And lo, it being Easter, and with my 12 disciples following me, let us reflect on what has passed.
Dear reader, we start with a puzzle.
My final hurrah was a four day trek in the High Atlas. I hired a muleteer and a mule and set off across several 3,000m+ passes through stunning scenery.
It was slow going at times, I'm guessing a steady one mule an hour.
Our puzzle is a whodunwhat. The muleteer, Ahmed, is paid is GBP 10 per day, which was paid in advance to the fixer, Abdullah. On day two, Ahmed explained he had not been paid, and I had to pay him. I had seen him receive money from Abdullah before we set off.
Not so, I protested. The expected tip for the muleteer is GBP 20, exactly the amount that Ahmed was short. So, dear reader, did Abdullah expect my tip to cover the shortfall? Or was Ahmed trying it on? Or were they working together to get more money?
It wasa great trek nonetheless. Ahmed cooked and led well, although occasoinally I was reduced to sniffing out mule tracks and dung to keep on course. I got a few nose bleeds too.
I spent one night in his friend's house, where we had a lovely cous cous meal and I entertained the kids with paper aeroplane folding demonstrations, the trusty knuckle popping and the surprisingly popular cheek noise tricks of old.
There were some terrific thunderstorms too, meaning changes of route, crazy swollen river crossings and also an annoying 15-year-old Belgian who kept popping up telling me how tough he was and how slow I was and how he was doing it Bear Grylls-stylee. I nearly collapsed laughing when he started screaming in pain when he popped a blister.
Trek epilogue
I'd warmed up for the trek with a couple of day walks in Tarfroute. Friday being holy day, Simo where took me to his family HQ where we had a Berber breakfast.
Then explored a deserted Berber village nearby. All the locals left 50-odd years ago, apparently they were always fighting each other. It was a beautiful spot and I saw some wild Gazelles, although that might have been Teen and Stewart out for a MORNING jog.
Back to mama's for dinner; which was superb. I struggled to eat it with my hand, most of it ending on the floor, and I'm sure the young girl there called me bum hand or something as I made the mistake of using my left hand - the bum washing hand - for eating.
Hmmm, dinner.
National interest
In between all of this, I'd travelled to the Happy Valley with an American called Lyra. The roads got smaller and the buses turned into transit vans with seats bolted to the floor, with varying success. Up to 22 souls would squeeze in, animals and luggage atop.
Here I discovered the national sport of Morocco. One cheery bus ride saw everyone pile in and plastic bags handed around. Joining in, I requested one and resisted the urge to knot it and place on my head. Wise move. Some 20 minutes after setting off, breakfast was served. Again. The whole bus started vommiting. Barforama!! Most people had had eggs.
My favourite bus vomit experience was a lad who was 'freestyling' without a bag. Fool! I hear you cry. Indeed. As he kept the vomit in his cheeks, he had no option but to try to once again eat the warm food he had collected there. It was going well until the driver slammed the anchors on. Vomit everywhere, which started a chain reaction in the bus. At one point three generations of the same family were all happily barfing away around me.
Happy Valley
And it is. I camped at this spot in Imi N'Ifri for three nights at a veggie eco campsite run by a bonkers local who advertises the place as being 'without lead'.
He was a romantic soul who owened the land next to a terrific cavern, home to hundreds of birds. He smoked a lot; and waxed lyrical about the birds, birds eating insects, the stars and the benefit of vegetables. Here he is.
The shower was the cool pool in the canyon, and it was lovely, not too cold, just right. It was perfect for me as I'd developed an odd orange, some may say ginger, fungus growth under my armpits following a week sans douche.
With Lyra, I hiked through a poppy-filled valley to see some dinosaur footprints, which were not the largest it must be said.
And the Happy Valley was also able to provide some drinkable red wine, crumbs!
An endearing memory of the area was buying water at a shop in the middle of nowhere. The lady vendor tried the usual double-the-price trick. With the local kids watching on, I managed to get it at the normal price, but after a day baking in the sun and then a five minute haggle, I let out an involuntary 'Blimey'.
Immediately, the kids chorused a rousing 'BLIMEY' all about!
Well dear reader, I suspect most of you haven't made it thus far, all that's left to say is that I leave Morocco tomorrow for a week of lager, burgers and karaoke with Elena in Lanzarote, couple of weeks in Barcelona and then Colombia for four months.
I've enjoyed Morocco and hated it, in bursts, too. But at least I've managed to avoid any awkward-looking pictures of me performing to please the locals, outside my comfort zone and looking like a grinning ninny.
Pip pip
xxx
Dear reader, we start with a puzzle.
My final hurrah was a four day trek in the High Atlas. I hired a muleteer and a mule and set off across several 3,000m+ passes through stunning scenery.
It was slow going at times, I'm guessing a steady one mule an hour.
Our puzzle is a whodunwhat. The muleteer, Ahmed, is paid is GBP 10 per day, which was paid in advance to the fixer, Abdullah. On day two, Ahmed explained he had not been paid, and I had to pay him. I had seen him receive money from Abdullah before we set off.
Not so, I protested. The expected tip for the muleteer is GBP 20, exactly the amount that Ahmed was short. So, dear reader, did Abdullah expect my tip to cover the shortfall? Or was Ahmed trying it on? Or were they working together to get more money?
It wasa great trek nonetheless. Ahmed cooked and led well, although occasoinally I was reduced to sniffing out mule tracks and dung to keep on course. I got a few nose bleeds too.
I spent one night in his friend's house, where we had a lovely cous cous meal and I entertained the kids with paper aeroplane folding demonstrations, the trusty knuckle popping and the surprisingly popular cheek noise tricks of old.
There were some terrific thunderstorms too, meaning changes of route, crazy swollen river crossings and also an annoying 15-year-old Belgian who kept popping up telling me how tough he was and how slow I was and how he was doing it Bear Grylls-stylee. I nearly collapsed laughing when he started screaming in pain when he popped a blister.
Trek epilogue
I'd warmed up for the trek with a couple of day walks in Tarfroute. Friday being holy day, Simo where took me to his family HQ where we had a Berber breakfast.
Then explored a deserted Berber village nearby. All the locals left 50-odd years ago, apparently they were always fighting each other. It was a beautiful spot and I saw some wild Gazelles, although that might have been Teen and Stewart out for a MORNING jog.
Back to mama's for dinner; which was superb. I struggled to eat it with my hand, most of it ending on the floor, and I'm sure the young girl there called me bum hand or something as I made the mistake of using my left hand - the bum washing hand - for eating.
Hmmm, dinner.
National interest
In between all of this, I'd travelled to the Happy Valley with an American called Lyra. The roads got smaller and the buses turned into transit vans with seats bolted to the floor, with varying success. Up to 22 souls would squeeze in, animals and luggage atop.
Here I discovered the national sport of Morocco. One cheery bus ride saw everyone pile in and plastic bags handed around. Joining in, I requested one and resisted the urge to knot it and place on my head. Wise move. Some 20 minutes after setting off, breakfast was served. Again. The whole bus started vommiting. Barforama!! Most people had had eggs.
My favourite bus vomit experience was a lad who was 'freestyling' without a bag. Fool! I hear you cry. Indeed. As he kept the vomit in his cheeks, he had no option but to try to once again eat the warm food he had collected there. It was going well until the driver slammed the anchors on. Vomit everywhere, which started a chain reaction in the bus. At one point three generations of the same family were all happily barfing away around me.
Happy Valley
And it is. I camped at this spot in Imi N'Ifri for three nights at a veggie eco campsite run by a bonkers local who advertises the place as being 'without lead'.
He was a romantic soul who owened the land next to a terrific cavern, home to hundreds of birds. He smoked a lot; and waxed lyrical about the birds, birds eating insects, the stars and the benefit of vegetables. Here he is.
The shower was the cool pool in the canyon, and it was lovely, not too cold, just right. It was perfect for me as I'd developed an odd orange, some may say ginger, fungus growth under my armpits following a week sans douche.
With Lyra, I hiked through a poppy-filled valley to see some dinosaur footprints, which were not the largest it must be said.
And the Happy Valley was also able to provide some drinkable red wine, crumbs!
An endearing memory of the area was buying water at a shop in the middle of nowhere. The lady vendor tried the usual double-the-price trick. With the local kids watching on, I managed to get it at the normal price, but after a day baking in the sun and then a five minute haggle, I let out an involuntary 'Blimey'.
Immediately, the kids chorused a rousing 'BLIMEY' all about!
Well dear reader, I suspect most of you haven't made it thus far, all that's left to say is that I leave Morocco tomorrow for a week of lager, burgers and karaoke with Elena in Lanzarote, couple of weeks in Barcelona and then Colombia for four months.
I've enjoyed Morocco and hated it, in bursts, too. But at least I've managed to avoid any awkward-looking pictures of me performing to please the locals, outside my comfort zone and looking like a grinning ninny.
Pip pip
xxx
No comments:
Post a Comment