Morocco | Desecration - Letter to the King

This is a true story. Every word of it is true, right down the one eyed cleaning lady. The Palace is a small, ancient palace at the centre of the Medina. Some parts of it is open to the public.


Dear King Mohammed VI,

  I know its only 9am, but I thought I'd better fess up, before someone else gets the blame for my undoings.

 I have a hapless reputation for destroying things, but even I would never have thought myself capable of desecrating a thousand year old Islamic treasure - and that before I've even had breakfast!

 Can I just say, in my defense, that none of this would have happened, if you could just make a law against Smelly Toilets. I strongly recommend Cillit Bang*, it even cleans off fake tan, so you know its good stuff. I will supply you with the manufacturer's details at the end of this letter, perhaps you can do some sort of royal deal. Your nation and their heritage, would thank you.

 It all started at the call to prayer, before dawn.

 Oh, your majesty, let me just say, that I never fail to be enchanted by the ancient, noble sound, drifting far across the valley on the crisp morning air, sifting through my open window and waking me to such serenity.

 I rose as I do, every morning, intending to sneak quietly out the door, out the courtyard, into the yard where I can have a lovely pee in the grassy field, without waking my host's mother of undeterminable age, who sleeps on the floor in the room with me.

 What a honey of a person! If such a thing were possible, I would adopt her and take her everywhere with me - I could carry her on my hip, she is so tiny! And I could fill her every day with delights, so that she would clap her hands, as she does, and smile a smile that beam from her face and light up the world.

 This morning, however, as soon as I swung my feet to the floor - Rahman (that's her name) sat bolt upright and started babbling loudly in Arabic. I was rooted to the spot in utter amazement. Such a mind! Stringing together so many sentences in high Arabic, hardly awake, when it takes me days to get to grips with single words!

 She stopped abruptly and flopped back down again, and I slowly lowered myself back on the bed, thinking that I would wait for her to fall asleep again, lest I unleash such a torrent of sleep talking once again.

 I held on to my pee by counting the holes in the mosquito net.

 By the time Rahman's breathing had quietened down, my host, Larbi was up. And there was lost my opportunity for a pee!

 You see, Your Royal highness, I would be unable to explain to Larbi, a most gracious, kind and attentive host, why I find it necessary to pee outside. If I told him that I can't use his toilet due to its unbearable smell, he would be mortified and probably would summon a new toilet be built, there and then, for my personal use.

 I am sure you would understand my predicament!

 There was nothing to do, but to hold on to my pee, until we got into town. As luck would have it, no sooner had we reached the Taxi Tree (I presume since its your kingdom, you know about the Taxi trees), than a taxi showed up.

 Now, I'm no newby, your majesty. I have immersed myself fully in your culture, and I know all about the communal taxi's and I know that they keep picking up passengers, until the taxi is full.

 This taxi, was full. No really. It was full.

 Four passengers on the back seat, and two more, squashed hip to elbow on the front passenger seat. Plus driver, makes 7. In an ordinary saloon car, designed for four passengers. Full.

 However - it still skidded to a halt on the dirt. Larbi sprung into action, flinging open the back door, man-handling me onto the laps of the rear passengers and wedging me in, by slamming the door against my butt. That made five on the back seat.

 He sprinted round the car, all the time talking and greeting the other passengers animatedly.

 To my wild astonishment - got onto the lap of the driver! That made two on the driver seat, two on the front passenger seat. Nine passengers in total.

 Your Royal Highness! Did you know that this kind of thing is going on in your kingdom? I suppose you do - because none of the other passengers seemed to mind at all, just continuing their conversation as if they were on a double decker bus!

 It took a while to get going, because Larbi had to control the foot pedals - whilst the driver steered - and the passenger on the front seat, changed gears. They soon got themselves co-ordinated and off we sped, just another day at work, I suppose.

 I do apologise for digressing slightly, but I feel its important that you have all the facts, so as to find it in your heart to pardon me, for my terrible crime.

 By the time we got to Assilah, I was paralyzed with peeing urge - and I dashed into the old Medina, in a hope to find a cafe open. To no avail.

 Did you know, your Majesty, that although the shops claim to open at 9am. They actually only start dawdling open at around 10.30? Not that I am complaining, or being a tittle tale - but I just want you to know that this is what happens on the ground, so to speak.

 I frantically started surveying corners and alleyways, where I could relieve myself - when I saw that, although the doors were locked, one of the ground floor windows to your Ancient Palace of Assilah was open.

  No. I didn't climb through the window. Because, just as I managed to perch my bum onto the window sill, a cleaning lady from inside, all shawls and skirts, catapulted her broom at me and glared at me with one eye. The other eye, I'm afraid to say, staring blindly into nothingness.

 A frightfull sight she was - but in such dire need was I, that I decided to throw myself on her mercy.

 I launched into the internationally recognised mime language for: "I AM DESPERATE FOR A PEE!" Which, if you don't know, your highness, involves crossing your eyes, screwing up your face, whilst crossing your legs and hopping about furiously.

 I had to add the final touch, of clutching my crotch with both hands, before enlightenement dawned on her face and to my relief, she showed instant sympathy. She quickly hussled to the door and let me in.

  And I ask your pardon for this small indiscretion of hers, your majesty, because it was a simple, spontaneous act of kindness to someone in need.

 We all but ran down an awe inspiring corridor, emblazoned with the most dazzling tile work, down some equally decorative stairs and when she pointed me to a door, I burst through it with unholy relief.

 What an amazing surprise! In the beautifully decorated cubicle stood a dazzling white toilet, beaming regally at me. I could hardly believe it!

 Your majesty - shame on you! No wonder the state of your nation's toilets - you have no idea, do you! Relieving yourself as you do, in such decadent, hygenic splendour, oblivious of the cess pits and squallor everyone else uses.

 Never mind though - I savoured every beautiful moment, including unrolling unseemly amounts of toilet paper. And flushing twice. I thought my blessings would overwhelm me, when I stepped outside and above the gleaming marbled tiled sink, a soap dispenser - filled with soap! Glorious, bright, luminescent blue, liquid soap!

 Your Sublime Highness! At this point, I hang my head in shame, for it is at this juncture, where my assinine clumsiness finally lead to my downfall.

 In my eagerness to wash my hands in frothy, liquid soap, I must have pressed the wrong button - because the whole contraption came crashing off the wall, spilling bright blue soap in a huge puddle across the sink.

 In mad panic, I scooped up as much of the soap as I could back into the container, and perched it, precariously, into position. All the time saying a desperate sorry for the next unsuspecting person, who tries to use it.

 But it was on the magnificent, ancient basin, laid in an intricate mosaic of hand carved tiles, that the unspeakable happened: the white tiles, were stained a bright, very harpic-esque blue and no amount of furious rinsing, could cure it. (What DO you put in your soap, your Majesty!)

 For a wild, panicked moment, I considered tipping the remainder of the soap out, onto the basin, thinking it would at least be a uniform stain and with some imagination, one could almost imagine that the original master craftsmen, had planned the colour in their carefully laid design. But at that instant, my one eyed benefactor, started banging her broom against the door.

 My time was up.

 So there, Your Gracious Highness. That's how it happened.

 I thought breaking my boyfriend dead mother's favourite, irreplaceable bowl was as desperate as my life would get. Desecrating and defacing an ancient royal Moroccan palace, has plummeted me into the abyss. And all before breakfast.



A girl close to my heart.


I mean -- there is going wild, and there's going filthy - and good girls know the difference.


Surely she is not really SCARED of rats. She simply prefers not to KNOWINGLY fraternise with them.