Two Friends

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Taroudannt

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Flowers and shade

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At the Oasis

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Goats and herder

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Taroudannt cyclists

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Head Camel

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Shop....keeper and shadow creeper

It looks like this colourful shop might soon be engulfed in shadow......

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Marrakech rooftop

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The Market

I like the decorative detail on the tower - click the image to get a better view.

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Open Door

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Essaouira

It always appears there are far more gulls flying round a Moroccan harbour town than in England.


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We all need to find an Oasis

This picture shows the oasis not far from Taroudannt, Morocco. Water is a rare and precious resource in a country of little rain, which makes such a location all the more miraculous.


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Dog with henna eyebrows

This is a friendly little dog roaming the castle ramparts of Essaouira, Morocco, with some make-up applied by the animal's owner !

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Number 2

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Thirty-third

The most obvious route north from Marrakech might have taken us via Casablanca and Rabat, but Omar was keen to utilise his knowledge of the back roads, and to complete most of our four hundred mile journey in the dark. He made us extra nervous by saying that it was legal for vehicles to drive in Morocco with no headlights after nightfall, so long as they maintained a low speed !
I have a very clear image of the spectacular red sunset slowly colouring the tall tower of the mosque adjacent to the main square as we said goodbye to Marrakech. Despite the long journey ahead we were hopeful that we would soon be bidding farewell to Morocco and Africa as well.

‘Try to get some sleep’ our driver suggested.

‘Which way are we going ?’ I asked.

‘Towards Fez or Meknes, but don’t worry, I know these roads very well.’

Jess had her eyes closed, but I wasn’t sure if she was really getting any rest, and I found it very difficult not to succumb to my neurotic nature. Omar just appeared quietly determined, driving fast where he was able to make uninterrupted progress, and more slowly on the very minor routes. As it became properly dark the outer world became no more than a blur; occasionally we passed through a small town with a shop or cafe open late, but as we got well beyond Marrakech there was not much visible, though still an awareness of the vast Atlas mountains to the east.

I was most fearful about the sea crossing to Spain, and prayed for a calm and clear passage, despite the fact I had no sympathy for most forms of religious worship. Omar had tried to reassure us further by saying that his brother would raise both a Spanish and European Union flag as we approached the other side, but surely there would be many patrols waiting for all those fleeing Africa and hoping for a better life in Europe – so tantalisingly close across the Strait of Gibraltar.

‘What was that ?’ said Jess suddenly.

‘Nothing, just a hole in the road, go back to sleep.’

‘I can’t seem to relax.’

‘I will stop in another hour or so, I must rest for a while’ Omar said.

I did not envy him the many hours of driving; but the bitterness he felt for the man who had killed his first son was literally driving him on through the black Moroccan night. We had unintentionally provided some kind of brutal justice, and the emptiness Omar still felt in his life encouraged him to risk being arrested by helping foreigners to leave the country without the usual forms being filled-in.

He pulled off the road somewhere near Azrou, south east of Meknes, and offered a flask of coffee and some biscuits.

‘You are very kind’ said Jess wearily.

‘That policeman was very bad; I will get you home safely.’

It was almost as if he was planning to drive us all the way to York, which might have impressed friends and family – taking a Mercedes taxi the entire route from Morocco to England. He went off for a cigarette, leaving the two of us alone, with hardly a clue as to our location in the featureless landscape of darkness.

‘I love you Jess.’

‘Love you.’

Thirty-second

We sat close to the giant cacti in the Jardin Majorelle, though not too close, because a blue fountain was spraying water high into the air of another very hot day in Marrakech. The delightful garden of abundant greenery and water features offered a similar escape to the oasis near Taroudannt, yet this place was designed and created by a French painter.

I thought about the modest garden at the Treasurer’s House in York, where the fountain wasn’t always working, though England didn’t normally have such high temperatures to contend with. If only we had been back there already, it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been pissing down with rain, because we would have felt safe behind those walls.

The main square of Marrakech was a few miles distant, but in the daytime it was not the lively pantomime of every bustling evening, where a shy English person might feel intimidated by all the unfamiliar and thrilling activity.

‘Will we make it back ?’ Jess asked.

‘I trust Omar; but I’m most worried about crossing to Spain in a fishing boat. I just hope the sea is calm, and we’re not arrested along with all the other refugees trying to escape Africa.’

‘I wonder what happened to his son ?’

‘Sounds like he was just another unfortunate victim of that bloody policeman.’

Jess went for a look round the Museum of Islamic Art, which formed part of the garden, but I preferred to remain outside in the shade. There were quite a few tourists, but it was by no means busy, which allowed one to be mostly undisturbed in contemplation, forgetting about the harsh realities that lay beyond the small oasis.

It was only midday, and it felt like a long time until Omar would collect us from the riad, as though time had come to a standstill, and we would always be trapped in a strange country of both beauty and pain. I laughed to myself, thinking about all the newspaper adverts saying that Morocco was a country that ‘nurtured the soul’, which you couldn’t argue with if all one’s time was spent in surroundings like the Jardin Majorelle.

‘There’s some wonderful jewellery in there.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘I know such things are not your cup of tea.’

‘It’s not that, I’m just so happy sitting in this tranquil garden.’

‘I think we will get back.’

‘What’s the worst that can happen ?’

Twenty-ninth

Despite the fact we were more than worried about how we were going to get back safely to England, it was impossible not to be swept along by the enthusiasm of our driver Omar, the cheerful chap responsible for our safe passage over the High Atlas on the Tizi n’Test road that reaches over two thousand metres into the immense sky.

Everything had seemed so normal at breakfast, except for the fact there was a dead policeman concealed in the building; we ate a little and said our goodbyes to the owner, who wished us a lovely trip through the mountains to Marrakech. I couldn’t lose the image of the bottle crashing down on the copper’s skull, but surely anybody else would have done the same if their beloved was being attacked ? It was also highly likely that this man had murdered the Aussie girl, which meant we had actually saved the Moroccan justice system some time and money.

At first it was hard to appreciate the increasingly dramatic scenery and the extraordinary views back over the Souss plain towards Taroudannt. Omar told us that the French colonialists had constructed the road through the mountains, an amazing feat of engineering in itself.

‘I’m starting to feel sick’ said Jess.

‘It’s not surprising with all these twists and turns; I’ll ask him to stop.’

Omar was happy to pull over and light a cigarette, while we gazed back to the indistinct shape of Taroudannt, which brought a small sense of encouragement as it disappeared more and more in the distance. All being well his body would not be found until we’d been home for at least a few days; yet there was always the worry somebody might look into the shaft out of curiosity, or perhaps the annual maintenance inspection was due ? No, Morocco wasn’t the kind of country where they had regular inspections, except for the police road blocks of course.

‘Shall we get going ?’

‘I’m fine now’ said Jess weakly.

‘It’ll be exciting to see Marrakech’ I said, without really believing the optimistic sound of my voice.

There was very little other traffic about as most people wanting to travel between Taroudannt and Marrakech would use the main road, not a never-ending coil of pot-holed tarmac with terrifying drops at the side. Omar kept pointing out features of interest, and told us about growing-up in the foothills of the High Atlas.

We stopped again at La Belle Vue Hotel for some coffee, situated at two thousand one hundred metres above sea level; it seemed a very long time since we had been by the sea in Essaouira, and it felt like our travels had all been some kind of bizarre dream, fast turning into a nightmare. Jess wandered into the decaying red van abandoned at the roadside, covered in many stickers and signs associated with Moroccan car rallies. She appeared completely out of it, in another world, as if she would have been happy for the van to suddenly break free and crash over the cliff edge.

‘We’d better get on’ I said.

She didn’t reply, but eventually started walking back to the white Mercedes taxi.

As our journey continued beyond the highest point we heard thunder in the distance and Omar confirmed there might be a storm coming up the valley. The landscape became more reminiscent of the Himalayan foothills I’d seen on TV, and occasionally we passed small villages that were comprised of a few ramshackle ‘bungalows’ clinging to the green mountainside. After all the dryness of the plains I hadn’t expected this sudden change to the heavy rain that was now battering our vehicle, and wondered just how severe the weather must be in winter.

Though I was keen to reach Marrakech as soon as possible, Omar insisted on a small diversion to the spectacular mosque at Tin Mal, which is quite rare in being open to non-Muslims. There was a remarkable tranquillity in the empty, roofless interior, and Omar pointed-out some owls hiding in the crumbling stonework high above us. Many of the archways were in very good repair for a building constructed in the twelfth century, and some still beautifully decorated, despite being open to the elements.

‘Are you OK, Jess ?’

‘I feel very tired.’

‘It won’t be too long till we get to our hotel; Omar has recommended a riad not far from the main square, which should be more private than the Ibis we’d booked. I think it’s a good idea to stay somewhere not on our planned itinerary.’

We were soon back on the road to Marrakech, with Omar happily humming a tune to himself as we drove through the splendid scenery.

‘My wife is Fati’ he told us suddenly.

‘You still love her though ?!’

I felt Jess’s elbow in my ribs, which was usually an indication I’d said the wrong thing.

‘How many children have you got ?’ I asked, trying to move the conversation on.

‘Two, a girl and boy.’

After a few more miles we came to an unexpected traffic jam, which we soon realised had been caused by the storm and subsequent landslide, leaving the narrow road completely blocked.

‘This is the last thing we need’ muttered Jess.

‘Only thirty minutes to wait, this always happen’ Omar said cheerfully.

I got out and walked along the wet and muddy road in the direction of the collapse, where a snow plough was already working to restore a flat and safe surface. All the excitement made me forget about any worries as I marvelled at the power of nature unleashed, which was particularly striking as the only fresh water we’d seen before in Morocco had been at the oasis.

The thirty minutes promised by Omar was actually two hours before we got beyond the obstruction and resumed our drive to Marrakech; we were soon passing a large reservoir, then heading past enormous snow peaks.

‘Richard Branson Virgin have hotel up there’ Omar informed us.

‘He seems to have property everywhere’ I replied.

‘Very nice hotel’ added Omar.

The road from the mountains into Marrakech was far pleasanter than the one we’d taken to Essaouira on our arrival, which had been almost like driving through a rubbish dump. This approach to the city was a much more orderly one of wide tree-lined avenues, though it was not without a number of construction projects, mostly featuring some kind of golf resort.

‘I take you right into medina, very near hotel.’

‘Thank you Omar, we’re exhausted.’

‘Mountains are beautiful, yes ?’

‘Very beautiful.’

Twenty-sixth

In York the police were now dealing with a suspected murder, they were absolutely clueless in the case of the missing University librarian, which implied they were failing substantially, but it was simply that there were no clues whatsoever. The strain on her family had become unbearable, there seemed to be no hope of any closure in the matter, and even closest relatives feared the worst. I couldn’t understand why the police had to use old-fashioned expressions like ‘come to harm’, why couldn’t they just use plain English and say she’d most likely been harmed by a man ?

In some ways it would have been a relief to find her body floating in the Ouse or Foss, yet there was always that glimmer of hope while no physical evidence was found. Despite TV appeals and some calls from the public hardly anything other than vague reports of suspicious-looking characters around the University emerged.

The students came back from yet another long holiday, and in all those thousands of young people there was nothing significant to help the official investigation. They were mostly concerned with getting on with academic life, which consisted of drinking, plenty of sex, sleeping into the afternoon, and the minimum amount of work.

Jess continued to take the whole thing very personally, as if she was somehow directly involved in the woman’s disappearance just because she worked on the campus. I had learned to limit any questions about her day to the most banal details only, struggling at times to maintain a cheerful and optimistic atmosphere.
‘I was attacked a few years ago’ she blurted out eventually.

‘What ?!’

‘Near the Central Hall.’

‘What do you mean ? Were you hurt ?’

‘I screamed and kicked so much he ran off.’

‘But isn’t it a busy area round there anyway ?’

‘Not at two in the morning.’

‘You were OK then ?’

‘Of course I bloody wasn’t’ she screamed.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t...’

‘I only had a few scratches, he probably came off worse, but you can’t just forget about something like that.’

‘Did you report it ?’

‘I did, but I’d had quite a bit to drink, and they didn’t take my story too seriously; I couldn’t give much of a description.’

She started crying, and I tried to comfort her, but she pulled away.

Nineteenth

It was a relief to escape back into the countryside on our taxi journey along the spectacular Atlantic coastline towards Agadir, and then we would turn inland to the ancient market town of Taroudannt. The police had dismissed the Aussie girl’s death as an unfortunate accident, but neither of us thought this was likely because we’d heard her talking about how she missed the beaches of Australia and all the swimming opportunities - if you could avoid sharks and other hazards.

The landscape we drove through to Taroudannt was inevitably very dry, though there was plenty of vegetation, notably the unique argan trees, that provide a very good home for many wild goats, along with their more traditional use – allowing many hard-working individuals to extract fragrant oil, used in cooking and health products.

Our driver was a bit more capable in the use of English than the one who’d taken us from Marrakech to Essaouira, though he did seem pre-occupied with the rising price of oil, and kept asking me for my solution to global energy problems. I said that perhaps more use could be made of all the sunshine in Morocco, surely a boundless energy source, but he was more interested in ways of obtaining cheap petrol.

Though much of our journey to Agadir was through deserted countryside with spectacular views to the ocean, we kept encountering the sinister police road blocks, which fortunately showed no interest in tourists – despite recent events. In a relatively poor country like Morocco death is much more apparent in everyday life; the ‘drowning’ of a traveller does generate quite a bit of interest, but naturally the local population are more concerned with how to put food in their mouths.

We stopped to photograph some goats nibbling leaves in the argan trees at the roadside, which provided a welcome distraction from all the stress of recent days. They were amazing climbers, getting quite high above the ground in search of the tastiest greenery. Some grubby kids demanded that we gave them some money for taking the pictures, and despite the fact Jess knew they had nothing to do with the animals, she gave them a few small notes.

‘It’s wonderful out here’ said Jess.

‘A great place to have a house, so long as you could get a reliable water supply.’

‘I haven’t seen a trickle of water in all the stream beds we’ve crossed.’

‘No rain in last few years’ our driver volunteered.

The millions of trees appeared to be thriving for the time being, and must have adapted to the harsh conditions over many thousands of years. Humans had also learnt to harvest these unique plants, like the many olives that are also gathered and used in a wide variety of ways.

‘I love you’ Jess said.

‘Where did that come from ?’

‘Do you love me ?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘Say it ! Please.’