II.

There was a time when I thought ‘international relations’ meant shagging an exchange student from Sweden. Okay, I’ve never thought that, but I wanted to start this off with a joke and the international relations thing sounded fine at 2.30 am, a few hours before the deadline for this issue. Really, all I wanted to do was tell you a bit about a couple of countries I once visited and some of the fun things that happened to me during those visits.

First off, and given I’ve already mentioned this particular country, I’ll tell you a true ‘hanging around in Sweden’ story. I was living in the Old City of Stockholm in a woman friend’s apartment, which was so old—we are talking cobblestone streets here—it did not have a shower or bath. My friend, who was gloriously Swedish-ly named Birgitta by the way, conducted full body washing at work or in public facilities.

So, off I go to the public sauna and pool complex in inner-city Stockholm for my first public wash. Inside I was faced with row upon row of lockable cubicles where soon to be sweaty men stored their possessions. It was an enormous place. And there I was, wandering around naked, asking similarly naked, but Swedish, men if they spoke English, because you fucking stupid Volvo drivers, I cannot read any of the signs and consequently cannot work out how to get into the goddamn sauna! I would rather not, thank you very nuch, open a random door and find myself either outside, where it is minus 10, or in the adjacent Olympic pool with all the kiddies.



This is me in Sweden. It is fucking cold. Imagine me naked on this bridge! Okay, I agree, not a picture you want in your brain.


Now I had more or less gone to Sweden from a package holiday in Morocco and was particularly bronzed amongst all those pasty in the middle of winter Swedes. I like to think that that was why I attracted attention in the sauna complex, rather than them thinking I was a gay man with a very ordinary pick up line. Now there’s another bloody story. No, not the one about me getting dysentery in Morocco and having to go to the state run dispensary, where the two languages spoken were Arabic or French, and having to play charades. How many syllables has the word diarrhea got again? Nor is it the story about the very French discothèque at my Moroccan hotel that endlessly played Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love”, except for the night the Russian under 19 soccer team visited when the comically Gallic DJ, who did a profitable business on the side selling hashish to the ever-present German teenagers, endlessly played Boney M’s “Rasputin”.

By the way, have you ever been to a casbah? While I am on the old song kick, all I ever knew about casbahs was gleaned from The Clash’s “Rock the Casbah”. Well, that isn’t entirely accurate and it turns out the casbah is like the old fort that guards cities in North Africa. Take my word for it, I'm an Australian! Anyway, on a sightseeing trip to the casbah of a place called Agidir down towards the Western Sahara I was innocently wandering around the town looking at the scenery.

There did seem to be an unusually large number of local girls standing about in one particular area, but being a naive Aussie backpacking wanker I thought little about this phenomena. Up and down this street I went, looking here, looking there. My God, those local girls are cute, and friendly! They are smiling at me like I am a long lost brother.


After a few minutes one came up to me and said something in French. Now, for all I knew she could have been saying, “You have the head of donkey. Go back to your own country, infidel!” But she revealed her true motives when she swept aside the azure blue cotton robe to reveal some very un-Arabic underwear. Suddenly I understood. This was a place where consenting adults exchanged goods in a traditional barter system, i.e., you give me money and I give you sex. I was unaccustomed to such behaviour, growing up, as I did, in Tasmania. I took a photograph and ran away.



Some of the very friendly locals gals I met in Morocco. I was a little surprised to be offered sex, but hey, when in Rome…


So, I have ended as I started, crapping on about shagging. Some may say that I have a preoccupation with sex and write about it, more or less, all the time. But in this instance I was just being illustrative. Honest.

I really just wanted to point out that it is a big wide world out there, with plenty to see and do. Embrace these various experiences, and become a well-rounded person. Truly. It’s a good thing!

One warning: I would avoid approaching Swedish men unless fully clothed, if you are male, that is. And if visiting Morocco I would learn the Arabic for “I am dying. Give me drugs you shithead!” Although, a translation for “Play that song one more time and I will insert something nasty in your casbah” would be useful too.