The Fellowship of the Sahara

In the last post, we were heading towards Guelmim with two other cyclists. On the approach I realize that people were not kidding when they told us of an important military presence in Western Sahara. Just before Guelmim there is an airport where jet fighters take off every five minutes. For a second, I thought we were back in the UK. But being in a politically sensitive area, I've decided to refrain from taking videos.



In Guelmim we find a hotel. The guy gives us a nice price, so we decide to take it. The rooms are big with a large bathroom. It's clean ... so I thought. More on that later. After unloading all our stuff, another guy calls me over. Apparently we were given the wrong price. The new price is more expensive. Strange, I thought he was going to tell me that it's cheaper. Philippe is furious. Speaking a little Arabic, he lays into the guy, bringing god into the picture. He tells them "shame on your honour" and that they stood before god when they told us the original price. But the guy, probably not very religious, remains diplomatic. The new price stands. Well, we had a good time giving them shit, so we end up taking the rooms. An hour later, I reach over for the complementary towel as I exit the shower. I unfold the towel and let out a scream. It appears that someone decided to use it to wipe their ass. The towel is nicely laden with a wide, brown crayon mark several inches long. Michèle is nice enough to take it down to the manager. She returns with a clean one and washes her hands. Michèle comments: Other than finding that completely gross, I also found it confusing. Who would wipe their ass with a towel? And then fold it so neatly that the cleaning staff wouldn't think of replacing it? It doesn't make any sense. Philippe thought it must have been a foreigner because Moroccans "ne se torchent pas".



The best part about this hotel is that it has a bar. I head down with Philippe for a cold one. The music is good, but if it had been coming from a record player, the needle would have scratched across the vinyl. All heads turn towards us. The place is more like a saloon than a bar. People are not there to socialize. They're all sitting alone with their beer and cigarettes. Yes, you can still smoke in public places in Morocco. There is not a single woman in sight. The whole place is a sausage party. I feel like standing on a stool and yelling "Please leave the drinking to the infidels". But screw this, I need a drink. After all, beer always tastes better in sketchy places. We find out that everyone in there is a truck driver. Probably hauling fish across Western Sahara. We sit down and one of them leans over to talk to us. He's mumbling words in Russian. The guy is wasted and he reeks. Philippe is so nervous that he downs his beer in 30 seconds. By that time I realize that the place is a bust. I finish my beer and we leave. Michèle comments: I didn't even bother checking out that bar in the hotel in Guelmim. The bar near the beach bungalows where we stayed in Sidi Ifni had been enough for me, when we  had gone in that bar just to buy a bottle of wine to go with our tajine dinner. Watery-eyed lingering stares followed us as we walked in. The kind of stare that makes you wonder if you forgot to put clothes on.



At 5:45 in the morning, we get ready for our longest ride yet. A 130 km desert traverse all the way to Tan Tan. The road is fairly flat with a tail wind by midday. Lots of huge trucks. Despite being drunk or severely hung over, most drivers were giving us plenty of room. The traffic can also be entertaining. You see a lot of pickup trucks carrying camels. One guy stopped in front of us to run out into the desert to perform his prayers. Like good tourists, we all stop to take pictures.



Many people call this leg of the ride monotonous. I guess it is. But to see the open desert and knowing that you are in the Sahara is quite a rush. You really feel that you are out there and on your own.



The last few kilometres were difficult but we made it to Tan Tan. From far away, the town looks like a zit on a smooth ass. At the gate of the city, two giant sculptures of camels greet the arriving traveller.



Michèle comments: I did find the road from Guelmim to Tan Tan monotonous. It's along a major road with not much to see. My notes of the day were: "police checkpoint, another police checkpoint, view of dunes!, yet another police checkpoint, Tan Tan". The dunes were way in the distance. A teaser of what was to come.

A hundred metres later, it's passport control time. At the check point, one officer is in civil clothing. The other has the stereotypical look of a corrupt official. Impeccable uniform, cap at eye level, 70's style Ray Bans and sporting a thick moustache.



The police officer finally finishes scribbling the info on a piece of paper. By this point we are knackered. Tired to the point of feeling high. I am finding it hard to make decisions but we end up finding a hotel. The bed in our room only has a few mouse droppings. Great! We'll take it.
Tan Tan is a lively place. This is the first time we see Morocco's Spanish influence. Some of the women are uncovered and look pretty good. There are also many Chinese people who were definitely not on vacation. We never found out what they were doing there. Probably something to do with the fishing industry.



Michèle comments: Perhaps a small Korean community in Tan Tan too? The photo above shows the Snack Seoul in the background. We also heard of a Korean restaurant near El Ouatia, a.k.a. Tan Tan Plage. One of the few places around with a liquor license.

We were told that one of the hotels serves beer. After wandering aimlessly for an hour, we find the hotel. It does serve beer but it's only for the military. That doesn't stop us from asking if we can go in. After all, we are only tourists. We get the confirmation, it's only for the military. In Guelmim, the binge drinking was for the truck drivers. Here, it's for people who carry guns. Not too reassuring. While all this is happening, Philippe and I are being held back by a woman who talks too much. Giving you a detailed description of this person would take too much disk space. After telling her that I'm from Canada, she tells me that her husband has been there seven times and that he loves it. Apparently, her husband never used to drink, but after going to Canada he became an alcoholic. He can't say no to beer she says. Neither can we, I guess. She takes us on a wild goose chase for a restaurant. Telling us about a million things that start with bla bla. She is telling Michèle that she's going to steal me away from her. It's all very funny but I am dead tired. Time for bed.



Several days later, we pedal out of town, hoping to take a quiet road to a town called Smara. After 3 or 4 km we realize that the head wind is too strong and that a sand storm might be on the way. The decision is made to turn around in the direction of Tan Tan Plage. Michèle comments: The road to Smara, also written Es Semara depending on the sign, was going to be our chance to get off the main road with all its traffic. It would be a longer route to take to Laâyoune, but we didn't care.



There, in Tan Tan Plage, we spend a few days waiting for the wind to be in our favour. Relaxing at the beach.



One evening, Philippe and I take a ride to the port. The first thing is another passport control. The place is dirty and smells like something fishy is being processed. No surprise there. Attached to the docks are hundreds of rusty commercial fishing boats. So uninviting, the place looks like a map from an apocalyptic video game. We were hoping to buy some fresh fish but there isn't any in sight. The catch goes directly from boat to truck. 10 minutes later, it's hauling its ass down the road hoping to catch last call in Guelmim.

To be continued...

The Atlantic and our appetites

In the last post we were wild camping in the desert. We get up with the wind in our face. I take it like a man. So does Michèle. The sun is shining and it's cold. I'm wearing fleece, jacket and pants. We later found out that we are at 1100 metres of altitude and that there's a big downhill coming all the way to a town called Tighmi.



Michèle comments: An idea is bouncing around in our heads to go next to the Canary Islands (they belong to Spain). That morning, Benoit turned to me with a very serious look on his face. His tone matched his expression. "If we go to the Canaries, as it looks like we will, I think we should sit down one night...," he began. I started to cringe at what he could be about to say. It could not be good, I thought. Then he finished, "... and get really really drunk." Yes, the lack of availability of alcohol in Morocco has been, um, well, not fun. Sometimes a beer at the end of a long day's ride is just what a tired cyclist needs.

On the way to Tighmi we stumble upon a sad sight. A wild cat, freshly killed, lies by the side of the road. We later did some research and we think it is a small spotted genet.



In Tighmi, we find the one and only hotel. It's cheap but not in price. When we get there, the place is closed. But we are told the guy will be back soon. Soon, like four hours later. Waiting with us is another guy who claims to be staying there too. When I ask the price he answers
- Pas cher mon ami (Cheap my friend).
Hmmmm ... the fix is on for the double economy. The guy finally shows up. According to him, we are his friend and we are welcome ... to pay 150 dirhams for a room that should be 60. The room is actually fairly big. It contains two stained mattresses each about 3 cm thick. No sheets, no blankets. Just one skanky pillow each. We didn't end up using them. The shared toilet doubles up as a shower. When I ask if there is hot water, the guy points to a hot plate next to the shitter. I guess you use it to heat the water. If you can avoid the one and only hotel in Tighmi, do it! Michèle comments: Another example of when we should have taken a photo but we didn't. Benoit's description of the Tighmi hotel room is too generous. It looked like a prison cell. No, prison cells might be a step up. Dark, bare, grey walls. One small window high up on the wall. I asked the hotel guy for some sheets. He handed me two folded items. One was a sheet that did not smell clean. The other turned out to be a man's shirt. We paid too much for the room. It was just one of those days when we didn't have any fight left in us. I think the hotel guy knew that.

The next morning we finally feel at a 100%. Next stop is the Atlantic coast. The ride from Tighmi is predominantly downhill and we eat up the kilometres fairly rapidly. Equally rapidly, traffic behaviour deteriorates. We no longer feel safe. Morocco overtakes the UK for lack of road safety. Some cars are passing us at 130 km/h and coming within inches. But worst of all are cars coming into our lane to overtake slower vehicles. Not giving a shit, they accelerate towards us, honking loudly for us to get out of the way. We do just that and I get my full repertoire of insulting hand gestures. How can people be so careless. We stop at a shady spot a few metres from the road. A taxi stops just behind us. The driver waves, I don't wave back. The shady spot is a little lower than the road itself. We head straight for it. So does one of the passengers of the taxi. He walks at a hurried pace and it's not to come and talk to us. Without thinking twice, he drops his drawers and squats in front of us. I let you imagine the rest. We look the other way and tell each other that it's going to make a good blog post. Michèle comments: I cranked my head the other way as soon as I saw the guy scootch up his Berber robe. I did not want to see what was coming next.

We reach the Atlantic coast. More precisely, Aglou Plage. Nice place. In a month it will be filled with French snowbirds in camper vans. Lots of housing projects on the go. Villas being built up and sold to rich Europeans. But I don't care about all that. I don't even care about the camel rides on the beach. I just want to see the open ocean and the unobstructed horizon. The multiple row of waves slowly making their way towards the shore.





We end up staying at a campground and the next day we pedal only 2 km to spend Michèle's birthday money at an expensive guest house. Very relaxing and close to the beach, I have my first swim in the Atlantic ocean in 30 years. The water is warm, the waves are big and I come close to drowning due to the strong undertow.



Michèle comments: I had been clenching my fist around my birthday money for over a month waiting for a great way to spend it. Here it was, at the oceanside, and with copious meals included. Our arrival at the coast coincided with the rediscovery of our appetites. It could have been the sea air. It could have been that our food choices suddenly expanded to include more that just tajine au poulet and omelette.



The next day we head out. On the road, we've started developing a strategy for dealing with the traffic. Riding close together, the person at the rear keeps an eye on the flanking traffic while the person in front keeps and eye on the cars passing slower vehicles. Seems to work well. The worst cars are the shit box Mercedes taxis (also known as Grand Taxi). These cars are usually packed with 7 people and sometimes a goat on the roof. Watch out, these drivers will not stop or slow down. Best to bail on the soft shoulder when you see them coming.

Michèle comments: After Aglou Plage, we hit the village of Mirleft. Not much to it. But the first place we stumble upon turns out to be a gem. It's an auberge and café and restaurant. The chef is originally from Belgium. The price of a double room is 180 dirhams: it is clean, with a huge bed and a wash basin. Breakfast with real coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice is included. Free WiFi too. The food is so good that we stay four nights and stuff our faces. Compare and contrast to the 150 dirham prison cell room in Tighmi.

We pedal to the next town, Sidi Ifni. There, we bump into one of the cyclists we met on our way to Ait-Baha. He is with a new friend, Claudia. We all have dinner together and decide to stay in town for a few days. It is refreshing to hang out with some new people. The activities are kept simple. In the evening we make dinner and have a few drinks. During the day, it's off to the beach for some swimming. Looking up at the beach from the water, you can see several locals, sitting there, staring at Michèle and Claudia in their swim suits. Michèle comments: The wind has been very strong and from the south, normally it's from the north. It froths the sea to a frenzy. Going for a swim is a real workout. We exit the water with our torsos bruised from the punching waves. Over those few days, the seas get so rough that the fishermen don't go out and fish is off the menu.



After several days, Claudia is off on her own and we head off to Guelmim, the gateway to the Sahara. On our way out of town we meet up with an other cyclist, Philippe. He is cycling down to Senegal where he will meet up with his family. After our first passport control, we pedal out town for some of the best cycling we've done yet.



To be continued...

Wellville attained, it's back to the road

To all of you who sigh with envy, we would like to give you a reality check. This type of lifestyle is not a sustained euphoria that brings you constant joy. Whether it's the weather or the culture shock, we have been hit with dizzying highs and devastating lows. On top of it, we haven't done much travelling yet and only in countries where we can communicate easily. After only 203 days of travelling, there have been times where all I wanted was to be back at my desk, doing some coding and sipping my coffee. Michèle comments: The lows have been devastating. I have never felt my emotions so raw. Every decision, even a simple one like should we stop for a coffee, seems impossibly difficult. The disadvantage we face in a prolonged trip like this one is trying to prepare for the next step (country, language, visas, money, ...) while we are still adjusting to our current surroundings. We kind of knew that it would be difficult, but we hadn't anticipated it being THIS difficult. If you only knew how many times the thought of giving up has crossed our minds. Benoit is right: compared to a lot of cyclists and where they have travelled and what they have done, we haven't done much. We feel like world traveller weenies.

In the last post we had started Operation Get Better which is now in full swing. Tafraoute has lots to offer. A good place for getting well if you're sick. There is a nice bakery where, every morning, we get fresh pastries. This is the perfect time to catch up on writing, internet, and a potential exit plan for Morocco. More on that later. Michèle comments: In the little kitchen on our rooftop apartment, we can prepare our own food. At first, we kept it simple to plain rice, bread and salads. Then, we got more adventurous, even making our own tajine. Our stomachs will adjust. We have a new mantra, inspired by my sister when she travelled in Brazil: "Get used to it, 'cause I'm not going home."



I have to take a minute to criticize. The Moroccan flag is red with a greenish pentagram in the centre. However, having a look around, one would think it comes in various colours and is made of plastic. You can see it floating in the wind at almost every tree you pass. It's disgusting. Morocco has a problem with waste disposal and a bad habit of using plastic bags when shopping. We've even had merchants refuse to put our stuff in our reusable bag. It is really disappointing to get to an oasis, which from far away, looks like something from a fairy tale, but up close, looks like a garbage dump with murky water, old tires and all sorts of other junk the free world has to offer.
Michèle comments: We should have taken more photos of the garbage. The beige and reds of the desert landscape speckled with colour - plastic bags, yogurt cups, diapers, coke bottles. The dead dog in the dumpster. The beach covered with more plastic than pebbles.



Hicham, the guy renting us the apartment, is a really cool guy. He invites us over for dinner during Aïd el-Kebir(Fête de Mouton). During this holiday, a goat or sheep is slaughtered. At Hicham's place, the goat carcass is hanging in the kitchen. We go and sit in the living room and the first thing Hicham does is turn the TV on to a Mexican soap opera dubbed in Arabic. His mother brings in brochettes, tea and sweets. I ask what the brochettes are and Hicham tells me they're liver. I start to worry because I tend to dry heave in the face of offal, but much to my surprise, the brochettes are delicious. Besides, we've been protein deprived since we got here and, as the Flander kids would say: "Iron helps us play." Michèle comments: How did we not know about this holiday? Hicham told us that it is the second most important holiday after Ramadan. That morning, November 17, we went out for our morning walk to the bakery. The town, usually buzzing and bustling with activity, was dead. All the shop doors were locked. No-one in the streets. Maybe we should have gotten the hint recently from seeing so many sheep tied to car roof-racks and listening to their plaintive cries.



Back at our place, the evening ends with some tripe. More protein! It takes us a long time to digest all that meat but I'm convinced it played a big part into our recovery.

Our apartment opens up onto a shared terrasse. Occasionally, vacationers from apartments below come up to hang out. Some of them are rich Moroccans coming up for the weekend. They'll tell you all about their country, where to go and tell you that you are "welcome". Some are tourists who have nothing to say.





Feeling a little bit better, we hit some of the touristy spots around Tafraoute. This includes, of course, the painted rocks. Some European artist decided to hire some locals to paint a bunch of rocks out in the desert. He signed his name, drank some cheap wine and never came back.



We found the site totally uninteresting and we much prefer the original colour of the rocks.
Michèle comments: I thought I was feeling better, but after our short bike ride to check out those rocks, I realized that I was coming down with a cold. Adding insult to injury.



After 8 days of rest, it's time to go. Michèle still has a bit of a cold but we feel pretty good. Today's ride involves a big climb. I could have done without it. Fairly steep with a forgettable view, we are finding the climb difficult.



On the downhill we realized that the climb was well worth the effort. The road winds down into a gorge straight out of a Road Runner cartoon.



We eventually end up at the oasis of Ait Mansour. A real oasis. Surprisingly, it's fairly clean. The scenery is something out of a dream. Lush, date-laden palm trees and other vegetation create a dense forest in the middle of a desert back drop. The contrast hits us like a sunny day in Scotland.



The next day we veer off and say goodbye to the oasis and head back into the dry, arid landscapes. You occasionally see a lone palm tree indicating that water is not far. It's hilly, and despite our illness being over, our strength is not all there. It only takes 20 km to feel exhausted. We push on.

The road is not very touristy. Passing through a town, we get herds of kids asking for pens and money. They're being quite annoying and aggressive. One of them grabs something from one of Michèle's panniers. A bag of peanuts. The kid drops it on the ground and they all run away. Michèle is furious. Me? I'm just about ready to give them a boot in the ass. More on that later.
Michèle comments: Where does this behaviour come from? It is always from the young boys, around age 10 years, I would say, and it is always the same in even the smallest most remote village. Is it part of the curriculum of french class? Repeat after me: "Donnez-moi un stylo, monsieur." "Donnez-moi un dirham, madame." If that is the case, then these kids should all get an A+. I read somewhere that it is a game to them. A Swiss German cyclist told us that there was a similar "game" in his country to ask soldiers for chocolate.

Pissed off, annoyed and in a bad mood, we have to haul our sorry asses up a huge hill. Too steep and too tired, we have to push our bikes all the way up.



On the other side, we pitch the tent for our first night wild camping. We find a spot away from the road. When finally in bed, my ears tune into every sound, trying to identify every single one, and stressing when I can't. That, coupled with high winds shaking the tent, makes me glad to see the sunrise even though I barely slept. So much for wild camping and my adventurous spirit. I wonder if Club Med organizes cycling trips around the world. Michèle comments: Yes, certainly, the cycling itself is the easiest part of this trip. If the route was planned for you, and where you would sleep each night, and your food ready for you, and a guaranteed hot shower ... well, there would be nothing to it. Sore legs maybe, or a sunburn, but oh how insignificant a worry.



To be continued...

The long road to wellville

In the last post I was sick in an empty rundown apartment in the middle of nowhere. Now it's the morning. I feel a bit better but not enough to cycle. At least the fever is gone. The next town is 20 km away. Not too far except that there's a big hill and I have dead weights for legs. We head out and on the way we meet two cyclists. One from Switzerland and one from Germany. Nice guys. They give us some help by giving me some tisane and a powerbar. They also ask if they can carry anything up the hill for me. We later meet back up with them at the one and only hotel in Ait Baha. The hotel is a bit expensive but we have no choice.

The town is non touristic. Or, put another way, we are the only tourists there. At the hotel reception, there are wee cubby holes with all the room keys. The one for our room is the only key missing. Outside, it's all men. Michèle is having a hard time with the condition of women here. So, it doesn't help that, at an internet place, packed with kids playing Grand Theft Auto, there is one kid running around with his avatar, beating up women. We try to make the best of it while I try to get better.
Michèle comments: In Ait Baha, feelings of homesickness were hitting me hard. Benoit was browsing through some pages on mental well-being in the Healthy Travel (Lonely Planet). This was right after I ran out of the internet place, not being able to take it anymore. "Here, read this," he said, showing me the section entitled Culture Shock and Travel Fatigue. It read, "Travel fatigue is bound to affect you after you've been on the road for many months. It's a combination of culture shock, homesickness and generally feeling fed up with the hassles and inconveniences of being on the road."
Yep, that about sums it up. Under the description of the stages and symptoms of culture shock, I was right there in stage two: "hostility as the novelty starts to wear off and the differences start to irritate: you feel critical of your host country, stereotyping local people; you may feel weepy, defensive, homesick, lonely and isolated, and perhaps you are worried about your physical health." The worldbiking.info site also hit the nail on the head in its description of touring fatigue:

You’re exhausted. You’ve been climbing hills, fighting headwinds and bravely forging on through pounding rain, scorching sun and blinding sandstorms. Maybe it’s only been a week, perhaps you’ve been on the road for months. But you’ve had it. Sliding on to the saddle to face another day on the ‘road to adventure’ sounds about as enticing as spending your next holiday crammed into a windowless cubicle hunched over a computer screen. You’ve come down with a case of Touring Fatigue. It happens to the most adventurous of us. We find ourselves fed up with gazing out over pretty Andean vistas. Pedaling into a jaw-droppingly beautiful sunset in the Sahara leaves us cold.

Three days later we pedal out of town, thinking I'm feeling better. It takes about 20 minutes of cycling to figure out that I'm not. I'll push on anyways. The ride takes us through some incredible scenery right out of a spaghetti western. The road sits at the top of the mountains rather than in the valley below. So, you get a constant nice view of the surroundings.



We pass several herds of goats. They are able to climb small trees to get to the sweet fruits above. Not sure what's in these fruits but goats are definitely intolerant to it. I counted one fart every 3 seconds. First I thought it was Michèle but it turns out she thought it was me.



We've been steadily climbing all day and we finally get some down hill. We coast all the way down to Ida Ougnidif where there's supposed to be a hotel. There is. It's perched on top of a hill, in an old village, and it's really expensive. Basically, the village is the hotel. No one lives there except hotel guests and staff.



Someone tells us there is a guest house not far down the road. We've done 60 km, I'm sick and I need to park my ass. No pun intended. We end up finding the guest house. It offers sleeping arrangements in a tea lounge. The place is quite groovy with mandarin trees where you can pick the fruit right off the branch.





When it's time for bed it is brought to our attention that there will be another person sleeping in the tea room. He snores, we didn't sleep.

The next day is much of the same. I feel that my energy levels are at 30%. It's only about 40 km to Tafraoute but there are three mountain passes. We'll have to take our time and do a lot of pushing up those hills. The landscape is getting more arid and you can really feel the open desert approaching.



The last hill conquered, we can finally enjoy the view and have some fun with the downhill. At the bottom of the hill, we get to Tafraoute. A town popular for its mountain biking and other various tourist attractions. Lots of Joe Cool backpackers on the Lonely Planet trail, French snowbirds in their caravans and us.





The first thing you feel in a new town is disorientation. You've heard of the cheap places to stay, but don't know where they are. Young men are calling you "my friend" when they should be calling you "my money". I'm sick and tired, both physically and mentally. So, we pick the first hotel we find. A basic room with a shared bathroom and very pricey for what it is. I head straight for bed. The mattress feels like it's been through 20 years of hard fucking. It is so uncomfortable that I ask the guy for a different room. It's not much better. Michèle comments: There was the lumpy mattress. Plus there was a screaming baby in the next room. It felt like a cruel joke. We were both so tired and Benoit feeling ill. We just wanted to rest. The baby screamed and screamed as if it were abandoned, but the parents were right there. Later that evening, the screams stopped. We ventured out into the town to find some dinner. We walked into a restaurant that the hotel manager recommended. The screams hit our ears again. We looked over to see the baby, red-faced from all the wailing, in its mother's lap. We walked out. No sympathy for anyone but ourselves.

The next morning we decide to set in motion Operation Get Better. The idea is to rent a place for as long as it takes to feel 100% again. So, it's hospital time for some serious meds. The place looks like a scene from Jacobs Ladder. Old, dirty and creepy. There are old wooden benches for you to wait. The wait is about one tenth of what you would wait in Montreal. About 45 minutes. We go in to see the doctor. That are no forms to fill out. No information entered in a database. Not even a bill. The consultation is free. Anyway, the doctor is very nice and she gives us a list of meds to get. You don't need a prescription in Morocco. Michèle comments: The hospital waiting room was an event in itself. We sat on the wooden benches, sharing them with a small mob of Berber women. They, swathed in plain black except for the gold sparkly trim and the Berber letter z emblem on the side. On their feet, colourful ornate slippers, some with tufts of feathers. In the streets, they hold their veils across their faces. In that hospital waiting room, the veils were dropped, the women smiling at us and laughing as if we were sharing a joke. One of them in particular was stunningly beautiful, and with gorgeous perfect teeth. I don't know why that was such a surprise. Some Berber men arrived, who started arguing with the doctors passing through the hallway. To our ears it sounded like an argument, loud voices and arms waving, but for all we know, they could have just been exchanging friendly hellos.

After the hospital, we get a stroke of luck and find exactly what we are looking for. It's a small rooftop apartment with a terrasse, a wee kitchen and satellite TV. All the ingredients are there for Operation Get Better.



To be continued...