my mule don't like people laughin'

I have just returned from Morocco.
It is an extraordinary place, possibly some of the most charming people I have ever met.

Mules seem to be an integral part of everyday life there, and I became quite attached to mine while trekking through the Atlas mountains.
I am beginning to think that a mule would be very useful at home for my six mile cross country commute to work, but I am sure it would find the task of 'low plains drifter' in Cambridge rather dull and unchallenging. I also lack the Clint Eastwood swagger.

While balancing on my sure footed mule, scrambling up a mountain pass, I passed plenty of goats. These hardy creatures are more than just a walking tajine, they are also involved in the extraordinary process of Argan oil production, derived from the gnarled Argan tree which globally only resides in south-west Morocco.
The non-cooking grade variety of oil is a result of goats climbing the twisted trees and eating the Argan tree fruits as they love the pulp around the nuts (with this in mind I didn't feel too comfortable standing too close to Moroccan goats). Once passed through the digestive tract the remaining nut shell is softer and the seed has slight taint. Farmers then harvest these faeces covered nuts and produce the oil by roasting the seeds. It is said that unwary travellers are sold this not food grade oil, rather than the stuff untouched by the voracious goats. You also have to watch out for the dodgy dealers that sell cheaper Argan oil cut with vegetable oil.
Apparently Argan oil has enormous health benefits, and is delicious with bread.

A meal out in Morocco it full on. It's big, rich and bold. Tajines and couscous, all delicious of course, but you walk away like you have just swallowed an anvil. The local wine is ok, but one glass I tried brought tears to my eyes, it tasted like a home brew wine I once made from immature English grapes at home when I was a kid. It was French colonisation that sparked off the wine industry in Morocco, and there are now plenty of wine producing regions.

Of course it takes a while to adjust to the different bacteria in the food, so a slight stomach wobble is expected, especially coming from the over sterile, plastic packaged Britain. My wobble happened, you could argue, at the best possible time. I was having a Hamman, my skin had been removed and I had just been covered in a sort of mud coloured paste, while I was brought slowly to the boil. I suddenly lost control and lets just say the camouflage saved my embarrassment.
There is a solution for bad guts, it's carpet sellers. While you are listening to them weaving a yarn or two they provide the best soothing cup of mint tea, poured from a ridiculous height and slurped with great gusto.