Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Morocco - Trekking the Mgoun Massif
Having packed and re-packed
during most of Friday night to try and get all necessary items into the
required two soft bags we collapsed into bed.
Explore had kindly sent us soft
bags for the purpose of the trek which also ever so slightly advertised their
company. Originally we hadn’t intended to use them, but they were bigger than
anything else we had – and we needed the space. At Heathrow the dozens of red
Explore bags reminded us of our original reason for not wanting to use it. By
then it was too late.
Amongst the self conscious
murmurings of fellow Explorers we realised that one person in the check in line
was on our trip. Most of the others were on a two week trip – including the
young man behind us who had never trekked anywhere or anything in his life, and
stood there in brand new outdoor clothes.
Having a final pint in
Weatherspoons we met up again with the chap doing the same trip as us, who
identified himself as Joker.
In what we eventually came to
realise was true laid back Moroccan style, we were eventually boarded onto the
plane, and some time later taxied off to the runway. By now running about an
hour late the pilot clearly felt he had time to make up, so on receiving
notification that he was clear to take off, he turned onto the runway, taking
the corner at several miles an hour. Without pausing for thought at the head of
the runway, he put his foot down (metaphorically speaking, as clearly planes
are steered with the feet but moved with the ‘steering wheel’).
The flight itself went
uneventfully enough until I saw the Mediterranean .
Which got closer. And closer. When we were about 500 feet above the sea, with
no obvious sight of land I tried to remember what the airhostess had said about
the location of the life jackets in the safety announcement that I had ignored.
300 ft and still no sign of land. At last we went over a beach almost
immediately followed by touch down – or rather bounce down - on the runway. I
wondered whether it was possible to stay here and sunbathe on that beach with
aircraft landing only a few feet above you.
Despite this landing I was a
little surprised when the Moroccan majority of the plane broke into applause
when the plane touched down, this becoming more rapturous when we actually
stopped. I damn nearly joined them. We were a little confused when everyone on
the plane except those we had identified as Explore passengers got up and left.
Outside it was dark and, rather alarmingly, raining. But I had no idea where we
were. There was nothing for it. We would have to ask. Making conversation with
those nearest to us it transpired that we were at Tangiers, and the plane would
continue on shortly to Casablanca
After considerably longer than
the time we were meant to sit at Tangier the baggage handlers suddenly
remembered that they needed to unload most of the plane, and a frenzied
unpacking began.
Eventually ready to take off, and
again running late, the pilot - who was
apparently on danger money - did another ‘0 – 36000 feet in 10 seconds’ take
off. And it was a lot easier this time, the plane having virtually emptied. On
no take off ever have I been forced so far into the back of the seat. For a
moment I thought we would actually do a back loop. After a few seconds I looked
out of the window and saw the ground a few miles below. We landed almost
immediately afterwards at Casablanca
At Casablanca
It was here that we started
mingling a bit more. We had immigration forms to fill in and Panther (who it
transpired was on the trip with us and Joker) asked whether the questions ‘On’
and ‘At’ after requesting the passport number referred to date and place of
issue, or date of arrival. I told her that I had opted for date and place of
issue preferring to work on the assumption that they would realise the date of
arrival was today. Joker observed that with such level of thought I could work
here, and probably go far.
Before long we set off for our 3rd
flight of the day – which is far too many. I have done more. 4 in fact per day,
but never come down with the plane and I think that makes the difference.
We taxied so far that I wondered
if we were in fact driving to Marrakech. Eventually we took off, and landed
shortly afterwards. Or rather, bounced along the runway until we reached a
position of immobility.
It was midnight and the outside temperature was 29˚C.
It was hot. Seriously hot. Vast numbers of Explore bags appeared. Miraculously
the very bad piece of string attached to ours was still there. We met our tour
leader, Mustafa and were driven into Marrakech to the hotel.
It was a vibrant lively city. The
streets were packed with people, including children. Sitting on roadsides, on
benches in parks. It was clearly the most pleasant time of day to be outside.
Mopeds filled the streets packed with people.
We arrived at Hotel Islane which
was described in our guidebook as ‘a faded but reliable establishment’, and
also re-assured us that the rooms came with heating!! Like the airport, it was
very decorative. If somewhere in London
After a few arduous minutes of
getting the air conditioning to work and a much needed cold shower we retired
to our last night in a proper bed for a week – having first removed the blanket
which we felt would probably not be needed. The air conditioning worked
wonderfully if you stood directly below it.
The problem was that it was stuck
right over in the corner of the room. We also had a slightly amusing time
getting the two curtains to cover the three windows as best as possible.
The following morning we went to
breakfast in the terrace restaurant. After sitting there for 20 minutes the
waiter eventually brought us croissants, bread and orange juice that had
actually come from a real orange only a few minutes earlier. Joker appeared,
shortly followed by Panther and her surprise room mate Catwoman.
The restaurant terrace had a view
over the city that we hadn’t appreciated in our midnight arrival yesterday offering commanding views of
the mosque Koutoubia. Its 70m tall minaret is the city’s most famous landmark.
Constructed in the late 12th century on the site of a previous
mosque this is the oldest and best preserved of the Almohad minorets. Mules pulled
heavy loads of fruit and vegetables, either on drawn carts or just in panniers
on their backs, being randomly whipped which made no difference at all to their
speed of progress. A man cycled passed struggling with a huge sack of potatoes
perched on the crossbar.
After breakfast we met up again with Mustafa for a meeting
in which administrative matters were dealt with. We were, for the first time,
faced with our comrades for the week. Although at the time I didn’t know
everyone’s name, for the purposes of this tale I shall introduce everyone. We
had of course already met Joker and Panther – who transpired to be rather a dark
horse. Catwoman had travelled to Marrakech under her own steam and was staying on
after the trip to attend a 3 week Arabic course in Fes .
She was the sort of person who could easily blend into different cultures,
dressing in what seemed like local clothing, which suited her perfectly. The
other loan traveller was Batgirl who has flown out the previous day, as Explore
had not been able to get her onto the same flight as the rest of us. She had
spent the additional day exploring Marrakech and comfortingly assured us that
if we wanted to get properly lost, she was our man. There was a certain
dappiness about her, and I think that she later ‘casually’ informed the group
that she had a PhD just to let us know that there was in fact a lot more to
her. Another dark horse. There were a South African couple – Penguin and Huntress –
who we all assumed were an actual couple until they let us know that they were
in fact brother and sister. The two remaining couples were Batman and Robin, and
Robin and Mrs Pennyworth. There being two Robin’s, and to avoid confusion they shall
hereafter be referred to as Robin (m) and Robin (f). Robin (m) and Mrs Pennyworth were
also staying on in Morocco
We put our bags on top of the 4
wheel drive jeeps and meandered into town to buy water and change money.
Moroccan dirham is a closed currency and can only be obtained in the country.
The roads were interesting, having no particular right of way for anyone at any
time. So we just walked and hoped for the best. The pavements were huge but the
roads were still filled with people and ambling children along with bicycles,
horses and cars. There was no sense of rush anywhere. We had already
experienced a suspicion of this laid back way of life.
On the way into the market square
we passed a row of horse drawn taxis. The horses had tarpaulin sheets attached
to their rear end to collect the manure. I assumed that it was less to do with
keeping the streets and more as a result of the use of manure on the fields.
However, even this noble method of recycling did nothing to ease the stench of
horse dung gently simmering in the tropical heat.
We passed the bustling Djemaa
el-Fna square and travelling dentists sitting on the wide streets, with neat
piles of pulled teeth and collections of dentures on blankets in front of them.
The day had barely started but it
was already hot when we clambered into the jeeps to drive to Imelghas. Boyfriend
and I shared a jeep with Catwoman and Panther. As we drove along I noticed that
everyone moved slowly in the increasing heat, or just sat in the shade under
the trees. Vast numbers of people had mules and either sat on the flat carts
being pulled by them, or perched on their backs amongst the panniers.
The road was surrounded by dry,
dusty land littered with huge cactuses. Everywhere was red. Red dried mud walls
rose from the red earth. A red dust lightly covered people and vehicles alike.
A local Berber legend has it that when the Koutoubia Mosque was planted in the
city’s heart it poured so much blood that all the walls, houses and roads
turned this colour. And everything was seriously dry. Despite this there was a
surprising amount of greenery.
As we drove through occasional
dusty villages there was a smell of spices, charcoal and dung. Again there were
people resting beneath the trees, their mules standing patiently by. Washing
was hung on ropes between the trees in open parts of the village. Scrawny sheep
wandered the fields; managing to find something to eat in the red, dry soil.
The road passed over steep banked
rivers that, judging by the verdant growth within had been dry for a while.
We stopped at a village for the
toilet. It was around 39˚C. The toilet itself (in a building that seemed like a
café but also had some sort of engine repair works inside) was primitive –
porcelain that had once been white with a hole in the middle and two slightly
raised areas where your feet went, all encased in something that resembled an
under the stairs cupboard. Further up the street a man was wrapping meat that
hung in this oppressive heat.
To while away the journey we chatted amongst ourselves,
and it was during this chat that Panther informed us that once upon a time she
made maps. Serious detail maps. Ones that showed every boulder and every bush.
I decided it would have been fun to go along afterwards
and move the boulders. Apparently Panther did not think this would have been
amusing at all. This was one of her dark horse revelation. Her revelations
became almost daily, and never ceased to surprise us.
As we wound surreptitiously
upwards the draught through the window became noticeable warmer, and then
wetter. Very wet in fact. The road became bendier and the amount of traffic
lessened. We started to climb significantly, winding around steep sided drops
and rivers that started to have a suggestion of water in them.
Around one corner a shepherd was
herding his sheep along the road, while in the valley below us a young boy was
riding a mule along the dry river towards a point of water.
We stopped in a red, dusty town
for lunch. Apparently this was Mustafa’s home town. We were taken up stairs in
the restaurant to a room filled with tourists while downstairs the locals
gawped at us as we passed.
Lunch was sumptuous. We started
with a spicy salad, which was odd but surprisingly delicious, followed by
either lamb or vegetable tajine. The name tajine refers not only to the name of
the meal but also the name of the dish in which it is cooked. Traditionally
used by nomads as portable ovens over a charcoal fire, a tagine is earthenware
with a conical lid and is both a cooking and serving dish. The cone shaped
cover acts like an oven and the entire lid is totally sealed to retain heat and
moisture, which not only prevents it from drying out during the long cooking
process, but also allows the slow infusion of flavours throughout the dish. Boyfriend and I opted for lamb. It was incredibly
tender but the lamb had been quite randomly hacked up in the dish. There were
bones everywhere, and as I pulled the fat away from one part I happened upon a
kidney, which I hadn’t expected at all and considered a bonus. In addition, the
lamb the tajine – which is more or less a casserole – was filled with tasty and
varied vegetables. For pudding we had fresh melon followed by mint tea, which
was warm and very very sweet.
Suitably replenished we continued
on our way. As the jeeps drove on children waved at us. I never really
established why, but we waved back and they seemed pleased by that.
Of the 150 mile journey we had
been told that the final 40 miles or so were off road along the spectacular
Tizi n’Tirghist pass. We duly turned off the road onto a mud lane. We were
alerted to this by the fact that all of a sudden we were being bounced around
in the jeep quite a lot more than previously, with our heads becoming
precariously close to making full on contact with the roof. The road
deteriorated, becoming little more than a rock strewn track over which the jeep
gently meandered its way. Still we climbed up into the mountains, hugging the
hillsides which dropped away perilously to the sides. Panther clung onto the
vehicle with her eyes firmly closed, not at all keen on edges. So Boyfriend
leaned out of the window and took a picture over the edge to show her so that
she would realise is wasn’t as bad as she imagined. Apparently this was not
helpful.
We bumped and wobbled up to
2600m, passing some dogs that Catwoman ‘spoke’ to. Rather bizarrely, they ‘spoke’
back. It was a hint of things to come. The stones on the track bounced onto the
vehicle with ferocity and the outside temperature plummeted. Still we wound our
way around the narrow, bumpy, sheer sided mountain tracks before eventually
stopping for a short break before heading down into the lush valley of Ait Bougoumez
From here we had a view of the
villages in the valley below, overshadowed by the Atlas
Mountains rising in the distance. The ancient Greeks called this
land the country of Atlas after the Titan who was condemned to bear the heavens
upon his shoulders. According to legend the hero Perseus showed Atlas the head
of Medusa to punish him for being inhospitable, and Atlas was transformed into
the mountain range that still bears his name.
And it was there, ahead of us.
The highest mountain range in North Africa -
The High Atlas. And we were due to go up Jebel MGoun, the second highest
mountain in Morocco
We stopped at a building in the
small village of Imelghas
Before dinner there was a walk to
Sidi Moussa – apparently the largest circular granary in the world, which
conveniently sat on the top of an unnecessarily steep sided hill. The walk was
described as optional, but we were all expected to opt to do it.
Mustafa set off while we followed
at a gentle amble, chatting along the way. He stopped for us to catch up before
the hill started to get serious. Once together he then set off at what can only
be described as a damn silly pace up the zig zag path to the top. We all
followed, and only once at the top confessed to each other that it had been a
little fast, and we hoped that this was not an example of the pace we were
expected to maintain over the coming days.
The granary itself, like all the
village buildings, had the appearance of a mud hut. It seemed that the mud was
used as an outer finishing layer. In the village, the mud actually covered
brickwork. It wasn’t that big.
However, apparently not many
granaries are circular, and therefore to be the biggest circular granary in the
world didn’t actually require the building to be that large. Inside it was dark
and cool and smelled wonderfully of timber; the only light, once the door was
closed, coming from a small hole in the roof.
The building was 500 years old.
It was once used by the village for people to store their valuables as well as
food, and had a number of little wooden-doored cavities. It was built on the
top of a hill so that it could be more easily protected from marauding tribes.
Now it was a holy place and local girls would come here on Thursday, sleeping
over until Friday to make emotional requests, accompanied of course with
offerings that lined the interior.
We climbed up a level and then
onto a ladder (or rather branch with chips hacked out of it, making something
resembling stairs) onto the roof. Mindful not to fall down the hole in the
roof, we grouped around Mustafa who pointed out the weeks trek. From the roof we also had an excellent view
across the valley, which, having a water supply, was lush and green, and every
inch of it was divided into chaotic segments and farmed.
After yet another cup of mint tea
we retraced our steps to the gite, passing beehives with their beekeepers, and
noticing that some of the village mud covered kasbahs actually had satellite
dishes. Mustafa assured us that the interiors would surprise us, that we would
find TV’s and washing machines. From the outside, all that was hard to imagine.
It was also difficult to reconcile the lives these people led – hard, farm
working families with minimal education opportunities – with the sort of
household mod cons that we take for granted. We passed women in the fields,
bundling up huge piles of straw that they then heaved on to their backs and
carried. Others drew water from the well, and carried that. All the women had
loads of some description. Naturally the ‘free’ western woman in Mrs Pennyworth raised
with Mustafa ever so gently the question of female rights. He explained that
women liked to be a productive part of their community. They wanted to help in
the fields, wanted to help their families. Doing this work made them happy. He
assured us that the more difficult tasks were left to the men, such as
ploughing. And thinking. Life expectancy here was somewhere in the 60’s, women
living longer than men as they didn’t exert so much energy on thought. Children
also worked on the farms and few of those living in mountain areas went to
school. As Mustafa told us, if they went to school and were taught, for
example, helicopter, it would mean nothing. They haven’t seen one and can’t
imagine one. However, things were changing. But like anything, it was slow.
The incredibly green, terraced
and irrigated mountain sides of the valleys were a breathtaking sight. Water
being such a rare and precious resource it was used sensibly and directed round
the fields via a complex network of channels.
We returned to the gite for dinner – an enormous
presentation of cous cous (a native Berber dish), vegetables and lamb, sitting
on tiny chairs similar to the sort of things I perched on when I first went to
school. Robin (f) told Batman he looked like an insect, all elbows and knobbly
bits, as he perched his enormity upon it. As it was starting to rain, we
retired inside for tea (which Mustafa called South London
tea to distinguish it from mint tea) and coffee, and reclined in dangerous
comfort on large soft seats that lined the room to talk about the trip.
Mustafa told us that it was our
holiday, and he wanted us to have time to look around us and appreciate the
views. Although he congratulated our hearty ascent to Sidi Moussa he made it
clear that we were to go at our own pace for the trek. I think there was a
general sigh of relief at this news. He wanted us to enjoy his country and this
included food.
He liked to eat well, and was
keen for us to try traditional Moroccan cuisine. He had apparently been up at 4am buying vegetables for the trip and
had personally selected the menus, which turned out to be delicious, varied and
enormous. I must admit that I had half expected to be fed boiled camel for a
week.
We retired to bed where by and
large most people slept badly. I think it was perhaps that Big Brother feel of
being in a building with a whole lot of people you didn’t know. The following
morning everyone in our room claimed they hadn’t slept – which was odd because
someone had been snoring most of the night. Restful slumber was not helped by a
storm in the night, blowing a gale, which caused every door in Africa to bang loudly against its doorframe. I was
relieved when we got our 6am
wake up call –first from the cockerel and then Mustafa.
After a rudimentary breakfast,
handing out of toilet rolls along with matches and rubbish collection bags as
well as instructions to bring 3 litres of water each to last us until lunch, we
donned rucksacks (Explore had helpfully informed us in the kit list that handbags
were not a suitable alternative) and set off. Mustafa led the walk, closely
followed by Batman and Robin (f). A Berber who spoke no English and no French
followed behind as back marker. The mules were being loaded by the muteers and
would follow later.
We were lulled into a false sense
of security for the early part of the day, the walk being largely flat. In fact
it was quite galling to realise that we had dropped from our starting height of
1889m to 1820m. We soon left the dusty road and wound our way through the
terraced fields of the farm lands, along narrow tracks and over ingenious
bridges made from branches and mud. Around us was high growing vegetation and I
mentioned to Panther that it felt like we were soldiers in Vietnam
We passed through the mud streets
of villages where children were either dumb struck by our presence, or waved at
us, muttering a few words in French. The villages were quiet and peaceful, with
occasional flocks of sheep or goats and multitudes of chickens. The women
carried babies in makeshift slings, and men walked passed carrying ploughs, and
presumably thinking very hard.
Rocky, uneven, steep pathways
passed between the mud coated buildings. There seemed to have been no attempt
at all to level any ground.
As 9am approached the heat was rising and pleasant cool of
early morning became a distant memory.
We started to move away from the
villages in the valley, which we could still see in the distance, nestling into
the bottom of the hills, built right up into the rock. Catwoman commented that it
was a shame she hadn’t been able to take many pictures, but didn’t want to stop.
So we made a group decision to have a photo pause - with the exception of
Mustafa, Batman and Robin (f) who were already striding out well ahead of us. They
did eventually realise we had all stopped.
All around us the ground rose
upwards to mountains. Spectacularly rugged and sparsely vegetated, the
mountains were consisted of terraced cliffs, enormous escarpments, deep gorges
and flat topped summits.
The heat continued to rise. As
did the path. Unpleasantly so. There was no break from the sun as the line of
us zig zagged up a mercilessly hot slope. There were people close behind me so
I felt that I couldn’t slow or stop. The path did not provide overtaking room.
And it was one of those hills that just kept going. It was not the steepest
hill I have ever walked, and yet it seemed incredibly difficult. I started to
worry about the week ahead, despite Mustafa’s warning last night not to focus
on summit day. Apparently the more you thought about it, the more worked up you
would get and ultimately not be able to do it at all.
Panther informed me that she had
been concerned about how she would find the hills, having been a hill runner
and therefore used to taking these things at speed. Her dark horse revelation
of the day.
We stopped at the top for a well
needed drink and orange. The onward route flattened out slightly before again
launching into a steep cliffside ascent. It was slow, painful, on dry, red,
rocky ground. The group started to thin out along the route. There were
frequent stops to ‘admire the view’ along the persistent uphill. Robin (f) and
Batman were well ahead, right behind Mustafa, not even having the decency to
break a sweat.
Our mind was taken off the task
in hand by occasional insects – huge and brightly coloured. All the insects
were far bigger than I have ever seen before. Despite this, I never saw the
grasshoppers or whatever it was making a constant humming noise in the low
lying scattering of tussocks. I assumed the noise was attributable to insects
rather than a particularly bad case of tinitis.
Having reached the top we had another break in which Mustafa handed around a bag of mixed nuts – very mixed, there were nuts of all varieties, dried fruits and a number of completely unidentifiable things. Catwoman picked through the bag to dig out the dried fruit as she didn’t like nuts. With a ‘ready please’ from Mustafa we stood up to carry on. Our next stop was lunch, and downhill all the way, which seemed rather galling. Especially as I had the distinct impression that we had not finished our up for the day.
Beneath some trees a mat was laid
out for lunch. Nearby was the chef (Mohammed) with a couple of other muteers
preparing lunch, while the lunch carrying mules had time to wander, rest and
eat. The remaining mules came along while we were having lunch and carried on
to the camp site to get set up. We watched them steadily move on, aware that
they were pointing out the onward route to us.
As we had been told, there were
two bowls of water set out. One was for washing hands thoroughly with the accompanying
soap, while the other, which was laced with bleach, was to be used for a final
dipping. This procedure would be followed for every meal to prevent stomach
bugs and diarrhoea as far as reasonably possible. We were, after all, now using
boulders and shrubbery as toilets so our hands were quickly becoming infested
with unmentionable germs.
Lunch was vast. A hot meal, out
here, somewhere in the foothills of the mountains. Boots were taken off to keep
the mats clean and we sat there amongst occasional very large ants. We ate, and
ate and then had about an hour to rest before moving on again.
Using the toilet before we moved
on again, I decided to try and burn the paper rather than keep it in our
personal little rubbish bags. It wasn’t easy. The matchstick was so feeble that
it snapped as soon as any pressure – such as the pressure required to make the
end ignite – was applied to it. After a few failed attempts I realised that the
only way to get it lit was to hold the part that would ignite, at great personal
risk to the end of my fingers. Again there were a few failed attempts, largely
due to my being a bit chicken about getting burned. Then bingo. Rather than
repeat this dangerous exercise, I simply dropped unlit matches onto the burning
paper as and when necessary. Burning damp paper is not easy, and requires much
prodding with stick.
I returned to the group
delighted. I had made fire. I felt like man who has just done a bar-b-que.
As we were about to move on from
lunch it started to rain. Heavily. Appropriately waterproofed, we set off down
the hill. The onward route was, accordingly Mustafa, undulating, which he had
told us with a smile. As the rain stopped and the heat returned, we soon warmed
up and stopped to remove all the clothes we had added. We had also started
another hill climb. The landscape constantly changed before us There were thick
knarled trees that had been blasted into extraordinary shapes by the wind and
small green shrubs that were two shades of a most vivid green. It was hard to
believe they could get enough water to appear so lush.
There were a few more steep downs
and inevitable ups before the day was finally done, finishing off with a long
path around an eternal hill. This path was comprised of small stones so that it
moved beneath your feet with every step which caused a problem for Boyfriend,
whose knee rebelled at one point. Joker followed behind, slowly. At the time we
thought he was exercising caution but later realised that his knee was causing
him a serious problem.
As we rounded yet another corner
we could see the first camp site in the valley below, with a large white
kitchen tent and mess tent, seven tents for us to sleep in and a new luxury – a
toilet tent. This was the first trip that the toilet tent had been used, and
basically consisted of a 10 foot high square tent, and a hole in the ground.
This hole was rapidly used, but as it took a while for the urine to drain away
it filled rapidly. Fortunately no one had yet done anything sinister in it. And
the option of burning your paper was not to be taken if you were in the toilet
tent. No naked flames there, where there was more methane than oxygen, unless
you had pyromaniac tendencies – and liked getting first degree burns.
We sat outside and had mint tea
(the biscuits had been left behind!) followed by a beer, careful where we sat.
The ground was randomly covered with small green shrubs, large numbers of which
were fearsomely prickly.
I suggested a musical chairs
style game whereby we moved around and sat down, just to see whether, despite
our aching thighs we could launch ourselves rapidly off the ground if required.
No one else seemed up for the idea.
Joker had suggested that we engage in a stretching session but wasn’t prepared to initiate this – describing himself as a follower rather than a leader. A few of us did indulge a some much needed limbering up. As we sat there children came up with baskets of fresh eggs – a strikingly pretty girl, followed by two shy boys. The children were tiny and we assumed they were around age 5. It seemed that they were nearer 10. The life they led did not allow the growth we have become accustomed to in
I made a final visit to the
toilet tent before dinner. It was still quite full of liquid, but now there was
the added fun of a healthy (i.e. floating) turd to chase around the hole.
We changed out of our boots, and
into more comfortable clothing before retiring to the mess tent for dinner. A
three course dinner no less. Soup, vast servings of vegetables, melon, followed
by hot drinks. As dinner included meat, Catwoman (who was vegetarian) was treated to
an omelette made with the fresh eggs. She told me later that she didn’t like
omelettes, but didn’t have the heart to tell Mustafa as he had gone to the
trouble of organising what he had thought would be a nice meal for her.
Joker leant his lip cream to
Batgirl and Huntress who asked ‘is this the stuff that makes your lips white’.
‘No’ replied Joker, unaware until that moment that the cream did in fact make his
lips white.
Over dinner Mustafa briefed us on the route for the
following day. He had been ever so economical with the truth so far and we were
learning that when he smiled it normally presaged bad news. He told us,
smiling, that the first day is always the worst before going on to describe
what sounded like an equally unpleasant one for tomorrow.
That day we had walked 15.4 miles
in 6 hours moving time, at an average speed of 2.6mph, a total ascent of 1177m
and total descent of 697m ending up at the camp altitude of 2281m.
Later that evening as Boyfriend
and I lay in out tent trying to sleep we overheard Panther and Catwoman in the tent
next door. It seemed that a large cricket had joined them in their tent and we
giggled at the sounds of them trying to remove it. Catwoman also informed Panther
that she kept going through the tougher parts of the day by imagining she was
trying to escape over the border into Pakistan
As they finally reached a stage
of opening the tent to let out the cricket Catwoman whispered ‘I need to break wind’
and was going to make a second use of the open tent. I was most relieved. All
this healthy diet of fruit and vegetables as well as large quantity of exercise
– not to mention the gas expanding effects of altitude – was already having
effects on my system. It was nice to know that it was affecting someone else as
well.
Our tents had been put up by the
muteers, without any attempt to move a single rock that lay beneath them.
Despite this, I managed to have a most excellent nights sleep. I woke early
requiring a visit to the toilet tent. At some point between when I last used it
and now it had been considerably back filled.
The stench was one thing, but
what I considered worse was the enormous population of flies. I tried to waft
them away, preferring not to dangle my intimate parts any near them. Most
dutifully flew to the top of the tent, banging against the roof in clear
annoyance. I was soon out of there.
As I stood outside the tent
cleaning my teeth Joker observed that there would be one happy dung beetle when
he stumbled upon that lot. At that point I looked up to see a mule standing
there, his tail raised, letting of a huge long loud fart. Naturally I
commented. It seemed rude not to. Joker, however, was under the impression that
it was I who had broken wind rather than the mule. I did try and explain to him
that I would have proudly confessed to so great a fart, but it made little
impact. It must have been around this time that I let on to Catwoman and Panther that
I had overheard their conversation of the previous night and it then transpired
that both Catwoman and I had sat through the previous evenings dinner desperately
clenching against farts, frightened to relax
- just in case. A bond had been made.
Joker’s knee was still bad. We had
leant him some ibuprofen gel to ease the pain and he had also been given
numerous knee supports. He thanked us profusely and announced that the
circulation in his leg had now completely stopped.
We took down our tents and
breakfasted on porridge and honey. Except Huntress. It seemed that she had been
very ill during the night, extreme projectile vomiting. She was struggling to
even hold down water.
It was hot before we started off at 7am with a rather depressing downhill ascent to
1910m – nearly the altitude we had started at.
The hillsides we walked through had an ever changing
variety of rock, from the dry red earth to black slate. The deeply dissected
range exposed a thick sequence of sedimentary and volcanic rock, intersected
with granite. Joker slowly negotiated his way along the steep hillside paths,
peppered with tiny stones that could take the legs from under an unsuspecting
trekker. Huntress also followed slowly, dehydrated and hungry, and still pausing
to vomit at appropriate moments. I had started to feel nauseous the previous
evening, which I knew that one of the effects of altitude. The problem was that
we weren’t really that high so it was hard to know if the feeling was altitude
related or something more sinister. I didn’t feel that I was going to be sick,
and was still able to eat and drink so decided not to worry about it for the
time being.
We stopped at the bottom of one ravine for a break. Steps
had been cut into the hillside, and were now used to grow crops. Here, so far
from any villages, the need for crops was demonstrated. No wonder the Berber
people were so fit. The only way to and from this site involved steep hill
slopes. Mustafa explained that the local people would build walls into the hill
sides and then wait for erosion to take effect, thereby making the stepped farm
strips.
I had noticed the previous day the smells from the plants.
Lavender, rosemary, thyme and mint grew wild and in abundance. Now we were
amongst juniper bushes. As I pointed out to Robin (m) and Mrs Pennyworth, all we need
was some quinine bark and we were all set to make a G&T that I had not
until this moment realised was such an organic drink.
We waited at our stop point while the mules came down the
zig zag path, and passed us. Never losing a step or slipping, carrying their
huge burden of kit they negotiated these narrow, uneven, tracks that we had
slipped and skidded along.
The mountain slopes were well populated. Gorge scarred
landscape dropped down into lush valleys with terraced villages where flat
roofed earthen kasbahs clung tenaciously to the slopes while irrigated farmed
plots flourished below.
We came down into one such village called Ghoughoult.
Children who lined the dusty pathways stopped to stare at us, murmuring words
in French or holding out their hands for gifts. Mustafa had told us not to give
them anything. He explained that today they are asking for a ‘stilo’ (pen), but
if we give them that then they will eventually end up being sent out by their
parents to beg for money – as opposed to working the farms or going to school.
Again I got a sense of his belonging to these people, not wanting to make
beggars out of the children.
The village was at the bottom of the valley with a river
running through it. The land was heavily farmed and the fields were already
filled with women and children – who stopped and looked up at us as we passed.
We were stopping in the village to have tea and freshly
made bread in one of the Berber houses. From the outside it was little more
than a mud shack. But inside was dark, roomy and cool. I used the toilet –
which was an alarming experience – a spacious room with the once white
porcelain tucked away right at the end. It was damp everywhere and did nothing
for my still present nausea.
We took off our boots and rucksacks and went into the
guest room for tea. The room was whitewashed with colourful decorations painted
onto the ceiling and the floor lined with rugs and sheepskins. Cushions had
been placed around the room for us to lean on. Mustafa started to prepare the
mint tea, which for the first time seemed very ceremonial. He explained that
really it was tea with mint as opposed to mint tea. In other words, normal tea
with a sprig of fresh mint infused into it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted the
sweet, sickly drink. Mustafa waved huge lump of sugar in the teapot, adding the
sickly sweetness. This naturally led to queries about the form sugar came in.
After a few words to the boy of the house the child returned with a large
conical completely solid lump of sugar that Mustafa told us would last a
typical family one week.
Warm freshly made bread appeared along with bowls of what
I think was butter. Mustafa broke the circular low risen bread loaves into
pizza slice shapes and demonstrated how you tear a lump off the end of the
bread, open the bread and use the lump to scoop up butter and add it to the
bread. Not able to face the butter, I just ate the bread. And wasn’t able to
eat much of that.
Outside we could hear girls singing. This served as a
suitable demonstration to Mustafa of how happy the women were, working in the
fields and carrying loads. It was apparently a harvest song. As the singing
grew louder we looked out of the window to see huge bales of straw moving along
the street below us beneath which were tiny women, singing their hearts out.
Happy because they didn’t have to think, apparently. They certainly seemed, or
at least sounded happy.
Tea over, we emerged into the heat outside to continue our
walk, which would lead us up river. Being summer, the river itself was little
more than a stream running through a ravine that had clearly been made by
thousands of years of water flow.
The path crossed and re-crossed the river countless times
and surreptitiously gained height. It was a beautiful setting, ice cold water
and burning hot rock faces in a whole variety of colours and formations,
looking as though they had just tumbled over, such was the pattern on them.
Batgirl had a moment’s hesitation at one river crossing.
Her body however was not hesitating and the resultant conflict made her slip
and smash her shin into a boulder. It was grazed and started to come up with a
promisingly impressive bruise.
The sun continued to beat down on us, so it was nice to
get splashed up the back of your legs with the icy water from the river as
temporary refreshment. Walking with Catwoman I urged her on to make her escape over
the border. She was going steadily as the path was rock strewn and uneven. I
agreed that caution would be better than a twisted ankle. Then we would have to
smuggle her over the border in the panniers of the mules. The image of this
caused a temporary hilarity.
Huntress, having managed to keep some anti nausea pills
inside was starting to feel better but still suffering from a distinct lack of
energy. The unremitting downhill of the early morning had done no favours at
all for Joker’s knee. Somewhere in the distance ahead was Mustafa closely
followed by Batman and Robin (f). We rather hoped they would start to flag, but it
was not to be. In between them and us were Mrs Pennyworth and Robin (m) who now and then
stopped to indicate the onward route to us. However, at times, as we wound our
way through the snaking ravine we lost sight of everyone. Looking for
footprints, or trying to use our initiative we would attempt to fathom out the
route. But on occasion the silent, bored back marker would run ahead to show us
the way. Or call out to let us know we were going wrong. So when we were
rounding one particular bend and heard frantic calling I initially thought that
we were going wrong. Until we saw a boy on the hillside, clearly excited to see
anyone at all in this remoteness.
At the appropriate time we stopped in the shelter of a
tree for lunch. Another sumptuous feasting, which included tinned sardines. Joker
asked Mustafa if the fish had been caught in the stream that ran passed us. As
we made our way onwards the lunch mules were being re-packed and we walked
passed them.
Joker helpfully informed me that if I was feeling windy, now
would be a good time as we were right next to a mule. He then went on to say
that he was tempted to get a mule at home, that it would come in handy for
dinner parties.
We continued with a relentless uphill walk. As we rose
above the river the gorge flattened out into a lush green valley, encircled by
large hills. This was not a good sign. There was a large hill straight ahead,
the Tizi n’Ghoughoult. And yes, we were going up it. Half way up, and getting
dizzy from zigs and zags I could hear a series of thuds all around me. Huge
crickets were plummeting to the ground. Looking up I could see dozens of them
in the sky. I’m not sure if they were there deliberately or had been picked up
by the wind, but they quickly and loudly deposited themselves around us.
Step by step we inched our way up the hill. Mustafa
stopped mid way up and it was here that I sat down only to leap up a few second
later as I had placed myself onto a small but rather pierce prickly thing. I
suppose it was just dessert for my previous days game idea. Boyfriend felt that
the offending prickle deserved to be immortalised in a photograph, much to the
amusement of the group. Having gained height we had left the trees below us and
were instead surrounded by these ‘hedgehog plants’, spiny, domed bushes that
have adapted to the dry conditions.
While we sat there, getting our breath back, a short
Berber man in sandals and old, dirty clothing came and spoke to Mustafa. After
he left, skipping down the hill we had half climbed Mustafa explained that he
was from a village over the hill. His wife and child were sick and he needed to
get medical supplies. From what I understood it seemed he was going to the
village where we had had tea and bread several hours ago. For him, it was like
walking to the newsagents, and rather humbled those of us who were feeling the
burn. He needed Mustafa’s written assurances as the man had no money.
‘Ready please’ indicated it was time we continued on up
the hill, which never let up its steepness. To our right was the jagged edge of
the plateau that towered over us at the first campsite. It seemed much nearer
now. On reaching the top the clouds came in over us and the temperature
dropped.
As we sat there resting, knowing the camp was just ahead,
in the valley below, I looked out at the surrounding mountains. I pointed out
to whoever was interested the sudden breast shaped mound on a distant ridge.
Re-phrasing it as a pap, which seemed to cause less disturbance Boyfriend
helpfully observed that it had no nipple. As a result of things that are not
clear to me, Catwoman and I decided that what it needed was a huge golden nipple
that would gleam in the sun and suddenly The Quest of the Golden Nipple was
born.
As we walked down the other side of the hill towards the
campsite I told Catwoman that I thought we had lost her pursuing enemy in the cloud
and that we were safe. We agreed that a new encouragement plot was required for
the morrow. After many many bad ideas we came up with needing to get to the
doctor for medical supplies – taking influence from local events. We also
decided that the plot for summit day could be Sam and Frodo taking the ring up the
mountain to the fires of Mordor, and started practising our Sam and Frodo
impressions that would be required. Unfortunately, despite over 9 hours of
film, the only things we could remember them ever saying was ‘Come on Master
Frodo’ and ‘Oh Sam’. The Quest of the Golden Nipple was still a hot favourite.
Penguin was with us as we walked down the hill, but kept
quiet. I think he was afraid. The uphill had been eternal, and the down was
equally long. So, to add some extra impetus we imagined that we needed to get
to the shops to buy donuts before they closed. Catwoman did actually speed up. As we
later pointed to Joker, as women don’t need to think then all we are left with is
an active imagination.
Eventually arriving at the camp we mustered for mint tea,
and the biscuits, which had now appeared – no one really knew how. I noticed
how filthy most people’s legs were. Seriously properly filthy. I felt like
writing in the dirt on mine ‘also available in white’.
We sat in the mess tent to while away the time between mint
tea and dinner while some of the group made use of the nearby spring. It was
only when my back really started to burn that I realised I was sitting backed
up to the kettle. Deciding it was time to clean up and change I performed the
limbo dance routine that was necessary to exit and enter the mess tent.
From the camp we could see the steep scree slope up to the
top of the Tarkeddid Plateau, which Mustafa had told us, with a smile, was the
start of tomorrow’s walk. It was best not to look.
Boyfriend and I discussed the effects of altitude with
Panther, one of which is to raise your blood pressure. Panther was aware that you
could get nosebleeds when high up, but hadn’t realised that the increased blood
pressure was perhaps instrumental in this. Boyfriend, already having raised
blood pressure, was concerned about this. Panther let slip another dark horse
secret – she also had high blood pressure.
Over dinner it all really did come out. First of all, Catwoman
confessed to me that she was suppressing a need to fart. Not wanting to do it
right there, I suggested that she hang her bum out of the tent to do the
necessary. But, she queried, what would she occupy herself with to remove any
questions from the rest of the group in the tent. Re-arranging the sandals at
the entrance, I replied. The plan was set. The one thing we had not allowed for
was Mustafa returning with a tureen of soup, preventing Catwoman from achieving her
task. Panther had got wind (pardon the pun) of what was going on and asked if it
had been successful. ‘No’, replied Catwoman, ‘Mustafa came along’. Hearing his name
Mustafa then asked what we were talking about. It was too late to back out now,
so we announced to the whole group that Catwoman had needed, and probably still did
need to, fart. Apparently Mustafa wouldn’t have minded.
Boyfriend, Catwoman, Panther and I then started talking with a
certain amount of hilarity about our motivational plots for the week. Mrs Pennyworth
then surprised us all by coming out as one of us – she had got through today by
imagining she was being pursued by the Indians, who were peering down from the
mountain tops into the gorge where we were walking. She then outed Robin (m)
saying that he had spent the day tracking, and was therefore in the spirit of
the Indian theme. He denied this profusely, claiming that he had just been
looking for footprints to establish the onward path when Mustafa was out of
sight. That’s tracking, we all decided. He was not amused.
Robin (f) and Batman looked on bemused, having been too far
ahead to be aware of any of this insanity going on behind them. Penguin still
looked afraid and Joker realised why women could not be trusted with rational
thought.
Mustafa smiled sympathetically and briefly considered
waking us up tomorrow with Indian style war cry.
During dinner Batman farted. Loudly and unexpectedly. Catwoman
and I noticed, looked at him (he was trying to look innocent) and smiled. No
one else batted an eyelid. It was a good sign.
As we sat around the tent there was a pervading smell of
feet. We were starting to get dirty.
We sat around three sides of the tent, and Mustafa sat on
the fourth, with his back to the entrance, serving our food. He passed round
cutlery and food. The idea was that he would pass half along the side to his
right and half along the other side, on his left. Having managed this most
successfully the previous evening we were now tired. And consequently passed
the plates of food the entire way round the tent. He looked up at us in
despair. Shaking his head.
We had already been talking about sharing photos at the
end via a website when we told Penguin that evening he had been nominated to set a
website up, being a bit IT inclined. He looked at us surprised, and still quite
scared, so Joker explained that the decision had been made in Penguin’s absence and
there had been no dissent.
We had fresh bread for dinner, warm and flat. It wasn’t
until the next day that Mustafa told us the bread had in fact not risen, and
wasn’t meant to have been like that.
When we left the mess tent it was dark, a beautiful starry
night with a large bright moon. I may have been imagining it, but the stars
seemed closer, bigger.
Our achievement for the day was 9.2 miles in 4.5 hours
moving on average at 1.9 mph. Our total ascent was 1427m with a total descent
of 1177m ending up at a height of 2587m.
That night I again slept soundly, although it was a little
cooler. In the morning I got up early and the valley below us was filled with
cloud, the sun only just starting to pick out the summits of the surrounding
mountains. It was calm and beautiful.
After breakfast, and some more of the unrisen bread, we
waited for our tents to dry in the sun before taking them down. Consequently we
ended up leaving at around 8.30am
instead of 7.00am .
Fortunately the scree slope was largely in the shade as we
started our steady plod up it. Ahead of us a young boy with a large bag thrown
over his shoulder bounced up the zig zagging path. I followed in Catwoman’s
footsteps, keeping going only because she was. Both of us thinking about
getting medical supplies. Boyfriend started to fall behind, the back marker
following him, hands in his pockets, wondering what all the fuss was about.
Robin (f) and Batman stayed behind Mustafa the whole way. We
had rather hoped they would give us the gratification of falling back – just a
little. But still it was not to be. As we approached the rocky edges of the
plateau (although I hasten to add, not anywhere near the top yet) Mustafa
stopped for a break. If he hadn’t I would have anyway. Robin (f) wanted to carry
on – the woman was deranged. I asked Mustafa if it flattened out a bit after
this. Undulating he replied, smiling.
Joker and I later agreed that what Mustafa calls undulating
we call hilly. What he calls hilly we would consider mountainous.
We continued the relentless climb up, by now out of the
protection of the overhanging plateau edge and therefore at the full mercy of
the sun. We moved off the track to let the mules passed and gently plodded
onwards and eternally upwards. Mrs Pennyworth had suggested that one way to take your
mind off the climb – other than imagining imminent attack from the Indians –
was to count to 100 in 3’s. I did this – it was too easy and therefore didn’t
take up much time but certainly diverted my attention. So I did I kept doing
it, with different numbers.
Boyfriend was starting to suffer. It had already been noticed in the evenings that his clothes had large visible salt lines on them from his sweat that actually felt raised when you touched them. All of us were sweating, but no one else left such obvious salt deposits.
When we finally reached the top he sat down, exhausted and
light headed. Seeing hexagons, as he phrased it. Two small boys were lying in
the grass and Mustafa informed us they were shepherds, and that the boy we had
seen earlier leaping up the scree slope was bringing supplies to them.
As we walked across the plateau there was a hum of life.
Herds of goats, sheep, and cows with accompanied by children. The plateau was,
at last, flat. Not an undulation in sight. Like all the mountains, it was
covered with verdant greenery, even grassy slopes scattered here and there.
However, at approximately 3000m and with no relief from the sun it was hot.
Unforgivingly hot. Towards us came four children with a donkey. They stopped to
speak to Mustafa. It seemed that the older boy, who was holding the rope, which
went around the donkey’s neck, had sore, infected lips. We searched our medical
kits but no one had antiseptic cream on them. Mustafa cleaned them with a
medicated wipe and applied liberal helpings of sun cream to all the children.
They stood there, shyly smiling and giggling, clean but in well worn, dirty
clothes. They were attractive, striking looking, but their hands showed signs
of hard manual work. Already. We could only guess at the sort of life they led.
But, however we may be critical of it, they were healthy
and happy. And that had to count for something. Mustafa gave them each a sweet
before we moved on. Again there was the feeling of him being a benefactor to
his people, having the good luck to be well employed and in a position to help
wherever he could.
Suitably attended to the children continued on their way. It reminded me that these paths were not here and maintained purely for the purposes of people such as us to trek along. They were well worn because they were in daily use, as part of the local peoples way of life. It was the way to the fields for their herds, or to the village to sell their wares and buy food. This was their local network of roads. Their equivalent of the M25.
We passed stone huts that were used by nomadic peoples in
warmer months, who then populated this area. A small boy stood in the middle of
the path as we walked around him, nearly stumbling into him. He just stood
there smiling up at us. You couldn’t help but like these people. There was an
honesty about them, and a genuine friendliness. I could understand why Mustafa
was keen not to make beggars out of them although it was difficult not to give
in to their sweet smiles and pleading looks. After all, what was a pen to us.
However, we all respected Mustafa’s views on this.
The landscape continually moved and changed before us. To
our right was the imposing, grey ridge that housed the summit we were climbing
tomorrow. But on the plateau there was constant life and constant change, the
red rocks looking almost prehistoric in their formation.
The path started down off the plateau into the valley
below. On the way down we bumped into Panther leaning against a rock. She said
that her knees were hurting. I think all our knees were.
So she joined Boyfriend, Catwoman and me as we continued onward
slowly, taking care over every step but still skidding down the slopes here and
there nonetheless. We came close to a herd of sheep and goats with their young
who bleated in panic stricken high pitched voices as we approached. It was all
too much for Catwoman to contain herself and within seconds she was engrossed in
conversation with them. It took her mind off the bad clothes day she was having
– shirt riding up her back, shorts falling down and knickers up her bum.
Panther then eased in her dark horse revelation of the day,
letting us know that she could design websites and wouldn’t mind doing the
group website if Penguin was feeling slightly imposed on.
During most of this part of the walk a man was shadowing
us, a feet further up the hill. If we stopped, so did he. It was all very odd
until Mrs Pennyworth reasoned that it was an Indian spy trying to find out where we
were camping so that they could attack us.
At last we could see the camp in the green fields ahead. Well,
we could see lots of camps and assumed one was ours. Mustafa had told us that
we would be putting up our tents.
Given that thus far the muteers had put them up and we had
taken them down I reasoned that if we were putting them up then that implied a
very early start not to be hampered by tent deconstruction, which was
presumably being left to the muteers instead. Joker followed my logic with equal
concern. We had been up at 6.30am
every day already, so an early start would be quite seriously early.
We arrived at the camp in time for lunch – and had the
remainder of the day to rest. I’m not sure if it was the heat, or the long flat
walk to camp, or trepidation about the following day but when we got there I
felt very poorly. Initially Boyfriend, me and Batman lay sleeping in the mess
tent while everyone else assembled tents and busied themselves. Not wanting to
collapse in too much of a heap in clear public view I persuaded Boyfriend that
we ought to put up our tent. We did so, but it was boiling inside. I lay in
there anyway, still feeling awful but for no reason that I could put my finger
on. So I lay there, semi sleeping, and gently crying. In hindsight I think that
I had not drunk enough that afternoon, and perhaps been affected by the sun.
Walking on flat can make you forget that you need fluid in a way you can’t
forget when exerting yourself.
After a while I decided to make use of the nearby water
supply to have a wash. Boyfriend collected a bowl of water for me and we went
over to the drain – which is located some way from the water source to avoid
pollution. I splashed the freezing water onto my face, and rinsed my again
filthy legs. I made the mistake of asking Boyfriend to rub a wet hand up my
back in some semblance of cleaning.
It was freezing – and he did it twice. I also scrubbed my
nails for several minutes in at attempt to clean out the well imbedded
blackness that resided beneath them. During today’s walk I had noticed that
Robin’s (f) fingernails were not only unbroken or even chipped as yet but were
immaculately clean. I have no idea how she did it, but I was determined to try.
In an attempt to make myself feel more human I decided to
wash my hair – with Boyfriend’s assistance. It hadn’t been washed for 4 days,
and to be honest I was surprised it didn’t feel more filthy. Boyfriend was
unexpectedly keen to douse my head with freezing water to get it wet enough to
lather the shampoo.
I rinsed it as best I could by dipping my head into the
bowl before asking Boyfriend to pour the remaining water over my head to rinse off
the remaining shampoo. In hindsight, and recalling my guttural yelps that was
probably a mistake. Boyfriend tried to take my mind off it by pointing out the
now black water. I had had the foresight to get a leave in conditioner, so
didn’t need to go through a second dousing.
Thus enlivened we returned to the tent and I started to
feel more human.
Others had used the water supply to get some washing done,
and damp clothes were strewn over the guy ropes of most of the tents – which
included Joker’s underwear. There was a tent in the middle of the site where we
were camped, which was a shop, selling fizzy drinks and chocolate. Joker thought
it ought to sell inflatable armchairs and other useful items such as toilet
roll and matches. He also wondered whether the building on the ridge opposite
was a bar. I think the altitude had got to him.
Maybe he was just thinking too hard for all of us –
although not thinking enough to try and get a girl to have done his washing for
him.
We had our daily mint tea and then a short stroll along
the valley beyond our campsite. It really was a gentle amble, and on the flat.
But Boyfriend, Catwoman, Panther and I all found ourselves completely breathless, due
entirely to the thinner air up here.
Today we had covered 8.55 miles in 3.44 hours moving at an
average speed of 2.3 mph. Our total ascent had been 732m with a total descent
of 432m and our final camp altitude was 2934m. It was higher than I had ever
stood before.
From the rim of the valley Mustafa showed us the following
days objective. It looked steep and difficult. The summit was in cloud so it
was hard to appreciate the full implication of the day. The alternative route
was straight ahead through the valley. It was shorter, but looked no easier
consisting of a lot of steep down followed by a lot of steep up. However, Joker
was in two minds about his ability to do the summit. His knee was still causing
him considerable pain and difficulty and, understandably, he was concerned
about damaging it further. As we walked back to the camp for dinner Catwoman
confessed that she was worried about the ridge we would need to walk along to
the summit, not being good with edges that fall away from you. Today’s steep
scree slope had apparently terrified her and she started to get tearful as she
spoke to us, apologising for getting emotional. Panther, whose dislike of edges
is already well documented, was similarly concerned. They decided to speak
seriously to Mustafa in the hope of extracting some honesty from him about the
route. Honesty had previously been difficult to get.
I made a pre-dinner visit to the toilet tent – which was
‘amusingly’ built just across a small but deep stream and I wondered how many
people would mid judge the jump in the night. At last the muteers had got the
size and depth of the hole just right. I didn’t envy whomever it was who had to
fill it in again – although to be fair, so far it had needed little more
re-filling than a layer of soil over the top.
Unfortunately Panther succumbed to ill health and was not
able to join us for dinner. Her health deteriorated and we ate to the backing
sound of her vomiting. Dinner was an ominously large serving of pasta. Very few
of us managed to finish it and no one asked for seconds – a complete first. Perhaps if I had been sat at a table rather
than crouched on the floor I would have done better. I tried to eat and eat,
knowing full well that I would need all this and more tomorrow.
Over hot drinks and South London
tea, as usual, Mustafa did his briefing for the following day. He explained the
dangers of high altitude sickness, things that many of us were already feeling
– the dizziness, nausea, headaches, talking gibberish. Joker wondered how anyone
would know if the likes of Catwoman and me were talking nonsense – would there, in
fact, be any change at all. The back marker was going to lead the walk and
Mustafa would bring up the rear so that he could keep an eye on anyone who was
poorly.
We asked what time we would be getting up. Mustafa smiled.
That smile. The smile that meant you don’t want to hear the next bit. And he
was right. 4am. Breakfast at 4.30, set off at 5.30am . I tried to remind myself this was a holiday. Hey,
everyone gets up at 4am on
holiday.
He asked if we had appropriate hats. Robin (m) was
concerned that all he had was a cap, so Mustafa leant him one of his blue
headscarves.
Catwoman kept ducking in and out checking on Panther. It seemed
she was getting cold. Mustafa decided to swap sleeping bags with Panther, his
being considerably warmer and thicker. He duly pulled his sleeping bag out of
it container. Then he reached into his rucksack and pulled out that vital piece
of kit, which any self respecting trekker ought to carry. Mrs Pennyworth caught sight
of it first, and shrieked with laughter. Sheepishly Mustafa turned around,
smiled, and held it up to the group announcing ‘Hugo Boss’, before liberally
spraying his sleeping bag with it. Apparently, the sleeping bag had been taken
on more or less back to back treks for 2 years and never washed. He was
concerned that it might smell unpleasant. We didn’t stop laughing for several
minutes. Of all the things to bring – just in case. No one else, it transpired,
had any sort of aftershave or perfume at all.
Catwoman took the sleeping to Panther and returned empty handed.
Mustafa had been expecting Panther’s sleeping bag in return, and he looked at
Catwoman questioningly as she explained that Panther was asleep so she had laid his
bag over her for the time being rather than disturb her.
Outside we could hear singing and a drum beat. I asked Joker
whether the bar had advertised live music tonight.
It was cold that night so I put lots of clothes on before
getting into my sleeping bag. Robin (f) had said that the thermal effects of
sleeping bags don’t work if you do that, and you’re better of putting layers on
top of the bag. I accepted that theory but also knew that as soon as I turned
over, everything would fall off. Indeed, the next day, Mrs Pennyworth said the very
same – she had started with everything on top of her, and after rolling over
ended up putting it all on instead.
As we went to bed, Boyfriend wasn’t sure if he would do
the summit tomorrow or the valley. He had found today’s climb difficult and was
feeling the effects of the altitude already. I think in the end his decision
lay in what Joker would do.
I slept badly. Partly because I needed the toilet in the
night and was reluctant to go because I was worried about getting cold, and not
warming up again. In the end I had to go. It was wonderfully bright outside.
The sky again peppered with huge bright stars, and the moon smiling down on us.
I leapt the stream going back to the tent and was so
pleased with myself that I forgot the tiny matter of they tent guy ropes.
Stumbling over these, cursing, I got back into the tent and in pitch blackness
got back into my fleece lined sleeping bag (which means I got into my fleece
liner which was inside the sleeping bag, in the dark – be impressed).
At 4am
Mustafa came round to wake us. Boyfriend and I were already awake, with our
light on. We rolled in to breakfast.
There was something about that 4.30am
breakfast of porridge. All of us sitting
there in waterproofs and hats and utter silence. A bleary eyed look on all our
faces. For the first time the water and bleach to wash our hands in was warm
rather than the usual completely freezing. We were told to take care if making
a final visit to the toilet tent – it seemed that someone had missed the hole.
Panther would not be coming. She had no food left inside
her and was visibly weak and feeble. Instead she would be taken by mule to the
next camp. Joker had decided to go for it. Robin’s (m) head had been duly
turbanised by Mustafa so he now really looked the part.
It was still dark, and we saw the sun rise over the
valley. It was only just daylight when we set off – the sun not yet soiled by the
heat and sweat of the day. It was hard from the beginning, partly because of
the cold, partly because we were breathless anyway – let alone once some
activity was thrown in. Not undulating so much as upulating. We knew there were
5 stops to the ridge, one every 200m. Psychologically that helped and Mustafa
had said that the day was psychological as much as it was physical. It was
uphill almost immediately and I welcomed the first stop. We carried onward, and
towards the next stop there was some relief as the path flattened out a little,
reaching the first bit of snow that Mustafa had pointed out to us the previous
day. It was completely frozen. We stopped for a photo. Boyfriend was already
suffering and when he got to the stop I asked how he was. ‘Dizzy and nauseous’
was the response, so I told him to let Mustafa know, so that he could keep an
eye on him.
Joker and Penguin were walking with Catwoman and I, and to take our
minds of the task in hand I suggested a singsong. We had no energy to actually
sing but came up with ‘I’m on top of the world’, ‘river deep, mountain high’,
‘on top of old smokey’ and’ she’ll be coming round the mountain’. As we plodded
along one particular slope en mass, the low sun cast long shadows of us down
the mountain. Catwoman noticed it too. It was an incredible sight, a line of lone
trekkers out there in the wilderness.
The path now started to move significantly uphill on
unforgiving grey scree slopes. Frodo and Sam urged each other on in turn. We
reached the third stop. We had already gained significant height and were
starting to be rewarded with wonderful views. The sun had still not properly
risen so we were in a balmy cool – if not cold. In the wind it was very cold.
As we stood up to move on Mustafa warned that the next bit was the worst, so
pace ourselves. By now, like mules, we had our pecking order. As we stood up to
go on, by now mimicking Mustafa’s ‘ready please’ which rang round the group, we
fell in, Robin (f), Batman, Robin (m), Mrs Pennyworth – who I don’t think really wanted to
be there, then Catwoman, me, Penguin and Joker mingled, followed by Huntress, Batgirl and Boyfriend.
For once Mustafa wasn’t lying. The next section was tough.
Very tough. I walked closely behind Catwoman, looking only at her feet, never
looking up at how far there was left to go. Now and then murmuring
encouragement to Sam or Frodo or whoever she was at that particular moment, and
she murmured similar encouragement back.
We would look ahead to pick regular resting points,
something to aim for. After a while she asked if someone else could go in front
as she was finding it tiring to keep looking ahead to see where the path was.
She stepped aside and I carried on ahead. Now being the pace setter it was
actually quite difficult to maintain a steady plod plod rhythm.
To keep ourselves spurred on we nominated Penguin – trapped
behind us – as Gollom. However, he completely refused to play.
As I meandered up the slope I told Catwoman that I didn’t really know where I was going – which they had realised, but followed me none the less – and that if I had more energy I would have taken them all round the houses.
Not before time, the path started to lessen in steepness.
Feeling a Kodak moment coming on (nothing to do with a good excuse for a break)
Catwoman and I paused. Penguin, at last free to pass us quite literally ran on to the
rocks where the first half of the group was already huddled. He was afraid,
very afraid.
Catwoman told me that she had never climbed a mountain in her
pyjamas before. Frankly there was no response to that. And she was wearing the
trousers that she had been sleeping in all week. Maybe they needed an airing.
Boyfriend eventually joined us and more or less collapsed
in a heap against the rocks. He was in a bad way, and there was nothing anyone
could do to help him. From this stop we could see the ridge to the summit and I
noticed a couple of rather cheeky up hills that made my heart sink. We carried
on towards the ridge. The path was no longer steep but it was still uphill.
Eternally, unceasingly uphill. I could feel the last remnants of energy leaving
my legs. My arms were already useless as I had depended on them with my walking
pole to get up to where we where. I hoped the worst was over, because before
long I would be running on empty.
As we approached the ridge there was more snow, surprisingly
not frozen like the snow lower down. We walked through it. ‘This is the real
thing’ I commented to Catwoman. At the end of the snow drift was a narrow path
across a long, steep sided scree slope. Catwoman took one look at it and hated it.
The back marker (now leading), Batman, Robin (f), Robin (m) and Mrs Pennyworth were already
some way across it. I asked Catwoman if she wanted to wait for the others to catch
up so that there could be someone ahead of her and someone behind. This was
definitely what she wanted to do. We were about to start our crossing when I
heard a shriek behind me – Batgirl and Huntress’s hats had both been snatched off
their heads by a sudden gust of wind. Mustafa ran around collecting them before
we set off along the path.
Boyfriend went first, holding Catwoman’s hand while she buried
her head in her outstretched arm, commenting that she felt like a donkey being
led. Mustafa ran slightly up the slope, sprinted passed us and then ran back
down below the path so that he could speak to Catwoman. I wondered if his athletics and
resultant dislodgement of scree above us was helping. He hadn’t known Catwoman’s
concerns about such paths and seemed rather upset that she hadn’t told him.
We got to our 5th stop. We were on the ridge. I
tried to eat some jelly babies but felt so nauseous that it was hard work. Boyfriend
was in bits. We carried on, again falling into our correct order much to
Mustafa’s amusement. On the ridge it was windy. I kept my walking pole to hand
as an extra prop in case I got suddenly blown. It was useless in all other respects,
my arms resembling something akin to blancmange. And usage of it was made all
the more difficult by the wind blowing it sharply to the side every time I put
it out in front of me.
We went up the first slope on the ridge that I had seen. I
could feel the remnants of energy in me go and my legs started to join my arms
with a jelly like feel. This was not good. I was dizzy and nauseous and unsure
whether this was as a result of arduous exercise on empty stomach or the
altitude. I had no energy left and my stomach was rumbling.
The ridge narrowed considerably with stunning sheer drops
down scree slopes either side. In the distance, and far below I could see
fields. It was like the view from the aeroplane door before I jump. Which made
sense – that was the height we were at. And part of me wanted to jump.
We started on the final long climb to the summit. The path
zig zagged up and the wind got stronger which made it all the more difficult.
On the zigs the wind was in your face, making you fight for it, and the zags
were too short for the following wind to assist much in pushing you up.
I was hungry and needed food. But, feeling sick, didn’t
want any of the sweet sugary stuff that I had with me. I decided to have
something at the next break. As I passed Catwoman she asked if I was ok. ‘No’, I
replied. Mustafa overheard. At the next stop he came over and asked how I was.
I explained that I was just tired. I couldn’t be bothered to go into any more
detail. Planning food I was fit to kill when Mustafa asked us to move on for
another 20 minutes or so to the summit.
We all lined up and plodded painfully slowly upwards,
frequently stopping which upset the whole rhythm of the thing so that I kept
burying my head in the rucksack in front of me. After a few minutes the pace
sorted itself out and we summited as a group. Mustafa shook hands, hugged and
kissed us. I promptly burst into tears and Boyfriend wiped them away as they
ran beneath my sun glasses. It had been emotional and I had earned this summit.
It was the overwhelming sense of achieving something that most people never
have. And something that had required every ounce of strength and energy and
perseverance in me. I had had to keep reminding myself I was strong enough and
good enough. And I so nearly wasn’t.
It was very windy on the summit. Mustafa took group photos
with everyone’s cameras. At some point he managed to drop the lens cap of his
own camera, which blew away across the steep sides of the summit. Undeterred he
sprinted after it, giving no thought at all to his location. He did manage to
retrieve the lens cap.
After taking all necessary pictures and ever so slightly
destroying the small cairn which marked the top we moved down the other side
for a proper rest – and another helping of Mustafa’s nuts. Below us a steep
scree slope fell down away from the summit. Mustafa told us to put on gloves,
put away poles and run down it.
Now I have done a few wild things in my time, but even I
looked down this slope with the thought ‘you’re having a laugh’. Oh no he wasn’t.
The silent back marker went first, and with sensible spacing we all followed.
At the front I could see Robin (f) carefully negotiating her way down, and doing
a reasonable amount of travel on her bum. Right in front of me was Mrs Pennyworth who
was also proceeding with caution, not totally sure she was enjoying it.
After initially taking it slowly I decided to go for it.
So I waited for some space between me and Mrs Pennyworth, then ran right down to her,
stopped, and waited again. Boyfriend did the same, bearing down the hill
alarmingly fast behind me. There was the suggestion of a path through the
scree, but I found that the scree in this wasn’t as deep making it harder to
run down safely, and stop. So I tended to run through the thicker stuff to the
side of the path.
A large boulder was inconveniently placed in the middle of
the route down, with very little scree left around it and on a particularly
steep slope, which required use of hands and bum to get around.
At one point I heard a whoosh to my right and turned to
see the back marker quite literally sprinting down. Mrs Pennyworth also heard him and
for a moment thought it was me about to crash into her. Despite the most
excellent ski style stopping technique I did manage to fall over onto my side
with a stunning skid.
We finally reached the bottom of the steepest scree slopes
– the rest were to be traversed sensibly on the path. My GPS informed me that
my maximum speed of travel had been 15.6 mph. Not bad for a first attempt.
We waited for the others to come down. Joker – or more
specifically, Joker’s knee – was not having fun at all. Batgirl also had not
enjoyed it. While we sat there a Berber was walking up the path ahead. The only
onward option was to climb up the scree slope we had just run down. An
unthinkable proposal. Mustafa asked him where he was going – ‘just over there’,
he replied, pointing to the summit. Even the paths over the heights of the
mountains were daily tracks to some of the local people.
Having lost some altitude and now out of the wind it
started to get warmer as we followed the path round to the lunch stop. We
filled water bottles from the stream and ate. Until now we had been provided
with bottled water, and for the first time needed to purify the water we were
taking from the stream. I dutifully added the iodine tablets, waited the
allotted time, and tried it. While the water was still very cold you couldn’t
actually taste the iodine. As it warmed up the water (which was a little brown
now) tasted ever so slightly antiseptic, like TCP. From now on, all the water
we drank would be purified spring water. Boyfriend was still struggling to eat,
despite the main exertions of the day being over. Batgirl also had little
appetite. We moved on again after lunch and were now rounding the opposite end
of the valley that we had looked across the previous evening. The landscape had
a dry, moon like surface and the rocks were pitted and misshapen, rising up
from the edge valley sides.
We were re-entering civilisation as indicated by the
presence of nomads and herds of animals. Catwoman was in her element. We became
proper naturalists when we happened across some droppings, large and almost
completely spherical, and were stumped as to what they were from. Too big for
sheep, no idea what goats produce but doubted it was this, too regular for
mules. Puzzled, we carried on. And then in the field below it all became
suddenly clear. Camels. Catwoman, all excited practised her camel noises with the
help of Joker. She was determined that one of them would speak to her. Most
walked away. But a couple did turn round; one of whom we decided had to be a
girl camel because she was very pretty.
This was where the psychological strength was needed. The
path just went on and on. The camp remained stubbornly out of sight and the sun
mercilessly baked us. To make things worse, the narrow, hillside track was
lined with enormous thistles.
We kept going, thanks to Mrs Pennyworth’s inspirational thoughts
of forced marches with bandaged feet and that if you stopped you would be shot.
There are times when you need these things. We still had moment of Frodo and
Sam – still only those two lines. Joker wasn’t convinced that we had enough
material to open at Blackpool , but I wasn’t so
sure.
Moving into herds of sheep and goat, Catwoman was delighted
when it seemed that the line of us had inadvertently gone between a lamb and
its mother. With desperate baas and bleats, and assistance from Catwoman the lamb
sprinted over to its desperate parent as soon as we had moved on.
At one of the last stops I accidentally joined the line out
of correct pecking order, and was placed 4th – behind Robin (f), Batman
and Robin (m). Fortunately it wasn’t over too arduous a bit, and Robin (m) kept a
most excellent pace that was easy to follow. I also kept the forced march in my
mind, and although not actually having bandaged feet it felt as though they
were so that was good enough. Robin (m) then needed to make use of a handy
boulder we were passing, which meant I was third in line. My god, I thought, I
have to keep up now. I kept close behind Batman. He did turn round at one point,
and looked at me with a startled expression.
I wanted to say that I could walk at this pace if I really
wanted to, but preferred to take my time, have a look around and so on. But was
too exhausted and too equally surprised to say anything at all.
We finally got to the last stop before camp. As soon as
Catwoman arrived I bounded over to her – ‘did you see where I was walking?’ I
beamed. She had seen, and was equally stunned. The forced march plot thickened
slightly when Catwoman told us of a Stephen King book in which children have to walk
at an average of 3mph or get shot. I looked at my GPS and sadly informed her
that we would all be dead – we were well below that and that was including my
15mph scree slope descent.
Boyfriend arrived and slumped down against a rock. He was
not in a good way. He looked exhausted and could barely put one foot in front
of the other. He wouldn’t eat and we were by now running low on water.
Mustafa took his bag and we began the final, long leg down
to the camp in the Oulilimt valley. The toilet tent was not there – the wind
last night had broken one of the supporting poles. However, there was a
convenient outcrop of rocks that would serve the purpose.
Boyfriend climbed into the tent and more or less
collapsed. He drank a rehyrdation sachet and had, over the previous day, been
adding salt to his food to counterbalance the vast quantities he was losing. It
was however, too little too late.
He stayed there, sleeping fitfully, and did not come into
the mess tent for dinner. Consequently I worried about his ability to do the
final days walking, but there was little that I could do.
Panther did make it to dinner. It seemed she had been very poorly that day,
vomiting profusely – including over herself, the mule and muteers. Her state of
ill health had meant that a muteer ended up needing to sit on the mule with
her, just to hold her on as she was showing clear signs of not staying there by
herself. However, she felt revived now and confident she would be joining us for
the following days activities.
Joker however was given no options at all. Mustafa told him
he had done valiantly today, but that tomorrow would be too hard for him. He
was to be taken to the lunch stop by mule, and join us for the remaining walk
back.
By now the limbo dance in and out of the tent was becoming
harder. Not surprising when you consider that we had done 14.3 miles in 7.37
hours, with a total ascent of 2104m and a total descent of 2104m with a moving
average of 1.9mph, ending at our camp altitude of 2773m.
Mohammed, the chef, was ill and had directed matters from
afar. The impact of his ill health however was noticed in that the main course
of dinner amounted to little more than a large pile of boiled vegetables. Catwoman
only wanted the potatoes – not liking the other vegetables, much to the
amusement of everyone else, given that she was a vegetarian – who also didn’t
like eggs and nuts. Again we passed meals all the way round the tent rather
than to the middle. Mustafa just looked on despairingly.
Mustafa spoke about the muteers – there was a young one
called Hasan who brought the food to the tent, and took it away again later.
Mustafa would sit there, shouting for him, and he would appear. Some people had
wine that night and Mustafa shouted for Hasan. It was suggested that he would
be asked to get the bottle of wine that was right next to Mustafa, but in fact
he was required to bring glasses instead. Mustafa cared a lot about his team.
He told us that there were so many people in the villages wanting to do the job
and he wished he could employ them all. It did mean, of course that if anyone
on his trips was not up to scratch or didn’t look after their mule properly
they could be easily replaced. Hasan’s father had told Mustafa to take him and
do what he wanted with him. We all thought that he was incredibly dedicated and
perceptive and had not been aware until then that this was his first trip.
It was pointed out over dinner that Sam and Frodo had made
a valiant effort, but failed ever so slightly in that we never threw the ring
into the fires of mordor – no, we took a picture, ate a muffin and left. That
would never have happened in Lord of the Rings we were assured. We pointed out
that Sam and Frodo hadn’t had to deal with snow and wind. Ah yes, was the
response – but they did have orks behind them. At that juncture Penguin said he
would rather be an ork than gollom – we had of course already divulged his
anti-gollomness during the ascent.
In the end it was to no avail. We had failed to save
middle earth, and no excuse was good enough.
I went to bed, aware that my chin was starting to blister
through having got sunburnt and realised that this is the longest I have ever
gone without looking in a mirror.
During the night I got up to go to the ladies. The rocky
outcrop was steep and covered with tiny stones that slipped and slithered
beneath your feet, as well as a healthy supply of prickly bushes.
Having come very close to perching on the aforementioned,
I did what I needed to and on standing up slipped down the slope. I managed to
flip myself over and land on all fours, ever conscious of what might be on the
ground – it was, after all the toilet block – and also mindful of the trousers
still round my ankles meaning that far more body parts were available for
imminent injury.
I escaped with a small graze to my hand. I knew it was
bleeding slightly, but it was late, and I was tired. So I went back to bed.
In the morning I looked at my hand. The skin had healed
over the wound – thereby entrapping the dirt and grime beneath. But it was
alright for the time being.
After breakfast – which Boyfriend managed very little of –
Joker was hauled onto a mule and we watched him and we set off for our final day
of walking.
After a while it became apparent that Batgirl and Panther
were falling behind. Mustafa, Robin (f) and Batman were striding out ahead,
somewhere in the distance. So we all followed Robin (m) – nicknamed Mustafa II
as he was again wearing a blue turban, and we dutifully followed anyone in blue
headgear. We stopped frequently to allow Panther to catch up. She wasn’t well,
gripping her stomach which was cramping. We sat her down and made her drink
while Penguin attached his rucksack to his own.
Whilst mutiny is perhaps too strong a word, certainly this
part of the group stuck together steadfastly and looked out for each other. We
filed along, as one unit to the waiting Mustafa. He had stopped the last couple
of mules whose loads were re-arranged and Panther was promptly put on top of one
of them. While we were on reasonably level ground Boyfriend was fine, and
seemed more or less fully recovered from the previous day.
However the lack of food in him soon became apparent when
the path took a final, nasty turn upwards on a testing climb to Tizi n’Ait Imi.
We had to get over this particularly steep ridge before the final descent and
promised flat walk back to the gite. It was hot, and getting hotter. As the
ascent started Boyfriend’s pace slowed. I stayed with him and tried to keep him
moving. We eventually reached the first stop on the ridge. Mustafa realised
something was wrong, but seemed to think it was his knee hurting rather than
just plain simple exhaustion. The back marker was given his bag to carry. I
looked up at what remained. We were about half way there, but from here the
ridge steepened significantly, and the path became more stone ridden – not
ideal for someone struggling to pick their feet up.
We carried on. For a while Batgirl was with us, also
struggling and determined to get there, but at her pace. Boyfriend faltered,
and swayed. I made sure that he had the fullest bottle of water with him but
felt completely helpless in all other respects. There was nothing I could do to
help him. There was nothing I could do to get him up that hill.
The back marker seemed bored, almost annoyed with the
desperately slow and stuttering pace. Boyfriend would walk a little, then stop,
occasionally sit down and wobble most alarmingly near some of the steeper
edges.
I looked up again. The top was so elusively close, but the
path still zig zagged onwards and upwards, never appearing to get there.
Because of the pace, I was actually finding the climb remarkably easy. But
every step was now hurting Boyfriend– his hips, his knees, everything. The sun
raged on and I was becoming aware that I was feeling the effects of it. I was
also aware that I had made sure Boyfriend drank the lion’s share of the water
and was now worried about dehydrating myself. Not wanting to burden him with
such concerns I carried on trying to do what I could to get him up that slope –
including the promise of sexual favours on his recovery. I was already carrying
his pole – his arms having run out of any useful energy long ago. But he would
not be helped in any other way. I stood there, useless. Watching him crumble.
Eventually we got to the top of the ridge. Robin (f) and
Batman moved out of the only shady spot so that Boyfriend could sit there. He was
a broken man. I hunted out the fullest remaining water bottle for him. Mustafa
handed around his nuts, but Boyfriend still couldn’t eat anything. He took same
painkillers, and consoled himself with the worst now being over.
Batgirl congratulated him most heartily, revering him to
hero status for managing to get up the ridge given that he was still unwell
from the previous day and hadn’t really eaten anything since yesterday morning.
From the top we could see the village where the gite was,
miles away in the distance. Nearer, was the village where we were having lunch.
As the downhill went on, Boyfriend’s spirits appeared to improve slightly. The
village for lunch took an eternity to get to.
Eventually there – and about an hour later than originally
planned – I filled the water bottles and doused my head with cold water from
the stream. It made no difference. I still felt very hot, and slightly fuzzy.
We sat in the shade of a tree and ate. There was the
additional surprise of what looked like camel droppings but was in fact sardine
meatballs – or fish balls to be more accurate.
Boyfriend couldn’t eat anything. He was struggling to
chew. He managed some sweet mint tea and very sweet hot chocolate. Mustafa
offered the chance for Boyfriend to be muled back to the gite. He declined and
for a moment I saw on Mustafa’s face what seemed like respect – no matter how
hard it was, or how ill he felt, Boyfriend was going to walk the whole thing.
We didn’t know it then but it was apparently hotter out
there than in Marrakech. We set off for the final few miles back to the gite.
Everyone was now in attendance. We started as a group and we would finish as a
group. We walked with Batgirl and Panther – who was still suffering. After a
while we realised that Batgirl was also unwell – she had diarrhoea and needed
frequent stops.
As we approached another village the heat, ill health and
exhaustion took over and she became tearful, explaining that in villages there
were fewer places to hide and more people to hide from and she wasn’t in a
position to just hold on for the time being. I gave her a hug as she apologised
for getting emotional. I told her that no apology was required. I had, after
all, burst into tears on the top of a mountain yesterday. So had she it
transpired. We compared stories of people coming over to hug, kiss and
congratulate when all we wanted was to be left alone.
Although feeling fine in myself, my hand was now swelling
up and becoming painful. In another of Panther’s dark horse moments she told me
she had been a nurse, and looked at my inflamed palm with a tut tut. She didn’t
like the look of it at all and wanted to do lots of things that would hurt it
when we got back to the gite.
As is always the way when you think you’re nearing the
end, it goes on and on forever. The little energy Boyfriend had taken on board
at lunchtime was running out, and again he was struggling to walk. We no longer
bothered to keep up with the rest of the group, going at our own pace, stopping
regularly for Batgirl or just when some shade presented itself.
We turned one corner and saw Batgirl leaning against the
wall of a building, in tears. The final straw, it seemed, had been Mustafa’s
decision to stop at a café for a drink before going on to the next village -
and the gite. In her state of health that was the last thing she wanted. She
sat there, gently crying the whole time. Boyfriend rested his head in his hands
– exhausted. Everyone looked so miserable that I took a picture of them.
Batgirl wanted a coke, but Mustafa claimed this was not
ideal if you have an upset stomach. I have since found that actually coke is
one of the best things to take as no bug can actually survive it.
After our brief drinks stop we moved on, for the final
time. The gite was, of course still an unreasonably long way off. Despite being
late afternoon it was still hot. We were in the valley where there was no shade
or breeze, and the path back led us through the patchwork of farms that we had
started our trek in. I kept turning to check on Boyfriend – as well as keep an
eye on those ahead to see the route through this maze of fields. He was wobbly
again. The fields were criss crossed by narrow, deep ditches that held the
water supply for the crops, and I wondered if Boyfriend would accidentally trip
or fall into one.
We passed women in the fields, walking their cows and
drawing water from the village well. The young boys were playing football on a
flattened mud area that served as their pitch. Nothing had changed since we
left. Nothing, except us.
We reached the gite, which had vast numbers of steep
stairs that I didn’t remember. Boyfriend accepted Mustafa’s arm to get up them.
This place, which had at one time represented quaint rusticity, was now the
epitome of civilisation. Running water, toilets – albeit with a manual flush
facility, showers.
We had covered 11.2 miles in 5.28 hours at an average of
2mph. Our total ascent had been a short but steep 634m with a total descent of
1503m.
It was only after getting home again that I realised Boyfriend
had probably suffered from Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). Headache, fatigue,
undue breathlessness on exertion, the sensation of the heart beating forcibly,
loss of appetite, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, difficulty sleeping and
irregular breathing during sleep are the common complaints and are caused by
lack of oxygen. These are symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), which
usually develop during the first 36 hours at altitude and not immediately on
arrival. Well over 50% of travellers develop some form of AMS at 3500m.
Strenuous exercise at altitude, whether or not you are fit, makes AMS worse.
We sat outside on the teeny tiny chairs to have mint tea.
I wondered if we would ever be able to get up again. I proudly announced our
week’s statistics of:
Day
|
Miles
|
Tot Ascent (m)
|
Tot Descent (m)
|
Moving Time
|
Monday
|
15.4
|
1177
|
697
|
6 hrs
|
Tuesday
|
9.7
|
1427
|
1177
|
5.16 hrs
|
Wednesday
|
8.55
|
732
|
432
|
3.44 hrs
|
Thursday
|
14.3
|
2104
|
2265
|
7.37 hrs
|
Friday
|
11.2
|
634
|
1503
|
5.28 hrs
|
TOTAL
|
59.15
|
6074
|
6074
|
27.25 hrs
|
Thousands of flies buzzed and hummed round us causing
Huntress to comment that we must really smell.
Boyfriend had sat on the floor and wasn’t planning to join
us on the miniature chairs. Then he disappeared inside. I went in after a few
minutes and saw a chap I didn’t recognise who I assumed was staying here as
part of another group. Before I could properly think this through, he spoke to
me. It was Boyfriend. He had just thrown up and looked terrible.
I put him to bed with vast helpings of rehydration sachets. Panther came to check on him. It appeared he had a temperature, not feverish, but raised. She wetted some towels and wrapped them round his head and neck.
Eager to be clean again, Mustafa arranged the order for
the hammam. A toss of the coin won the girls the chance to go first. We would
be in 2 groups – first was me, Catwoman, Panther and Batgirl. The hammam was a small
room with a concrete floor and a large circular structure containing water. It
was heated from below, so the floor was hot, as was the water. There was also a
cold tap. The idea was to get a bucket, put in some hot water, top it up with
cold and using the cups liberally douse yourself and wash.
Catwoman and I undressed and went in first, soon remembering
that we needed to wear sandals as the floor was very hot. We all stood there,
pouring cups of deliciously hot water over our heads and rinsing off a weeks
worth of sweat and grime and filth accompanied by groans of pleasure that
wouldn’t have been out of place in a lesbian porn film.
I looked around and observed that the scene had a faintly
biblical feel to it – the cleansing of the maidens. Joker later said he
understood cleansing, but maidens? Instead he called it the cleansing of the
hot babes of middle earth.
And at mention of the groans all the men asked Mustafa for
copies of the CCTV film footage of the room.
As the water cascaded from our bodies onto the hot floor
the steam rose, helping to clean us. It was wonderful.
We re-filled the hot water tub from the cold tap – as
instructed, and vacated. It seems that by the time the girls had finished, the
hot water was luke warm and by the second sitting of boys, it was cold. So they
hadn’t appreciated the full joys of the hammam like we had. Managing not to
feel at all guilty the girls permitted the boys to be first to the showers in
the morning.
Having washed Panther attended to my hand, which had been
getting steadily worse, with a strange concoction of ointment and antibiotics.
Boyfriend was still unwell, and suffering cramps in his
feet which he asked me to rub. Despite my nice new clean hands and his not so
fresh smelling feet, I did. He clearly wasn’t feeling too bad as he had the
presence of mind to ask which of the girls had the nicest breasts. He also
decided that he rather fancied a bacon sandwich. This desire was not helped by
Joker taking the theme and running with it, suggesting a baguette rather than
sandwich. Anyway, there was no bacon.
Our trek completion dinner was to be a vast multi course
concern on which our voracious appetites made little impact. Boyfriend,
unfortunately, was not able to attend, still feeling very nauseous. After every
course I went up to see him, provided I didn’t breath near him as the food
smell turned his stomach. After the second course he was asleep.
Batgirl only managed the starter before going to bed,
feeling poorly.
Mustafa taught us how to tie turbans, using Penguin as the
dummy and using Robin’s (f) scarf. It was surprisingly easy to do.
Dinner was followed by dancing girls. In the event there
were considerably more dancing men than girls. The men also drummed on quite
literally anything they could get their hands onto, and they all sang.
They were directed by the aha man. He was an ancient
fellow who had hobbled in while we were having dinner and had the appearance of
someone with no teeth. Mustafa assured us that he was quite nimble, and was
just pacing himself.
After the first couple of dances the aha man (so called
because that is primarily all he said) approached us, took a reluctant Catwoman by
the hand and led her off for a dance. He was a funky groover. Shoulders and
hips really getting into it. Every time he approached the group again we all
visibly shrank back into the wall.
For one dance they did get all of us up there. It was some
very complicated circular hokey cokey arrangement in which we often needed to
change direction. Some of the dancing girls gripped their stomachs as they
laughed and laughed at our valiant attempts.
I checked on Boyfriend again before going back to watch
some more of the dances. This was meant to be our party, our celebration, but
the man I wanted to share it with was lying upstairs, hadn’t eaten for days and
running a temperature. It was sad and I felt alone. So I decided to call it a
day, and go to bed.
Boyfriend was awake when I went up. The dancing soon
finished and Joker was going to do a speech of thanks, followed by tips for the
chef and muteers. I opened the window so we could hear it. He did it all in
French so that they could understand which was both thoughtful and impressive.
I therefore, understood very little of what he said but think it was along the
lines of ‘we are eternally grateful for the most excellent food all week, and
for your poor mules carrying not only all our luggage but on occasion some of
us as well. You’ve all been smashing; look me up if ever you’re in London
In the morning the boys informed us that their shower had
been cold. We tried to look sympathetic. Boyfriend was feeling considerably
better – despite the cold shower.
After breakfast we clambered into the jeeps for the long
drive back. It seemed to take longer than the journey in, and also felt
considerably more uncomfortable, along a hillside hugging bendy road. We slept
for what seemed like ages but was in the end only about 20 minutes. It was hot,
and getting hotter.
As we passed the dry fields children would run to the
roadside holding out bags of wares, hoping someone would stop and buy them. Catwoman
found it a sobering thought, the knock backs these children had every day of
their lives.
Somehow the subject came round to Frodo and Sam, and the
scenes that had been cut from Lord of the Rings. For example, when did anyone
duck behind a bush to attend to a call nature. Frodo’s pained expression
implied the missing phrase ‘oh Sam, do you have some Imodium’ and Sam could
have encouraged Frodo up the mountain a little better by saying ‘Master Frodo,
pretend those orks are Indians and we’re trying to escape’. All that realism
missed.
We stopped at Mustafa’s house for mint tea, cake and
pancakes. In Morocco
He showed us into his guest room, luxuriously decorated
and wonderfully cool. Outside we could hear children shouting. Mustafa
explained that they were learning. The teacher would call out words and get the
children to shout them back. They were aged 4-5 and wouldn’t go to school for
another couple of years. This was to help with their Arabic pronunciation. Once
at school they would then need to look at pictures and say what it was before
finally learning how to write the words.
Catwoman was staying on in Morocco
As we sat there a very vocal cat wandered in and sat under
one of the tables, rubbing itself against Penguin’s leg. Outside, in the dry mud
fields, there was litter everywhere, drifting about in the wind. No wonder
Mustafa was so keen for us to have left nothing behind during our trek.
Having eaten, we went on to the Cascade d’Ouzoud waterfall
for lunch. The three tiered falls drop 110m into the river below. The one tiny
drawback was that we needed to walk down from the car park at the top. Boyfriend,
although better, was not in any way fit to negotiate anything even slightly
resembling a slope. As the path stepped down I think a few of us were mindful
of the walk back up.
For lunch we had a choice of omelette, meatballs or chicken.
Mustafa handed out huge baps inside which were chips and whatever we had
chosen. It wasn’t meant to be eaten as a sandwich and I’m not sure the bread
was to be eaten at all, serving instead the purpose of plate and insulator.
As we sat there I looked at the top of the waterfall where
a group of people were standing incredibly close to the unfenced edge. Midway
down it, two young boys had climbed onto one of the rocks to play in the water
and as it descended to the river a rainbow rose from the wet mist.
We walked, slowly, back up, passed the tourist stalls that
lined the path, and a restaurant with a line of steaming tajines at the
entrance. Collecting Boyfriend from the café near the jeep we carried on for
the remaining drive to Marrakech. In our chattering Panther disclosed another
dark horse secret – she played viola.
In our jeep the seat that Catwoman and Panther were on was
broken so that if ever the driver stopped suddenly the whole seat lurched
forward, throwing them off. Seatbelts are not worn in Morocco
We must have started on a lewd topic of conversation
because I remember Boyfriend’s face suddenly lighting up as he recalled the
promises I had made him in order to encourage his ascent up yesterday’s ridge.
Clearly running of things to do to pass the time we compared who had the
wettest armpits – based on dampness of clothing. It was a close run thing.
We returned to Hotel Islane, with time to ourselves.
Mustafa told us that the traders would expect us to barter and that we ought to
initially offer a third of whatever price they quoted and aim not to pay more
than half. There was the option of a city tour – however it was 2-3 hours of
walking in a 45˚C heat. Having done considerable walking over the previous few
days we all declined.
Retiring to our room Boyfriend and I turned on the air
conditioning. It made an enormous amount of noise and that’s pretty much all it
did. We slept for most of the afternoon. Having miraculously survived any
unpleasant guteral disorders for the previous week I had finally relaxed, and
was, as a consequence, now starting to suffer from stomach cramps.
We slept until dinner, which was an enormous three course
buffet. Robin (m) made a short speech, after conferring with me about a small
matter of taste and decency. Apparently it was considered rather amusing that I
was used as the taste and decency parameter.
The speech thanked Mustafa for a wonderful week, made
reference to Huntress’s vomiting and also congratulated Boyfriend’s valiant
efforts. As Robin (m) said ‘I asked Tom whether she imagined in her wildest
dreams if Boyfriend would make it up the mountain but apparently he doesn’t
appear in her wildest dreams’.
Huntress and Penguin had already been out shopping. She had
bought a woven breadbasket – which she had been after ever since seeing one at
our first dinner in the gite. Apparently she hadn’t quite got the hang of
bartering, barely knocking the price down, and according to Mustafa she could
have got 4 baskets for the price she paid. Penguin had bought his wife a trinket box
as a gift. According to Huntress though, the gift was too small and would probably
not be gratefully received. Penguin was therefore anxious throughout dinner,
asking the opinion of others and also asking what else he should get.
We then went through our ‘champagne’ moments at the
suggestion of Joker. There was also the suggestion of anti champagne moments and
most mediocre moment, but in the interests of time these were scrapped.
An indication of how done in we must have been was
indicated by the fact the very few of us could manage to drink more than one
can of beer.
Enormously full we wandered out into town after dinner. It
was still hot but considerably more comfortable than the oppressive heat of the
day. As a consequence the streets were packed. We headed towards the lights and
noise of Djemaa el-Fna, which roughly translates as Parade of the Dead. The
name seems hardly appropriate for the endless pageant of activity that unfolds
here, but the name probably dates from the time when the heads of those who displeased
the sultans were displayed in the square.
This huge square in the medina is the focal point of
Marrakech. Although lively at any time of day it comes into its own after dark
with rows of open air food stalls smoking the skies with mouth-watering aromas.
A band was performing – apparently this was more or less a nightly occurrence -
and the square was filled with intent listeners. Jugglers, story tellers, snake
charmers, musicians and benign lunatics consumed the remaining space each
surrounded by jostling spectators moving between the acts.
We walked through the steamy air passed the food stalls
where vast quantities of food was displayed and freshly cooked for customers
who sat at surrounding benches. One food seller promised Boyfriend a 2 year guarantee
and air conditioning. The stalls piled high with roasted chick peas, peanuts,
hard boiled eggs, sweet fritters, kebabs, vast quantities of vegetables and a
variety of meats. There was noise and bustle amongst the brightly lit stalls, a
constant yet ever changing smell of food and you could see the smoke rising
into the blue velvet skies above. On the outer edges were the juice stalls,
loaded with oranges, that Batgirl and Joker challenged us to walk passed without
being offered a freshly squeezed juice.
The buildings around the square contained dozens of
souvenir stalls selling an enormous variety of goods, from ceramics, tajines,
woven breadbaskets and brilliantly coloured lampshades to necklaces, teapots
and vast numbers of knives in ornate silver sheaths; with vendors claiming to
offer you a good price, applying a sliding scale according to how much money
and how little sense they credit you with. To even look at the wares is taken
as an intention to buy. Despite this pandering to tourists, the vast majority
of the crowd in the square was local.
From here we wandered into the souks that occupied
labyrinthine narrow streets that were dimly lit and filled with litter, amongst
which stray cats and kittens foraged for dinner.
Most of the markets were now closing up for the night.
However, we looked around a ceramic stall where Penguin redeemed himself by buying
a small cup to accompany the small trinket box for his wife.
Boyfriend now feeling exhausted, and my stomach starting
to hurt we decided to turn back to the hotel and call it a day. We bumped into
Catwoman, Mustafa, Mrs Pennyworth and Robin who had been in a bar smoking an apple hubbly
bubbly.
Although it was late it was still hot so when we passed
the ice cream shop Batgirl decided to treat herself.
We got back into the room, and promptly fell asleep. We
woke in plenty of time for breakfast, but both feeling slightly unwell and not
at all hungry we decided not to eat anything. However, by the time we had got
up, washed and dressed and went to the terrace restaurant to at least be in
attendance, the rest of the group was leaving. Apparently they had been
wondering what room we were in and planning to come and knock on the door to
get us up.
We gathered in the foyer for our lift to the airport.
Mrs Pennyworth and Robin (m) were there to say goodbye. Catwoman was also there and there may
even have been the suspicion of tears in her eyes as we left for the short
drive to the airport where we then had some time of shopping, postcard writing
and sitting around – when we all had a jolly good look at Huntress’s passport
which did not have a single page without a stamp on it. She had done some
travelling.
The flight back went via Casablanca Casablanca
The flight back to Heathrow, fortunately, did not do a
quick stop at Tangier, and went the whole way back to a cold and rainy London
I had started to feel queasy most of the final flight back
and once we got home promptly threw up.
In some ways it was sad to be back. A week ago a dozen
strangers met in Marrakech. We had left as close friends having shared the
emotional and physical demands of the Mgoun Massif.
In some of the many e-mails between us after returning to
England I mentioned that Boyfriend had lost 10lbs while I had shifted a couple
of inches off my gluteous not so maximus. Panther had lost about 5lbs which she
put down to water loss (we had been drinking around 5 litres a day. Joker
wondered how he could shift 2 inches from his beer belly, and invited other
contenders to the Great Explore Weight Loss programme with the statement ‘the
Great Explore Weight Loss Programme "Now you can eat what you want (as long as Mohammed knows how to
cook it, or in Catwoman's case as long as it's eggs) and still lose weight"
[but only as part of a strenuous 5 day hike - vomit attacks & diarrhoea
will help with your weight loss programme].
Perhaps we should have stayed in Casablanca
NOTES
The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.
