disaster-zone on the other side of the door. Anna, M-A and I are... angry. The only positive is that the chances of a fire in our hotel room tonight have been dramatically reduced.



1000hrs, January 1st, 2009: The aftermath
Unfortunately it wasn't a dream. It also wasn't exaggerated by our alcohol-affected brains. If anything, the results are more confronting by the light of day. And I'm still angry.




BANG BANG BANG.
This time its my turn.
"Wake up Crichton!"
I sense Chris feels I'm being dramatic when I describe our room as uninhabitable. After taking him on a guided tour of his handiwork, I'm confident he agrees with my assessment.

I demand that he deal with it. Cue the performance:
"There was an...incident last night, and a fire-extinguisher was used" Chris explains to reception, looking as innocent as one can when just-woken, still-drunk, and dusted with blue fire-retardant.
"Would it be possible for us to have a new room?" He requests.

Amazingly, and with no further questions, we are shifted to a new room. I have an uneasy feeling this won't be the last we hear of 'the incident'.

So, Chris goes back to bed. Tim, Kate, Anna, Jacqui, M-A and I head into Agadir for some lunch. We have our first of what will many tagines.

After lunch, as the others are going shopping, I head back to the hotel to meet Sean and head for the beach, and hopefully some surf.

However, when I attempt to get into my (new) room, my card won't unlock the door. These readers are always flaky. A cleaner walking past comes to my assistance with her master key. I put on board-shorts for the first time in many months and meet Sean in his room. We tuck the boards under our arms and go downstairs. The last thing I have to do is to leave my card at reception for when the girls return.

"Hi. Is it okay if I leave this key with you for my friends to pick up?" I ask reception.

"Of course. What is your room number?"

"415." I reply.

"Did you just go into that room?" She asks with a puzzled expression.

"Yeah."

"This key opened the door?" Now appearing more puzzled.

I realize that it was no accident my card couldn't unlock the door.

"No. Actually a cleaner let me in."

"I see. Your room has been locked. You need to read this and call the number at the bottom. It is from your travel agent." Handing me a piece of paper.

Travel agent? I didn't even know we had a travel agent? I read the note. It is from someone named Sayid, who is apparently a representative for a company I have never heard of. It seems Sayid had been called to the hotel while we were out, and was accompanied by the police. The note also says the damage will have to be paid for.

None of this is surprising to me. What would have been surprising was if the hotel wasn't angry and demanding compensation. Chris has already said he is willing to pay damages. I just want to go to the beach.

I call Sayid. He seems like a nice guy, but says nothing that wasn't in the note. I still can't work out exactly what his role in this drama is.

The receptionist, seeing I have finished on the call, returns to me. I explain that I have spoken to Sayid, we're happy to pay for damages, and I'll see her later.

"No. You must speak to the hotel manager first."

I don't see why? Just append the damage to our bill and be done with it. But what can I do? I wait for the manager. When he eventually appears, we walk a conversational path that is beginning to feel well-worn. Yes, a fire-extinguisher was used in our room. I'm very sorry. Well, actually it wasn't me. Yes, we are happy to pay for the damages. By the way, how much are the damages?

The more I repeat that last question without receiving an answer, the more nervous I become. But how much could it possibly be? £100 for refilling the extinguisher. £200 for cleaning. Surely worst-case scenario, £500?

"Nineteen thousand dirhams."

I do the 10:1 conversion we have been using. I do it again to be sure: 19000/10 = 1900. Oh shit.

"Wow. That's a little higher than I was expecting." As if my face hadn't already said it.

"You will pay or I will call the police." The manager is definitely not friendly. And I'm beginning to suspect I'm not going to the beach today.

I think of Chris sleeping upstairs. I suspect he doesn't have £1900 on him. I'm still calm though. It's a lot of money, but I know I can cover it. It could be worse. Plus, all prices seem to be up for negotiation in this country. Maybe I can barter?

"Can I see a breakdown of the costs?" I ask.

The manager disappears, then returns with a printed invoice.

[Camera 2. Close-up on Michael.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]
[Overhead camera. Zoom to paper in Michael's hand.]

Total: Nine-zero-zero-zero-zero.

English is at least second, if not third or fourth in the manager's repertoire of languages. And his pronunciation of the word 'nineteen' is virtually indistinguishable from his 'ninety'. That, or my brain rejected 90 as not valid for the context, and jumped to the next plausible value.

90000. 90000 /10 = 9000. 9000 pounds. 9000 pounds!

The invoice is in French, but I can comprehend some of the items. They range from completely expected, to take-the-stupid-scared-tourists-for-all-they've-got:

• Cleaning (obvious)


• Refilling extinguisher (fair enough)


• Room unavailable for 18 days


• Replacing air-conditioning


• Refurnishing the room. Inc, new lounges, beds, etc


• Replacing all appliances. TV, refrigerator, cooker (outrageous)


• Painting the room (Ok, this is one of those hidden-camera shows right?)

The manager is reluctant to let me leave the foyer. But I really need to talk to Chris. After much convincing, he accepts that I probably couldn't escape with only board-shorts and a surfboard. My passport and wallet are both locked in the room. What am I going to do? Paddle back to the UK?

BANG BANG BANG.
I wake Chris for the second time today. I hand him the invoice.

[Camera 3. Close-up on Chris.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]

1700hrs, January 1st, 2009: The conference.
Chris, Sean, Harrow, Krystal and I are seated around a table in the foyer. Sayid has been to see us. As best I can now figure: We book the hotel through LastMinute.com, who then make the reservation via another company, which is who Sayid is representing. He is proving to be useful, not least because he speaks all three languages involved (French, Arabic, and English). With his help, the hotel have dropped their asking price to 72000 dirhams. I have told Chris that I will loan him the money, if he chooses to pay it. Ultimately, the decision is his. We have spent hours talking amongst ourselves, with Sayid, and also via mobile phone to the chef from The Hurlingham (Chris's pub), who happens to be Moroccan. At some point, not paying, and letting the police handle it, became a valid option. The hotel's unwillingness to drop the bill to anything resembling a realistic value of the damages now makes it the preferred one.

"The police have arrived." We are told. Our nervousness is not helped by the absence of any uniforms or marked vehicles. They read my name from a sheet, and order me to go and get my passport. I am accompanied upstairs by a very un-police looking dude. He appears far more like a night-club bouncer. We stand uncomfortably close in the elevator. Judging by his nose, he has been in at least one fight - which is one more than me. He waits at the door of my room while I locate my passport. Again we ride silently in the elevator back down. Back in the foyer Sean whispers a suggestion to not hand over the passport without seeing police ID. I had come to the same decision during the elevator ride.

"Your passport." One of the so-called-police demands in heavily-accented English. We play a brief game of i'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours, which results in no identification being produced by them, and my passport remaining in my pocket.

The police take statements from hotel staff, and again we wait. From our observations, we conclude that two of the men are likely police. The others (including my friend from the elevator) are probably hotel security of some description. The mood at our table is sober and anxious. The police and the hotel manager approach. They say that our statement must be taken at the police station. Again it is me they request - the room being in my name. Perhaps I am simply a coward, but I couldn't help but feel that some injustice would be done if it were I that was taken. After all, I had been on the other side of the door. Fortunately for me, the boys agree. We lie-on-the-fly and explain that we switched rooms after check-in. And Chris confesses to being the lone shooter.

And so it is that Chris, Sean, Harro, the hotel manager, Sayid, a couple of Moroccan police, and a few renta-thugz exit the Residence InTouriste.

I watch the tail-lights disappear. I'm concerned, relieved, guilty, frustrated, and ... tired. But our room is still locked. I return upstairs and debrief Tim, Kate, Jacqui, Anna and M-A on the day's events.

Hours pass, now late into the night. They return. But not for long. Chris must return to face court the next morning. I realize I don't even know what I had expected the result to be. On a positive note, Sean hands me key-cards for our room - reactivated. Finally this day is finished.

0830hrs, January 2nd, 2009: The trial.
I wish Chris a happy birthday, although I suspect it is in vain, as he departs for court. Sean, Harro, and Krystal go along. I consider joining the entourage. But, having already accompanied Chris to court many years prior, and seeing he is well represented, I opt for the beach and pool.

My skin absorbs the first real sun it has seen since Croatia. Tim, Kate, Jacqui and Anna ride Camels and watch Flamingos. Chris sits in a holding cell at the Agadir courthouse.




Second-hand information warning: Because I am beside the pool, I am not a primary source for the events that take place at the court.
Although we don't fully understand where Sayid came from, right now, Chris sure is grateful he showed up. He acts as translator and legal-council, even swearing the oath on Chris's behalf. Chris stands in front of the panel of judges as the facts are stated, before being returned to the cell. Over the following hours, the hotel progressively lowers the compensation being requested. These offers are made to Sayid, who translates and relays to the entourage, who relay to the incarcerated Chris. They are rejected. As the afternoon passes, and the deliverance of the judges' verdict surely approaches, the hotel returns with an offer of the same amount we had offered the day before: 15000 dirhams.

Chris accepts and is released. The verdict goes unheard. All return to the Residence InTouriste. I swipe my Barclays card. A number in a database in England decreases. A number in a database in Morocco increases. We go to the beach. And the incident is consigned to history.