Problems in the Atlas

Not what I expected. This little pearl of wisdom floated into my consciousness as the snow underfoot gave way and I sank down to my armpits in deceptively enticing, soft-serve-like icey covering. You see, the name 'Morocco' tends to conjure images of warm, sandy dunes; camels; exotic aromas and, sure, monkeys in miniature Man United jerseys. The common thread between all of these is that they are all enjoyed in slip-slops. So the fact that it was now minus 5 degrees and I was ignominiously trying to wriggle free of my freezing predicament, looking something like a porpoise giving birth, certainly had caught me off-guard.

You see, just four days earlier we had arrived at the village of Imlil at the foot of the High Atlas mountains looking to do some lite trekking. And perhaps to make a snow man. The solemn figure of the local big-wig (as deduced by the extraordinary moustache dancing on his upper lip) approached us to  begin the interminable process of bartering for a good route and a price that would make us feel like we had been penetrated just a little bit. "Its no problem": words that walk a tightrope between optimism and false hope. When relating to scaling North Africas highest peak during its coldest month it tends towards the latter. And yet these were the words we would hear again and again over the next 4 days.

"Mohammed, we have never used proper mountaineering gear - is it a good idea to start to get the hang of it on those white, Mordor-like slopes?"
"Its no problem."

"Mohammed, its below freezing and my glove has just blown into that crevasse"
"Its no problem."

"Mohammed - my crampons aren't getting enough purchase and I'm sliding down this 80 degree rock face."
"Its no problem."
"Mohammed, have you seen "Touching the Void?"

Language was often our downfall as Mohammed spoke mostly Berber, a little French and no English. We, on the other hand speak only English and know only the diverse and surprisingly useful Arabic words of 'keshkusha' which means 'foam' and 'ghwoorza' which means 'anus'.

Nonetheless we managed to summit after four pretty extraordinary days. The temperature with the wind-chill was minus 10. The fog was so thick we couldn't see more than 5 metres in front of us so the alleged magnificent panorama from the roof of North Africa was lost to us. But we had reached the peak with the bare minimum of equipment, so in the words of Mohammed - it was no problem.

Oh, and just a quick thank you to everyone who has generously donated to the Key School for Autism. If anyone else would like to contribute even a small donation to this remarkable school please click on the Back-a-Buddy link on the right of this page. We will accept demeaning challenges for donations.

Bathhouse Blues

I have just washed for the first time in a week. Infact, its been the first time in a week that I have changed my underwear. While this may sound like fairly horrendous overshare to you, for the local Moroccan this piece of info passes for regular day-to-day banter. In the way we may compare a new pairs of shoes or salary slips, they compare body odour. So when the weekly wash arises, the local 'Haram' or bathhouse is packed to the rafters with filthy, overweight, bear-like locals. The only lighting in these marble mausoleums a small beam through a stained-glass window, like some bizarre religious redemptive ritual. And they scrub. And scrub. And scrub. Peeling off vast wads of yellow skin in the process. Our host, Ebrahim  - who had just tried to trick us into paying double for the entrance so he could pocket the difference - threw me his exfoliating glove and, with a sardonic glint in his eye said 'Yes - you use'. Normally this wouldnt have been a problem - except that he had just used it, rather aggressively, for 20 minutes on himself and another 20 minutes on his friend creating a fine brownish layer of dead skin over the whole glove. Given the 7 day old layer of dirt I had (less gloatingly) accumulated and given that his expression was not one of compassionate understanding, I set to work. Scrubbing away 1200 year old dirt accumulated in the narrow markets of ancient medina of Fes, the pungent smells of the 500 year old leather tanneries, the smoke and rotten banana odour of the Arabian bachelor pad we had stayed in, the animal musk of feral monkeys and Egyptian cobras draped on us in the town square in Marrakesh, the goat-head stew we ate for dinner and, the pungent tang of the baths of perfume apparently rolled in by the women here and, of course, Tough Guys regular Dutch-ovening of our sleeping quarters.

These odours are now thankfully extolled and I am born anew to accumulate a new layer of grime - both good and bad.

Souqs and Roundabouts

Aaaah salaam and good evening my good friends. Come, come a little closer. Closer...closer. A little too close. So at last our journey has commenced and i write this from a small cafe in Rabat where Tough Guy is donning our newly purchased authentic fez on my left and a bizarre Polish woman is fashioning a trendy wallet out of a juice carton on my right. This has largely summed up our short time here. Our kind Couchsurfer host suffers from a rare condition called 'largyngismus stridulus' where his vocal cords contract randomly against his will meaning that every second word is a colossal ball-drag. I am childish so I find this very funny. But his English is good and he treats us very well. And his couch smells of fresh Wintergreen so I will say nothing further negative about him.

Our time here has been pretty full-on so far. The souqs and markets are really like something out of Aladdin. Everything from lemon and chili scented olives to artificial moving pigeons litter the the narrow streets. And the people here like to multi-task - with a butchery also doubling up as an orthodontist. Honestly. Quite bizarrely this timeless universe sits quite happily adjacent to a modern thriving metropolis in Rabat. Its very disorientating to walk 5 minutes from bartering for homemade nougat in a mans doorway to dodging an army of 30 year old Mercs all flying from the wrong side of the road. That is when you at least CAN see their faces: the hip new fashion in Rabat is for the people to wear body-length robes with conical hoodies meaning that the streets look like theyve been overtaken by hoards of Jedi-Knights. Or worse, Gregorian chanters.

Its now my turn to wear the fez so i need to run. Just a quick thank you to everyone who has donated kindly to the Key School. Just a quick word that none of the money donated goes to us, it all goes straight to the school so it really is a worthy donation. It isnt going towards purchasing an army of local hats. Although that would also be cool.

Au revoir!

In 4 short days myself and Tough Guy Mallen will brave dysentery and al-Qaeda and attempt to get from Morocco back to Joburg using, more or less, only public transport. Our bags are largely packed and contain what is arguably the largest medikit this side of the Afghan war. Antibiotics will be our bread and butter. As will infant-protection factor 50 suncream.


So for anyone who is bored on the bog on a Saturday morning, give this blog a quick look-see to check were still alive and kicking. And obviously any posts or info anyone can send will be much appreciated. English is sparse in these parts and cabin fever will definitely be on the cards.


Wishing everyone a lekker 2012!