DAMN TAM

A man can only go as far as he has dough. Tamanghasset was a turning point in the trip. The road was pointing me to Djanet, but my moolah rations ran out and Visa called me to Ghardaïa.

The desert is no place for a credit card. No store, bank, hotel, excursion guide will take 'em. Nobody uses them. Maybe they melt with the heat here?

One lead on the manuscripts sent me to the Assekrem, an amazing place in the Hoggar. I may never find 2D and 3D, but if I keep discovering places like Taghit, Beni-Abbès, Timimoun, and this place, I will never regret having taken up the challenge. Should I die in the process, it will have been a fulfilling endeavour.

Yours faithfully,

Jack Stack.

CLOSE ENCOUNTER AT TAOURSSIT

There I was near Timimoun, and you know what? So was Ali Booba! We were at the same ahallil party for marabout Sidi (pronounced 'seedy') Somethingorother's birthday, probably humming the same tune, under the stars a Taourssit. Everybody here at Timimoun knows Ali Booba and they are all willing to take me to him, even to his house. But I keep getting that encouraging inch allah. What do you think happened? Allah ghaleb: god had other plans!

It was a great party by the way. Nothing could have been more exotic and wonderful. If you thought Star Wars was spectacular, try one of these outdoor gatherings that occupy a whole oasis with transic rythms. You'll find yourself transposed into another world, and no need for special effect, even if some do indulge in certain natural herbs.

But, getting back to my real purpose in this amazing country, I'm up to my armpits in frustration in a land where absolutely nothing goes as planned. And it isn't always for the better! South, that's where I'm headed now. And, for a change, that should mean cooler weather.

A trying to stay zen,

Jack Stack.

I WILL SURVIVE

Sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. I sincerely hope you did not believe everything I wrote on my last post. It was meant to deceive a certain party. I am now where I belong and will always do my best to be.

3500 dirhams were the price to pay to get here, beyond boarders that are not meant to be crossed. May I not be discovered, inch allah! I have not yet come about what I set out for, but I am making progress on a certian Ali ibn Boubaker, who can supposedly give me a hand.

I will tell you no more for the moment, except that I am not at Béchar, nor Taghit - pronounced Târ-eat.

May Allah be with us all a little while longer,

Jack Stack.

BLOCKED AT MERZOUGA

Tangers, Fez, Marrakech, Ouarzazate, Tinghir, Tinejdad, and now Merzouga. After having gone deeper and deeper into unknown territory, for me, I've been given the slip with no change in return.

With indications like: third date tree in the north palm grove, turn left at the crippled camel; 100 donkey steps to the right during the third prayer of the day, it's a wonder I'm having problems catching up with Ali B. Now I'm at Merzouga, facing the first dunes of the great desert and, somehow, I've apparently missed him by a week, go figure.

He's now in Algeria somewhere and I won't be able to follow him in cause I don't have a visa and because the border is closed by terrestrial routes. Also, and I'm sorry to say this, but I'm not about to go traipsing across the freakin' desert after a guy who's got ants in his pants -maybe even a few scorpions, by the size of the leaps he's been making!

I feel as though I have failed you all, and Richard T especially. I'd best avoid public transport from here on in. It should be safer getting back.

A disappointed,

JS.

LOST 'N' FOUND

I don't know how they did it, but they did. So it was time to get out of there!

After missing my contact in Casablanca, the wrong people got on my trail in Marrakech. Hundreds of folks at Jemma El Fna; a few Touaregs were grossly outnumbered by the more colorful Tourists. Some guy with a snake in his hand starts coming after me. It was after f'tour time (the evening breakfast during Ramadan, taken at sundown) and I figured I could escape him in the narrow winding alleys of the babouche souk. "Hey mister! Mister!" Acting like he was just another obnoxious street hustler, huh. My gettaway was a tad too efficient: in losing him I also lost myself and didn't find my way back till morning.

I didn't dare go back to my hotel by the cut-throat passage, where they were sure to be waiting for me with their sabers. Sure to turn me into a kebab, with or without fries on the side. So I haggled my local clothes, djelaba and babouches, for something more discreet: jeans, D+G belt, Nikes and an 'I love Morocco' t-shirt bearing a pretty flower with a long pistil poppin' out of it instead of the 'o's. Oh, and Gucci shades. All of those were authentic, and at an authentically low price when we were through bargaining. It's a good thing I always have my wallet and passport on me 'cause I got my ass on the first cab outta there.

Somebody wants 2D and 3D destroyed. That's right. It's the only plausible explanation I can come up with to explain why I am still alive in this adventure. They're using me to find the manuscripts! So now they know I'm onto them. But, I've probably had my buttocks seated in front of this computer longer than I should, for my own good.

Bye!

J.S.

CLOUDS OVER CASA

Someone was going to meet me at the train station: the head of the train, a peasant wearing a dark djelaba, pointed hood over his head. There turned out to be several stops at Casa. I was there at each one. He was at 'Des Facultés' a station where the train it don't stop! How was I to know this? What was I supposed to do; yeehahhh! it by hanging out the door to grab the black plastic bag he was holding out as the train passed him by? I first would have had to know we were arriving at that station. Since the speakers in the train - at least my compartment - weren't working, and if they had been they wouldn't have announced a halt they weren't going to make, then... Get my drift?

What am I doing here? Where am I going with this?

Jack Stack.

DEATH ON THE BOOBA TRAIL

Rachid, alias Richard, is no longer with us. My Fez informant confimed his passing away just before my departure. What was first diagnosed as bad indigestion by hospital officials, turned out to be pernicious poisoning. The sardines were fresh, as Tanger has them from the sea to your plate, so something must have been fishy with the bearnaise, something that wasn't called for in a stomach-friendly recipe.

In view of the danger I seem to have gotten myself into, once again, I prefer to inform you of my whereabouts only once I am no longer there. Makes sense? Well it will have to do. What is so important about 2D and 3D that people are to give their lives, unwillingly I presume, so that they are never found? That's what I'd like to know too. Did D know what was in store for me when he sent me out on this mission? Is the cause in proportion to the risk incurred? I'm beginning to get a tad shaky in the knees and...Why am I doing this? I'm beginning to comprehend the full depth of inshallah!

Rachid, by the way, was an old acquaintence of our Richard's, el hamdo le-llah. They'd met during the hip 'n' happenin' days of Tangers. Too bad I never got to talk to him. Or, maybe I did without knowing it?

Otherwise, let me tell you, this is a beautiful country so far: rolling hills, cedar and pine forests, majestic mountains, lots of agriculure too (I now know where they grow all those plastic bags), the medinas are a nest of life, etc, etc, etc. But seriously, they could solve the unemployment problem here if they set people to clean up the towns and fields.

Well I gots the runs, so...
Yours faithfully,

Jack Stack.