Thursday, July 10, 2003
If you want a mule to keep walking, you must say "error". If you want the mule to stop, you say "schhhh".
On our first full day in the mountains, we decide to walk a couple of hours further up. There are no roads, only paths, some invisible to a city-dweller's eye. The paths mainly consist of rocks and rubble, which makes them difficult to walk on and hard on the knees and ankles. While we are resting in the shadow of a tree, a man and a mule cross the path. "Hey", our guide says, "do you want a mule? You can ride the mule if you want." So up on the animal I crawl and we plus mule-driver are joined by another party consisting of man, woman and mule, and an old man whose business is unknown to us, but he seems friendly. "Do I look scared?" I ask on the mule. Boyfriend laughs and takes yet another photo of Charlotte scaredy-cat, desperately clinging onto the Berber saddle which is not really a saddle, but three thick blankets on top of each other, with pockets for the feet and, well, nothing for the hands.
After about an hour's bumping up and down we reach the mysterious white rock, by which a sort of temple has been build. Legend has it that any man who spends a night sleeping next to the rock will have no sorrows left come morning. There is no entrance for non-muslims, but we catch a glimpse of the women who are in charge of the animal sacrifices. And so is religion and superstition intertwined.
I walk back down again, but am feeling kinda sick so the next day I rent yet another mule, to take me where we are going that day. This mule is not nearly as nice as the one the day before: this mule just wants to eat grass and sniff poo. Riding a mule is quite convenient in the mountains and a helluvalotof fun when you get used to it, but it is not the least bit comfortable. My bum is sore and my thighs are stiff and I've got bruises on my knees from trying to stay in the seat.
We are going to see a waterfall, off the beaten track. It is lovely and fresh and we lie around on big rocks, boyfriend building a dam, me sleeping.
When we get back I fall asleep and when I wake I feel really, really ill. Diarrhoea is one thing but I feel like passing out and subsequently stay in bed until we leave the mountain and live off only coca cola and water. And cherries, hand picked in the gardens below the village. Come morning I am so ready to leave, not just the mountains, but the entire fucking Morocco, so sick am I of being ill in a place that doesn't have toilets, only holes in the ground and therefore an over-production and over-emergence of flies. We walk down the mountain to be picked up in Imlil and driven to our next destination, me high on Imodium and travel sickness prevention pills.
Now I think of the mountains fondly - the people were incredibly kind and generous and the nature's beauty and simplicity was breath-taking - especially at dusk, on the roof of a house, in the quiet end of a day.
On our first full day in the mountains, we decide to walk a couple of hours further up. There are no roads, only paths, some invisible to a city-dweller's eye. The paths mainly consist of rocks and rubble, which makes them difficult to walk on and hard on the knees and ankles. While we are resting in the shadow of a tree, a man and a mule cross the path. "Hey", our guide says, "do you want a mule? You can ride the mule if you want." So up on the animal I crawl and we plus mule-driver are joined by another party consisting of man, woman and mule, and an old man whose business is unknown to us, but he seems friendly. "Do I look scared?" I ask on the mule. Boyfriend laughs and takes yet another photo of Charlotte scaredy-cat, desperately clinging onto the Berber saddle which is not really a saddle, but three thick blankets on top of each other, with pockets for the feet and, well, nothing for the hands.
After about an hour's bumping up and down we reach the mysterious white rock, by which a sort of temple has been build. Legend has it that any man who spends a night sleeping next to the rock will have no sorrows left come morning. There is no entrance for non-muslims, but we catch a glimpse of the women who are in charge of the animal sacrifices. And so is religion and superstition intertwined.
I walk back down again, but am feeling kinda sick so the next day I rent yet another mule, to take me where we are going that day. This mule is not nearly as nice as the one the day before: this mule just wants to eat grass and sniff poo. Riding a mule is quite convenient in the mountains and a helluvalotof fun when you get used to it, but it is not the least bit comfortable. My bum is sore and my thighs are stiff and I've got bruises on my knees from trying to stay in the seat.
We are going to see a waterfall, off the beaten track. It is lovely and fresh and we lie around on big rocks, boyfriend building a dam, me sleeping.
When we get back I fall asleep and when I wake I feel really, really ill. Diarrhoea is one thing but I feel like passing out and subsequently stay in bed until we leave the mountain and live off only coca cola and water. And cherries, hand picked in the gardens below the village. Come morning I am so ready to leave, not just the mountains, but the entire fucking Morocco, so sick am I of being ill in a place that doesn't have toilets, only holes in the ground and therefore an over-production and over-emergence of flies. We walk down the mountain to be picked up in Imlil and driven to our next destination, me high on Imodium and travel sickness prevention pills.
Now I think of the mountains fondly - the people were incredibly kind and generous and the nature's beauty and simplicity was breath-taking - especially at dusk, on the roof of a house, in the quiet end of a day.
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