26
Aluredian
A
fter a late gathering out on
the front square at school,
we made the rather tedious
journey to Gatwick. We
arrived at the ungodly hour
of 1.30am, and the British
October temperature of 6°C was not short-lived
enough.
As we came in to land at Marrakech, a great
expanse of parched earth and the Atlas
Mountains in the distance stretched out before
my window, and a sudden sense of anxiety
came over me; this was not going to be a
normal holiday, but holidays never really are
normal are they?
We were then transferred to a hotel in the
middle of Marrakech. On the way I discovered
there was one basic rule of the road: if you see
a gap, go for it. The usual palaver of hygiene
and water sanitation was dealt with, along with
a quick brief of where we would be going over
a mint tea later that day.
The next morning we were driven, very fast, on
a dodgy road to a village in the mountains.
Oukaimden is a village like many in Morocco,
quiet almost sleepy - that is until tourists turn
up. As our bus convoy came through we were
joined by many mopeds and bikes carrying
people with armfuls of wares. So we piled out
and were immediately asked or berated in
some cases whether we wanted to buy
anything. I was able to resist easily because I
hadn't been able to change my travellers'
cheques. After the haggling, we ventured over
our first pass down to the gite in Tachdirt.
I would say at this point that all of our kit was
carted around by mules who, to my
amazement, were very fast at getting from A to
B. In hindsight, when you are used to the
breathtaking view, and your owners are getting
paid to get on with it, then it would probably
be in your best interest to do so.
The next day we went up a very steep hill
which made you gasp for air where there
wasn't any, climbed down the other side and
set up camp in a valley with green fields in it.
It was the first time in my life when I felt in a
true wilderness.
The day after we had the luck of the British: in
Africa when it rains it pours, and continued to
pour for some while. Morale went downhill.
We continued to climb uphill. Thankfully the
rain cleared for the trek over the pass, and
returned just as we entered a village in the
valley below.
Fortunately in the morning the temperature
returned to the far preferable 30°C, and the
usual puffing and blowing from me returned as
well. The geographers, geologists and all those
who love rocks will have been able to tell us
that we were walking in a moraine or
something. We lunched next to a lake, the
only lake in the Atlas. There were certainly far
worse places to eat.
Our fortunes took a turn for the worse or the
hilarious, depending on which way you look at
it; during that day and overnight, some of us
were quite ill. The, eh, 'man' of the trip, 1st
XV rugby captain Henry Close, was so ill he
had to travel up the hardest climb of the trip
(some 1300m) on the back of a mule.
Coincidence or what?
That night in the Nelter Refuge we were told
that we were going to be climbing the highest
mountain in North Africa starting at 4.30 the
next morning.
Unfortunately, when we got up the next
morning, there was too much snow to attempt
a climb of Mount Toubkal, so instead we went
to our final gite in the Atlas. No sooner were
Morocco
by Guy
Morris