mayor-andy

[mayor-andy]

Eulogy to a Moonbeam

To some she was Chinacat-Crazycat, to others Queenroly, the tie-dye queen. To me she was my Moonbeam, my angel, my sweetheart, my gorgeous wife; and to her, I was her Celt, her pumpkin, her twin.

At 53, my heart had long been closed and the candle of life extinguished, until the day a tie-dyed, blue jeaned Angel called Jenn blew the doors of my heart clean of their hinges, walked right in, and re-ignited my life.

We met during an archaeological dig while looking for the Lost Colony of Roanoke. I know not when exactly that we fell in love. It might have been that first kiss on a moonlit beach 4000 miles away, or perhaps when she killed a nasty looking tick, by cleaving it perfectly in two, with one swipe of an axe.

It might have been the moment she picked up a chainsaw and hacked down the nearest tree, or perhaps when she lovingly applied cream to each and every one of my mosquito bites. Jenn once told me, that for her, it was the moment on the last day we spent together those two glorious weeks, when, as we held hands on the beach, I said, “The seventh wave is always the biggest”.

As we parted, I held back the tears just long enough to see her drive away. I thought forever. I cried so much on the way home that the airline stewards spent much of their time checking if I was OK. The following day, my sweet Jenn emailed to tell me just how many times she had stopped on the way home, as she could not see the road through her tears.

For the next 77 days we used every means possible to talk, to video-chat, to message. Furtive minutes, and long into the night. Never less than five hours every single day, and at least fourteen hours on MORE than one occasion. 

The difference in our time zones meant, that as she watched me fall asleep in the small hours of the morning, so I would wake her as I sat down to lunch.

The explosion of happiness when our worlds finally collided again at Gatwick Airport, in front of an appreciating crowd, I hope will live inside me forever. We were married less than five months later.

Such was the rush of joy towards being husband and wife that our Banns were read on Christmas Eve, the same day we ordered our Wedding Rings from the Shetland Islands. The man, who answered the phone at the jewelers told us they were closed for Christmas and that he was just the cleaner; but he would take our order anyway. The wedding rings arrived one day before Jenn’s engagement ring; that was one day before we got married. Just four weeks later, Jenn was forced by our immigration laws to return to America and re-apply to be allowed back into England as my wife, a process by no means certain of success. Another barrier, another heartache we vowed to overcome, at all cost.

Our prayers were finally answered by post, albeit via Philadelphia, New York, Sheffield, Castle Donnington, some obscure place in Kentucky, and finally Charlotte, North Carolina, just five weeks later. Yes, we tracked that application every single step of the way.

Another explosion of happiness followed, this time at Heathrow airport. With our challenge to be together seemingly forever done, we ran into life holding hands, so full of joy, so full of plans, so full of love for each other. Never a cross word spoken, never a slammed door felt, nor a tear shed, or frown ever seen. As I came home each day from work, it was as though we would relive Gatwick and Heathrow all rolled into one. I guess my workmates now understand why I was always so keen to leave the office at 5pm, on the dot.

Our age difference often worried me, but only I was doing the worrying; Jenn had planned my fitness regime, my diet, and much of our lifestyle. Happiness had only just begun, and she had plans that it would last forever.

53 weeks later, and the light of my life, my Moonbeam, my angel, my sweetheart, my gorgeous wife, died from a Brain Hemorrhage. No warning, no chance, no hope. My sweet Jenn lost consciousness in my arms. Her last words so painfully uttered to me were to tell me not to feed our hamster too many yogurt drops. I got the message sweetheart.

So little sense; so little reason, so brutal, so unfair. I vow to her that I will never forget the best days of my life.

I thank you my Moonbeam, for our one anniversary, our two Christmases, the 147 days we spent apart never lost for each other, and the 527 we spent together ALWAYS lost IN each other.

Our favourite movie was also about one of our most coveted dreams, to walk the Camino de Santiago. It is a walk of many reasons… to some a pilgrimage, to others a challenge or simply because it is there. To us, the Camino defined the hardships we had endured throughout our journey to be together. To walk ‘The Way’ as it is known, was to us therefore, a means by which to relive our journey, but this time, to do so, locked hand in hand, in the belief that there would be no more parting. No more tears.

The movie contains a song called 'Nadal de Luintra'. The lyrics, sung in the language of the Basques, are immaterial; it is the emotion the song projects; that struck so deep a chord within Jenn and I, that it would bring tears to our eyes every time we heard it; tears that only I can now cry, but the song of a Journey, I can and must, still take.

My sweet Jenn: Sunrise 23rd July 1979 / Sunset 30th March 2014.

[mayor-andy]

On March 30th I lost my chinacat-crazycat to a Brain Hemorrhage. So sudden, so unfair, so sad. No warning, no chance, no hope. Devastated.

Rest in Peace my Moonbeam, my Angel, my Sweetheart, my love, my Wife.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Slow Plane Home / Epilogue (Final Part)

Breakfast is eaten in more isolation, and I am the first to be ready to abandon Morocco.

We are loaded into our familiar undersize bus which appears to groan and sway ever more under the weight of bargain burdened luggage as it hurtles towards the airport and freedom.

After an interminable wait to check in, I say my goodbyes to the apparition of Youssef, whom I still do not know whether to trust with my life, and head for the departure lounge. There, I discover that all but five of us are on a direct flight back to London. The rest, after a late, almost nonchalant flight to Casablanca, have to decant and wait a further hour for our equally late and nonchalant flight back to London. For all their tardiness though, Royal Air Maroc does decent food, and arguably better than most of what I’ve eaten for the last two weeks. I find room enough in my seat to stretch out and for the next hour or so, ogle parched Spain, crowded Brittany, and smog bound Britain from the window.

At Heathrow, we wait an hour for the baggage handlers to rifle our bags before finally, with loaded backpack, I throw the brown paper wrapped rug over my shoulder and head for the exit. No-one bats an eyelid at the haggard individual who, with eyes down and couldn’t give a shit mannerisms, scuffs his way past customs, guard dogs, and more customs, to return to civilisation.

  EPILOGUE

The human brain has an amazing ability to blank out horror, and the human body an amazing ability to recover from trauma, yet I’ve no doubt the scars are there both physically and emotionally, even now, several years after I completed this trek.

If I have anything to be grateful to this trek for, it is the first hand knowledge gained in learning just what becomes precious and what does not, when things go badly wrong. Unless you think it will never happen to you, I offer this  advice:

Toilet Paper ~ Pack it. The comfort it brings is worth its weight in Gold (and then some).

Dioralyte (or any rehydration salts) ~ pack it. It’s not the shits, heat, or cold that will kill you; it’s giving up. This is a lifesaver and will keep you going when you think you no longer can.

Cash ~ keep it local. Contrary to popular belief, unless you are going to a country of raging inflation, Dollars, Euros and Sterling are not the be all and end all. Some out there have never seen these currencies and have no use for them. Local currency, if you have enough of it, will get you anything you need.

Concern ~ Save it for those closest to you. If the above story hasn’t taught you this, you will never learn that when the chips are down, common bonds are all that will get you through it. Believe me.

Mobile Phone ~ Lose it. Odd as it may seem but I never take mine with me. In half the world you probably won’t get a signal when you need one, and that’s also the half in which you may be too weak (or dead) to defend its theft. In our crowded planet, if help is available, it will be there, and more often than not, it’s the locals who’ll know how best to deliver it.

Hat ~ Take it; if you don’t, you’ll either fry your brain or freeze it; most likely just at the point when you need to depend on it most.

Learn ~“Please” and “Thank you”. When spoken in the local language or dialectthese simple wordswill go further than you will ever think possible. Master these and whatever else it is you need, can be interpreted by the universal language of hands and fingers.

Stick ~ Make one or take one. You can use Trekking poles if you like, for the support they give unsteady limbs and failing sight may just save your legs when you need them to work best. Personally, I have always found my faithful old ‘Gandolfian’ Hazel staff to be sturdier than modern equipment, especially when I need dependability most.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ My Blue Heaven (Part Fourteen)

Day Fourteen awakes with no Youssef in sight; just us and a guide for the ubiquitous city tour this morning. The afternoon and evening are free to demonstrate our own abilities to get lost in the chaos of Marrakech.

I enjoy the morning tour. We are taken to places we would not have found on our own and places too good to leave with our finances intact. The Souks live up to all the hype, and despite dwelling too long in the religious traps and not long enough in the culture; this morning, and an improving health make these few hours more enjoyable than any other. The tour ends with a short culture shock in Djemma el fna Square; watching snake charming, fending off a mob of Henna ladies, and being utterly phased by live public tooth extractions (no anaesthetic); and a meal at the restaurant chosen by our commissioned guide. I enjoy my first decent hot food for two weeks.

After a lazy affair, I take a route one stroll back to the Hotel, and in doing so find most of the Goat party tagging along. It seems that away from a guide, they are easily lost. Having noted my unerring sense of direction and purposeful stride, they have latched onto me as their new leader; Ironic.

The afternoon brings me solitude without the need for my fellow trekkers to provide it. I decide to head for something I had read about before I signed up for the trip; Jardin Majorelle.

In the midst of the sprawling run down tower block and rubble infested suburb hidden behind our hotel, I find one of those rare oases of calm in modern life.

I walk through an unassuming gate into a haven of exotic greenery and brilliant blues. I am not alone; for this is clearly a place the local young executives and elite of Marrakech try to keep as best a secret as they can. It’s a place to read, rest, and people watch for hours; and for hours I do precisely that.

If Jardin Majorelle was intended to be a glimpse of heaven, I’ll settle for it. Nearly half the pictures I take on the trek, despite seeing daily sunrises and sunsets over mountains beyond mountains, and witnessing culture beyond culture; are taken in this one tiny ten acre space.

That night, I am back to the reality check of this miserable tour.

I find myself sitting alone in the featureless, people-less, void that suffices as the hotel’s restaurant. I understand why when the food appears. It’s been microwaved from the previous night and not even hot. I explode, the waiter explodes, and I explode again, only this time to narrate to him the hell of the last ten days. He turns pale, apologises and returns with an alternative dish… freshly produced from the freezer.

It’s an early night, with crap foreign television my sole companion. Yet despite this, I cannot bring myself to venture out to the chaos across the road and join all the other tourists feasting on the amazing vitality of Marrakech. A small voice convinces me it would be just my luck to suffer yet more woe.

I pack and re-pack my kit, shower for the last time, and, feeling guilty for those who have to clean hotel rooms, make an effort to tidy mine.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Falling off the Marrakesh Express (Part Thirteen)

At breakfast, Youssef tells me to wait for a lift. I alone it seems am not going to walk the hour to Imlil for the bus to Marrakesh. It’s a nice gesture but an hour’s walk would not be beyond me this morning, especially after all that I have been through. Nevertheless, I am not going to argue.

The land-rover takes more than an hour to reach Imlil and the remainder of the party have all but bought up the town by the time I arrive. I walk towards the nearest shop and start browsing…

Mohammed is a smiling, youthful but highly seasoned haggler, and tells me that if I come to his store, he will let me into a big secret. Euphoria at going home leaves me vulnerable to his tactics and I succumb. As I buy an exquisite rug… you try going home without having bought a rug when in Morocco… he tells me the big secret… England won two-nil in the World Cup… a global event that I had gratefully forgotten about for nearly two weeks. I add a pair of shoes to my rug.

The journey to Marrakesh is a fast one, and soon enough we arrive at our hotel. I am given a room on my own. Perhaps no-one is volunteering to room share. I do to the bathroom what most hotel guests, certain of never returning to the hotel, always do.

Rested after watching another mental Marrakesh rush-hour, I troll down to reception to join the rest for the official end of trek meal at a restaurant on the Djemma el fna square

The surprisingly enjoyable meal, complete with local entertainment, is ended by Youssef passing out little pieces of local rock and gemstones to each of us. Some get a chunk of meteorite; my gift, a less exotic piece of quartz crystal from the Sahara, is for my son he tells me. He also tells us that we will see him briefly on the final day as it is his duty to ensure we leave the country, but tonight, he declares, is his official farewell. Moments after the meal, he is gone.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Solitude (Part Twelve)

I wake to join the summit heroes for breakfast and wish them a dissolute “good luck”. I sit and watch them depart.

I spend the day wishing that I had not tried to eat anything the previous night; for after twenty-four hours of relative calm; my stomach declares that the diarrhoea is to return. I proceed to spend the day trolling up and down the hillside shitting where I see fit to shit and long past caring who sees me or what anyone says to me. If anyone did, the look on my face or at the very least, a look on the ground around me would frighten them away. As it is, I am left to my own solitude, with not a single word from anyone for the entire day. I haven’t been this bored, ever. The remainder of the non-summit trekkers are generally embroiled in their own personal battles and I leave them alone.

When the summit conquering heroes return, there are few courtesies. They are rapt in their victory and best left to their own party. Even tonight’s melon whilst not lacking in its now habitual quality does little to enthuse my appetite.

Later that evening, in a desperate attempt to enjoy this trek, I join the summit conquerors in a music festival with the Berbers. The Berbers enjoyment of obvious time-honoured songs is embarrassing. They are far better at it than we are, and our futile attempts to respond are met with politeness but clear disappointment. My mood dictates I can’t be bothered to rescue our embarrassment and take the lead; so I sit back and enjoy watching the others make fools of themselves. I make my point by heartily responding when it’s the Berbers turn.

The following morning, I can’t wait to break camp. I am the first to have packed his kitbag and made it to the breakfast tent. By now, the Berber interpretation of porridge has reached chewy standard, but their mastery of Mint tea has always remained unsurpassed.

After breakfast, it’s a quick group photo session. Considering my general alienation I am reluctant to join in. I do so at Youssef’s request but stand half hidden at the back and on the edge of shot.

We say goodbye to the Berbers. They are still smiling as I look back from across the river. Perhaps I am being ungrateful or a harsh critic but I cannot burn from my mind the thought of what this trek would have, could have, and should have been had one or some of them been a bit more careful with the food and water hygiene.

At Sidi Chamharouch we are invited to stop and spend as much cash as possible. My first stop is the local toilet… A unisex stinking hovel with a hole in the ground to squat over; there is no door. I vent everything I have in as wide a circle as possible all over the floor and leave the blood stained toilet paper as a reminder. There is no water to wash my hands with and I thank god for wet-wipes, which too joined the cesspit I leave behind.

I stagger back into the melee of fleecing shops looking at least for something of value to return home with. I find plenty, and for a short while the embarrassment of my condition and my disappointment with the whole crusade is forgotten.

It is an experience to watch a Moroccan shop-owner smile as though Allah had sent gold from heaven in the form of an Englishman who, after being shown the standard tat, asks to be shown something more “special”. I am guided to sit on a small stool next to an equally small table in the middle of a (very) small shop… in full view of half the village; as though a deity who had honoured this shop above all others.

My host offers tea and then produces from under the table, a chest much larger than fit for a small shop in a place too small to appear on any map.

The chest would not be out of place in Tortuga… and it IS full of treasure. I spot a smart silver necklace of lapis lazuli and turquoise. My host starts the bidding at 2000 Dirham; I spot the hallmark and satisfied, pitch at 1000. He knows I know that he knows I’ve been here long enough to have learnt the complex rules of haggling and I pin him for 1500 Dirham. He presents it in a beautifully carved walnut box, perhaps given free in lieu of my fee for creating huge interest in his shop from our audience.

From here on down to Aremd, I care for nought and drudge along at my own pace, getting far enough behind to force Youssef to stop the Mountain goats. When I catch up, I don’t bother sitting down as I know the moment my arse is on the ground, we’ll be off again.

Half an hour later, I am in the clean comfort of one of the Gite’s bogs, crapping my brains out for the third time since breakfast.

It’s 2pm but I have reached the end of my endurance and collapse into a quiet room, with a mind full of resentment and a heart heavy with disappointment. My stomach has now given up on food and my body on retaining any organs, no matter how vital they are to my survival.

It’s around 5pm when Youssef demonstrates the existence of a heart, making a personal visit to my tomb to tell me I must eat. I can’t and I tell him in short words. He returns twenty minutes later with a “traditional” Berber cure for my complaint. It’s boiled rice water, followed by a 50/50 blend of rice and cumin powder. To eat this stuff defies description… all I remember is seeing my finger-tips sweating; and I swear, my shit turning white with heat.

The remedy works. Astonishingly, barely two hours after I felt dead, I am up and about ready to join the small leper party for a token feast of rice and mint tea… It takes place a quiet distance away from the Toubkhal conquering hero’s banquet.

I sit on the balcony long into the night, devoid of conversation, pondering the fact that tomorrow morning we will return to Marrakesh. Mt Toubhal appears benovelent and close enough to touch. I wonder whether I really should have gone solo and made my own attempt to reach the summit.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Wasted (Part Eleven)

We pass the snowline… we know this; because despite it being mid-June there is still snow on the ground to help us determine this fact; and sometime later, sight the Neltner Refuge. It takes us almost another hour to reach it. At 3200 metres we are now in the dark blue of mountain skies. The refuge’s appearance in the desolation of moonscape rocks and patchwork snow has a mirage quality about it.

We negotiate an array of crippling stones to short-cut across an icy stream and find ourselves in the middle of a campsite. We realise it’s our campsite; and perched far enough away from the comfort of the refuge to take on the appearance of a leper colony. News travels fast.

We are not exactly greeted like heroes either; the place is empty save for a few Berbers who simply stare at us. I dump my kit, sort my tent, and head back across the un-negotiable river towards the Refuge in the hope of finding somewhere decent to shit, and conduct a hopeful reconnoitre to see if they sell real food and drink that I might just not shit out within thirty seconds of consumption. I do and they do.

Armed with a bag of huge bag of Potato chips / crisps, more Moroccan national drink (Cola), and several bars of chocolate, I return to the campsite and take up a Buddhist position outside my tent. It tastes good to pig out on cholesterol laden fat and overdose on sugar. Since, as I later discover, I had lost nearly 28lbs in little more than a week, I frankly don’t give a damn about the calorie intake.

The remainder of our party finally arrives; yet despite our warm greetings, and words of comfort and concern, there is little or no response save a cold stare or two.

For all our efforts, my fellow leper and I realise that we need not have bothered risking our own comfort for them whatsoever; despite the fact that it seems they too have had several days of trauma; trauma that involved stories of some being tied to mule’s backs so as to prevent them falling off because they had passed out, filthy Gite’s, and several  climbs many confidently stated should never have been attempted.

That night, we try and forget what has gone before and attempt to function as a group. With several crippled by sickness and long since to bed, the remainder comprise a few who believe our guide can do no wrong, and a handful who think he can do a lot wrong. It’s a strained affair. Perhaps to break the ice, our guide announces, that tomorrow is the highlight of the tour... It is the day we are to climb Mt Toubkhal; (Hooray!) … but there’s a twist… Youssef tells us that after reaching the summit, we are to come back down a different way, and the “different” way is, in his opinion, too technical for several of us… so I’m not going apparently. I was even refused the option to track back down the well marked route up which we were to reach the summit.

It’s barely 8PM, but with the chosen few geared up for an assault on the summit at 5AM, most are in bed, lights out.

I stay up to watch the light fade from the mountains and my dreams with it.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Sojourn (Part Ten)

The morning breaks with news that the other two from the leper party are leaving for Marrakech and home. We two that remain say farewell and sit alone to discuss our plan to reach the Neltner refuge, 1500 metres and probably five hours trekking, above us.

Youssef Number Two arranges everything, and at around noon, we two, with a mule and his muleteer, make like a small but intrepid expedition as we set out for somewhere unseen high above us. Feelings to declare that we were going outside and may be some time, (Lawrence Oates ~ see Scott of the Antarctic), are over-whelming, but would be lost on the Berbers that congregate to see us off.

It’s a slow but steady plod along the river valley and up into the foothills of Mt. Toubkhal. Our Mule carries everything save our trekking poles, water bottle, and inevitable camera. Of all the guides we have followed, and who have followed us this trek, he turns out to be the only one with any sympathy and understanding. He makes frequent stops to check our condition.

After a couple of hours we pass Youssef Number Two and the very party who had set off before us that morning. They look slightly incredulously at us and then in awe as Youssef Number Two explain to them that, despite our crippled state, we’ve been trekking at altitude for more than a week and are therefore considerably more acclimatised (and probably fitter) than many of them. For a moment I feel like ‘Tough as Nails’… I wonder how he’s getting on.

We turn a corner to reveal a waterfall and a large white painted rock. This is Sidi Chamharouch, a Muslim sacred site we are not allowed to poke our noses into. We are freely invited to poke our noses into any one of the dozen or so shops crowding the mountainside around it though.

A few yards out of the hamlet we reach a small isolated shack, adorned with a less than structurally sound awning. Our muleteer stops and invites us to sit on traditional Berber white plastic chairs, (as available from any DIY store or garden centre back home), and survey our surroundings. We sit grateful of some respite, while our muleteer rouses his commission payer inside the shack. Our host emerges and silently motions the offer of a Mint Tea. We gratefully accept. We watch as he disappears into the shack and returns with the smallest of tin teapots, fills it from the horse trough in front of us and returns to the shack. A few minutes later he returns to the trough and tips out the now hot water from the teapot. He refills the teapot and returns to the shack again. Seconds later he’s back with two glasses; these are ceremoniously placed in front of us. He hops over to one of several shelves adorning the shack and returns with a rock crystal. We look in respectful appreciation but decline to barter. Undeterred, he then ups the ante by offering an almost perfect sphere which he deftly parts in two with a flourish of his hands, as though conjuring a rabbit from a hat. The effect is amazing. So is the quality of the geode he is holding before my eyes, I fall for it and we haggle. This is my first attempt at haggling, but following sound advice from my fellow trekker I halve his asking price and then work towards somewhere in the middle. Somewhat nearer his middle than mine, I part with about Twenty-Five pounds worth of Dirham’s for something I think is clearly worth a shitload more.

Smiling alarmingly, he returns to the shack to deposit his shitload millions of Dirham’s, and reappears with teapot in hand to pour its contents from an extravagant height into our glasses.

We may be ill, somewhat tired, but are in a comfortable state of mind. Somewhere halfway to heaven we enjoy the best Moroccan tea we taste all trek. Its secret I take home with me.

We salute Youssef Number Two and his followers as they pass us, and receive looks suggesting homage… I feel good for the first time on the trek.

With great reluctance, we finally say our farewell to our benevolent host and press onward and ever upward.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Lepers United (Part Nine)

Today I destroy several toilet rolls, but the bleeding has stopped. I have reached that phase when you think you need a crap and it turns out to be an embarrassing fart-full disappointment. I even make it downstairs for several hours on and off.

Now more compos-mentis, I am also aware that one of us really is missing and has been so for at least two days. My hazy recollection was not my imagination. We vote to raise the alarm but are told to wait as help is already on its way.

It arrives in the form of another trekking party whose leader, another Youssef, does his best to restrain his disbelief at our state. Those under his charge wait attentively agog of our every word.

Two hours later and Youssef Number Two has arranged for one of our number to be stretchered out of the Gite. We watch the procession of stretcher bearers, donkey and luggage, doctor, driver, and half the village children, cross the valley in front of the Gite and head for the medically marked Land-rover on the other side.

Amidst all this, our lost soul returns. It seems he was so far adrift that by the time he reached the cola shack, the rest of us were almost back at Aremd. Lost, he had simply followed the path downward, and in the process, completely missed the turning for Aremd. He had in fact spent a night in a Gite in Imlil, an hour further down the valley. It had taken until that morning, for the Gite owner to finally work out where he should have been, and direct him back to our hell on Earth.

As we sit and relate our stories, we become increasingly concerned for our colleagues somewhere elsewhere on the trek. Having seen one of our numbers stretchered off to hospital, we consider it inconceivable that they too have not suffered in some measure, perhaps seriously so. Two of us, deemed well enough to walk, are elected to attempt the trek up to the refuge just below Mt. Toubkhal in the hope of finding them and offering what support we can.

I am one of them...

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Lost hours (Part Eight)

I must have spent the entire night moaning, puking up and shitting a blood river suffice to pollute half of Morocco. By the morning I could extract blood from my mouth and my nose without effort too. Several attempts to rouse me from my deathbed fail. Cries of “get up” do nothing for anybody buried in the ethereal realm of ‘I want to die’ territory.

Eventually I am almost dragged from my deathbed and helped to the poo tent. I don’t make it and in full view of everyone my guts explode all over the hillside and add to the previous night’s carnage. I do this twice in less than two minutes.

Youssef tells me my trek is over and I am to return, along with five others, to the Gite at Aremd. We watch as the remains of our trekking party head up the valley, several of them making random stops to repeat the exercise I had demonstrated only minutes ago.

The reality is that the decision for the trek to go on was wrong. Something was dreadfully amiss with most, if not all of us. Mass medical help was clearly the only real option. Yet go on it does... for some.

With two of us on donkeys and four others walking, we make like a leper colony towards Aremd. Sitting astride a donkey on whose back is a broad saddle made not for humans but for carrying luggage is agony. My thighs will never meet again; my guts will never be right again; my esteem in the eyes of the survivors will never be the same again. Damn Morocco.

When we arrive at the cola shack we are given a wide berth. We do not stop long for fear of being sued for causing loss of business, such is our appearance. By this stage I am aware too that we have lost at least one of the walking wounded, but since I don't know what planet I’m on, I care not.

Some four hours after we set off from Tachedirt, Aremd appears not soon enough for me. As I slide off the donkey and crawl towards the steps, the Donkey owner still holds out his hand in expected anticipation of his tip.

I don’t recall much more other than climbing up the stairs to a thankfully quiet and dark room and collapsing onto one of the mattress benches that serve as beds.

I awake. It’s dusk. I stagger downstairs with only one thing on my mind; a decent civilised toilet. I plan to make full use of it. I care little for the fact that there are a dozen or more trekkers watching my movements towards it. I gather much, much, later that word of the horror story that our trek has become has spread across the Toubkhal trail.

As I make my way back to my death bed, I spot another of my fellow sufferers. I ask him the time. He tells me it’s eight at night. He also tells me I have been asleep for thirty-two hours. He goes on to inform me that I and one other soul could simply not be aroused despite several attempts last night, and again that morning. Had I not woken when I did, then the emergency service would have been called in. Was I simply in a deep exhausted sleep or had my body completely shut down? I will never know.

I crawl impassively back up the stairs and collapse until eleven the following morning.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Incontinent (Part Seven)

The morning breaks with a token respite of humour and I thank her for it, we haven’t seen much of her. As usual we break camp and make ready for what the day has in store… only it seems our mules have other ideas. We watch in hysterics as our muleteers are seen chasing after the mules who have unanimously decided to hit town for the day, literally. For a while it becomes obvious that the mules, now nearly a mile distant and several hundred yards up the Berber equivalent of a high street, are winning the game. Youssef stares impassively in the same direction as he watches his authority being rebuked by lowly four-legged creatures. I feel obliged to apologise for our western humour, but he replies that it is my right to laugh. I don’t know whether to stop laughing and join his impassive stare or carry on laughing. There’s no smile accompanying his reply… I stop laughing.

This morning also sees the official splitting up of the trekking party with the goat party (minus one now also invalided) heading for the summit of Oukaimeden; whilst the rest take the low road around its base. The intention is to meet at the pass on the opposite side of the mountain.

The adventure, now renamed ‘invalid’ party, watches the goats disappear upwards. Tired of watching them after little more than a few seconds, we do a head count and realise we are actually one short. Our new guide, aka the temporarily promoted Kitchen Assistant heads back to recover our one short from the comfort of the civilised toilet he is unable to leave; the rest of us set off in the opposite direction. Within minutes the Invalid party is fragmented still further as two more fall behind to disappear into the undergrowth. The rest of us (of which I am one), make slow progress, anxious not to lose sight of our ailing colleagues. There is some relief when our kitchen-cook guide arrives leading a mule resplendent with bright green civilised toilet trekker astride. He explains in best Berber English that he is going to take the one from the civilised toilet up to the pass and then return for the two falling behind. We offer to stop and look after our crippled invalids until he returns.

Nearly two hours later, and an hour later than planned, the Invalid party is at the rendezvous point. There is no sign of the Goat party and we have no idea whether they are in front, fed up with waiting, or behind us. Of the seven in our group; three are unable to stand up, two are very ill but able to walk of sorts, and two are now “OK for the moment” (me included).

One “very ill” and our kitchen assistant guide elect to stay with the three unable to stand up, whilst one “very ill” and the two “OK for the moment” agree to head off on a mercy mission. Our instruction is to follow a sheep track, always taking the left path to stay high on the mountainside at every fork, until we come to a village at the head of the valley, where, allegedly, our campsite will be found; the plan being that once we reach the campsite we will be able to alert the support team of our plight.

We set off. Almost immediately the track disappears into the rocks that surround us, but there seems little point in going back. We elect to stay high on the mountainside and continue heading left. After twenty minutes our election proves correct and we regain the faint line of the track, defined only by the fact that the loose rocks on it are smaller than those that surround it. An hour later we see a village and a path too it; but the path means downward and to the right and we are not at the head of the valley yet. We walk on. There is little support for our mercy mission from the brutal sun whose intent it is to melt us into the already baked mountainside. Another path, and another village, also to our right and downward; we walk on.

We reach a point where the path has no alternative option but to take us downward and towards yet another clone of all the villages we have seen so far. As we near it, our Kitchen Cook guide appears, as his colleague Youssef has so often, from nowhere, and is standing on the path some way below us. He leads us through the village of Tachedirt and down to a stream. Here he points to tents some way above us on the other side of the valley, and leaves us at a run for those very tents.

We plod on and in a cruel twist lose sight of the tents within a few minutes. We know they are above us, so start to beat our own path through the undergrowth in their direction. I care not for scorpions and make little apology to the flowers beneath my size eleven boots.

We find the campsite and crash into the communal tent; only to find the goat party is already here.

After struggling to the point of tears to remove my boots, for I am so weak; I find myself sitting in the tent, shivering. I feel violently sick and find myself curling up foetal fashion by the entrance to the tent.

Some time later, I know not when, one of the Goat party raised the alarm that all was not well with me. For my second visit to it, Youssef sprung into action with the medicine bag. Whatever went down my throat came straight back up seconds later.

Sometime later I woke in my tent. It was dark and my stomach was screaming. In the pitch black I couldn’t find my torch, but thankfully I stumbled upon the civilised western godsend of toilet paper. In bare feet across sharp rocks I cripple myself towards the hideous cesspit of our broken zipped poo tent. I didn’t make it that far. I collapse shitting blood all over the hillside and am violently sick.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Discontent (Part Six)

We are much the source of local amusement as we break camp this morning but at least the poo tent remains private; however brief one can tolerate that privacy.

Breakfast is the usual simple feast of gloopy porridge and apricot strawberry marmalade, all washed down with more leaf-mould. By 8AM we are back-packing our way on the ascent to Oukaimeden.

This begins with a gentle but steady climb, which continues as a gentle but steady climb for the first hour before turning less than gentle; and finally into a gravity defying haul. I can see the rest of the group receding into the distance, apparently several vertical miles above me. But I am grateful to find that I am not alone… I could be alone, there is no official back marker, no whistle and hence no-one to raise the alarm for those in distress. My distress is merely that I tend to plod uphill. Those that join me at the back though are more than distressfully plodding… they, are feeling sick. This is not altitude sickness, this is real sickness. A chronic sickness and a form of Ghandi’s revenge that would make the Ganges seem but a crystal mountain stream. I join the sufferers to give words of comfort and support, while uttering words of anger towards the rest who have long disappeared over the ridge so very far above.

As we stragglers stop for the umpteenth time to tend to the sick, I am waved on by the sufferers to see where the others have gotten to. The summit is, after all, finally visible and the only possible direction the rest of our party could have long since disappeared over. I troll onward and upward alone with my thoughts; they are decidedly evil.

Youssef steps out magically from under a lone tree to shake my hand as I mount the summit of the pass, some 3100 metres above sea level. I round on him to lament the lack of support for the sick still far below, and that I didn’t think the trek was meant to be a route march. He continues to stare impassively.

I sit, seethe, and wait for the others. I poke idly amongst the rocks and take pictures of all that I can see; Youssef pokes at his own rock to reveal a poisonous scorpion. “Oohs” and “Ahhs” from the entity of goats finally signal an interest beyond route marching. I stop poking my rocks…

After several long minutes, the last of the sufferers finally make it to the summit and Youssef points to the town seemingly to have materialised from thin air, only yards away down the other side of the summit.

On tired legs and with growing discord, the stragglers follow the goats down into the flower laden meadow that carpets the land between the comforts of town life and a campsite. We of course, are in the campsite…

Minutes later, as we all view the campsite poo tent, there is a quiet consensus that whatever the cost, we are going to town to find somewhere to shower; and a clean place to crap.

In doing so, we discover a bonus… Morocco, although a Muslim country, is tolerant of alcohol raving westerners, and I, amongst several others, rave a beer or two among the home comforts we seek.

It’s a rare moment to sit and admire scenery such as that before us. Beer in hand, I scan the meadow that lies between the campsite and the town. It’s laden with orchids and dozens of other species of flower I know not what. In this barren landscape, the flowers have not gone un-noticed by the local butterfly population that adorns them either. To our left though, incongruous amongst the mountains and meadow, are an assortment of Moroccan army helicopters. The not so official looking airfield is patrolled by a dishevelled individual whose looks suggest this is the Moroccan equivalent of the ‘Russian Front’.

Beer suitably demolished, I wander off to photograph the million flowers and butterflies gathered in the evening lit meadow. I am careful to avoid pointing my camera in any direction vaguely towards the Russian Front…

By tea-time, there is a small voice telling me that all is not entirely well inside my stomach but I, like all, revel in the treat of ‘Berber’ pancakes and ‘Berber’ coffee… followed by the now customary ‘Berber’ Melon.

As dusk creeps over the town, I listen to the increasing tales of sickness creeping over the camp; a sickness which it seems, is now also beginning to creep over me.

[mayor-andy]

Oh Gawd.... more gratuitous sex and violence...

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[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ Tents (Part Five)

I pass Youssef sat staring impassively at the near vertical descent that I am slipping and sliding my way down. An hour later I reach the bottom and find him sat waiting with the goats for the tail-enders. For a moment thoughts of there’s more than one Youssef flash through my mind; but it is ‘our’ Youssef. He’s merely run down the 1500 foot near vertical slope that I have painfully zig-zagged my way down. Our paths must have crossed, yet I didn’t see him in the entire descent.

Five hours after we set out, the village of Amsoukrou is announced before us. We know this is Amsoukrou not from the road signs (for there are none); but from identifying what fits the description of our campsite, nestling under the Walnut trees on the smallest of terraced fields at the far end of the village.

I find myself putting up my own tent. It’s one of those carbon fibre ones with the super strong (and super springy) rods that enable the shapeless nylon sprawled before me to take on the appearance of something paying homage to its larger brother, The Dome in Greenwich. I watch the professionals for several minutes before I attempt to demonstrate any degree of confidence. Tough-as-Nails has been camped down for about an hour by the time I’ve fathomed mine out. As I force the ends of the rods into the eyelets I have visions that if I let go, it’s just possible the tension will ensure that my tent reaches the summit of Toubkhal two weeks before I do. Tough-as-Nails offers quiet assistance by demolishing my efforts with a flick of a finger and resurrecting it likewise… only this time according to the manual.

Tonight we fill our water bottles from the first communal water source… an ominous iodine stained plastic drum filled with what we are confidently told is treated river water. It smells cow poo infested.

Poo infested is also the description best given to the standing room only, broken zipped, putrid, token gesture of a latrine tent we all have to share. I can barely cope with the stench. I also note that several offerings to the toilet gods are sufficiently ill defined to indicate that all is not well with some of my colleagues. I cannot wash my hands thoroughly enough with the army of wet-wipes and alcohol laden dry soaps my toilet bag contains.

I join the rest for the evening meal which turns out to be yet another feast of vegetables and things I didn’t know could be vegetables. Yet the nearest homage to real meat I taste on the entire trek is also present… a rather perverse plate of sardines. The Melon still tastes good though and I push my luck once again. Tonight’s glass of tea turns out to be another strange brew; a different type of leaf-mould called Vervain (or verbena), but this time we do get to add our own sugar.

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ "Yah-Lah" (Part Four)

6am wakes to a bright warm day; I decide to join her more sociable friend 6.15am. After breakfast, we vaguely gather at the foot of the steps leading to our Gite for what we believe will be farewells for ten days. We learn that “Yah Lah” is a colloquial term for “wagons roll”; “mush”; “Giddy Up” and is essentially a command to get our arses moving. I learn quickly too that it also means that yesterday’s Mountain goats will be several miles in front within minutes of hearing it.

We take a steady pace at first though, through several villages, under walnut groves, and past several mule trains, to a junction in the track which signifies left to home comforts, and right to infinity and beyond. We turn for infinity.

I can’t figure out our guide… one minute he is remote, aloof from contact, the next, open and passionate about his people; the next, deeply intent on our understanding of his religion, Islam.

This minute its all about his people… we stop and watch several women toiling up the track from home comforts, bent double under bundles of rough cut meadow hay. This, it seems, is women’s work… the men are out playing with water and making money from the tourists. We stop for photos, not of the Berber women, but of a fellow trekker and her stage managed burden of (rough cut) meadow hay. Photos of Berber women are frowned upon; although I later learn that it’s frowned upon except when the appropriate commission is offered…

We climb towards infinity under a sky filled only with blue. Two hours later we stop amongst the seasonal coolness of a cedar grove and pass around a generous sack of nuts (sweetened naturally) that Youssef has produced from thin air.

Peace brings observation… observation in this case that two large rocks in full view of us are designated ‘Men’ & ‘Women’ respectively.

Any further observations of the land around us are shattered by the cries of “Yah-Lah”. I look up to witness the goats disappearing into the melee of mules and muleteers that have suddenly appeared on our track. There is a serious risk of a motorway pile-up as we also pass several mule trains and our first fellow trekkers… They are German… They’re always German… except here in Morocco, most trekkers are French. The Germans, not being as arrogant as the French, greet us with their traditional German greeting of “Salaam alaikum!” (peace be with you) … to which we respond with the traditional English reply of “Wa alaikum salaam”(and also with you).

After another hour, Aremd has shrunk to a size normally seen from space…

 The summit of the pass we have been aiming for sports a tin shack selling cola (what else?)… It also sports a four wheel drive truck, at least two other trekking parties and a hard-core of mountain biking enthusiasts… clearly a prime piece of real estate.

Within minutes of the arrival of the adventure party, the goats are up and away, down the opposite side of the mountain. I view the four wheel drive truck longingly but sadly he is only going back down that which I have just climbed up. I can’t ride a bike, (sod it), so I don my pack and drudge off after the goats.

[mayor-andy]

Such a rare and wondrous place. With only 4,000 residents on an island the size of an English County, man is truly not the maker of what you see, feel, hear, touch or sense.

Isle of Mull, Scotland

(by Redjim7778)

[mayor-andy]

Night on a Bare (arsed) Mountain ~ The Martians have landed (Part Three)

I wake up to what is to be an acclimatisation day and descend apprehensively to breakfast.

Breakfast turns out to be one of the more enjoyable food events. We dine on a tasty if runny porridge; which as the days pass gets more traditionally stodgy as the Berbers learn English preferences. They also learn we like to meld jam into it… only the jam which appears on the table in several flavours all looks the same and all tastes the same. We get locally produced bread too… so local in fact they’re making it in the kitchen… There’s honey, and a six sugared concoction called Moroccan Mint Tea, complete with a forest of leaf mould in the bottom of the glass it’s served in. Over the coming weeks we spend much time arguing about the ingredients of Moroccan mint tea and how they make it taste so good. It’s not until much later in the trek that I privately witness the mysterious art of real Moroccan mint tea making and take home one of the world’s secrets. Moroccans it seems do prefer their food sweet, very sweet. From the toothless smiles that abound amongst them, we get a violent and regular reminder that it’s a lifelong passion.

Youssef has us hurtling through the village and out into the mountain shadows long before the porridge has been tongued from the teeth. He’s a mountain guide he tells us, and can patch up a broken leg (or two) if required. As we find out later, he also has a penchant for running down vertical scree ridden slopes, and finding scorpions.

A few minutes into the acclimatisation walk; we turn to face a zig-zag path up a hill to eternity, several thousand feet above us. It’s already clear that there’s a clique of mountain goats among us and a party of those who are here simply for the adventure. For the next two hours or so, Youssef makes a few token stops so that the mountain goats can laugh at the adventure party toiling along far below them. Just as we adventurers catch up and take a stationary breath, he and the goats march off again. After the third stop, they don’t stop any more. We stand and watch as they disappear into specks far above us.

We finally crest the summit at three thousand metres; several minutes after the goats have vanished over it, and look around. No trace exists of any humans, or mountain goats. Either the Martians have landed and abducted our fellow travellers, for the landscape tells me they could quite well have; or, they have simply walked off a cliff.

We don’t find any cliffs, just a vague sandy path, zigzagging its way down into a ravine. We assume the Martians have not abducted the mountain goats among us and head for the ravine.

The ravine descends into an ever steeper crevasse. At the point we are about to break our necks, we look up to see the goat party waving at us from far above. I mutter various words of contempt under my breath and we scramble back up to join them.

A silent lunch, perched on the side of a scrubby hillside under the shade of Cypress trees, is interrupted only by watching Youssef suddenly run off into the distance and disappear behind a rock… maybe he’s abandoned all of us to the Martians?

He emerges twenty minutes later, we ask nothing and presume everything; but the reality is that Youssef, native Berber or not… is still a Muslim, and it was his time to pray.

For a moment there is an attempt at group bonding as we set off for the return journey, ever downwards back to Aremd. I consider momentarily that this trek could be a good one.

Ten minutes later after slipping and falling down the screed path dislocating my right knee in the process, I consider otherwise.

As I clasp my dislocated knee and curse profusely, it miraculously pops back into place; but hell does it hurt. A few offer moral support but most descend rapidly, fearful they may need to carry all 6ft and 200lb of me back to the gite.

At the foot of the hill Youssef springs into medical mode and soon has my knee creamed and bandaged. It is then up to me to lead the group homebound; which, to the day I write this, my ignorance still does not know why.

That evening I nudge the couscous on my plate, eat some token vegetables and avoid the lamb gristle that thankfully no-one serving considered putting on my plate to tempt me. The melon hasn’t lost its flavour though and my second slice was not disputed… I retire early and in some pain.