Reflexions Itinerant: October 2003 Archives
06:03 and exactly two minutes before my alarm is set to go off; I've managed to presage and disarm my alarm by two to three minutes on most given mornings since I was in my early teens, though where, exactly, this wasted skill comes from is beyond me. A couple of spoonfulls of cereal, a shower and a brief sandwich-build later, and I am on my way through sleeping Cambridge to the bus stop on the edge of a green. A small group of cold, duffled figures awaits me; most are balanced on their heels in a semi-comatose state, some managing to raise their eyebrows in my general direction. I think of penguins and smile in return.
With no skill at all, I locate the tell-tale cheery grin and general liveliness of what can only be the only other morning-person in the group, and make my inquiries; yes, right place, right time; we're off to Staffordshire to climb the Roaches.
In a little over three hours, I find myself muttering something about having captured a little piece of Eden; all around us, glacial erratics of all sizes litter the ground
, their presence and intense solidity softened by tufted carpets of pale green, yellow and grey lichens, puncuated, here and there, by tufts of fuzzy, luxuriant moss. The ground is so laden with pine needles that it feels squidgy beneath my feet, and up ahead is an unbroken rank of sheer gritstone cliffs, the Lower Tier, looking like the typical roche moutonée of geology exercise books, back in the days of school.
Breaking off as a group of four, my companions and I take to bouldering - locating a specimen boulder, guestimating the best means of ascent and then putting it into practice - in order to get a feel for the local substratum; every site is different, and this is a safer means of both warming up and gauging what you can and can't pull off on the rock type in question.
And this stuff is sandpaper; by the end of the day, my fingertips will be so raw that washing them under tepid water makes them burn, but it is a great surface over which to ascend, so we do; go spiderman. 
Just as well that it makes for an easier climb, as I am the weakest cog in the machine today because of a useless left reach; some intercostal damage and minor bruising to my ribs, courtesy of an overzealous novice at jitsu last week, means that I can't support myself on my left side beyond a point - and when I reach that point my left grip painfully fails entirely, like some tension spring that needs to be reset before each use. Babysteps up the cliffs for me; I value my beating heart.
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By the end of the afternoon, we've top-roped up a couple of sheer, vertical slopes, had our hides saved by our belayers (the saint you allocate to the end of your rope, as pictured above) in falls both practised and accidental, abseiled, seconded, barbecued, been rained on, been chilled to the bone by icy winds that actually managed to tip at least one person over, and peed in full sight of strange women. Exhausting and energising all rolled into one. A slow moment to take in the wonderful view of the Tittesworth Resevoir from on high, then down we go for the last time.
My legs are bleeding in five places; it's a great sign of quality time when you don't even notice till you've undressed.
The streets of Casablanca are well marked; navigating the roads that lead to the coast is no problem at all, the dry and mild climate - about 28 degrees centigrade - makes for comfortable wandering. Dressed in sandals, tan chinos and a white linen shirt, I am mistaken for a local and addressed in Arabic; I answer in French that I haven't the vaguest idea what has been said. He asks again, now in French, for directions toward the medina, I point to our left, and off he goes; it wasn't a deceptive gesture - I looked over the map whilst sitting in bed the night before.
Before too long, we are on Boulevard Moulay Youssef, which runs directly toward the coast where it meets the national mosque, Masjid al Malik Hassan II; it is the second largest mosque in the world, and is, by functional area, the largest religious monument on the planet after the Ka'aba, Mecca, with a capacity for 105 000 worshippers; it is built to inspire, as surely it does, judging from the profound eloquence of my reaction, "Crikey, s'big!"
A modern building, it looks every part the opalescent jewel that was intended, yet it isn't grandiose, any potential interpretations of indulgence or vulgarity having seemingly been anticipated and avoided with great skill; the detail is astounding, and ascends from base to top, though from below, even the sharpest of eyes would be hard pressed to appreciate the thirteen years of effort that went into it; it is homage to something greater. My only reservation comes when I pivot on the spot, resting dazzled eyes on the neighbouring slum, a reality that would have so benefited from the same degree of investment and care.
A couple of photos and several hundred steps later, we enter the medina; the old city. Within the walls of the medina, the buildings close in on you, and you are taken into cool shadow. The air is that of some fantastical bazaar; a throng of brightly dressed people go about their business, and all manner of goods, from comestibles to fine clothing, are laid out on sheets, piled high in baskets, or strung up like festive decorations everywhere you look. The vegetables, if not all the produce on show, seems to be organic, the twisted chillies and deformed, muddied peppers little resembling their supermarket cousins, yet radiant with the heavy, healthy wholesomeness that intense sunshine and haphazard irrigation bring.
Their colours, rich, varied and altogether dazzling, combine with the multiple aromas of the spice sellers' wares to launch an attack on the senses. Azouagh Abdellah breaks the spell to usher us into his shop; silks, in all hues and artfully embroidered with silver thread, hang upon the walls, leaving no plaster uncovered. He gamely tries to communicate with us in English and maths, though as admiration turns to business, we are reduced to my poor French and start haggling like professionals; my vicious mother's poker-faced bargaining skills, somewhat more effective since she has to communicate through me and can pull funny looks as I return with his responses, brings the charismatic gentleman to his knees. I feel a measure of guilt, though I know how easily fleeced tourists tend to be in these parts. Nonetheless, he makes tremendous concessions, and we leave him with a bonus anyway.
As thoughts turn to food, we come upon the market stalls, where my kebab-shop heaven is suddenly made manifest. Large steel plates lie suspended by iron links over gas burners, smoking heavily in the still of the hot afternoon. The smell of cooking meat is everywhere, as skewers, made to order, are thrown onto the searing plates to be cooked to perfection, while unleavened breads do their thing alongside. A swarthy man with dark, hairy arms jabs large forks into an unusual cut, and rotates it so that it might cook more evenly; blind eyes are turned my way, and I grin, jabbing my mother to get her attention and mock-puking for effect, yet head of goat has never seemed so appetising.
There is dirt and poverty all around, but the richness in the lives of these people, if different to that which Westerners broadly value, is undeniable. I like it here.
We head for the marina, ready to eat just about anything, and settle for better when we locate a café that serves all manner of fresh seafood; the plate of grilled sardines and a calamari starter tally at less than a quid fifty, but what comes out probably amounts to half of the North Atlantic's daily takings of fresh fish, equally so for the squid, lightly breaded and oh-so-crispy. This, along with the fresh bread, olives, olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon juice, make for a perfect meal. There was a time when I detested most seafood, and I can only thank fortune for allowing me to grow beyond that childhood irrationality. Mmm, mmm, mmm!
The day draws in, and we continue to explore, but eventually time is called, and we retire to the hotel to make good our departure to Casablanca International. Fairly soon, and without hassle, we find ourselves sat on a Royal Air Maroc Boeing 737 a few hours after sunset. The darkened heavens bear hints of scarlet, though the sun has long since fled, and the sky is otherwise clear and still; our flight across the Atlas mountains to Ouarzazate, garrison town on the Marrakech-Agadir road and gateway to the Sahara, will proceed without let.
Saturday night; I've gone out. It is after dark, and the tarmac under my feet looks like any other, but you can taste the difference in the breeze. Just as when I pulled off an aeroplane in Aberdeen, back in 1997, to a lungful of the cleanest smelling air I'd breathed in months, the differences here are immediately apparent. Despite the air-fuel, the unmistakeable breath of the ocean hangs about me, and it is warm. From somewhere in the distance, comes the faint scent of woodsmoke, and about me, the groundcrew sputter away in Arabic, the language of my religion, but not a tongue of my own.
When no one is looking, I kiss the ground; I've never been to Africa.
Here, one descends into the immigration hall from an escalator; it has to be tried: you can see the pall of smoke from the top, and at about eight feet from the ground, you descend through it. The atmosphere is so draped with tobacco vapour that its vitality becomes utterly questionable; it is a nightmarish, Paris gay-bar of an immigration hall, for this is where the no smoking signs disappear, and the patient addicts light up.
An airport, like any other, in a city, like any other. We look like locals, so we're likely to be left alone by the scrum of tourist-snatchers that lie in wait; I direct my mother by the shoulders toward the baggage collection belt, we collect our bags, melt into the crowds, and disappear. The motorway into the city is in good condition, but long stretches remain unlit; we fly down the near-empty road at breakneck speed, and I peer into the darkness for my first glimpses of a country I've never befriended before.
Few and far between, handsome men in smart trousers and silk shirts lean against only the blind lamp-posts, a leg hooked up against the railing here, an arm draped languorously there; far from anywhere, in the darkness, on a major road; rent boys can make a living, even in an orthodox Muslim country. Mum considerately suggests that if I'm ever stuck for work, I could come here; I consider the suggestion under a furrowed brow, and agree. Our humours are so alike, hers and mine.
By now it is approaching 2200, and we're tired; tomorrow night, we catch a flight across the Atlas toward the great desert, in search of my sister, leaving a full day beforehand in which to harass the people of the white city. We stop for a drink at the hotel bar, marvel at the exquisitely ornate tea party, and crash.
