Paulitko Accounts

Leaving Marrakesh

My trip to Toubkal began with a kidnapping, a red Citroen pulling up alongside me with demands to “Get in! Get in!”.

It was evening and I’d been waiting at the side of a packed dual carriageway outside Koutoubia Mosque for roughly 40 minutes, entertained by the MarioKart-made-real nature of the roads, some street photographers plying an impromptu trade for passers-by, the feathered plumes and ringing bells of horse-drawn carriages riding tourists around, a nice splash of natural sense amidst the motorcycle fumes and car horns. Calls to prayer and a pro-Palestine rally a short while down the street came into hearing at various stages as I refused endless offers from taxi’s, a shake of the head and wave of the hand translating that my own ride was on its way, presumably, as I had no mobile data or service to find out.

Until, exactly at the rendezvous point I’d been sent on Google Maps, the red car pulled up with a familiar face behind the wheel.

I was fortunate enough to meet Ihssane in Venezia Mestre, and as mentioned in my Venice piece, she is one of those most wonderfully special people you can meet on your travels and remains my go-to example for why one should be openly brave to meet new people in new places. She was my inspiration for coming to Morocco in the first place and had essentially created the idea of Toubkal (the same way a friend had created the idea of the Camino), the latest challenge to rise to which I’d been training for across the last 6 weeks. My time here would be made infinitely more special thanks to her, and I remain so grateful.

Although she did start it by yelling at me, and I did as I was bid, clambering into the car as fast as my overpacked rucksack would allow me. She was here with her older sister, Imane, the fun similarity that she was from a family of four daughters and I from a family of four sons. She drove the roads like a seasoned veteran, following many of the rules set out by Alice Morrisson in ‘Adventures in Morocco’; heavy with the horn, quick in the lane changes, indicators as much use as Christmas lights in the Muslim country, etc etc.

After some introductions, Ihssane pulled over in a quieter street to get out and give me the biggest hug. I’d been taking everything in my stride all week, but her welcome caught me off-guard in the best way. It reminded me of all the messaging and planning on and off since February, and how surreal it was to be in her company again. In her home country with her older sister, she seemed totally at ease and such a delightful ball of energy. Her smiles and laughter were so contagious, and her relationship with her sister would provide such an entertainment across the trip and make me think of my own brothers too, how I feel I’ve let them down over the last few years, not being there for them as often as I’d like to have been.

The drive was great for catching up, the distance covered quickly. As we got deeper into the mountains, the earthquake damage I’d seen in Marrakesh became ever more prevalent. Aid tents were still the homes of many families, most buildings showing some sign of cracks or damage, some entirely unliveable. Even out of winter the air had a cold bite to it, and in my first experience amongst a natural disaster, albeit half a year after the event, my mind born in the relative safe haven of Scotland struggled to comprehend what had transpired. I asked questions to the girls, and their responses indicated the hardiness of Moroccan people and how different their lives are from what I know. It is a safe place, but things happen, and they have to deal with it. Compare it to the carnage and inability of much of the UK to deal with a little snow… it’s an aspect that I’m yet to understand but I felt an assurance and realism across my time in the country.

The minutes led to a few hours on our way to the mountain town of Imlil, increasingly poor roads leading to some patchy calls to Mohammed, a guide whom Ihssane had trekked the mountain with before. I had my bag to rest on so had little complaint, even when it was discovered we’d went an hour in the wrong direction. When just outside the town, after some conversation of the threat, we were pulled over at a police checkpoint. They are frequent on the roads, usually sprung after tight corners equipped with their miniature triangle “STOP” signs, lights turned off and other general tricks to make their presence more inconspicuous. We hadn’t stopped in time, and that was a fine, on this occasion of 150 Dirham (£15) as these officers in particular are “good guys”. Some questions were asked of the ghurayb (foreigner) in the back seat, but many of us ghurayb travel to Toubkal.

Marrakesh and its surrounding areas have a heavy police presence and I found mostly reassurance from it as a tourist. My Arabic is zero and French limited to the first 3 lines of an Aristocats song and asking where I can find a bakery, so trying to explain at a later date the exact happenings of some kind of crime is far less preferable than the omnipresent bunch of hardy Moroccan men and women deterring it ever occurring in the first place. On this occasion though, it highlighted a bit too much control over the population for my taste, and the ruthless placement of the checkpoint to catch a car full of people on an innocent trip did irk me.  

Passports scanned and fine paid, we’d finally get into Imlil, picking up Mohammed and getting to our refuge for the night. Sleep would have been the most welcome, but Tagine was prepared along with tea, and amongst a room full of kittens, colourful cushions and old rifles, we ate and prepared a little for the following day before going to our rooms.

I showered to wash away the results of a 28°C Marrakesh and retired to bed for writing after pulling out all my warm weather clothes and preparing a not-quite-so-light-as-I’d-like rucksack for tomorrow. The alarm was set for 5 hours into the future, and I slept sound.

1^st Days Ascent

I woke up strong, got dressed and went outside to the terrace to stretch and meditate. The morning air was crisp, a patchy mist allowing the barest hints of the valley’s mountain peaks and ridges. The shadowy silhouettes of the mules we’d seen last night were now illuminated and moving around. Birds singing, a woodpecker at work somewhere. The kittens were asleep with their mother in a crook in the rock, cuddled together for warmth. I was itching to walk, the suspense throughout our breakfast growing hard to contain (a shout to the mouthwatering homemade peanut butter). Mohammed came in with the wonderful news that his wife had gone into labour expecting a baby girl, so of course, with a chorus of congratulations to accompany him, he was rushing off to see her and his brother would be taking us up instead.

Yassine is a very handsome, strong Amazigh of the mountains, born to the area and thus well suited. He has climbed Toubkal under all conditions, his favourite being during the winter with ice climbing and skiing. His smile is mischievous but well-hidden and I lost track of the number of tricks he played on me, an innocent looking face hiding his true intentions until after I’d stumbled into believing whatever it was he had told me. I don’t think I could have asked for a better guide, I really enjoyed his company and questioned him extensively, his “I don’t speak much English” typically making way for a decent grasp of it. He told me much of the mountain and area, remembering when Alice Morrison did her Toubkal to the Atlantic trek, or when a teenage boy fell from significant height. The unanswered question from her book as to if he’d survived was answered and by good grace: he had.

I was a supercar in launch control, such energy revving and roaring, being held back until finally released, half a kilometre of flat, dry riverbed an introduction before the gradient began. The plan generally is to trek one day to a mountain refuge, eat and sleep there, tackle the final ascent very early on the following morning and then leg it from the summit all the way back to the car before evening. The terrain was good for hiking with little scree and loose stone, mostly large rock or dirt path. I’ll not go into detail on how difficult it was for me to find a good pair of hay/tan coloured boots, for my own sanity as much as yours, but the ones I’d eventually obtained felt good too, my chocolate ankles given plenty support.

We talked plenty, my energy levels and enthusiasm invigorated by the old reliable sensation of putting one foot in front of the other. Ihssane told me how she is moving to Dubai for work at the start of July, an intriguing opportunity in one of the world’s most unique cities. My first instinct was a little selfish sadness, Dubai is further away and tougher to get to and I want to see her again, but it was quickly replaced with excitement for her and her opportunities, suddenly on the doorstep of Asia with new places for this wonderful person to experience. The idea was still pretty raw (she’d only found out a week prior) and I sensed a little hesitation, whether due to any actual doubt or just processing the news I wasn’t sure. I think she seemed happy though, and I learned of how difficult the job market in Morocco can be so this new challenge could open up many more doors for her. In truth, she can make anything she wishes a success. Her personality and soul, they radiate with life, and if her heart is set on something, I have every faith it’ll come to pass.

A giant white boulder acts as a shrine to the King of Spirits, who is said to have died in the 12^th century, leaving behind a daughter still alive today, aiding in witchcraft and teachings. Many exorcisms and animal sacrifices have been conducted amongst the tranquil cluster of houses.

I felt nothing however, only enjoyed the tea and the view as we stopped for a 15-minute rest. I aborted my usual ritual of washing my face in the fresh water I find just in time, after my engineering instincts thankfully kicked in and traced where the toilet flows to. I did miss beer, but the tea had really grown on me and it felt refreshing, despite its warm temperature. The scenery was astounding and shone great value onto the hard but honourable life of the local villagers. Everyone was working at something and amidst such natural beauty, I’d wager they are closer to the true and natural life of humans than I will ever be. I felt a touch of longing, to find such honest work and practise, in a tight community where everyone supports everyone.

I still felt no spiritual presence as we left, the biggest shock was learning that the pronunciation of my friend EE-SAN-EH was more correctly like EECH-SAN. Go figure.

The trekking continued, a mixture of solo-walking and chatting to my three companions. I felt strong, that I could walk for days and days, my training proving its worth. My Camino instincts were in full song, the action feeling so familiar and, better yet, reminding me that walking to travel is the closest I’ve ever come to finding my own true and natural purpose. The nomadic life brings alive my soul and widens the connections to my heart, the complexities of emotions and my place in the world falling into line on their own accord.

We made it to another village for lunch, where Yassine’s other brother had prepared us more Tagine and tea on arrival.

A common topic of slander from Moroccans, ‘take the P out of the French tourist’, was tacitly exacted out on a loud group entering after us. My usual defence of the country and its reputation was withheld, as the day prior had seen one French man begin to move the table from which I was eating on without a word to me, as he felt it was too close to his own. So, with apologies to my close friends Aldric and Mathias, I joined in.

Hunger satisfied and starting to feel the cold, the journey was again recontinued, the gradient steady but spread out over a long distance. The demographic between Ihssane and Imane was hilarious to watch, a beautiful relationship that had such love mixed in with the teasing. Imane was an absolute champion, her energy could drop but not her spirit, digging deep with a quiet smile on her face to keep taking step after step. She had the extra trial of beginning training during Ramadan and, similar to me, this would be her first time going to such height.

After time, Ihssane and I walked mostly alone together the final 20 minutes or so before the refuge. I loved that time with her, despite most contents of the conversation now belonging to the passing of time, and only the sensations remain in my memory. The thought kept coming back to me as we walked, I really like this girl. For all the reasons I’d mentioned in my Venice piece, still so prevalent, and now another side of her, full of silliness and fun energy to match. We took a photo under the beauty of blue skies, the landscape becoming increasingly lifeless but for a green pasture with grazing mules.

I felt delighted to be here with her, fully alert in that moment, the estimated 24 hours left before I’d be back in Marrakesh saying farewell, it was an age away.

The four of us congratulated each other as we reached the refuge, Les Mouflons, where Yassine sorted any final details before we were showed to our room. The bunks were spacious, I had the top one to myself (I’d fall off foolishly reaching down for my bag), and my rucksack that I’d been recommended to leave for the mule had also been delivered. In hindsight, I know I could’ve taken it up that distance. The trek was substantial, but I’d walked the width of Spain with that very rucksack weighing far more than it did this day. I suppose I wouldn’t have looked as glamorous as I did with the purple bag Ihssane lent me as replacement. The shower queue was a bit of a gladiator battle, many innocence-feigning hikers threatened to nip in front so you had to be quick to voice disapproval, something any single-file worshipping British person learns from a young age. A French woman ahead teamed up with me to make it a 2v1 on any occasion, so I had back-up. The refuge water supply flowed through a half-frozen mountain river above and did wonders for my muscles, the ice-cold water teasing out any niggles, resulting in an evenly tired but fresh feeling through my legs.

We came out to popcorn and tea, a surprisingly welcome snack. To my happiness and dismay, Ihssane brought out UNO, a game I love to play but am quite terrible at. The four of us were joined by another guide, who tended to win more games than not, whereas I found myself in the final two quite often as the others checked out one by one. Yassine spent much of the game playing before me and had an extraordinary knack for laying whatever card or colour I didn’t possess. The angles didn’t allow him to see my cards, unlike Ihssane who took cheeky glances at every opportunity, but I’d see the mischief in his eye and would know he was about to make my game that bit harder. It came to a 1v1 with Yassine on two occasions, the first an adrenaline fuelled affair where both players came so close to checking out on numerous occasions, until eventually he came out on top. The second time and last game of the night, I decided that I’d taken enough of a pounding from this guy, and that it was now time for revenge.

I’d secretly saved up some heavy hitting cards, ready for the moment I could unleash them, and after Imane checked-out, that moment was now. Fired up and determined, I attempted some mind games to make him lose focus, singing football songs and trying some light goading. I came to the last card on a few occasions, and I felt I had competitive edge but unfortunately, amongst all my shenanigans, I sort of forgot to concentrate myself as the game progressed. I tried a defensive approach first, then an offensive, then switched around again and essentially achieved neither, playing myself right into his hands and with that, the game was over. Perhaps I had picked up some bad Jinn in Chamharouch after all.

Dinner was more Tagine and a Harissa soup too. The calories were important, so I forced down more than my energy levels desired. I didn’t tire of the Tagine, despite having it often throughout my time in Morocco. It’s a hearty dish, served in thick clay pots, roasted vegetables atop of rice or couscous, still sizzling as its placed down, often with pieces of chicken at the centre, all seasoned and on one occasion, there were some caramelised onion too. Bread is used to scoop it in clumps to eat, making sure only to eat from the side closest to you, as any reaching over is traditionally seen as stealing from someone else’s portion.

After we got ready for sleep. Imane was in the room with me and I mentioned to her how incredible I think her sister is, innocently said but convicted in what I expressed. The sleepiness from the day stripped away filters, leaving the truth a little easier to just come out. When Imane then left and Ihssane came in, I tested my courage, despite my nerves. I knew I felt a connection with this person, knew it was a strong connection and I knew I wanted to further it, but with uncertainty over what is appropriate in Morocco, I was unsure on how to approach. The build-up is quite hazy now, and I doubt it was vintage Cassanova, but I ended up taking her hand and kissing it. It felt genuine, and a chance to gauge how she was feeling.

I think it took her a little by surprise but she didn’t seem put off, calling me sweet. I then asked if I could kiss her, my nerves giving way to just asking her straight. She considered for a second, and then said yes. It was short but so sweet, both kisses split up by a small smile, the noise from the rest of the refuge and imminent return of Imane ever-present. After pulling away, she talked a little more seriously, and when I took that opportunity to ask, she confirmed how the customs in Morocco are different, but that she personally believes people should have a level of respectful freedom.

We chatted and laughed a little more after, mucking around a bit before her sister came back in. I think I kept composure, but you’d better believe my little heart was singing inside.

I got ready for bed in the bathroom and then climbed up to write, to finally rest my legs and to consolidate the day.

In short, “holy freaking wow” was how I started my notes, at a bit of a loss to express it more professionally. The walk had been simply stunning, almost an entirely different biome than any I’d been in before. The locals and their mules, the villages, the mountains, the rock, the fact I was now higher than I’d ever been before. I was utterly disconnected from anything out-with these three people and the mountain, all sense of time gone, and I could feel the spirit of the Camino alive within me, the spirit that fits with my soul so perfectly. To then have had the opportunity to kiss this person, to explore that connection, before she goes to Dubai where I’d love to see her again but couldn’t be certain if I ever would. Then for all of this day to ultimately stem from saying hello to someone in a crappy, unsociable hostel in Venezia Mestre? The world is a magical place, if you’re open to receive it, and in what felt like typical Paul Campbell fashion, glorious hope had made it possible.

The Summit

Ouch.

We’d been warned of the difficulty to sleep with the refuge activity but I was able to achieve parallel to expectations, sleeping the two hours of noise between 23:00 and 01:00, then lying half-awake in the comparative silence until the 03:30 alarm went off. Beleaguered, my mindfulness kicked into action, making sure I prepared in all the healthy ways I needed to, washing my face, cleaning teeth, stretching, a meditation alongside some others completing morning prayers. Breakfast was again light, with eager anticipation to depart.

Stepping outside… enchanting.

Light flurries of snow were illuminated by our head torches amongst the pitch black of the night, surrounded by the phantom eyes of resting mules. The chill air dissipated the last of the cobwebs to leave a beaming smile as wide as my reddening face would allow. My soul shimmered again, vibrating at the joy felt.

We were very shortly caught up in a traffic jam, a large group having some difficulty crossing the river, and there was no other way around. Mountaineering public hate going at a pace that’s not their own, and it was sometimes a task to fend off impatience behind me, threatening to try overtakes when there was really just no room. It all stayed pleasant enough, but the stubbornness from the bickering Easter European group ahead of us not to pull to a side and let everyone pass had the potential to eventually see the communal patience collapse.

As if that could ruin my mood. I couldn’t care less if we were at a snail’s pace, it gave opportunity to enjoy the stars and chat to the people around me. A wonderful group of Norwegians that were behind for a while, who shared my positive outlook on it all and their guide, who found compliment that I couldn’t tell he was Moroccan due to his excellent English. A little later, we were trailed by some Czechs, a country I hold very close to my heart and have a decent knowledge of. It was all just sensational, and the dark and wild nature of the surroundings only enhanced the feeling of total isolation from the world until eventually, the black turned to shades of blue, and then bursting orange, setting alight the mountains opposite. Woops and cries were just tangible in the air from those crazy buggers that had departed hours before us, presumably witnessing the firing sunrise from the summit.

Not long after that photo, the altitude affects began to kick in. We’d passed a stricken teenager on our way up, the sickness having taken a real grasp of him, his face confused and ghostlike. Thus far I was fortunate, as I had been fearful of it, and the only measures I had to take were the occasional controlled breathing exercises if I felt a little short on breath.

The entire climb had been a viewpoint, but when we reached the top of the valley, my eyes burst from their sockets.

We were on islands above the clouds, the smallest of breaks giving some comprehension to the incomprehensible height this young Scotsman found himself. So many people, looking up and seeing cloud, seeing a ceiling to the sky, and we were above it. The peak was still up to our left, but this would be my favourite view. I went over to the edge, sharing pats on the back with the Norwegian guys who had arrived before, one with the excellent idea of taking a leak off the side of the Arab world.

Ihssane came bounding over, and we shared the wonder, sitting closely side by side in the sun. She looked stunning, and I felt that connection again. We kissed, and then just enjoyed the moment, drinking it in. Is it possible to be happier than that moment? Comparisons are futile things, they create more questions than answers, but I’d be lying if I said I could put many moments of my life above sitting on the edge of the mountain with that person.

Conscious not to lose too much body heat, we moved back to the others, her offer of “meshmish” met with boyish excitement, those little dried apricots were such a treat. The peak was quite deceiving on the final ascent, seemingly right there but coming closer agonisingly slowly. Another guide joined us with Moroccan music playing from a speaker in his bag, the energy to sing his own way up offering inspiration. Eventually, once in sight and calculated distance of the big metal triangle, I legged it like a loony. It was met with some disapproval from Yassine who shouted not to but, perhaps wrongly, I didn’t care. I wanted to finish in a blaze of glory. Slowing down just before the step, I climbed up to give the monument a quick tap, before walking back to re-join the team.

Comfortably lying on the rock, I opened my eyes to Ihssane moving over to rest her head on my stomach as we peacefully revelled in our achievement. And that, I tell you, is where I could have stayed for the rest of the day. Sheer and complete contentment, shared amongst this special team of people, even closer with this special individual. A hand on her shoulder, massaging it slightly, feeling the light weight of her head as I breathed deeply, the connection in the contact. I can fortunately still recall the sight; the bright sun shining on the view below, her pretty face tranquil, Imane resting to the right of us. Better yet was the hero Yassine, who while over with his fellow guides had the moment of grace to take a photo, which I wouldn’t know had been taken until the following day in Marrakesh.

Suddenly aware she was shivering, we rose to go and take our photos as I handed her my treasured Baja hoodie, Scottish roots meaning I was still pretty warm. This was super fun, the whoops and singing, everyone elated.

The success warranted the effort, and the photos were proof.

Then, it was time to descend, and God was I dreading it.

The Descent

I HATE going downhill. Hate, hate, hate it. Its tedious, an unrewarding progression and it’s sore on the joints spending half your time walking like Captain Jack Sparrow, slipping on the loose rocks. I never enjoy it, and as I was about to find out, it would utterly f**k me up.

The altitude effects were subtly noticed on the way up but aside from 60 second breathing exercises every once in a while as I walked, it had fairly little impact. On the descent however, perhaps due to the faster change with our quicker speed, it started to kick my ass all over the mountainside. A splitting headache required near constant effort to prevent from taking over while my core temperature simply lost the plot, the confusingly hot sun matched with the cold air meant I was stripping off layers in the cold and still feeling 100°C.

“Morocco is a cold country, heated by the sun”.

I remained able to socialise and it never became so bad that I felt I needed to stop, but it teetered on that edge. Underneath the struggle though, was determination. Everyone is more capable than their own minds will lead them to believe, and further quotes and excerpts from famed adventurer Ash Dykes sprang into mind as I struggled. Logic pointed to stop, and I would have had I really deteriorated but I trusted in my body, and wanted to push beyond the comfort limit my own mind was setting for me.

And I did. By hook or by crook, and with much under-the-breath cursing every time I slipped or a wave of dizziness caused me to rest against a rock, we all made it to the refuge once more. Too tired to feel triumphant, my only thought was of getting these damned clothes off and stepping into that ice cold shower I’d had yesterday. A mistaken hope it would turn out to be, as the mule was already off with the rucksacks, and we were to have a 20 minute break here before moving on again. So, in a dark, piss-stained cubicle, I painfully peeled off the layers, a process that took about 5-10 minutes. Concentrating was difficult and bending down caused further waves of dizziness and a little nausea but I re-dressed again, in as few layers as I could justify, seeing as it was still about 0°C out there.

The next step was getting my temperature down, so without the shower, I headed for the sink and began washing my face, head and neck. Nothing that came out of that tap could have been too cold, and I continued for five minutes, finding only joy in the jagged daggers of the water. It did help, although my condition still felt quite poor.

Unfortunately, this caused the rest of the descent to pass with patchy memory. I kept my spirits as high as I could, and did my best to socialise, although I’m sure I wasn’t at my happiest, most energetic self.

In a short time, we reached the same spot for lunch as before, and Yassine’s brother had prepared us more delicious tagine and tea, which was again consumed past what I felt I wanted to as certainly now, I could use with the energy. Ihssane also did her magic, finding a specific fizzy drink for me to try, bringing in energy and replacing some of what I’d sweated out over the last two days.

As we proceeded again, Imane and I took up the back of the pack. We had spoken throughout the walk but not very often alone, and I was happy to get to know her better. She was to be entering a new role at work in the next couple of weeks, and we related a lot about the trials of being the eldest sibling, especially growing up with the eccentric middle child. The two of us marvelled at her still buzzing energy, trotting alongside Yassine and jabbering away while occasionally checking in to make sure we were still okay. We talked of the lockdowns, of learning languages, other things. Her company was of great benefit and it helped bring me out of the remaining effects of the headache.

We heard a couple of shouts through the mist. Approaching, was the hawkeyed face of Mohammed, leading a new group to be taken over by an increasingly sorry looking Yassine, the thought of walking right back the way he came surely an energy sapping proposition, even for the experienced Atlas Mountains guide. Nevertheless, the cheeky smile reappeared on his face, and we said farewell and offered many thanks. I felt a lot of gratitude towards him, his unique personality had been integral to my experience, and although we avoid comparisons, it wouldn’t have been as it was without him. Perhaps with a lot more courage and experience, I’ll join him one day for one of his winter climbs.

Congratulations were offered to Mohammed and his wife, who’d had a successful and problem-free birth of their daughter. He asked about our ascent before the natural split happened, with him and the Duracell bunny taking the lead once more to guide us into Chamharouch, where I hopefully said good riddance to whatever anti-UNO Jinn I had picked up the day prior. Some tea was had indoors, where we discussed politics and visa issues, all the fun stuff of the world and a conversation that held immense value to me, in understanding the struggles faced by even the most hard-working and successful of young Moroccans when trying to enter other countries. The efforts to stem the tide of migration northwards has led to varying levels of prejudice and nonsense, where model citizens like these two were refused entry to the UK, despite the skills value and taxes they would provide to the flailing economy finding itself short on workers. I found it confusing, having lived on an extensively multi-cultural street in Edinburgh for three years, why two people such as this failed to even pass the preliminary checks and some of the individuals I’ve seen on that street had been given entry. For me; two young, strong, intelligent women with healthy ethics and an extensive skillset are exactly the category of people we should be encouraging to enter, to work with their unique experience in Scottish/British companies and pay tax as a result, firstly on a temporary basis but who could potentially even settle and remain with Scottish/British spouses and create Scottish/British families, whose children would have a connection to the outside world. The world is out there, whether we like it or not, and we can choose to embrace it and work with it by allowing the prospecting youth of other countries as much experience as they can gather, or we can try to go it alone, and restrict our own prospecting youth in the process.  

Suitably frustrated once more with the obstacles that Brexit has thrown into my life and the lives of others, the smell of the finish line grew stronger and stronger the further the path progressed. As the mist lifted, I sort of disconnected for the final stretch, the thought of the finish line and getting off my feet taking priority, although I tried to contribute to conversation the best I could as these were the final moments of an unforgettable trip.

Then, finally, the car. The dirham was counted up and distributed to Mohammed, while the packs were roughly crammed into the back. My boots once taken off steamed like a kettle at boil, so were stowed as airtight as possible while I washed my feet with wet wipes, hoping my mountaineering comrades wouldn’t have the stench of my sweat as the parting memory of me. As we drove off and began to gain height, I cast my mind back and realised that these were the same corners Ihssane had been tearing around in the pitch black less than 48 hours prior. If I had known the size of those cliffs… well, I’d have put my fate in her hands, the same way I did then.

The mountain road held staggering beauty, the villages a strange mixture of traditional life and other ghurayb preparing for their own ascent. It was a narrow and treacherous road, with potholes that I couldn’t help but notice our little red Citreon was struggling to handle. On one corner, three meteor craters were placed at perfect car width and as we lurched, I feared for the tires in the general way you do without really expecting trouble.

“Ding”, a warning light flashed up on the dashboard, to check the tire pressures. Certain we’d pull over to look, I undid my seatbelt only for Ihssane to carry on driving, confident it was nothing. I slowly put back on the seatbelt, as the driver has ultimate responsibility of course, while Imane also appeared keen to stop for a check too. I had my window open and listened to the noise of the car on the tarmac, perhaps sounding a little off as we drove along. The roads are always a little chaotic in Morocco, so when a motorcycle gave a long toot of its horn behind us, I didn’t pay too much attention however our car started to slow and then came to a stop.

We laughed, unsure how none of us had heard what surely would have been a substantial explosion and prayed the spare in the back would be in okay condition. It was, and we hauled it out to go change it over. I’d done it a few times with my father and twice by myself so felt pretty confident, until a large white van came rolling in front and a crew of local Amazigh blokes leapt out in their Djellaba’s. Literally lifted my legs as I lay on the road, I gave way to allow the local pit crew to switch over tires in rapid time, a little dismayed at the missed opportunity to do something ‘manly’, but also delighted as my body was ruthlessly cramping up whenever I lay down to turn the carjack. Moroccan hospitality – unrivalled.

The action knocked out any remaining effects of tiredness from the hike, and my mind became clear once more. The emotions I was feeling, how much I’d miss Morocco, my worry that I’d not see Ihssane again, they became coherent and straightforward as I gazed out the window:

It had happened.

By ‘it’, I mean the time spent, emotion felt, climb accomplished, scenes witnessed, laughs and smiles, even a kiss.

‘It’ had happened, and the temporary nature only makes it more special.

As this is the nature of travel, the most wonderful of events and connections can and will happen, but you are travelling, and eventually you will leave. Clinging to the sensation is not the answer, so let go with love and accept the truth, or else suffer.

Only then will I be open to the future and the limitless opportunities it presents, as it had done in bringing me here, and as it can do in making the wildest hopes become reality.

With that, an inner peace was found, and the barbecue and subsequent farewell outside a fuel station was simply enjoyed in its purest nature with my two companions, a final hug enjoyed with one of them most of all, with my heart singing and mind open.

Marrakesh (again)

Following the goodbyes, I hit some super busy streets as a Moroccan holiday had begun this Sunday and many natives had travelled to the city alongside the tourists. I was in need of an ATM, and navigated across the roads like a professional Moroccan, finding an even safer looking one than where I’d been aiming for. I withdrew more than enough for the hostel (the same one as before) and joined the throng of people. I realised I was heading for Jamaa el-Fnaa, the busiest square in the city and home of the cobra dancers, monkeys on the chains and other such delights. I’d skirted around before and had been put off. Tonight though, I felt far stronger mentally, and happily delved right in, deciding I wanted to lose my bargaining virginity and find a Raja Casablanca football shirt.

Tactfully selecting 300 Dirham into one pocket and an extra 100 into the other, I tried a few stalls with no luck but found far more politeness than the stereotype I had set for the place. Gaining confidence, I eventually found a kit that would fit me, the stated XXL size totally incorrect but it was an anniversary kit and a real stunner, with a laced front in between golden embroidery that stood out against the deep emerald. My plan sprang into action, his opening request asking how much I’d pay was answered with the 300 Dirham from my left pocket. Tutting, he came back with 650, far more than I’d even pay at home for an outdated kit. Ready, I enacted my riposte, the extra 100 came out the other pocket, pulling it inside out as I did so to indicate I had nothing more. Pursing his lips a little, he abated, placed the top into a bag and handed it over, his tone of voice changing as if to indicate some lack of approval, but I had my prize, and was a Jamaa virgin no longer.

I messed around a little more in the square, before marching back to the hostel, impressed my sense of direction was guiding me through the maze. I signed back in, telling Brahim a little of my travels. Many others were also signing in and it was to be far busier than what I’d seen on my first stay. I showered ASAP so as not to make too many enemies in my dorm before half-jogging up the stairs to write, despite the 28km walked today.

Completed, I did most of tomorrows tasks tonight in order to maximise sleeping time, set the alarm, and settled down for the last time on this trip to some well-earned rest.

Concluding

The frequency, or in-frequency, of consistent opportunities to write updates on the trek provided a real challenge while writing this piece, and far more of my erratic memory than usual has had to be relied upon. The updates are mostly scribbles in some tiny yellow books Ihssane bartered for in a shop on my behalf, where I kept the detail short but impactful enough so that, as is always the aim of my personal writing, I can feel the exact emotions through the word choice used. This is the reason, despite any level of tiredness or inconvenience, that I’ll stay up as late as required trying to recall every detail of every thought and experience throughout a trip, in order to re-live it all again in the future.

Leaving Morocco was extremely difficult, probably the toughest return I’ve ever had and even now, a month later, I’m still debating whether the time to explore more is in fact right now.

This led my thoughts to go to more serious matters, as before I talk of why I found it so hard to leave, I do certainly have my qualms here, and I stand by them.

Moroccan manners can be the epitome of politeness, where the average person will go far out of their way to show respect and make you feel welcome. My curiosity was given plenty without much searching, the people eager to offer insight and explanation in great detail on different parts of Moroccan life and history. The conversations were noticeably engaging and not simply to satisfy the tourist into moving on but invested in giving me the best experience possible.

However, simultaneous with the above, were instances of such stark contrast. The fake tours for example, one of which I allowed myself to be taken to as admittedly, I was curious on the consequences. I suppose that as I walked into the issue then I cannot really disparage but nevertheless, the ludicrous situation I then had to get out of, which I’ll put into detail in my Marrakesh piece, was disappointing, totally unnecessary, and ultimately frustrating as the same ones desperately trying to scam tourists for their money are creating the reputation that drives down their own business.

Or the man at the refuge desk, where it was 10Dirham to get some toilet paper. Nothing wrong with that, just they don’t give out change, and I only had 100Dirham. So rather than accept my offer of the note as a donation to the refuge, his solution was that I couldn’t have any toilet paper. That obviously wasn’t going to happen, it’s not like I could just hold it all the way up the mountain tomorrow and back down again, so I had to bicker with him and explain that no matter what, I’m away to take a dump in that toilet tonight, and I need paper. He eventually abated without accepting the money, with great attitude and reluctance, and while I could have felt triumphant of my victory, I mostly felt ridiculous that I’d had to fight so hard on the matter.

To then throw in the driving manners… it’s a huge contrast, perhaps indicating that alongside the high levels of Moroccan manners are equally high levels of Moroccan stubbornness to match it.

That was my main gripe as a literal negative, but there were other things I didn’t enjoy on a personal level.  

The Moroccan obsession with sugar?? It seemed out of control, cubes of the stuff tossed into the teas on a whim and in amongst meals and snacks. It felt inevitable. I wrote about it then, confident I was to return home and find a plethora of crazy facts on the subject, but I was wrong. While the country is quite high for sugar consumption per head, it is not a standout, at 41^st in the world list and with a big asterisk due to the huge volumes involved in Ramadan feasts and celebrations. It was still far too much for my taste, but clearly not so bad as I thought.

The inability to get a beer also sucked a bit. It sounds such a cliché thing for a European to moan about when going to a non-alcoholic country but it’s the truth. I like beer, and with the nature of the activities I was doing, I’m used to it being there. In Scotland, you go climb a Munro with your mates and when you reach the top, you tend to crack open a beer. Then you climb back down, and as a celebration, you all go for some more beers. It’s part of our culture, but not here, and with the tea in Morocco having been given the name ‘Berber Whisky’, it was almost teasing me. (The name was actually given in an effort to prevent the Moroccan population from turning to alcohol, a fun topic I encourage you to research).

A simple walk of the packed streets requires dodging countless motorcycles and extensive efforts to pull you into shops selling the same stuff as the one next door in a language that I will never have the capability (or patience) to learn.

A lot parallel to what I find ideal, and it would make sense for me to walk away thinking – “it’s nice, but not the place for me”.

But I didn’t want to leave.

As I progressed through the airport and sat there on the plane waiting for take-off, something was nagging at me, pulling at my attention. Something didn’t feel right about leaving Morocco. It wasn’t a negative, it’s not that I was reluctant about going back to work or upset that my trip was over. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go home. No, it was a positive thing. My heart wanted to stay. Strong instincts were telling me that there was something worthwhile for me here, something important.

I struggled to understand what I was feeling. I never find it difficult coming home, as I’ve always accomplished whatever I travelled for, and only by coming home can I bugger off again. Yet here I was, really wrestling with a pull that felt quite possibly strong enough to take me away from my current course. I struggled to make sense of it all, until after a very unsettled two weeks, it became clearer.

I believe I felt a door open right in front of me, right in the moments of that last day. A door that opened to reveal a visible pathway, a cross in the road, and I could choose to take that path. I wanted to take that path.

Once coming to that conclusion, I anticipated that the emotion would fade as I resettled but other than achieving full acceptance for where I am, the dilemma is far from resolved. As I felt on the plane, I cannot put my hand on my heart and say with conviction that remaining on my current course is worth more to me than going back to Morocco to try follow the path that so strongly appeared. My financial situation isn’t perfect but is strong enough to go. My relationship with my current job is deteriorating due to some important factors that don’t look like improving soon. My main focus and passion at the moment is for developing and practicing travel writing and one year on from the Camino, my instincts for freedom are as strong as ever. So why am I staying?

Honestly, I’m not 100% sure. My future plans are probably the most important anchor, as if I was to quit work and travel again, I would further postpone the opportunity to live in Madrid, a dream I feel set on achieving. Otherwise… fear?

I’m mostly taking it day by day, as it won’t take much to push me over the edge to go. I understand why I didn’t rush forward with the feeling and I forgive myself, as I feel responsible for my position at work and my personality is naturally more prone to calculated decisions than leaps of faith. Yet its my duty to myself not to shy away from the hard questions, and consistently check that I am using my finite time here in this world effectively, and as close as possible to my true way of living. Making mistakes is perfectly acceptable, but it is a tragedy if I hold myself back via simple negligence to live as I feel I should.  

It is with that dilemma that I end my Toubkal trip, at a crossroad where either path I take will bring me great happiness and success, I only need make the decision that only I can decide.