"Well," you're thinking, "this doesn't look like Africa at all." No, but this is the first story. It's not really the chronological first, but you have to hear this one to understand why there are no pictures. So we begin.

You see, I spent the first three weeks of my four-month African trip in Morocco, which is an amazing country, and I'll tell you all about it in a minute. But first. I left Morocco on a plane for Dakar Senegal on Royal Air Maroc (RAM). When I checked in, I had a big (45 kilos) backpack with everything I thought I needed - clothes, film, medicine, books - the whole 9 yards and then some. I had a little day pack with the stuff I couldn't afford to lose. And I had 3 rugs, wrapped up in a bundle.

RAM convinced me that I had to carry on my rugs, and check the rest of my luggage, including all the stuff I couldn't afford to lose. I never saw any of it again. I got off the plane in Senegal with the clothes on my back, a wallet, and 3 really nice rugs. I freaked out, I cursed and screamed, I thought about coming home. But I met these two British guys who reminded me very much of the characters from Withnail and I (great movie). They rolled a very, very large one, and proceeded to explain how this was in fact a blessing, because I didn't really need any of that stuff, and now I didn't have to carry anything. They said I should sit on a corner and sell my rugs, which became a running joke for a week. I was, by the way, staying in a Brothel at the time. Turns out brothels are very cheap accommodation.

So, I shipped my rugs home on a boat, which takes 3-4 months, and at the time, I was certain I'd never see them again either (I did). And I decided to stay, to keep traveling, and buy the things I needed as I went. It was the right choice.

Well, the first thing you need is a camera, right? So I went down to the black market by the docks, which is moderately famous, at least in Dakar, and I thought I'd pick up a fabulous new SLR for a song (it's all stolen anyway, right? I'd probably just be buying back my own stuff...). Well, prices were a little steep, so I sat down at bar, which was really more of a little Fellini-esque ramshackle wooden box, and, er, quelled my fears.

Guy walks up to me in a bomber jacket (collar up) and mirrored sunglasses, right out of too many movies (it's hot too, remember), and says, "you want camera? I got camera. Thirty-five dollar." OK, I'm game. $35 bucks for a new camera? Let's deal. Of course, he needed an additional $5 as a bribe for the guy who runs the docks - we argued about this, but hey - price of doing business. So, off he wanders with my forty dollars, and I'm thinking, geez, that was stupid.

Thirty minutes later, he returns, and he pulls out a 35mm camera. Not a brand new camera. Not a Nikon or a Canon. An antique 100% manual no batteries Russian Zehnet (written in Cyrillic, as you can see) with a lens that actually screws on. A Zehnet. I think it's made of solid steel. I could kill someone with it if I threw it at them.

Most of the pictures you're about to see were taken with this Zehnet - and I wasn't even sure it worked for the first month until I got the film developed. I think I got 70 pictures total.