The one-eyed, one-humped dromedary adversary, Samuel.

We arrive and meet Samuel, the blind-as-a, well, a one-eyed dromedary (was he gypped at birth with both the humps and the eyes?), who consequently insists on walking through cacti, thereby defollicising our right legs (sure, my "ol pricklies coulda done with a shave, but I generally prefer the Gillette!), and refuses to sit down when told. Surely two giggling (squealing) "novices" (my third camel ride to-date does nay an expert make!) on his back is enough persuasion?

Via the cement-housed poverty that is the Berber villages, we go through remarkably Australian vegetation: Eucalyptus, Wattle, Kangaroo Paw, which was so unexpected! We see some crappy lake that supposedly has tortoise in it. We also see flamingos (from a distance) which, naturally, inspires our rendition of "When she walks by, she brightens up the neighbourhood, pretty flaming-go!" There's also a few sand dunes.

It's all a bit crap really, but a laugh, and we manage, mid-hump, to re-work the Eurythmics-esque tune, "Corn In My Thigh". Some more mint tea (Jaysus Ted, it'll be comin' out yer wha?!) and some odd, but scrummy, little pastries. We take a few last snaps (more so for me as my "new" camera decides to make like an exhausted dromedary and pack it in), then head back to Wazeece.

After some more veggin', with another 7am start we opt for our infamous quiet night-in. This time we succeed, after a fab-diddly-abulous traditional Moroccan feast of soup, tagine (stewed/presented in claypot – yum-diddly-umptious), and creme caramel. We're stuffed. "And Ted, how's that aromatic toilet then?" I ask, as I see a green Kai Tai return from the said facility.

11 May
Rise, shine, early breaky, early departure, and all is well. Spending a week with a fellow "'Strayin" (Aussie), for the first time in ages, induces much yob-speak, and naturally demands we truncate everything, so we have the kaffy/sindi on-hand, just in case we feel the urge to don them in the desert for random photo opportunities, should they arise!

Our first stop (couldn't be soon enough, as I realise I should've brought a built-in catheter! Jaysus, Ted, do they think we're camels?) is Tiznit, a gorgeous little traditional walled town. Fully-covered Muslim women casually stroll about, and the locals go about their everyday activities: kids' singing at school, markets – all oblivious to the tourist trail roaming through the Medina. I can't take it all in as I had a more concentrated effort on getting to the loo. And, when I finally do, I begin to think I am metamorphosing into a camel, at least in terms of my water storage capacity – as does Ted when she overhears "the event" from the cubicle next door! Austin Powers has nothin' on me.

Anyway, we head off again through the fabulously scenic Atlas Mountains, winding through countless "wazeeces" (date palms all over the place, pink desert housing, pre-Sahara desertscapes, postcard perfect – a bit bloody magic!). Wind, wind, ascend, ascend, we do utilise the kaffy/sindi for a few snaps, and "some" elect for mint tea, while "others," not prepared to risk the distance to the next toilet stop, decline.

I'm reminded of Mexico, China, Monument Valley, King's Canyon, all at once, though I've never been to any of those places – just the cacti, donkeys, terraced farming, mesas, and general look and feel of the place. Fortunately we stop to view the Lion's Head – an amazingly uncanny, naturally eroded carving in a cliff face, which looks exactly like, well, a lion's head. How bizarre.

Anto, Ted and I bolt for a shrub in the dunes for another unscheduled pit stop (they're beginning to think we're incontinent, and I contemplate a visit to a physician on my return!), then we view the less credible "Napoleon's Head" rock formation, which looks more like the randomness of the Devil's Marbles than anything Napoleonic or cranium-like.

Anyway, we move on, and well, two minutes later stop at Tafraout, for, of course, a (bit bloody late for that Ted!) loo/lunch stop. A quick scoot around town is followed by salad, tagine and fruit salad, then back to the main village to meet The Blue Men, named so as they're, erm, dressed in blue. They are a nomadic Berber tribe who, not surprisingly, exist subsistently, and seemingly make a large part of their living selling rugs to unsuspecting tourists. The irony of their subsistence existence (try sayin' that after a Flag Speciale or six!), is made apparent when their multilingual sales pitch is way too good. After much harassment we escape unscathed, though Anto got suckered (again! just say no!) into buying a pendant. The return to Aa-ga-dir dir dir push pineapple, shake the tree is very long, very gorgeous and at 3,500 ft very breathtaking but, as I said, very long. So, after a tiring day and a nice bath, we had another quiet night in. Hard to believe, I know!

12 May
Oh my god it's our last day – when did this happen? I hit the gym again and damn near kill myself (and endure another dose of Mr Splits: the sleazeball gym freak, who insists on showing me his photo album full of "me, me, me, and me" winning medals. The attention would nearly be flattering, if I didn't know he tried it on with every single female on the planet).

It's our last bit of sun, and when we hear "Jaysus Ted, there's a heat wave in Galway!" the race is on. We must burn. We can't let those pasty white bastards back in Ireland beat us. No sunscreen today – let's baste!

Half an hour later I get the Australian-born sun-conscious guilts and whack on the ol' Factor Eight. We haggle our arses off – a haggle that lasts all day, 'til I finally get the dish and "matching" pendant, at the loss of my, er, watch and, er, necklace. I'm sure I was completely ripped off, but well, I didn't like them anyway. And hey, I certainly wasn't going to cut into our remaining drinking dirhams (that's Deer Ham, a coupla Legumes, and a sack'o'potatoes to you Sonny Jim!), as Ted likes to say, just to prove she's honouring and fully embracing the culture.

We pack, check out, tip (everyone bar the slimey hotel porter), shop, and there's not much left to do than "drink Ted drink!" A quick bevvy or two in the hotel, and a bunch of us celebrate our last night at that evasive Mexican. And worth the wait it was, even if everyone thought my "spinach and shrimp chimichanga" looked like something Samuel the one-eyed camel had left for us. Some great Spanish guitar accompanied our hil-aaaaaaaaaaair-eous dinner conversation, and so did a bit of vino, a deadly sangria cocktail and that urge became of us – one last time!

While our compadres made the "sensible" return to Wazeece, the good Ted and I resumed our karaoke residence for one more song – or seven. Seemingly we'd left quite an impression last time, judging by the "Oh it's the Os-trarlienz!" reception at the door.

Backpack still on, Ted takes to the stage and grabs the mike, shouting, "Oi! I wanna sing a song!" And she does! Still dirham-less, and while I'm happy enough to get this over with alcohol-less, the ever-zealous Ted suggests, "I'll whack it on the ol' Visa." ("It" being the beers we'll simply have to consume.) Not exactly an emergency usage, but anyway. "We're Leaving on a Jet Plane" would've been fitting as our last ditty, but we settle for a god-awful rendition of "California Dreamin'", then run out the door and back to the hotel to catch the airport transfer.

The inevitable flight delay means only one thing: we have to break some more Irish currency and have one last beer. "Oh god, don't think we should've had that last beer Ted," I sez.

"I'm more worried about what'll happen after the next one," says the ever-observant Anto.

And concerned he should be in our company, which seems to be breaking all previous records on the barometer of hysteria! The kaffy/sindi comes on, as does the Arabic music. Having only taken a mere week to successfully master the art of the Arabian dance, we "get on up" – even if nobody else knows the Bustop, and sing some more.

Ted comes up with a fantastic idea: "Let's sing our national anthem!"

"What?!" I holler in disbelief, "In front of everyone?" With no accompaniment? Now?! "Now, c'mon Ted, you must be jokin'!" Anything but the anthem! How patriotic. How laughable. How embarrassing. Man, with the persuasive skills of a busload of Berbers, she does it! Ted seeks the appropriate person, we're miked up, and before I know it we're doin' a two-part harmony a cappella "Advance Australia Fair"!

The crowd comes in from the other bar, the video comes out (must get a copy o'that) and apparently, it sounds great. Hmmm... liars! Tempted by the "very kind" shouts for an encore (and we thought we were pissed!), we decline and return to our seats, and well, sing our arses off anyway! The hilarity continues from the airport journey 'til check-in and, again, at least we think we're as funny as a busload of Berbers.

Our mentality remains the same throughout the flight, but eventually, we calm down. We're wrecked. Then, at home, back in Ireland, the completely untimely hangover kicks in...

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