Abdullah and I are alone at his sister's house; she's with her family in Agourai. This is where he wanted to spend a few days alone, to be with himself and God, praying, reading. Instead he got sick. His tonsils inflamed, he spent the days sleeping and the nights moaning in pain. He said he would rather die than pay for medicine, until I convinced him I'd buy it.

The nights are very damp in this house. I can hardly sleep. It feels like everything- the bed, the pillows, the sheets, my clothes and skin- is covered in a layer of mould. I have bad dreams, waking up regularly in the night to hear Abdullah moaning.

He doesn't stops talking about what's going to happen when the film is finished. Will I forget him, he asks. Will I still help him, will he be on his own? I know there's nothing I can do for him. I can continue making this film, but other than that I don't have the capacity to change his life. He wants me to do everything for him, either because he's afraid or just feels helpless. He asks me often about Europe, sometimes he wants to hear stories about my life there and be fascinated by them. Other times he wants to criticise Europeans and their societies. At times he acts ashamed of his life, of it's simplicity. I tell him it isn't new to me, but he won't believe it: "You lived in Europe, you don't know about things like this."

Nothing is clear here. Everything that's been simmering seems to come out at once and it's all in contradiction. We might talk about religion, and Abdullah will tell me of course I'm free to believe what I want. In the same conversation, he tries aggressively to change my mind, emphatic that without a love and fear of God, I'll spend eternity, after my death, in the most unimaginable hell. For him, I've come to understand, the pain of hell is more visceral than the pain of his own waking life. For me it's a fantasy.

"It's hard to trust someone who doesn't fear God." "They why do you trust me?"

He has his own fantasies. We talk more about Europe. I wonder if I should convince him of what I think Europe is really like (It'll eat you up. You might have less chance there than you do in Morocco), or just agree with his fantasy.

We can watch, on tv, a film set in New York, and marvel at the place, at the beautiful people and clean cars. There's a Moroccan comedian describing his visit to France:

"It's Europe! Oh, it's beautiful Europe! And here I am, , dressed like this, with my mouth hanging open staring at the hotel receptionist!"

(the audience laughs)

At the house, I'm reading Paul Theroux's Old Patagonia Express- a journal of his travel through South America by train. He mentions the Quindio Pass in Colombia, a steep, beautiful, rugged ravine. I think I want to go. This could be my next adventure- Central and South America. I know very little about that area, I have almost no exposure to it. But there are other places that make me think "...go there soon, or it won't be the same, it'll change irreversibly."

What else? Theroux mentions Kipling, I've never read much of him myself. Borges, of whom I've only read The Universal Library, I think it was called, or something similar. He makes me want to read more and write more. To keep travelling. He also reminds me that as much as I love to travel, I'm always leaving something behind. The book takes me away from Sebt Jahjouh for a while. I have to keep asking myself where the film is going. For now it doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

I film Abdullah sleeping for the next two days.

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