11th June 1999 0830hrs Friday. Hostel, Marrakech (again) – warm.
Ugh.
On Wednesday we caught the bus out to Asni and then caught a truck up to Imlil for about 3 o’clock. It was really beautiful mountain country – mountains with the snow still clinging to them, river valleys and small villages perched on the sides of hills so steep it was surprising how they’d been built.
The ‘Club Alpin Francais’ refuge at Imlil was basic to say the least.
Crouch/squat toilets – those I had avoided using so far on this trip – were the only toilets there. Gemma, myself and a new Canadian acquaintance, Jean, went for a stroll out of the village, following the Toubkal path for a little way, hoping that having already been higher, our bodies would adapt to the village altitude more quickly. The landscape was extremely photogenic, but we had to be careful not to be too obvious as we had been reliably informed that the Berbers were one of the peoples that believe having their picture taken steals their soul away.
A Berber, who was apparently just relaxing by the side of the path, invited us to his house for tea. We escaped by saying we would, but later, and carried on climbing.
Jean had arrived in Marrakech that morning and come direct to Imlil on our coach and truck. He was exhausted, because, he told us, he had spent the duration of the overnight train being lectured on how the Western way of life was wrong, and that Islam was the only true religion. He had shared his compartment with five soldiers on their way to a posting in Marrakech. He said he’d been forced to promise to buy a Qu’ran on his return to Canada...it was like one of the travel ‘urban myths’ you hear eighth or ninth person down the line, but the bags under Jean’s eyes weren’t lying. He started telling us about how the soldiers had told him of the proud traditions of Muslim hospitality...and that he thought we should go for tea with the guy from the village, because he might be offended if we didn’t. Gemma and I bowed to Jean’s rather stressfully achieved authority on the matter.
His house was quite big in comparison with the others around it. Inside, we removed our shoes, and were ushered into his living room which had cushions on the floor. We sat, and gawped at the size of his television and sound system, which were hugely impressive. He showed us them with great pride, and also his personal stereo, which had an enormous pair of extremely expensive-looking over-the-head headphones. After mint tea (‘Berber Whisky’) and looking through his photos from being a mountain guide (the belief apparently goes away when money is involved), I presented him with one of the free pairs of headphones that we got given on the Spanish intercity, waxing lyrical on the benefits of the little plastic case for use on the mountain, so he wouldn’t damage his other pair. I could kind of see what was coming.
He asked us if we needed a guide, we said no - one of our party had been before many times and knew the way. He asked us if we wanted donkeys for our bags, we said no - we were leaving our packs at the refuge and taking daypacks. He asked for 20dh for the tea and walnuts we had accepted as his hospitality. Taken aback, I pointed out that I had given him a small gift in thanks for his hospitality…so he went down to 10dh.
Gemma flipped.
She went at him saying that she was offended, if he had come to her house she would never even think of asking for money for a cup of tea...Jean and I looked at each other in awe – Gemma had become instantly fluent in Angry French. We were ushered politely, but nonetheless quickly, out of his house.
That evening we ate an omelette, with bread for dinner. All night I couldn’t get comfortable – in my sleeping bag I was too hot, out of it I was freezing. I didn’t feel too well, either. Determining to keep it to myself if it meant we got to climb, I attempted to sleep. First thing that Gemma said to me was “I’m not well.”
Laying in bed whilst the others prepared to go was extremely frustrating – now we wouldn’t see the Sahara from the peak. We decided to go back to Marrakech that day. The effects of whatever we had, if they hadn’t felt so terrible, would have otherwise been funny. I was so weak that I had difficulty raising my hand to scratch my nose when lying down, and rolling my sleeping bag took 20 minutes. The nightmare truck drive from Imlil to Asni is not something I want to remember of Morocco I frequently thought I was going to throw up over the side of the truck, but was too weak to lift myself. We caught a ‘grand taxi’ from Asni to Marrakech, and let me tell you, an air-conditioned Mercedes makes you feel so much better than the back of a truck. Bizarre, really.
We got dropped off at the hostel, literally crawled inside, and went to bed at about 3pm. We got up at about 7am this morning, feeling a little better, and decided to ‘run for the border’ to Tangiers – an 8 hour train journey.
We figure that seeing as Jean, Gemma and I had tea at that bloke’s house the other day, and that it was us three that felt ill, that the water can’t have been boiled properly in his haste to get some dirhams out of us.
We’ll probably stay the night in Tangiers and cross over to Algeciras tomorrow morning.
We had staggered out of the Refuge and asked the guy with the truck when he was heading back down to Asni. He shrugged. Sometime later, when there were enough passengers to make it worthwhile. He offered to go immediately, if we would pay him ten times the normal price. We refused, and sat down in the shade under one of the trees surrounding the square, lying back on our backpacks, panting in the heat, incredibly weak.
People were dotted all over the place, just sitting, not doing very much. Fanning themselves on the terrace of the tiny one-room café, drinking water, just sitting. An old man with a skull cap and a face like tanned leather came up to me where I was sitting and thrust a small silver necklace into my face, giving me his sales pitch in slow, loud, measured French. For me to actually open my eyes at this point in time was a great effort.
"Special price for Berber silver! For you, my friend."
"No thank you."
"It's filigree! Special, rare silver, beautiful."
"No thank you."
"Exchange?" he raised a cream-robed arm and gestured at my soapstone pendant, the cord knot of which was just visible out of my t-shirt. I almost took him up on it. The pendant was from a surf shop in Newport, Isle of Wight, and it had cost me £2. He seemed to think it was valuable...
"No, thank you."
The old man dropped neither his arm nor his gap-toothed smile, standing directly over me, the trinket in my face. He said nothing. I waited for him to go away. He didn't.
"Is there a problem?" I said, sharply.
He kept smiling, and shook his head. He pointed at my pendant.
"Present?"
"Pardon?"
"You give to me as a present?"
I discovered that I was capable of incresed fluency in French too, as long as I was a little angry. Not too angry, you understand, just stern. Here we were, lying like beached whales, panting in the heat and obviously having difficulty even just moving around, and this guy was really pushing me. I understand that he might have desperately needed to sell me something, which might have led him to be more insistent than he normally might have been, but still. He caught me on a bad day.
When the truck driver was bored of waiting for us to pay him ten times the normal amount, he whistled and climbed into the truck. All of the people who had been sitting idly around the square climbed in. He had just been waiting us out.
Down the mountain, we shared the truck with some Americans and some Italians, and a bunch of locals. I hunkered down and sat holding my bag and waited it out. It was very, very sick-making.
"I'm going to be sick." I said.
"It's okay buddy, not long now," said one of the Americans.
"No, I'm going to be sick," I said.
"About fifteen minutes, isn't it, now?"
I almost started crying. I wasn't strong enough to stand up. I wondered what was wrong. Why didn't they understand?
"I'm GONNA PUKE!"
I was hefted to my feet inside of a second, and the fresh air helped enormously as the truck rattled and shook and banged down the mountain track.
Rather than wait for the bus, Gemma and I opted to take one of the ubiquitous cream Grand Taxis all the way to Marrakech, which was only about £2 each. Air conditioning...I can still remember the relief at the stark difference between the metal walls of the radically bouncing truck and the cool, smooth ride in the Mercedes. When we arrived at the Hostel in Marrakech, the taxi driver asked for twice what we had agreed. We didn't even bother to argue with him, and paid him what we had agreed plus a five dirham tip, and just walked, slowly, exhaustedly away.
There was no one in the hostel. We dropped our bags and sat down. At this point we realised we were in full sunlight and literally crawled into the shade.
We slept from the instant we paid through until the next morning, and were woken with the call to prayer from a nearby minaret.
The train station was mercifully close to the Marrakech Hostel.
We were getting out of Africa as fast as those rails would carry us.
But, you know, this was Morocco, so we're not talking all that fast.