Ferry to Morocco

The ferry from Almeria to Melilla, a Spanish Enclave in North Africa, departs at 11:30 pm. You arive to pick up boarding pass for said journey at 9:00. I spend the time coming to grips with the ills of American political culture with the rave kid-political dissident-come surfer and his stripper-come-psychology graduate student girlfriend who were standing in line with me for tickets on the ferry. They were from the UK . Cornwall to be precise. Trying to sort out a conversations between Laura and Andy is like attempting to narrate a Guy Ritchie flick to your grandmother. Good fun. We were soon traveling together.

The Y Tu Mama Tambienesque trio retreated to the deck of the embarking vessell to watch the coastline of Almeria dissappear. Cold rain and colder beers - that would prove to be the last we would see until we leave Morocco - brought us back indoors. Following us at a distance is a clean, light blue track suit barely visible in the waning flourescent light of the ship. A long string of non-corresponding Spanish words pour forth from the darkness near the light blue aparition. Unphased by this we proceed to the duty free where we buy bottles of fine American whiskey. Jack Daniel to be precise. Contraband to be traded with Moroccans willing to risk the possibillity of turning slowly on a spit in the firey pits of hell with we infidels meddling in the spiritual alchemy of distilled sugars. The pious prefer their sugars poured by the spoonfull into their mint tea.