( Continuation)

Stage One.

Firstly, the chair must to be adjusted height wise. Then its swivel ability tested, and its headrest position set all in order to show off the quality of the chair. Once seated, it’s run the hand throughout your hair to test for authenticity. This is a habit common to all hairdressers, developed over years of clipping. All accompanied by a mirror smile that any North American scalping Indian would be proud of. Before you can respond to the smile with a look of scepticism the drawer fumbling starts. One pair of scissors after another then appears from a drawer or a pocket snipping with increasing anticipation. All to no avail as the one on the basin in front of your mirror is always selected.

Strong fingers from years of snipping are now stuffing a not so clean seen better day’s towel down the back of your neck to the discomfort of your Adam’s apple.

Your hand by this time as if in a puppet show had popped out from under the cover that has got a quick flapping to remove any clingons. Your index finger is waving from side to side while your other hand strokes your chin to point out that a shave is all that is required not a scalping.   This move is met by a lifting of the shoulders.

The favourite scissors are pocketed, and the cutthroat opened with a flick that makes you wonder if a haircut is not such a bad idea after all.

Stage two.

The fact that only a shave is on the cards, puts you at the mercy of whether it is a good day’s business or a bad day’s business. Don’t fear, hold your nerve, what happens next tells you whether it is time to run or stay. After the face preparation and a detailed examination of chin bristle strength if you are still sitting by this stage I doubt if a free trip to Mecca can save you. Standing directly behind you with his face imagery held out of mirror visualization the elasticity of your face muscles are now tested for slackness. In an upward motion using both hands and anything up to six fingers, your face goes through an audition for Coco the clown. The smoothness or harshness of the finger pressure tells you whether it’s a skin graft or not.

Too Late,

Depending on the bristle intensity the first lathering is sometimes preceded by a smearing of Nivea Cream usually worked into the face while he looks out the door.   A blob of Palmolive shaving cream is then squeezed from its tube in equal length straight on each cheekbone. This is then worked into lather with a shaving brush last seen on the back pages of Life Magazine when Palmolive and Brylcream were all the rage. You are well advised to keep your trap shut during this stage and your mind off your Adam’s apple.

Now is the time to close your eyes and enjoy the ballet of the blade that glides in time to a set of skidding fingers. Travelling to a formation known only to the shaver in seven to five gliding sweeps with one or two times out for a quick wipe on the back of the non cutting hand the performance halts. Three further smaller blobs on any bristling that escaped the blade ballet and it’s all but over. Some alcohol: a quick wet and dry rub, and its out with that scissors again.   Before you have had time to get a wink/blink in there is a snip up each nostril. If you don’t want your ears to produce African bush in a few years time now is time to stand up.

Returning to the hotel I could feel the breath of a camel in Timbuktu on my face.

After thirty kilometres in the wrong direction, a goal on the radio by Gascoigne in the world cup, we arrive in the white town of Essaouira. Set behind its grey ramparts and blue window shutters   Essaouira a tourist trap full of wooden carved boxes welcome us.

No camping to be had, so we check into Hôtel du Tourisme: a large old building, with enormous bed rooms that vibrate to the throbbing of a central wobbling overhead fan. The hotel has a flat roof looking south down Essaouira beach. At sixty five dirham, it is cheap and cheerful, providing for an extra five dirham a night guard for Williwaw: We check in.

Taking a walk down the main drag we stop at a café for a beer. Low and behold who turns up but our American professor from Marrakesh? She is on honeymoon with her hardnosed daughter and Abdul who is still smitten by the prospects of a USA visa. The poor bastard tells us he has never seen the sea or ridden a bus. Boy is he going to like the US of A.

Over saunters Kev: who else. After dinner we leave Kev with mother America. If mother America is confused, wait until Kev gets a leg over and turns up in the USA in a few months time. True to form Kevin does not take long to announce that his travelling companion Jez is in bed with some new lover in Essaouira. We decide to retire between our musty sheets, glad to escape any further injections of the soap opera which I am sure we will get blow by blow in the morning.

A grey morning mist rolls up over the ramparts: a grey looking Kev surfaces.   Mrs Idaho got the best out of him after all.   We are spared any grizzly details by Florence’s insistence that he had promised her that he would bring her to the beach to build an Arabian sandcastle.

Kev is the remnants of the classical independent traveller from the early sixties. He could never be described as a modern day backpacker, no six inch laced up rubber soled walking shoes, no maps, no shorts, no sunglasses, no backpack. His G.P.S. is housed between his eyes and ears. No sun block, no high energy bars, no hat, no camera, no pen, no address book, no address, no inhibitions, no been there done that. He is a thinker, a taker, a giver, a talker, a lover, a wrecker, a smoker, a drinker, a song writer, a loner, a musicologist, a man, a boy, a friend for life on his terms.

Watching him in his faded blue wrap around and his new toe crunching Moroccan leather slippers cross over Othello’s park with Florence skipping beside him with   bucket and spade in hand I wonder if he is my umbilical cord to Europe; once cut the trap door to Africa will open.

Some hours later just before the sandcastle walls are surrounded by the ripples of the incoming tide, I join them. Kev has built a version of the Bastion of Essaouira in classical Portuguese architecture. He is fully recovered and is now Florence’s hero.

A Bay Watch charge into the surf leaves me limping badly so I pop back to the Hotel with a promise that we will meet up at the beach bar for a lunchtime G and T.   By the time I return Fanny and Florence are in siesta mode so they return to the hotel. I had forgotten that Kev had arranged for the local kif merchant to pay us a visit in the bar with a view to sampling some of the local wacky tobacco.

The bar is a rundown sea front shelter with a box freezer. According to Kev (who has played with the best of them) along this beach which is over ten km long Jimi Hendrix wrote Castles in the Sand.   Out one of the bars open air windows on a pitch under pressure of the encroaching sea a barefooted football match is in progress with ball control on display that any football coach would die for.

Kev’s Jim Hendrix shows up. I don’t get good vibes. Admiring Kev’s new babouches he picks one up to sing its praises: the genuine article and all that stuff. The quickness of the hand deceives the eye. Kev’s contact who has being scrutinizing the shoes with more than a passing interest introduces himself with a hand shake. Picking up the shoe I spot him palming a small packet into the toe. It’s a set up: A plant. Caught in the act he takes flight with a torrent of choice f…   words. Colliding with his incoming partner, he receives a kick that would have sent him into outer space if Kev had being wearing a set of Michelin X hiking shoes.

That night for the locals on top of the town centres turned off water fount, an unrehearsed version of the human clock written by Kevin is performed to mark our departure.

Fanny drives around cape Rhir to Agadir; a dump even in Moroccan terms.   We push on, past a recommended campsite to Tiznit where we check into Hôtel de Atlas. Here in small barbershop I get the best cutthroat shave to date from a twelve-year-old blind boy. An act of faith.

Williwaw greets me in the morning with yet another flat. The girls go shopping as I change the wheel and go in search of a puncture repair outfit. Puncture repairs, as in other parts of the world, is an art form in Africa involving beating with various iron bars and lump hammers the Bejeysus out of the tyre, and the hub.

Normally done by a bloke with bulging, shining, rippling shoulders and Swartzeneger arm muscles how somehow or other avoids belting his toes, or getting hit on the head by the odd rebound.   His assistant is usually a youth of slender build that has evolved hands and arms capable of taking surges of tingle shocks beyond the imagination of any pneumatic drill operator. The most popular technique is for the iron bar to be held in position by Mr Frail while Mr Atlas pounds around the rim of the hub to break the tyre seal. Once achieved usually in ten to minutes Master Frail is handed the tube to Mr Frail to locate the puncture at which point Mr Atlas settles down for a smoke.

At this point you become a divided man.

There is a need to keep a watchful eye on your tube, which is disappearing indoors and also on your tools which have a habit of going walk about. The temptation to swap the tube for a look alike or remove its valve for a made in Korea valve or create a second incision is very strong.

One way or the other you can rest assured that Mr Atlas will make shit out of the tube and he will tighten the wheel bolts to the point of re-threading. If you have by any chance rubbed him up the wrong way you will wait till the cows come home for the job to be done.

Checking out of Hôtel de Atlas, we make it as far as Sidi Ifni. This is where the green stops on the map.   Even Fanny realises from the yellowish colour (which covers from here to Egypt and down to Sénégal without a speck of blueto be seen other than the Med/Atlantic)) is where the rain evaporates before it hits the ground. She is reassured, however, by a red line on the map down the coast to La Gouira.

We stop in Sidi Ifni because it has a modern pharmaceutical institution called a Chemist.   Three small dark spots on the sole of Florence’s foot are causing some concern. They are quickly identified by a set of quicksilver Arab eyes as Irish verucas.

Next store to the chemist over a mint tea Fanny develops spots in front of her eyes.   Looking into the whirlpool of her sunglass, she is in a daze of bottomless after burn. Stirring the mountain of sugar in the bottom of her glass to ever-increasing high’s of sweetness she is entranced and entrapped by the sapphire quality of the Chemist penetrating eyes. By the time she rejoins us we have rejoined the red route at Guelmin, squashed a silent snake, and stopped for lunch.

Pitch: number twenty one is in a cornfield that has no difficulty in complying with our map colour of waterless yellow. It’s time to start our malaria tablets, to wear strong impregnable shoes, and to get into the habit of shaking out our sleeping bags in case there is a visiting scorpion other than Fanny. In the morning it will be the Western Sahara, but not before a going over by the Morocco police.

Who is your mother? What is your Father’s name? Where have you come from? The womb: Where are you going to? Mars. How many people are you? It is for your own security. Have you any whisky? A Taxi arrives, out get two Belgians; they have had all their money stolen in Laâyoune, and can’t wait to get home.

You’re; Irish, your wife English. I will take your photo is front of our welcoming camel sign, says our policeman who is embarrassed by our Belgian friends predicament. Click, “you are free to enter the Sahara,” he says. The photo has an unnerving effect leaving us with a “Terra Deserta never to be seen again” feeling. A feeling powerfully enforced by fact the neither of our Bibles mention this part of the world, and the red line has come to a sudden stop.

( To be continued in the Western Sahara which is just as dry as the donations.)

R Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting Code: 98-50-10

( SO WHERE WERE WE, STILL ZERO DONATIONS)

Home: from home.

Leaving Fez we start the climb to Sefrou. Florence suffers from a bout of the tajine stomach, thanks to cumin in water it is cured.   — Pitching camp that night I half expect to hear, from behind the distant slopes, the heart beat of Fez the Kairouyine mosque: never to be visited by us ‘The Unclean’ only to be heard. It has howled from deep within Fez walls since AD 857. Instead a shy shepherd spots our camp fire. He circles at a safe distance under the stars, the stars, the stars.   We have found the High Atlas at long last.

Leaving early morning long before our shepherd could muster enough courage to come and visit, we relish the sharp crispness of the early morning dry air.   Passing through Midelt, by late afternoon we have once again opted for a lunar surface camp site. It is so windswept every stone stands proud on its own pillar of earthenware red soil. Tufts of yellow-brown grass forming island after island as far as the eye can see.   Pitch: number seventeen.

The town of Rich is some ten kilometres down the road, so tomorrow we should be entering the Gorges du Ziz. This time our nomadic night neighbour disappears in the darkness with his flock of sheep and goats. A camp fire away in the distance marks his rest spot. Across the mile or so that separates our fires I can feel him looking in our direction. Not for long. Our fire attracts the magnificent seven from the nearest village.

A well-mannered bunch of kids all introduced themselves and as quick as they could, sit next to Florence for a game of dominoes.

Each dominoes game of the journey is allocated a name. Tonight’s game, ‘At Last the mountains’ is named by Florence. We are utterly disarmed by Florence’s ease with the new arrivals in the passion of the game. There is something utterly captivating in watching the circled of happiness, the banter, the smiles and frowns. We are beaten hands down. By the time we hit the sack it is late.

6.30 am the first of Florence’s’ new found friends is silhouetted against the rising dawn.   He is standing on the bank of a dry river into which Fanny has just disappeared to appease the call of nature.   Fanny gives him ‘the bums rush’ to no avail. Florence’s turn at mooning has the rest of the gang arriving rubbing the sleep from their eyes to get a better look. All are given a ride back on the bonnet’s spare tyre, on the doors steps, on the rear ladder, to their village Tehj : after braking camp.   Two twenty litre water cans are filling from the deep village well with some directions we miss the Ziz Gorge by miles, circumnavigating Er-Rachidia and end up doing the Todra Gorges back to front.

We do not have GPS.   It is worthless without the co-related maps. Without the way points, there is little point in knowing that you are in a canyon some eleven thousand feet up in the Atlas Haut. Rest assured, it is much simpler and a lot more fun to use, ‘Excuse me, is this the way to Paris?   Naam, iyeh, Naam, iyeh, yes, yes, come and have dinner, tea, Burbon.

Engaging differential, we leave the real road, eventually arriving in Amellago which is not marked on Michelin 953.

Is this the way to? Get’s a sorry, a Berber Whiskey perhaps. No thanks, we must push on. Can we get through?   ( Photo no   )   Frantic nodding confirms it’s a yes.

Nosing Williwaw into the waters of a healthy shrinking riverbed, we tack up the canyon floor. Smooth high-water marks on the rock banks confirm according to Fanny, (who is tracing a blue line on the map that denotes the Doura river,) that any downpour will see us disappearing into the sands of the Sahara. Happily there are no clouds to be seen. I am enjoying the power of Williwaw which is pushing a small bow wave up river in search of a single dirt track. Its unwieldy form can be seen hugging the course of the river cut into the canyon side.

Reaching the track the waters of the canyon are now compressed between its high rock walls far below us. In soda fountains of splashing, bubbling, jumping white water the reddish rock walls reflect in our wing mirrors. A shimmering pool looks too inviting to pass.   We stop for a High Atlas Jacuzzi.

Our next village is announced by welcoming kids, and Fanny’s shouting ‘get off ‘get the fuck off ‘.   This time the wing mirror divulges a collection of dust-covered faces all in keen competition for the back ladder of Williwaw. Around a sharp steep corner, the village emerges from its rocky landscape.   Gradually revealed against the backdrop of rock in a vale of green from its surrounding fields with the odd tree all is tucked into a small valley.   Red cactus flowers from the ramparts to the village. We stop for a mint tea. “Please come and have tea in our home.” “Thanks we will.” Down between mud baked walls, we enter a long room. Sitting Apache style we meet Moha Ousri and all his family.

Some hours later after a genuine home cooked couscous, we have put the wrongs of the world right, in English, Berber, Irish, French, Arabic, Sign Language, Body Language, with the odd Holl’a, from Moha.

Moha has a degree in history and geography. He is twenty-nine years of age, but cannot marry until he gets work. We are presented with a pair of leather sandals. Exchanging addresses we depart with a glowing feeling of goodwill, and their reassurance that Williwaw will have no trouble in getting up over the mountain pass.

What a drive –   blue ribbon stuff with every now and then just enough roof clearance to pass under rock overhangs we cross and drive up riverbeds,. (See DVD Photo no )   Passing villages named Amellago, Imiter, that have not been seen by many Moroccans never mind us the lost intrepid adventurer we eventually arrive in Assoul a mud-baked town nestling deep in the fold of the high Atlas.

A few bottles of, “it get’s everywhere in the world” Coke which is drunk in full admiration for Williwaws abilities, we arrive at a wonderful site for pitch: number eighteen. A naturally eroded quarry cut out by a river during some of its more violent times now a gently meandering stream. Across the river, a square mud farm-house is set into the hill-side in contradiction to all that ensnared it.

In the fading light, our dirt road rises to a hilltop concealing the bare uninhabited swelling landscape beyond.   Perhaps the deep silent wonders of the Sahara are on the other side.

Pulling into the protection of the cliff walls of the quarry its floor is sandy and smooth visibly used by the farmer across the water to thrash his wheat upon. The first sunset croak warned me not to pitch too near the stream. I walk across the river to check if we are welcome to stay the night.

Following a small path up to the house I cross another gurgling spring. Taking a mental note to fill our water cans, I approach the house from the rear.

It is a flat roof one-storey square structure encircling an open middle courtyard into which the farmer’s animals are placed for the night.

There are no windows visible other than a small solitary window on the entrance side indicating the living room quarters.

Berber architecture is simple and functional and somewhat different from the mainstream architecture of Islam. It concretes on the use of the materials that are to hand – mud, earth, stone, and wood beams without the over the extravagance of symbolising and arches which adorn the Gateways, Minarets, Mosques, Medersat.

I speak to a young woman who is tending a small fire on the floor just inside the main door. There is no hope of any communication.   On leaving, I spot on the opposite side of the river, a mule approaching with two bundles of wheat balanced across its back in a pannier. By the time I arrive back we are invited to partake in tea/dinner and to meet the wife the woman I had just endeavoured to communicate with.

An hour later sitting cross-legged on the only piece of carpet it is tricky in the murky light to make out our host’s features.   There is also no sign of his wife in the flickering light shadows of his gaslight. Conversation is limited and I get the strong feeling that our host is not the most trustworthy of Arabs. Fanny has also picked up on the same feeling.   Etiquette requires that we stay at least for the tea which he is preparing beside us. Saturated in sweetness it is served in nauseating small chipped glasses. Florence is visibly turning a whiter shade of pale, with her glass of warm goat’s milk.

Half an hour passes. Etiquette or no etiquette the girls flee under the cloak of putting Florence to bed. With both of them assuring me that the river crossing is no bother to either of them.   They disappear into the night.   Through the small window, I watch their progress by the yellow beam of their torches: Picking out every sound, movement and shadow until it reaches the inner glow of the tent.

While thinking about which hand I should be using, the right or the left dinner arrives. Everything is fine until I swallow some unknown gristle which is followed by some hot unleavened bread dipped in some unseen vegetable sweet- and- sour mixture. A polite Adam’s apple swallow on my part signals course two brought in by his wife.

She does not join us to eat only entering the room on being summoned by a call from the husband. Her female aroma marks her attendance. She moves with a silence to match the darkness from which she emerges. Covered from head to toe, her headdress dowses her eyes too small silver discs that dance in the light of the gas lamp every time she bends down to take a dish away.

Some hours after the girls, I finally make my escape, Shoukran -Shoukran, thank you, thank you, ciggretts, cigarettes, tomorrow.   Stepping out into Mother Nature the last sweet-and-sour dish has me by the short and hairies. Sitting at the door a suckling sound reveals a young woman’s firm breast hard at work. The old sod has a child. There is no point in trying to express any thanks for the meal, as she does not look up from her child completely ignoring my existence.

A river douching to the laughter of the High Atlas toads and frogs brigade cleans my pallet.   Sleep is a blessing from high.

We decide to stay put for another day. Some maintenance to Williwaw is required. It is also time to fix our outside Jerry can brackets under our back windows. Two cans on either side which will remove eighty litres of fuel off the roof rack.

(Top Tip: The idea of the brackets is good as it redistributes the weight off the roof making the vehicle a lot more stable.)

Changing yet another slow puncture I curse my stupidity for not having invested in a good set of tyres. It is one of the mistakes I could have avoided.   Williwaw has her original six Avon Rangers which I should have cashed in for six Michelin xxx, or six Bridgestone.   (Top TIP: Invest in a good set of Tyres.)

Every move is watched from afar by our host who is getting his mule ready for the day’s works. All the activity leads to a complete repack one of my pet hates.   Even thought Williwaws interior space is not vast you would be surprised at the amount of gear, the equipment it contains. Re-packs can take up to two hours with the inevitable arguments as to where to put the shampoo.

It is not long before our host ventures over to have a look. Our initial feelings of the need to keep a weather eye on him are not wrong. I watched him note every item that is waiting to be repacked.   I am now more than certain that the thieving little bastard could not be trusted.   In some strange way, he seemed to be standing outside himself. Sleazy, untrustworthy, slit your throat, smiling gold teeth, with a set of shifty eyes, and a grasshopper brain, our Arab is straight out of a Dan Dare comic. Not a Sister Concepta, and that’s for sure.

He helps himself to a packet of fags and disappears in the direction of the gurgling water. With the sun barely over the yard-arm – he is back with his brother, an accountant who has come up to help him with the harvest. The brother is a soft-spoken gentleman.

I am winding down from the repack when all of a sudden there is explosion of sound. Sleaze has put Florence on the back of his mule.   In a nightmare flash of a paralysed child sitting in a wheelchair brain-dead, I am frozen to the ground. The mule has bolted. All that is stopping it from doing a Houdini is a shoddy piece of rope.   Sleaze bucket is holding onto it for his dear life.   Florence God bless her cotton socks is also holding on for dear life.

Fortune smiles on us. I unfreeze, charge over I manage to grab her free of the mule.   She is stunned and badly bruised up her back from one of the metal baskets. Dazed but unharmed Florence takes an instant dislike of mules which I think will last her for the rest of her life. Even sleaze-bucket looks relieved.

That evening a distant rumble promises rain. Rain it did.

Morning arrives with tea at eleven; fresh-baked level bread, a bag of sugar cones in retribution for the mule antics, and a few photos. Fanny takes the wheel of Williwaw for some off-piste driving. We slowly leave behind rippled majestic mountains that begin to show off their lower slopes dressed in a hue of late spring colours of browns and reds.   Bathing in splashes of gold and green the river is now necklace by intense farming of wheat, corn, mint, scallions and fruit. The small fields forming a patchwork quilt, locked within their Ancestral masters, the High Atlas.

The skies darken. Every outstretched hand for a stilo, bon-bon, or dirham is not satisfied.

We arrive at Tidrine which sports two buildings totally out of character with the rest of the village. In amongst the flat mud baked roofs that stand in tiers of pale flecked browns, a wailing tower in the process of being built – it sticks out like fresh icing on a cake. The other building is a small hotel. Built-in cement and painted white and green with large Bedouin tents attached to its sides it looks like something that has forced itself out of the ground.

We stop for tea. To Fanny’s disappointment and later rage I turned down an offer from the owner of the café to camp in the car park. Fanny from her side of the sexual fence is still suffering from the need for security.   She has not yet quite settled mind wise into the beauty of camping in the wild. God knows how she is going to handle deeper dark Africa where there is no need for car parks. For me, the mountains win every time against a car park.   Four kilometres further down the road, she is sitting in the cab of Williwaw blowing up our air beds.   The skies have opened and all those children that did not get a stilo, pen, or bon-bon, are crying.

Pitch: number nineteen is very wet, windy and cold. It is not a night to remember with me digging trenches around the tent during the night to keep us from being swept away.

Five am: Florence has wet her sleeping bag. Can’t blame her, the storm is extremely violent.   A major swap around for sleeping positions is undertaken.     Florence is once more secure and warm and sound asleep.   Early morning, the extent of the downpour is visible for all to see. Thank God we had not camped near the river. Looking down from our high pitch, serious grey roller coasters of water are rushing down the river in a headlong mad rush to get to the Sahara.   Our campsite has been turned into a smooth mud quagmire. The night trenches are now deep wounds full of water hammering their way down to join the roaring waters below us. I have the twitters, and according to Fanny, Florence a slight touch of cystitis.   We dry out in a gentle warming breeze.

Another attack of the twitters brought on by hot toast and tea has me observing a colony of ants repairing the night’s damage to their nest. My high open-air loo looks out over the valley floor into a set of folding mountains out of which a black moving speck start to grow bigger, and bigger.   Passing in silence away below me he (the speck) is swallowed by the folds of the landscape for the fifth time to the cry from Florence in the tent,   ‘I found Wally.’

All is dry as we pass through Tamtattouchte. The track is littered with rocks where the river has burst its banks. There are sections of the track/road washed away together with the odd mud house returned to the soil.   We are having some trepidation as to what lies in front of us – The Gorge of Todra.   The river water changes colour as if caught in a kaleidoscope of soils.   We have been told that road through the Gorge is narrow and dangerous especially after a downpour.

The gorge follows the river Todra between walls over nine hundred and eighty feet high (300 meters) and sixty odd feet wide in places, (10 meters).

Fanny earmarks Marrakesh on the map, but the S bends have other destinations on their mind, some of which take your breath away. A meeting with a truck that sideswipes us while trying to squeezing past gives us a heart- stopping adrenalin moment – otherwise, it causes little damage.   We finally pull in safely at the point of tourist bus penetration into the Gorge Hotel – Yasmina, and Hotel Les Roches.

From here on in it is downhill all the way to Tinerhir, and then on to Boulemane du Dadès, El Kelaa M’ Gouna in the Dadès Valley. The skies have once again opened but even as the mountains bleed into the rivers we don’t care. The road is asphalt.

Around and before every turn and twist of the road the Geology or as it is now called the earth science of Morocco is on sale in all colours of the rainbow mile and miles of it. The Atlas Mountains are made from sweets says Florence. With only one investigation of a sound that turned out to be a zipper flapping in the wind, we eventually reach pitch: number twenty. We all put in a rock solid restful night.

After a good breakfast, on we go to Ouarzazate. Here we stop outside the five-star Berber Hotel called the Berber.   On entering, I enquired as to the rate of a double room. The receptionist looks at me in disbelief, an unshaven, oil-smeared, porcelain mud statue smelling like a polecat I am far from her ideal potential resident.   We settled for a coffee a handful of soft toilet rolls, and a long rest in the lobby.

Ouarzazate is on the way to Aït Benhaddou that has one of the best preserved kasbahs in the whole of the Atlas region. Footage of Lawrence of Arabia and Jesus of Nazareth was shot here. Whether UNESCO classified it as one more cultural treasures of the world before or after Hollywood had finished with it, I don’t know.

What I do know is that it was Hollywood who built the main gate to the town. Set on a hill with high fortified walls fronting onto a river called Mellah (salt) it is a David Lean setting well worth a visit.

The river is normally dry as a bone, but today after the rains it requires a camel crossing much to Florence’s horror. In her eyes after her narrow escape, all camels are Berber mules, whether they are buff coloured or just plain brown, one hump or two.   With large quantities of TLC, I get her aboard the ship of the desert. Lurching forwards and backwards and upwards, I swear to Flo that it is not in bucking mode and that it is only getting to its feet. Arriving on the opposite bank I hold her tight for the slow-motion whiplash dismount.

Looking up at Aït Benhaddou with its mud granaries standing at different heights behind its large theatrical entrance gate, is what can only be called a surreal experience, perhaps the more so because of its contamination with Hollywood. I cannot stop myself from looking for a sign pointing to Timbuktu, or a kneeling Charles Atlas holding the world on this back.

The Atlas Mountains themselves are named by the ancient Greeks, after a legendary Giant who did much the same as Charles Atlas.

Before facing the camel ride back which required a promise of a necklace from one of the many hard tourist hassle shops that eagerly awaiting our return we spend some time reliving Lawrence of Arabia, with the village’s five inhabitants.

Arriving back safe and sound Florence puts her new-found trading skills to the test. The necklace procured a young Lawrence hitches a lift back to Ouarzazate on Williwaws doorstep. (Thirty odd kilometres back up the dusty road) Why he preferred to hang on outside in the dust I can only put down to his desire to be in ‘Lawrence Rides Again’. Outside Ouarzazate, we turn right to continue our descent of the Lower Atlas to Marrakesh. He dismounts looking just right for the part.

Williwaw has other ideas about reaching Marrakesh. On one the many glorious scenic windswept bends the handbrake seizes. She screeches to a halt. It’s out with the breakdown triangles, stick a rock or two under the wheels and wait.   The first car to arrive is a group of young tourists who agree to bring Fanny and Flo down to the nearest town to look for a mechanic. By the time the next car stops, I am no mood for Arab humour. He has a good look, makes a gesture towards Allah and leaves.

I try driving Williwaw to see if the drum would release itself, no way Josephine.   Now it is scalding hot, but hey presto a flash of genius. I fill a pot with our kitchen basket with cold water, pour it onto the drum, and hit it a whack of a hammer. It springs clear.   In no time, having disconnected the cable I am trundling downhill after my brood. Luckily I spot them. An hour later we arrive with our new-found friends in the outskirts of Marrakesh.

What a wonderful sounding name: Marrakesh. It was once described by a Moroccan Sociologist named Fatima Mornissi, as a city where black and white legends met, where languages are melted down. Where religions stumbled, testing their permanence against the undisturbed silence of the dancing sands.

It is the most southerly Arabian garrison town in North Africa, positioned at the doorway to the Sahara. It still has the same magical draw it had for me back in the sixties. In those times it shattered the silent void of the desert each evening with a circus of life, so varied that it could rival any show on earth. It will be interesting to see the changes. If the large open square, its pulse named Djemaa el Fnawithin (Congregation of the Departed) has departed from within its walls.

In the rain, I have no hope of finding the square never mind the stopover spot recommended by Kev of Fez. Changed it sure has visually.   Fanny at once comes to the rescue.   Hopping out of Williwaw into the lashing rain she stops a Taxi, “follow me.”   Marrakesh swallows us whole.

It is not possible to get Williwaw up the small street to Hotel Essaouira. It is a walk, carry and lug the bags job. Our newly found affluent friends who had given the girls a lift have long fled to a hotel for the better-heeled called the Mamounia Hotel where Churchill, Richard Nixon, and Orson Welles had stayed. We never meet again.

I am looking forward to dining at one of the many stalls in the square. First, it’s the hassle, the battle, to get to our Hotel in one piece. Then to find Williwaw a parking place for the night. Armed with just the bare essentials, passports, cameras, handbag and Barbie doll we struggle up the street to the hotel.   It is as Kev said a little gem hidden down a foul-smelling alleyway with a roof bar, clean rooms, a small courtyard and a welcoming owner.

Leaving the ladies to settle in, I return to find Williwaw now surrounded by a whirlpool of hopefuls.   The luck of the Irish comes to my rescue – there is a lock-up garage just behind where I am parked. Reversing, I make it in by the skin of my patients and the paint of the roof rack.

Returning to the hotel rather than being presented with a menu in French, which to me would be like going to New York and not having a hot dog from a hot dog stand I haul the girls downstairs. It’s the Square for dinner.

Marrakesh has indeed changed.   Less red earth more tarmac. The call of the Djemaa el Fna water carriers “Lmaa, Lmaa” Water, Water, lacks the dust cloud to make you stop and have a small golden or silver cup full. He has turned into a tourist illusion. Back in the sixties, the square’s nightlife exuded the unknown, the unexpected, the strange, and fear. It left you with the euphoria of growing up without time passing. Now the tourists sit or walk among the numbered and licensed stalls (most of which are beyond the pocket of the ordinary hippies daily allowance) looking like they have just left London a few hours ago. They have tamed Marrakesh with their credit cards and have taken away the menace and mystery of the cooking pots. The absence of rising dust has changed its chemistry – cobras hustlers looked leaner/ meaner the bread seller sitting on their warm flat loafs have disappeared – I am older. Fanny in a state of near panic overwhelmed by the Marrakesh barbarity to earn a dollar at any cost.

(Top Tip: Have the road Signe STOP in Arabic put on to the palm of your hand in Henna. When you’re being hassled too much all you have to do is extend your hand in good old fashion traffic cop style. It worked a treat.)

Surfacing from the square I am sent to get three wash bags and two large kit bags from Williwaw. I shove and battle my way back to a welcome drink on the Hotel roof. By Marrakesh standards, we crash out very early.

Next day our hotel Essaouira (the name of which I had thought up to now to be a town on the coast), is buzzing with the comings and goings of a normal morning check in check out: Backpackers of all shapes and sizes. Every one them wearing shoes with soles thick enough to squash every known breed of scorpion are either struggling to untangle or re winch up their backpacks. A multitude of zips, straps, and bungees are made up, opened, and redone up with most of the female owners revealing different levels of thigh watermarks – burnt skin.   Gone are the days of moderate dress to visit Islam Morocco.   Tantalising knickers lines promising what most witchdoctors’ potions dream of achieving and what most marabouts (Holy men) pray about.

By the time my lot surface, a horde of plaits, nose rings, belly buttons, faces of all shapes, are passing through the door, and up the courtyard. Exhausted from puffing Kev turns up – he has overnighted it by train from Fez.   According to him a short distance away there is Hotel named Menara with a swimming pool.   Buy a beer and you can swim all day.   Just what the doctor ordered.

That night on a puff of hashish through Kev’s carved carrot pipe, a few beers, a lesson on my harmonica, we are all set to purchase some new yellow slippers: A pair of babouches, in the souk, tomorrow evening – Another early night.

We awake to an early morning chat over breakfast on the hotel roof with an American professor of cultural social and Urban Anthropology.   Her daughter, a Peace Corps volunteer has, against her wishes, just married a square trader.

Perhaps after all Marrakesh sitting on top of a massive system of underground aqueducts has not changed that much. Her animal forces remain intact. She remains the songbird of her desert surrounds: Her inhabitants a whirlwind of commerce.

Only her visitors have changed while her soul its people remains intact with the odd renegade one escaping now and again by way of a credit card, or a visa that belongs to Peace Corps virgin.   We can only hope for her future that she is wise enough to keep her throbbing Arabian style of inner city life undamaged.

Inshallah. In the end, it will be Allah’s will or be fucked by hardcore tourism. One way or the other Inshallah covers it all.   Let’s hope it does not find itself turning into a politically correct city like so many of our European cities which are now, for all intuitive purposes open-air prisons under twenty-four-hour camera surveillance.

After an extensive discussion on all mirrors of capitalism, we all come to the conclusion that we are not much bothered that our newly married Berber has found his ticket to the USA. With the evening call to prayer escaping to distant planets it is time for this group of capitalists to buy slippers.

Walking between stalls of spices, jewellery, fabric the colour of the rainbow, carvings, silver, leather, musical instruments, Africa, Black Africa, Tarzan Africa is remote and forgotten. I stop to commence trading only to hear Florence in an adjacent stall making her first solo purchase. A small necklace is under the hammer. The shop owner is on a beating to nothing. Her blue eyes, blond hair and Irish charm are all concentrating on the necklace. We watch in awe as the necklace is examined in minute detail. With the expertise of a seasoned Berber shopper, she cuts the asking price of twenty dirhams to ten dirham. We are sure a refusal will leave a far greater psychological scar than our poor Americans Professor’s daughter is exposing herself too. To our relief a beaming face confirmed victory. Allah be praised. Kev and I find an old cobbler.   Hidden in the back of his shop are two old pairs of babouches, just as we remembered them – hand stitched in soft yellow leather. We don’t do as well as the daughter.

Next day our first African king Hassen II turns up to see us off. Not in time to stop intrepid Kev securing a lift for himself and fellow traveller named Jez to Essaouira tomorrow. Essaouira, as I thought, is, after all, a coastal town with its real claim to fame dating back to 1949 when its ramparts featured in the filming of Othello.

Like a woodworms marks on timber, we watch along cortège of black Volvos arrive into the square.   Disgorging a bunch gentleman in badly cut grey suits and loud neckties. They stand constricted in their white stained collars in the evening setting sun like lighthouses. Slowly twisting their heads one way and then the other they habitual readjust their collar rigidity with an index finger while their dark reflecting shades draw circles around their temples. Security Guard. King Hassan is the one in the Roller.

We learn that occasion masks the opening of another restaurant confirming that Marrakesh wonderments are on a short fuse. Competing with the moon Macdonald’s neon sign lights up. God and Allah have mercy. Later that night the weather vents it’s disapproval against such a thing happening, fingering Marrakesh with tongs of lighting that would incinerate every Big Mac this side of Texas.

Before departure I decided a cutthroat shave is a must. I am fast learning that there are two types of shave. The bottom of the market shave: Ten dirhams. Good for one day. The top of the range: Twenty dirhams. A skin graft. Good for three days.   What makes the difference is not the price but the age of the shaver, the age of the chair, and the number of clients waiting for attention.   If you are the only client it’s a skin graft, with a nose and ears job free.   If you are not the only client it’s spare the water, the shaving cream, with no time for the nose or ears. A first-class Moroccan cutthroat shave has two stages and can take up to an hour to complete.

To be continued.

( ALL DONATIONS RECEIVED BY THE AUTHOR WITH PROFOUND GRATITUDE.

Robert Dilllon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting code: 98-50-10 )

(Welcome once more. This is a somewhat long section 8861 words of the Unpublished Book so it is split into two halves. But don’t worry keep those donations rolling in. Zero so far. It must be the spelling mistakes.)

CEUTA

What we know:

Military.   Spain. Morocco.

Before In sha’allah some last-minute dash shopping, biros, lighters, small toys, and best of all disposable reading glasses.   Fully fuelled, 260 litres, we approached the frontier cloaked by our roof tent platform tarpaulin with a driving range of over 600 kilometres.

(Top Tip: Extra Fuel Storage: Four Jerry cans housed in specially designed steel racks are bolted to the side of the Jeep under our back windows. Two cans on either side. With an additional 25 litre tank fitted under the driver’s seat.   Carrying fuel in outside racks is illegal in Europe so if you decide on this method of storage only use them when in Africa. Their advantage a part from easy accessibility is the removal unwanted top-heavy weight from the roof.)

A bungee stretched across the back of our seats over which we draped some cloth that blocks off any unwanted views into the interior of the Jeep. Side window curtains with the back windows and rear door windows covered in silver antiglare one way filament keep any other prying eyes at bay.

(Top Tip: A three sectioned roof – platform allowed our six man tent to be pitched on the roof. See Photo No 2 on DVD)

Away back in the sixties in order to avoid the compulsory haircut handed out to all long-haired unclean flower power visitors to Morocco en route to the mañana kif cloud in Marrakech they passed through Ceuta. Then, as now, the Koran was pro cannabis and somewhat intolerant of alcohol a fact that was investigated at length by many a petal in the fumes of the medina cooking pots of Marrakech.

I tell the girls that even I can remember Mohammed’s tolerance being blurred over many long haggling sessions when I first visited Morocco – they are not impressed. It is nonetheless fair to say that this time I am ready for the “Do you want to sleep with my mother – she is still a virgin” introduction to Morocco.

I am also ready for the inevitable Hustling! In Morocco is an art form that has been perfected by years of hard tourism with the Never Say Die World Hustlers Festival Feeding Frenzy is an all year round event. The hope of a hassle-free border crossing into Morocco, I can assure you, is zero. It is as likely, (and I don’t need to presumed) as meeting up with Dr David Livingston.

Ceuta is however still to this day by a long run the less exasperating, frontier crossing into Morocco.

Williwaw is no more parked than she starts to attract her share of hustlers like flies to a fresh turd. A fee of $100 green backs negotiated down to $25 secured me my man. He is the only one of the mob not wearing sunglasses, a big plus point when it comes to barging: Park here. Follow me. The pack scattered.

Following my man I leave the girls sitting in Williwaw in the noon day sun. We enter a long corridor, a human beehive. In front of ten unattended window hatches, bundles of every shape and size litter the floor.  Each hatch opening has a green signs bearing witness to the fact that Arabic is much more beautiful in its written form than spoken. The gentle curves and wiggles over each hatch are nonetheless completely ignored by the great unwashed, in their search for that jewel of all jewels a lethargic official.

My man somehow or other appears all of a sudden behind the counter. “Sign here.”, before I could say ‘Allah be praised’ I sign both Fanny’s and my immigration papers and in a flash of a second I am outside once more, with both passports stamped.

A large Mercedes and two Japanese backpackers on foot have arrived. Our slant-eyed friends are surrounded by the greenback hustlers, all touting for their favour with the same passion as one would witness on the trading floor of the New York stock exchange on a black Friday. The passengers in the Mercedes attracting less attention: returning Arabs.

Passing the scrum surrounding our Japanese friends I half expected to see one of those visa credit cards machines being whipped out from under a Djellabah.

My man leads me back to Williwaw, points out the Customs and Excise building with one hand, while the other hand receives a ten spot tip for a job well done, hassle-free and very much appreciated.

Armed with my car papers I scale the few steps into an insignificant office where once again thanks to a further fifty bucks, the noonday sun, the call to prayer, and a packet of tampons that has cleverly fallen out of the back door of the jeep I am dealt with consideration, and efficiency.  Williwaw gets a quick inspection to confirm that we are not carrying any scud missiles. The Mercedes has long gone.

Rolling down the windows, hot and sticky we pass under the lifted frontier barrier.

 MOROCCO.   (Spanish corruption for the name of Marrakesh)

 What we know:

Harem.   Carpets. Henna.   Koran.   Islam. Tangiers.   Say it again Sam.   Atlas.     Mosque. Berber.   Fez. Camel.   Donkey.   Sheep.   Spices.   Prickly Pear.   Dates. Oases. Desert.   Goats.   Rocks.   Dunes.   Marrakech.   Casablanca.   Dirhams.   Tea. Souk.   Medinas.   Minarets. Ceramics. Djellaba.   Cushions.   Cous Cous. Bazaar.   Secret Gardens. Olives. Fortress Walls.   Sultans. Cobras.   Dye.   Beggars. Gateways.   Cactus. Veiled Woman. Leather.   Figs. Tents. Caravans.   Red Earthenware. Bedouin. Turban. Bracelets.

With fifty odd kilometres under our belt, Williwaw’s electromagnet field attracts an outrider: Lawrence of Arabia on a Suzuki.   In perfect English, at one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour we are invited, to visit the town of Tétouen. “Just up the road.” “There is a market in the souks.”   “I am a teacher, an excellent guide if you wish I will show you around my hometown.”   Fanny consults the Bible which confirms Tétouen is not to be missed.   “I can show you a secure place to leave your car,” ”   It’s a festival day for the children,” ” No money,” ” No Money ” ” No Money ” O! ye,   Lead on Mac Duff. Be-gob if he is not a hustler that has kissed the Blarney stone, I ‘m his mother.

Long before Lawrence of Suzuki homes in on us, disguised as a deprived, underprivileged Berber teacher that could do justice on the Isle of Man TT circuit while looking over his shoulder, Fanny had decided to purchase a carpet and ship it home. The trick now is to enjoy the purchase and not to get ripped off so it hurts in Tétouen.

Deep in the souk maze, Florence is seated cross legged, cross faced on an ever-increasing pile of carpets. Our salesman Mohammed as all salesmen in Morocco are named is invoking Allah with such expertise that I feel Fanny is in danger of converting to Islam.

Mohammed like his father before him, with a flash of white gold tarnished teeth, has spotted his sale an hour or so back. He shows no sign of weakening on price no matter what mix, of carpets, pile, tea, or payment we suggested. Price is totally ignored along with the outside summons to prayer. Our horrifications spurs his humour which knows no bounds. I am having a ball, Florence a lesson in boredom, Fanny, is having doubts about haggling Arab style. Mohammed has seen it all before. Surprise is the only tactic left. It is said that sudden prayers make God fart, so why not Allah.

Downing our mint teas, a mass walkout have us back in Aladdin’s cave before the genie can escape from the deal. A guarantee of delivery made on the souls of all his children and his children’s children has the teacher, the carpet lay outer, the carpet re-roller, the tea boys, and Mohammed all smiling as we leave.

Arab smiles always give one a sense of what the deal you have done could have been done better. No matter how well you think you have done, the bigger the smile the bigger the profit you have left behind.   (The carpets did arrive back in the UK, and we did get ripped off, but not so that it hurt.)

Haggling is all about compromise and body language. There are many tricks of the trade, techniques that can be brought to bear.   The value of anything boils down too personal choice. However, one piece of advice that might come in useful is.

(Top Tip: If your purchase is of some monetary value, let on that you are an Airline pilot. That you fly in and out of the country on a regular basis.   Before leaving take a photo of yourself, Mohammed, and the item purchased for prosperity and in celebration of being ripped off. A photo can be quite an effective insurance that whatever you purchase will turn up when you arrive home.)

In Morocco, especially in the Souks you will swear on many occasion that your feet were definitely walking down the narrow passageway and not into a shop. One minute you are on the street and the next in the shop without knowing how you got there. It is as if the shop materialise around your feet all on its own accord.

With his Djellabah flapping and his commission secured we followed bare heels on the Suzuki back to the main road.

Pitch: number fourteen is set up with the last of the evening sun beside a small river, on rock hard ground. Sleep arrives as the Atlas toads come to life burbling in soft Berber to the chatter of the river.

After breakfast: Hard boiled eggs, coffee, with sour milk, the last of our widow’s memories, (sausages), we leave our campsite with every good intention of penetrating further into the Atlas mountain range, four thousand meters high and over seven hundred kilometres long.   Our progress is not beholden to anytime, plans, maps, or sponsorship, so the enjoyment of the present can only be disturbed by our emotions, our health, or our safety.   We have left our problems behind.   Our unknown whereabouts other than we are in Africa is for all intents and purposes a blessing in kindness to those we loved at home: Out of sight out of mind.

The sun rises, the air becomes dry, and the distant mountains in a wash of blue seemed to rise and retreat before us.   The sight of a camel now for some hours has been consigned by Florence to her diary. Watching the only cotton wool cloud break up into Indian smoke signals we bump along longingly for relief from the heat. “Look, Look, it’s a swarm of donkeys,” says Florence.

In the sweltering heat, they all have nostrils that look like mini versions of the entrance to the channel tunnel. A tailback of jackasses, jennies, horses, donkeys, burdened down with loads endangering to split the animals in half are heading in the same direction as us.

This time without the aid of our bible (Lonely Planet) or a Djellabah flapping biker, we arrived using the old and tested Tonto/ Kimosabi tracking method. If the turd is steaming you are hot on the trail into a small village that had no use for parking meters.

Every tree has a circle of animals tied to it.   There is not a spot to be had that does not have a herd of Jesus hobbled carriers standing mutely in the shade looking like they could drink the Nile. The only free parking is right in front of the police station.

Reining in Williwaw, we dismounted at the feet of law. You could read their minds as they watched me lock up.   “Tell me, fellows, what going down there, how come Allah never rode a donkey? Can I park? I know your mother,” a warm handshake dispels their urge to demand papers. I move Williwaw into the field beside the police station.

Avoiding many an irritated hoof on the way back out of the field I join the girls to cross the road into our first real tourist free market. Here we remain for some hours trapped by our curiosity and fascination. Surrounded by passing colours that would put an artist’s palette to shame the market is for us to pollute along with the junk made in China. Our senses are hit with a casserole of sound and smell that has us in a state of careless anticipation of what we might see, except for Florence who is in a state of near panic and has long taken to my shoulders.

Our first find is a bunch of small white upside down ice cream cone-shaped tents.   They turn out to be Trumpers of Morocco. To Florence’s horror and to the obvious surprise of the young resident Berber barber hairdresser, I enter.   Before he can recover I am sitting on his three and a three-quarter legged chair, looking into a small cracked mirror, rubbing my three-day red growth. In the cracked mirror, Fanny’s face appears at the entrance. “I’ll be about ten minutes love “The appearance of the cutthroat razor puts Florence to flight and my Adam’s apple, into bungee mode.

The heat inside the tent has a stream of perspiration running down the back of my neck never mind my face.   There is no need for water to get lather up. In true Trumpers tradition, the spoken word is kept to the bare minimum.   I in some way or other have managed to add to the atmosphere by adding an ingredient of intensity and intrepidity, when I demand that the blade be sterilised by running it over my lighter.

Squeezing shaving cream from a green Palmolive tube into the palm of his quivering shaking hand, his eyes don’t leave the mirror,   The razor edge looks like it could slice effortlessly through flesh, bone and muscle. I never thought it would end this way. A man should not die at the hands of Berber Barber.

“Hold it there, not another inch.” Holding his wrist we have a cultural exchange.   “One cut my friend and you will feel the wrath of Cuchulain the hounds of Ulster”

His fingers, which are lathering up the two squirts of Palmolive shaving soap instantly developed Parkinson’s disease. A rich mixed smell of Arab/Celtic body odours drifted out the tent flap to join the rest of the market scents, and odours. From the strength of his hand, I sense his indignity at my suggestion of a cut. I also get a strong feeling that he has misunderstood the myth of Cuchulian, that he is swearing vengeance on the hound and the unclean dog that is now sitting on his seat.

An enamelled cup of water is placed firmly in my hands. Ten strokes: Re lathering. Ten more strokes. Followed by thumb pressure equivalent to opening of one’s mouth in the dentist chair for a backfilling a lifting of each nostril. A few minutes later I walk into the daylight free of nostril hair, cut free, several kilos lighter.   We both shake hands.

Catching up with Flo and Fanny I find them surrounded by a fan club of six to seven years old, all demanding dirhams.   A threatened boot brings smiles all around with renewed squeals of laughter. My best new get lost baby face look is met with renewed hilarious laughter.

We take refuge in an eating hut, with an open fire on the ground surrounded by a long table and benches.   Roasted sardines, bread, are the only choice, picked at by all of us under the ever watchful eyes of our new-found fan club. Nothing goes to waste. The word has spread. The fan club now outnumbering the parked animals by a considerable quantity makes the retreat to Williwaw an event to behold.

A few hours later after a couple of mint tea stops in the cooling part of the day, we find ourselves higher up into the Atlas. Pitch: number fifteen is beside a crystal clear small watercourse. A quick look at our map confirms that we are still a long way off the high Atlas.   Florence and I find a deep sandy pool the size of a large bathtub.   We divert the course of the flowing water into our bathtub. Returning after dinner, we are treated to a wonderful bath in a tub decorated with the jewellery of nature all under a cosmic star canopy frozen on a black blue Moroccan sky.   The sounds of the toads, frogs, crickets and running water gets rid of any urban feelings that Fanny or I might have. A few glasses of French cognac around our campfire with the sound of our daughter deep sleep re-enforces that in a world of infinite beauty we are indeed zilch.

Morning is announced by a sharp whistle.   Looking across the tent from the inside of my sleeping bag Fanny face in the early morning sunshine looks at ease but far from rested. I discover one of our stabilising pegs has worked its way loose in the night, causing tent wobble on her side during the night. This is our first pitch on the roof of Williwaw and with all new designs, there is some fine-tuning to be done.

With the aroma of coffee in the early morning mountain air, the intense shrill whistle is once more repeated. High above us three small waving figures are the source of the piercing bush twitter.   Before I could say ‘no’, a returned wave from the girls sees a dust trail descend down through the rocks.   Locked like a heat-seeking missile on to the breakfast table the cloud of dust sweeps down at rate of knots.

Blessed with the agility of their flock of goats, five young ones suddenly across the river become visible like little genies out of a bottle. Two so small they did not warrant a silhouette on the mountaintop. ‘Berbers’! Say’s Fanny.

At a safe distance, all five under their raven black hair smile a dazzling Morse code in white ivory. “What’s that”? “Look at that”   “Look at her, did you ever”

“Should we” is written all over their faces.

One small little smasher that you would kill for with dyed red hands encourages the eldest one to approach.   A few slices of bread and cheese and we are friends for life. After a lineup farewell photo, we break camp with more helping hands than one can keep an eye on. The intensity of Florence’s blond hair in the photo in contrast to theirs is startling. (Photo no DVD)

The cool fresh air of the Atlas Mountains is such a magnet of immense draw there are no arguments as to which way we turn. Left or Right, we are heading for High Atlas as quick as possible.

Hot, Hot, Hot, Stop in Chefchaouen for beer. We have mint tea and 7up. Hello you are English, this is how we play Ludo, would you like some Hash, don’t go to Ketama because – has us leaving the dope pusher to meet a more hopeful dope who has appointed himself our parking attendant while we were having our 7ups.

He is now demanding payment for services rendered.   Unfortunately, I still have not learned to suppress my western hate of parking attendants so he is lucky I did not stuff his turban and armbands where the sun does not shine. On the grounds of good relations, I resist the urge to do so.

It’s Ouazzane for lunch, and on to Rabat to renew our Mauritania visa which is due to expire at the end of the month. We check into Hotel Central on rue de Mohammed V with parking at your own risk in the garage some blocks away.

We dined that night in Mac Donald’s. What a contrast from earlier in the day at Restaurant No 3 where our fan club of hopefuls watched every bit. Here in Mac Donald’s every Arab in our eyes is totally out-of-place. “Not so,” says Florence’s. “A Big Mac is a big Mac.” She’s right of course. The Big Mac has the power to annexe all cultural divides. The girls retire early. I go for a wander in the Medina which confirms why Arabs are the touts and traders I have come to adore in small doses.

After a flawless night’s sleep, I set off by taxi to the Embassy.  My taxi driver knows every blade of grass in town. He has driven horses around Rabat in the nineteen fifties. I am half tempted, having spent the last few days under the illusion that we were in the high Atlas to ask him which direction one might find the Sahara, just in case we turn out to be the first Overlanders to miss it all together.

He is full of chat, “did I know that Mons, René Caillié passed through Rabat on his way back from Timbuktu around about 2.30 p.m. in 1829 to collect his prize from the French Geographical Society?” “That the town acquires its name from Ribat Arabic for a fortification disguised as a monastery.” “That the media is big, and so was Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdullah by all accounts?”   If he was not, who cares, I like the sound of the name as it emerges in deep echoes from his mouth that would put the fear of Allah in any man’s heart.   “As the capital of Morocco, Rabat had aspirations at one time of housing the second biggest mosque in the Muslim world.” “If it had being completed,” said Mohammed “a full house would have seen over forty thousand bums in the air all at once.” Then with a gold gleaming glitter of his front tooth reflected in his rear view mirror, he says. “Think how many prayer mats I could have sold,”   For some reason, I think it is the thought of all the bums, not the dirham’s that are grieving him. Not a question to ask.

“Mohammed V is also buried here; the present king’s dad.” We arrive with the comment, “No matter how poor a country is, its ambassador, chargé d’affairs, envoy, residence ends up in the best part of town.”

“Good morning,” “Bonjour, do you speak English, no French, English good.” Producing our passports I explain that we are travelling overland to Cape Town.

The visas I had got in London are due to expire in a few days, and I would be grateful if they could be extended or renewed for one or two months. Prior to us leaving England I had spent some energy in identifying which country had what embassies and in which towns in an effort to plan a routing: all to no avail. Here I am in the first embassy being asked to produce an air ticket in order to have our visa renewed/extended.

“I am driving a Land Rover not a Jumbo Jet to Mauritania.”  The bible says stay calm don’t blow your aft burners.  “May I see the Ambassador, or make an appointment to see him.”   No!   “His name please,”   I write down the phone number of his residence. “Mr Mesl Yalyq, but you will have to speak to me first.”   Thanks.

(TOP Tip: Visa and visa extensions or renewals are a major headache to any overland passage. You are well advised to draw up a list of cities where it is possible to obtain them with the least hassle. Africa is no exception.)  

Returning in my taxi I am unable to consider our options as Mohammed is determined to continue his guided tour.

[Before leaving Ireland I had taken the precaution of printing up some official looking Government headed notepaper – quality paper with a gold shamrock printed on the top. On the bottom, a succession of Gaelic meaning nothing but looking every bit a mouthful – Innamonanahar, agus an vic, agus an spirit nave, I also had a round rubber date brand made up with some more Gaelic garbage written on it.]

A one hundred and fifty dirham’s ride around the airline offices of Rabat confirms that a little doctoring of the expiring visa is going to be a much cheaper option than an air ticket costing £706.96 sterling. That settled, I return for lunch recommended by the bible, in some seafood restaurant across from the Majestic Hotel on the Medina side of Building Hassan II. On this occasion, we were not had by the price or the fish stew, which is left undamaged.

(Top Tip: Our bibles are the publication called The Lonely Planet and The Rough Guide, both valuable source of knowledge although somewhat biased towards an American pitch on their description.) 

The second recommendation Restaurant Bahia turns out to be better, a haven of shade, where we pass the afternoon siesta in traditional Arab style stretched out on pillows. I tell Fanny of our problem with the visas – a bad move.

Fanny, awake from 5 a.m. gets the jump on me next morning. “I told you so!   It’s too late to continue, too hot, we won’t get across the Mauritania border.”

My knee-jerk reaction is not good at that hour of the morning.  She could be right about the heat, and the frontier crossing, but now that we have a whole month in Morocco due to self-renewal of our Mauritania visas my reaction is that we have come this far so lets at least go and see if we can get across.   Not a good start to the day. I will have to win her around over the next few weeks.

Check out of Hotel Central. Williwaw, who has been parked in the street for the night looks intact, but her little security light on the dash is not on.   Not another faulty Fox security system I moan. There is no sign of a break in.   It is the Colman’s cold box/car fridge this time. It has run the batteries flat overnight.

(Top Tip: There are – much better German Army car fridge to be had that will produce an ice cold beer in the middle of the Kalahari) 

Unpack the jump leads from the toolbox. Remove the spare tyre from the bonnet. Open bonnet. Silly ass I am, I still have got a lot to learn. The batteries are under the passenger’s seat where they have been since we bought Williwaw in Brooklyn Motors for seven thousand pounds. This price included a one-week Mechanical Course under their chief Mechanic who turned out to be carrying a chip on his shoulder when it came to the Irish. So much so that it had left him with an attitude problem, that no spanner could move, or fix. So it is no wonder I am still on a learning curve.

Try flagging down some assistance. No good. In the end, I resort to the dash. Not the dashboard, the wallet, a bribe.

(Top Tip: Always keep a twenty-dollar bill in your passport)

Two blue coated parking officials. One hundred dirham’s each gets us a positive and negative dose of kindness and battery power.

Leavening Rabat for Fez we cross a river to Salé.   This is where the Long John Silver, swashbuckling, with a parrot on the shoulder, sword in the mouth, mother’s scarf tied in a knot at the back of the head, pirates use to hang out.   They were known as the Salé Rovers and I am told they made a visit to the Emerald Isle and came back singing, ‘ No Nay never no more will I play the wild rover no nay never no more.’ It would make you wonder where they got their name.

We end up in Meknés a city of some size between Rabat and Fez that we omitted to see on our map. Out with the Bible, Hôtel Maroc on rue Rouamzine is described and I quote, “It’s quiet, clean, pleasantly decorated and furnished, all the rooms have a hand basin and most face onto a well-kept courtyard. The (cold) showers and toilets are also clean and well maintained.”

OK, let’s give it a try. It’s in the old part of the city just at the back of the Medina. With a rendering of vernacular (Irish) that had us classified as Russians we shaking off the unwanted guides, water sellers and hustlers.   Arrive at the Hotel.

Fanny comes out with a face that says ’s stay here and I will be on the first plane home tomorrow morning.

(The Bibles would benefit their readers greatly if they were to date their “factual information.”)

Return to Williwaw. We three star it at the aptly named Hotel, the Palace in the new town.   Nearly all Moroccan towns have split personalities one new and one old. The old Arab town of Meknés is set in behind twenty-five miles of triple wall ramparts, while the new French-built town is outside in the dust.

After dinner, we take a taxi back between one of the many gates into the old town. A hassle-free walkabout brings us out with some considerable luck to where we had started out having passed through the

Souk Sekkarine —     Cutlers and ironmongers.

Souk Bezzazaine —-   Baskets and materials.

Souk Nejjarine       ——   Carpenter.

Souk es Sabbat     —–       Cobblers.

Souk el Herir        —–       Silk.

Souk el Ghezara   —-     Butchers.

Sulk of Florence     —–     Purchase of a Djellaba

Wandering back to the gates a full Arabian moon hangs low over Molay Ismaïl Mausoleum. The needle is placed on Morocco’s’ number one ‘ Allah be praised. ‘     From the top of minarets, the wail of evening’s call to prayer starts to drift around the city. It seems that the city stands bewildered in the late evening haze as if it is spooked by the sudden eerily disruption to it daily life.

The promise of a soak in a Turkish bathtub in our hotel room has rekindled Fanny’s sense of adventure. Or perhaps the wailing has brought on a shiver of fear of losing her man in the Sahara to a harem of throat warbling Berber woman.   Or it could be a vision of herself ending her days in a harem out in the middle of the shifting sands. Either way, it gets me a squeeze of the hand.

On our way again to Fez, we pass under the main entrance gate to Meknés.   The inscription over the gate reads “I am the gate which is open to all races, whether from the West or the East.”   “You see,” says Fanny, “Our man Moulay Ismaïl who built the gate was expecting us after all.”

This time hotel-wise, the Bible gets it right and we forgive its American spelling Fès for this ancient city Fez. Up an alleyway on our right just before the gate to the largest Medina in Morocco, which is under UNESCO protection we book into the Hótel du Jardin Publique. So we all knew where to find the hotel, we rename the gate’s Big Bad Bob’s loud fart gate, after its true Arabic name, Bab Bou Jeloud.

I park Williwaw outside the city walls that look like they have just been sprayed by gunfire for a week. Thousands of swifts or house martins have turned the wall into a block of Emerdale Cheese. (TIP: a bird book is a must for Africa)

Locking Williwaw up, I look around for a suitable night guard. That is one that can be trusted not to nod off   I also decide that any contender must be known to the hotel, so I return to the Hotel with Ali security to have him checked out for dependability.   On the way back to Williwaw we stop for a mint tea and a game of pool in the local cafe.   It becomes quite obvious that Ali is well-known for his staying power. Exchanging a few dollars in the cafe I pay Ali half his negotiated fee, and agree on a full car wash in the morning for an extra thirty Dirham’s.

In the morning it’s a day in the Souk.

Fez souks are a chaotic splotch of African Arabian living culture that has survived for God knows how many centuries without any protection. They present us with Africa’s first real mask, Living Islam.

Islam for some inexplicable reason seems to rest easier than other religious beliefs within the dark narrow alleyways of souks. The Mosques hidden deep inside promote a concept of worship founded on five principles of belief, a way of life, that regulate human life on all levels, individual, social, political, spiritual, and economically.

Shahada           Profession of faith

Salah                Prayer

Siyam               Feast of Ramadan

Zakah             Charity

Al-Hajj           Pilgrimage to Mecca

A religion with a billion adherents worldwide which seems these days to brashly impart an atmosphere of mystery and menace to the non-believers. I can remember my first encounter with Islam which took place here in Morocco back in the sixties. Walking down a narrow sulk alleyway with large chains hanging from walls I was suddenly physical ejected as unworthy to use what was obviously a shortcut between one mosque and another. Then and now I came to the conclusion what religious belief is not the root of all ugliness in our world.

Mr bin Laden ensured Islam ugliness by staining Muslims with his desire to murder his way to salvation: Jihad.   Fight the holy war against the infidel.   Some century’s earlier Pope Urban ІІ stained Christendom by offering to get out of Purgatory points. Fight the holy wars against the Islam. Get your sins forgiven and go to heaven: The Crusades. Take your pick. Both said that their mission was to make God’s word victorious, but the real question is surely is whether Jesus or Allah or Buda, or Ra, or whoever you like is divine or human.

Anyway considering that a great deal of Fez souks heritage is its Mosques which lie behind closed doors to non-Muslims one could not be blamed for thinking that it is somewhat tongue in cheek that their restoration is funded by UNESCO which rely to a great extent on voluntary funding from all religions for its restoration programmes.

Money has no God other than itself. The great unwashed I suppose will have to wait on a World based on collective will and reciprocated understanding rather than the power and profit before we get an understanding of a true God from a true God; such a world is a long way off.   With the arrival of the internet, we are now somehow or other less connected to each other. It could be said that we are living in malevolent times.

Less disposed to accountable justice, less interested in disarmament, in the removal of trade barriers, in multilateral aid free of political relationships, in curtailment the mass-produced culture, in the unequal currency exchange that lead to dependency relationships, in gashing western media soap operas that promote false developed world values, in Religious tolerance, to mention but a few of the current worlds non climatic problems.

We are all aware that we are fast heading for an antithetical world, where the UN will not survive if the present day gunboat politics of USA, Nato, and Britain have their way. There is little doubt that the United Nations Gobble Shop in need of core reform with a crying need for it to redefine itself in regard to its relationship with International Governmental Organisations, the EU:OAU:OPEC.:COM:ECON. ASEAN: OECD: NATO, and the G7. With its present-day membership of one hundred and eighty-four member states, managed by two thousand four hundred and thirty-eight full-time staff, together with international and regional networks, it is no wonder that the chances of achieving peace and security in the world are zilch.

These two aspirations are supposed to be promoting by collaboration through education, science, culture, and communications.   Has not its soul being sold to economic institutions and has it not long-lost the meaning of its parent’s aspiration of Peace and Security for the World.   Another word the cultural importance of a worldview of Peace and Security is no longer reflected by the UN.   It has become a puppet organisation carrying out the wishes of its major financiers.

Struggling to recover from high-level corruption it is too bulky, too slow, too vetoed, too poor and a very bad world beggar. It’s no wonder that the AK- 47 and the Kalashivikov have been immortalised in the national flag of Mozambique, and that Sovernity Funds are as you read buying up the world without any allegiance other than profit.

The United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organisation’s primary objective was adopted in the year it came into being in London under its constitution in 1945.   In December 1994 out of the one hundred and eight four-member states, only 75 had paid their assessments for the regular budget in full.

The remaining 109 had failed to meet their statutory financial obligations to the Organisation.

An example:   On a UN budget of US $518,445,000 – 1995 Allocation for 1996 – 1997 (Source United Nations Year Book)   Unpaid assessed contributions totalled almost $1.8billion. This is apart from the cost of Peacekeeping, which also has a shortfall of $1.3billion to 31 Dec 1994.   (Website: http://www.un.org.)

In some ways, recent events are offering Africa a chance to take off its mask of mimicry of the west, to shed its interdependence (a media word to mask the hard realities) and go it alone. Our journey I hope will reveal if such a possibility exists.

Africans second mask is UNESCO. Is UNESCO a United Nations mask for western style constitutions?   Constitutions that have little or no foundations in African Culture, in African Heritage, in African Religions, in Africa’s Peace and Security, in fifty-three independent African countries, not to mention it’s richness of over one thousand odd languages/ dialects.

UNESCO is a partnership with,

UNISPAR (University – Industry – Science – Partnership)

UNIDO (United Nations Industrial Development Organisation)

UNESCO (Biotechnology Action Council)

Plus its support,

The International Institute for Theoretical and Applied Physics.

The International Organisation for Chemical Sciences in Development.

The International Centre of Pure and Applied Chemistry

Just like Sovernity Funds, UNESCO is harness to aspirations of the business. Worldwide greed rather than world need.

How can it not place the centre of its values and controls either in the individual nor in the collective but in the reality that transcends both, when, in point of fact would it not be a better aspiration for peace and security of the world if the UN were to promote more RELIGIOUS TOLERANCE.

At the heart of religious beliefs, we find fear, the true enemy of man. The modern secular world claims to solve religious pluralism by reducing religion to private life whereas it is an infinitely more complicated problem. Practice shows that religions are cultures which, consciously or not shape attitudes and induce unshakable reflexes in everyday life.

One can say ‘so what’ – it is of no importance as all cultures cannot be handed down to a people, the people must rise to them. However, the strength of any culture is not measured by the extent of its protection, rather by its ongoing development and growth.   There is one thing for sure globalization requires corporate responsibility. No amount of international law will turn the tide of world greed. Individual projects taken on by large multinational corporations are seen only as a means to mollify their world image of profit at all costs.

The UN would be well advised to harness the power of every Stock exchange in the world by getting them to agree to a minimal commission payable to a United Nations Fund on every stock exchange transaction.

We all know that Multinational corporations and world Sovereign funds have no real responsibility to country, governments, or to the world as a whole so why not tap the source of world greed to contribute to world need.

It should also invite all multinationals to contribute to a fund to enable it to set up its own independent internet-based world television channel. Here it could at least broadcast its transparency, its willingness to listen and to adapt and to show the world what it is doing with the funds.

There can be no living culture, no sense of time, no heritage, without a people’s language, or languages. Communication not cloak-and-dagger would enhance its world image a thousandfold.   If there is no change we ARE GOING TO FIND THAT THE WORLD, its recourses, its people, its future will be owned and controlled by Sovereign Funds.

Ok, Ok an enough is enough.

Where was I? O yes, Fez! – Back to the real world. As I have already said it is my contention that the very soul of Fez’s its souk is now in danger as a result of its World Heritage Listing. (It being one of four hundred such sites listed in the world in one hundred different countries by UNESCO’s Heritage list)

Rather than upholding the managed development of the souk its listing is attracting short-term (who gives a shit) profit. Western Money grabbing values. Recoup the costs, at any cost.

Having a coffee we watch the flow of human traffic mixed with mules laden with goods evaporate down the souk alleyways. All seems to go in and down never to rematerialize.   Movement is ceaseless. Florence is warned by Fanny to hold on as we step into the river of colour, to be swept without further ado down over the well-polished cobbles and flagstones. Merchants squat like waiting for spiders on the riverbanks to pounce on every movement. “I think, a Guide is a good idea after all”.

Our path into the Souk slants downward summoning the mind to descend into the innermost recess of the bazaar, where light penetrates in fleeting flickers.

We are entering a world where fat robed Arabs sit on large sequined pillows stuffing the odd date with short gold-ringed fingers into golden-capped teeth. A world where one can find wobbling belly buttons undulated in ever tightening circles.   Where long eyelashes flutter behind veil covered faces. Where castanets finger clicks in rhythm to some strange-sounding string instruments, where all fulfilments are achieved in a haze of curling smoke.   “A guide is a good idea,” says Fanny again. OK, we get one tomorrow.

Florence sitting high up on my shoulders out of harm’s way is not in the least affected by any fantasy of the mind; her only concerned is getting a Djellabah. Small glasses of tea follow us everywhere. By the time some cloth is chosen for the Djellabah which will be ready tomorrow, if we can find it again I am bursting for a pump ship.   Returning up a parallel passage, Palais des Merinides now a Restaurant is discovered. Earmarked it for tomorrow’s evening meal I make use of its excellent heads before we reemerge at the start of the alleyway.

Later that night the full of moon Arabian sky has a milky way that stretches without end. Nights call to prayer echoes and bounces from wall to wall. Swaying in volume it has no definite direction.   Suddenly, total silence; just long enough to nod off but not for long. Our hotel window rattles at 6 am with the vibrations of a holler that penetrates the innermost corner of each and every souk alleyway of the mind. Seven am, our souk guide ‘Admin’ is biting at the bit.   Firstly I check Williwaw who has already got an early morning wash and is now once more covered in a fine film of red-brown dust.   I am assured of a re-wash tomorrow morning.

A quick visit to the Bank, all of which hang out in the poxy modern part of Fez, and it’s back to check on Admins command of English. Not bad, but not good.   Next a clear understanding of what we want to see, not what he wants to show us is agreed. Also, an agreement that all purchases will be done without him hanging around so as to avoid any markups.   His guide fee, time, and bonus are agreed.

Off we set at a cracking Medina pace well over the speed limit. Our guide is five feet three, dressed in denims from top to bottom.   He disappears almost a once.   “Don’t worry he’ll reappear a quick as a flash if we slip into here.”   “Deal or no deal, commission is commission.”   It is obvious our guide’s nose is still out of joint with the agreement for he is still in a headlong rush downwards so we leave the shop and cross the alleyway for our first tea of the day.

Like a wagging terrier, Admin reappears.   “Listen, Admin, we are not interested in seeing the Souk in ten minutes; at our pace – we are not your everyday tourist.”

Everyday tourist: our first European mask. It will take us quite some time to realise that this mask, no matter how hard you might try to get rid of it, remains in place. You might perceive yourself to be different from the common Traveller. In as much that you are more eco-friendly, more assessable, more exposed, more at one, more knowledgeable, more understanding, whatever.

The fact remains no matter how hard you might try you are viewed as a tourist. A blow in even when a friendship is created.

Admin earns his living, or supplements his income, or pays his educational fees, or helps his family, by being a Tourist Guide. He has seen it, done it all a thousand times over. The trick for us is to make it a bit unconventional for him, less boring.   Then with a little good luck perhaps he might give us a little extra glimpse of his culture that remains hidden behind the studded doorways.

So it was. Over our syrup hot tea Admin decided that we are not his everyday run of the mill tourists.

Following him up a white-walled alleyway, we enter a courtyard, housing a small fountain gossiping to itself and its captive plants. It is a cool and peaceful setting. The sound of water gives the courtyards surrounded tiled walkway a freshness that the sole of your feet wants to experience.   Taking a broad open stair we arrive in an empty room where a frail unveiled woman is sitting on the floor.   On noticing our presence she freezes like a rabbit caught in the head lights of a car. “My mother,” says, Admin. There is no greeting we are an unwanted intrusion. An unmasking embarrassment: Tourists.

Admid satisfied that he can now return us to the real world. To his maze of hidden homes, blind alleys, doors closed to prying eyes, T junctions in the form of small squares, says his goodbye to mum and we follow him to our first requested port of call:   The tanneries of Guerniz built-in the seventeenth century. (Photo No   DVD)

He waves us in and with good reason, utters that he will wait for us outside. The stench has me instantly retching my guts up alongside a large vat of dye. The dye receiving an added ingredient called the insides of my stomach.

Florence comes to my rescue with a handful of mint.   This is a medieval place, with working practices to match. Skiving, Bating/Pickling, Graining/Fleshing.

Walking the gangways between the vats one has to be extremely careful not to slip and end up in the evil-looking liquid that ranges in colour from blood-red to crap orange, to white, to ash grey, to black, to yellow. It’s like walking down the middle or crisscrossing a Bill Boa board with each cup big enough and deep enough to drown any misfortune that happened to slip in any sauce colour he or she wishes to gulp down.

Across this minefield the source of my urge to techniq colour yawn with each step is a large washing drum. Avoiding its revolving drum full of skins in different stages of gut ridding wash, I take refuge up a ladder on to the roof of the Tannery.   Urged on by my need to get a lung full of fresh air I venture further up another small ladder to disturb in true tourist style (camera dangling from my neck), two of the incarcerated workers who are having a late morning sleep in.

An immediate demand for dirhams by one of the awakened occupants is met by

a rebuke from his mate. I am unable to reverse so I point my camera out of their

Bedroom window, before either of them could pull their leather shorts on, I snap the tannery from on high.   To show that the early bird does not always get the worm I pay the non-greedy one a few dirhams.   With Admin attempting to earn extra commission at every opportunity we leave the Tannery. His inability to stop doing so eventually sees us Part Company. He is far from content.

We are all exhausted by the time we crash out for the midday snooze. After a few hours kip, we petit taxi it over to Hótel Palais Jamais for a G and T. This top of the range Féz Hotel is set in Jardin Andalous or Andalusian Style Gardens. We are not sure which, but I do know it once was a pleasure Pavilion for the Jamai Family, built-in 1296. There is one thing for sure it has not forgotten how to charge for pleasure with the cost of our three drinks regurgitating the same price as three nights in our posh hotel.   Nevertheless, the view over Féz is worth it.

This is where the wealthy dip their toes into “Morocan Cultural a la Western Tourist.” Credit cards style. It’s air-conditioning and opulence all piggybacking on the interwoven carpet of Arabic magic.   The sharp taste of gin combined with the smell of fresh lemon wafting up from my glass, make a vain attempt to heighten and in some bizarre way to suppress the very essences of Féz.

On the ritual notes of warbling Arabic prayer, the lifeblood of the souk floats up to us. Each note locking the towers of the medina far below us into one unit engendering a believer or non-believer.

Féz leaves every one of its visitors, wealthy or otherwise, imprinted with a sense of Aladdin Magic Carpet and the night of a thousand veils.

The last call to prayer is our dinner call so we return to the roof-top terraces of Féz el Bali. Our intention is to pick up Florence’s Djellabah before dinner a true test of any culture. Like a black man playing rugby for South Africa in the snow, we are spotted by a set of angled eyes named Simon. All best-unveiled plans never go according to plan. Under the influence of Simon soft-spoken voice, we change our match play and visit a Restaurant – Au Palais Mnebhi. Why? I don’t know. In fact, that’s not quite true. I wanted to give Florence and Fanny that below the horizon nervous feeling of eating a tajine of mutton with one’s fingers while seated on leather cushions, watching some sumptuous veiled dancer smile behind her silk veil as the snake charmer waves his flute to and fro in front of cobra basket. Daft I know.

What we got was five hundred and seventy dirham’s more expensive than I had bargained for. Fire eaters, acrobats, belly dancing, long knives, drums, flutes and a free dinner for Simon. Florence had a ball; Fanny had difficulty remembering which hand to use and I had no qualms in turning down Simon demands for a sweetener.

Next morning Florence and I miss the early morning tower shrill and the one after. Fanny, moved by last nights tajine is downstairs locked on the loo. She returns somewhat flushed with a leftover from the original Marrakesh hash cake – Kevin.

He is an English drop out from 1964; with a smile that has seen many a Charlie Watts in its day. Whether it was her fifth cup of tea or a puff of wacky tobacco compliments of Kev she has sourced a Turkish style bath house not far from our hotel.   Armed with a bottle of baby oil she leaves us to our sleep. I am sure from behind one of those dark heavy doors in the hallowed depths of Féz an hour later I hear her shattering blue sky-high pitched wail. The decision to move on had come. The spell of Féz is broken. On her silent knackered return before returning to the land of the nomadic Berber we made a weak effort to explore Fez’s outside walls.

The town of Rich is our next target. Pitch: number sixteen.   What a contrast to Fez. Mountains at every point of the compass there is not a sound to be heard. (Photo no see DVD) Like the Irish, every Berber family has its blood feuds. But it’s the women that jingle the silver and pick their man. Once you have broken bread together you are friends for life or death.   Home: from home.

(To be Continued)

Donations Details: R Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2. Sorting Code 98-50-10.

( On we go, readers, spelling mistakes and all.  It is more than likely these days you could not follow other than on the written pages)

AFRICA.   (Arabic. Afira, to be dusty.)

What we know:

Black.   Animals. Dictators. Famine.   Tarzan.   Nelson Mandela.     Aids. IMF. World Bank. Rains. Sahara.   The Nile. Mt. Kilimanjaro. Ngorongoro Crater.   Victoria Falls. Tribes. Corruption. Massacres. War.   Aid.     Freedom. Slavery.   Colonialists.   Zulu’s.   Fever.   Red Sunsets. Acacias.   Snakes.   Ebony.   Ivory. Red Dust. Poverty.   Malaria. Tsetse Fly. Serengeti.   Grass. Burton. Livingston.

Disturbing some of its feathered friends Transmediterranier drops her shore ropes and shudders to life. According to Greek Mythology, we head out under Hercules’ legs for this is where the strong chap separated Africa from Europe with one foot on the rock of Gib and the other in Ceuta.

Resting on the ship’s rails that have seen more white gull splat than white paint, it is not long before the sparkling blue seas have me in its raptures and I begin to ponder on the land voyage ahead.

Will Africa test the mental characteristics of one’s nature, the same way as a long sea passage does? Will the land, unlike the sea that reveals no passage of time, impart a self-understanding of just how insignificant we are in the hands of nature?   Will the deserts with their whispering moving sands be the same as the stillness of the deep?   Will the mountains, the vast grasslands, the rivers, the lakes and canyons, leave us with a sense of sentimentality?   Does the African bush respond to the pull of the moon? Does it sounds, its darkness, its light, its density, its temperature, it rains, its colour, offer shelter, as the layers of water are shelterless?   Are animals the true stars of the land? Was Macbeth right when he said “that man strut’s and frets his hour upon the stage, screams and cries and is heard no more.”?   Will it teach us that Democracy is a universal remedy to the problems of the world?

Who better to have a chat with on the rail other than the lads who not only found most of the land signposts of Africa but helped turn Africa into a product for the sake of profit?   Brave men one and all.

Dr David Livingston     (1813 – 1873)       Religious Minister       60 years     Scottish          

Sir Richard Burton       (1821 – 1890)       Soldier                           69 years   English

Sir John Hanning Speke   (1827 – 1864)       Soldier                      37 years   English

Mary Kingsley                 (1862 – 1900)       Spinster                         38 years   English

Sir Henry Morton Stanley (1841 – 1904)       Newspaper reporter     37 years   Welsh

Well, Dave, there is no need for any introductions here.   It is quite obvious that I am Irish. Let’s say I am one hundred and eighty-two years younger or older than you blokes, take your pick. I don’t have the gift of the gab like your friend Burt, or his fascination with sexuality. Let me ask you David have you forgiven Stanley for turning up that time in Ujiji without some haemorrhoid ointment?   Has Stanley forgiven Speke for slipping off to find the source of the Nile? What about Mary who defended polygamy, domestic slavery, cannibalism as appropriate social activities in West Africa. Along with searching for Fetish and fish she augured that Anthropology was a tool of imperialist expansion.

I know you will all be glad to hear that by the Millennium, they were a few more famous Explorers. Most of them for some reason went north, except Thomson who had a gazelle named after him in Africa.  

Robert Peary                     1856 – 1920               36 years

Joseph Thomson             1858 – 1895                37 years

Fridtjot Nansen                 1861 – 1930                 31 years

Scott Robert                     1868 – 1921                 53 years

Ernest Shackleton           1874 – 1922                 48 years

Villjalmur Stefansson     1879 – 1962                 43 years

By the way, while you and your friends were wandering around Africa the rest of us invented the,  

Ice Machine                   1865

Torpedo                         1866

Tennis                             1873

Bingo                            1880

The Machine gun         1881

The Zip                           1891

But who cares, not much has really changed other than they are now solving the bigger questions by nine-dimensional maths, and man is still selfish as himself.   Other words the, ‘ I am all right Jack’ syndrome,’ if you get what I mean, is still flourishing, even more so than in your days. Believe it or not, as in your time, a global mind change is still to this day the biggest challenge to man on earth.

Anyway putting all that aside it is my turn to set foot in the land of burnt faces.

I know Richard that the wife burnt all your works, and God in your eyes David is white.   That the New York Stock exchange collapsed some considerable time after you blokes had packed your bags.  

I also know that now there is now a different type of slavery in Africa called Aids. That the death grip legacy of colonialism is Third World Aid packages that contradicts the hard task of wealth creation.  

Wealth is replaced by the superficial and irrelevant glitz of imported advice from the UN, ECA, OAU, WHO, FAO, UNICEF, UNESCO, GNP, SADCC, ECOWAS, ACP, EC, OPEC, UNCTAD, CESI, IMF, WB.UNDP. PSDS.   All of which are contaminated by the most dangerous mask of all Multinational Conglomerate’s loyalty to profit. The whole package is called Globalisation (the spread of free-market capitalism,) It can reduce the loyalty of a country to a bottle of Coke. There were no boundaries’ or countries before colonisation.  

With a click of a mouse, Futures, Hedge Funds, Pension Fund, Sovernity funds the true destroyers of earth with no responsibility to nature, science culture, history, the future, the past, or the present, plunder the world in the name of profit while we, its custodians, look on in ignorance of the damage.  

Anyway, enough of that; here is my question.   Man has always tried to sublimate his nature, to hide his fear and to focus his questions in art.   As in your days, our cultures masks still represent questioning. Earth is four billion years old.   Man has visited the moon, but evolution is still an embryo.   The Hubble telescope has seen the demise of the earth. Reality is being turned into virtual reality. Time is borne out of death.   People’s future has no limit. DNA is all the rage. Food is Microprojectile bombarded. Mass consumption is throwing away the earth’s resources.   Modern politics are turning a blind eye to corruption, criminality. Countries are clients of banks. Religion is censorship. Science cannot talk to Science. Power is nuclear. National debt is a powder keg.   Freshwater is disappearing.   Supremacy is technology. Co2 poisoning of the atmosphere is tradable.

Does HH Africa put all of the above into their true dimensions by taking the colour out of other kinds of living?

Are all images of Africa to this day based on imperfect knowledge and are

found to be either worthless or wanting. Is it being forced to put on the masks of West, to the cost of its future, its past, its present, its people’s, its cultures,

its animals, and its environment. Or is the penetration of the African mind

forest not yet achieved.

There is of course no answer. Africa can only be understood from inside out. The image of Africa in the 19^th century was a place of exotic savage with the white man leaving a lot of cultural baggage. It now embraces all that is white on secondhand bases without the African social customs with the white educated African becoming the curse of Africa.

On the horizon I watch and smell the land of the earth second largest landmass 30,365,700 sq. km, with one eighth of the world’s population 900 000 000 embracing fifty-three independent countries, with over one thousand languages, rise into view. I know that this spring of our shared ancestors will change the way I perceive the world. A world strongly influenced by my own unconsciously held beliefs.

For the unvarnished answer to my question to my friends on the rail I must rely on Florence’s’ mask of innocence, which is all but untouched by time, perceive concepts, or by any of my long departed ship rail friends achievements that have entered the silent world of recorded history.

Our arrival under the mythical symbols of all manhood in Ceuta does not cause a hiccup. Sun stillness and heat are all at one.

(To be continued)

If you have got this far without making a donation here is the details of how to do so)   R Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2. Sorting Code 98-50-10.  Many thanks.

( Rather a long Chapter )

PORTUGAL

What me know:

Lisbon, Sandyman Port, Explorers, Jesuits, Sardines, Algarve. Sporto, Benfica.

At the squeeze of dawn, with the starlings that had survived both French and Spanish ack ack I am once more outside the bank doors in Fermoselle. Spared from refugee status it is not long before I am returning with the rain to find Fanny and Florence. I find them standing in the shadowed of the outstretched hands of a gigantic statue to the god of port Mr Sandeman. They are both looking tired and red-eyed.

We drive over the Serra do Marao to Pêso de Régua. Not a campsite to be had wild or otherwise. Every patch of ground down to the riverbank is covered in vines. In an attempt to enliven the girls I impart a gem of knowledge that I had read and shared early in the morning with my starling heroes outside the Bank.

“Do you know that the Emperor Dominiciano once tried to pass a decree to destroy half the vineyards around here? The question is why? “Because he was not like you dad!” says Florence. This observation left me wondering. Not for long.

“You snored all night.” “Mum and I could not get a wink of sleep.”

“There was someone banging the door and running away.”

Apparently, it turns out that the hotel top up its tourist income, by renting some of its rooms to a few of the locals who happen to be far from the full Paso.   The night had been spent listening to doors slamming with our bedroom door being knocked upon by some loony playing knock and run till four in the morning.

Checking out. Fanny extracts a large discount from the hotel management with an assurance that she would give it a high recommendation in the 2011/2013 European Loonies Accommodation Guide. Was I not indeed lucky, that Emperor Dominciano had been defeated by Mr. Sandeman the God of Port.? Had he not laid me out to rest oblivious of all Looney night antics?

Down the N222 to Olivetra do Douro, village after village bearing witness to poor old Dominiciano frustrations in his attempts to sober up the region. He was up against it with a barrel in every barn. According to official government statistics ninety-six thousand estates these days are under the vine, in the Douro Region alone.

Pitch number nine is high up in the mountains overlooking the River Duro and a few acres of Portuguese ambassadors of the future.   As the last morsels of daylight away below us through the trees are leisurely swallowed by darkness each household is finding its electricity switch and the river begins to slowly reveal it’s self in silent twinkles of bouncing starlight in its waters.

Sitting on wobbles our bush toilet seat in what remains of the fading light a pink line appears beside me.   Before I can reach down the line is merrily making its way down the steep forest floor to the chapel gates. My body all at once is inhabited by more than one personality. Changing function at the sight of my vanishing loo roll my stern end goes into irons my balance becomes precarious. In a conflict of mind over the body, the tranquillity of my surroundings is broken. One hundred billion neurons cannot catch the vanishing loo roll. With no rabbits around I have to settle for an inappropriate wipe of pine needles.

The following morning, the heavily saturated forest floor muffles the sounds of a Christian Sunday morning. Dogs barking, Church bells, Portuguese cockcrow’s, crickets chirping, raindrops ricocheting off the tent canvas.

We are parked right in the middle of a forest pathway (Photo) with all of us reluctant to leave the warmth of our sleeping bags.

Bueonos Dias!

Riveted to the forest path by sacks of grain on their heads three Buddha shaped

Portuguese ladies with knockers the size of railway buffers are scrutinizing the pink line.   By the look on their faces, they are I am sure trying to interpret its meaning with a lot of trepidation. I can’t help but laugh out loud at their obvious big girl’s blouse blush surprise. Standing outside the tent in my boxer shorts I wave them around the tent with a gracious Musketeer bow that is in no need of hat plumage.

Later in the day, our next stop comes in the late afternoon in a mountain café for a drop of local martini and mountain beer shandy.   Sipping this potent concoction, we watch the final match of a lead disc throwing competition in the cafe car park.

Separated by a suitable distance, two archery type targets have been marked out on the earth. With ever-increasing erratic precision, highly influenced by the amount of shandy drunk two opponents are flinging a round shape stone at the targets. On each throw, the airborne time of the stone is either greatly improved or weighed down by the amount of advance liquid limbering up.   

In-between the supporting Ouch –Wow- Ooh’s and Ah’s Fanny, using her best Italian finds out from the proprietor that there is a place to camp just up behind the cafe. “Go up the small dirt road just behind us, you will come to a crossroads. Take no heed of it. You senorita just keeps on going up.   If you see an open gate on your left you have gone too far. Come back down this road till you spot a big tree.”

The directions have all the hallmarks of West of Ireland directions that ensure the recipient gets to see as much of the countryside as is possible.   There is, however, a notable difference it lacks the accompanying local history.   The field-by-field, house-by-house ownership list, and how they got to own it in the first place is missing.

Up we go, and down we come after an hour to the front door of the Cafe.

“What did I tell you, never trust a Portuguese with a brogue”. So we return to the river. Finding a eucalyptus forest, in the four-wheel drive we follow a hopeful looking track, negotiate a sharp right, a sharp left, eventually grinding to a stop on a very steep nasty wet bend.

The drop into the woods is similar to that of the Pink line escape route. The book says, stop and walk the track. Good advice. Out I get to have a look. The drop on my left needs no book advice; it’s to be avoided at all costs.

After several head-on attempts, a slip track to the rear offers the only solution. Reversing into it goes badly wrong.   Mud, rain, and inexperience whatever you wish to call it had the land rover on the point of vanishing at any moment into one of the vineyards below.

The girls bail out. Standing under a Lotto golfing brolly that imparts a strong message to me – “Your number could be up!”   I commence stuffing the tents hall carpet, floor mats, leaves, rocks, with the curse of a free holiday to the west of Ireland on all Portuguese with a Celtic Brogue under the back wheels.   Two hours of digging, swearing, wheel spinning, in the midst of expert advice from under the brolly which is eventually cut silent by a cut hand, I come free to reverse down the track to pitch number ten.

It is one more night of cold bums, cold legs, a disgruntled Fanny, and an anxious exhausted Florence sound asleep.

Before departing next morning in the sunshine, Eureka, I receive my first wet shave from my daughter. I must have been looking extremely haggard from yesterday’s late evening exertions. On the way back up the track a stream cascading its pure mountain water down through a field of intense yellow daisies offers an opportunity to try out our washing machine, (a large blue plastic drum with a screw lid.)

Scrambling down through the woods over a few barbed wire fences, Florence and I fill the container in a fairy glade with unblemished living water. Returning to Williwaw, I am one stone lighter with arms two inches longer.   With some considerable effort, the container is heaved onto the roof. The theory is that Williwaws motion will rock the drum turning it into a washing machine.

Some hours later we pull in to Figueira da Foz in sweet-smelling underwear. That night I foul anchor with four Welsh sailors who are on a yacht-delivering trip to somewhere in the Med. Two bottles of port later I roll back to the hotel using satellite navigation with the odd lamppost buoy to keep me on course.

Daybreak:

It is quite obvious to all that a long drive today is out of the question. I am rejuvenated, in an old barber’s shop where I receive the full treatment, a cutthroat shave, hot towels, slap of aftershave, head message all for 2350 excuses.

Looking like an American Marine, a walk of the beach is recommended by the girls. “Nothing like sea air to clear the head you always say, dad”.   In front of the incoming wave, Florence runs alongside the wading birds, playing chicken with the surf that echoes’ deep within my aching head.   Arriving at the far end of the beach we are assured by a local fisherman, that here not an inch of sand to spare in July and August.   In my state of mind, I don’t give a toss if they all had to sit on top of each other.   My head needed peace and quiet. Where better than a small church called St. de Comceicoa. “What’s in there,” says Florence. “That’s the inner sanctum.” She has just got one foot in the door before I frog march her back out into the open air. Laid out on the slab with fresh rigour mortis, is an auld one dressed in full heavenly travelling gear.   Not quite what I had in mind for Florence. God forbid after the St. Clara nails experience, there is every chance that she might be caught examining the old dears teeth, never mind her nails, for life hereafter growth.

We trundle down the N109 stopping at Fátíma. Here we visit the Cathedral with its magnificent stained glass windows and gargoyles that would do justice to any methodological colour yawn.   Having done the tourist bit, we are just about to leave the cathedral when a ray of sunlight strikes one of the windows. In a mist of an early morning bog light, the suspended crucifixion over the eternal remembrance stone plaque is shrouded in colours of hazed glorification.   The click of cameras, the hum of video camcorders, sours the moment. I am glad we are not packed a Camcorder; the blind man’s travelling stick.

An hour later over a picnic lunch, we are sitting in a small public park, or to be more precise on the roof of a public loo overlooking the park. The toilet building has been dedicated by the Mayor of the village to those who fought in the battle of some unreadable campaign.   From the shrine in the Cathedral dedicated to those blown to smithereens to a public toilet for those with dog tags is quite a contras.

Lisbon is in our sights.

We arrive at the peak traffic rush hour.   Finding our way over the Tagus Bridge, “Fanny has the map out. Let’s try Sesimbra it’s just down the road on the coast.   “Look Bob”, it’s just out there.   A few car parks and a shantytown later, we arrive in the Kinsale of Lisbon. Hotel Della Mar, sporting 4 stars – looks good. “A room for the team please, with a view of the sea if possible”. We’re full.

We do however have one room for 37,000 excuses plus 6,000 for a spare bed, has us hot tailing it off to a bar for a rethink. Luck gleams down once more on us; we secure a small apartment for a meagre 4,500 just off the main drag.

We are three days away from Florence’s seventh birthday and twelve hours to meeting up with Pedro and his family – our favourite Portuguese son who had stayed with us in Ireland for two summers to learn English. Armed with telephone directions, we are all set to meet up the next day in Pedro’s dad’s offices in Portinho, Lisbon at 5.30pm.   Portinho is one hour away from where we are staying. We are to leave at four thirty p.m. tomorrow in the direction of Setubal down the coast. After fifteen to twenty kilometres we consult a citizen of Setubal, as to the whereabouts of Lisbon never mind Portinho. “No, speak English.”

While he offers me an old 200-excuse banknote with some roman face as a souvenir to buy, Fanny spots the inescapable Police station.

“Wait in the car park”, she eventually emerges with a three peaks fix.   It’s over the bridge, not the bridge over to Troia or the Rio Tejo, but over the Rio Tagus where we crossed yesterday.

Back out on the Auto-Estrada we arrive once more in time for Lisbon’s evening rush hour. With her bull bar and her hijack strapped to her front bumper Williwaw commands respect. She is not to be messed with. Disappearing in the smog of crawling traffic we grind with every passing minute to a halt and then to a total standstill all due to the installation of a new Lisbon metro system.

Ask this man, that taxi driver, a group of women at a bus stop, the local tourist office, rap on the windows of adjacent traffic, consult our map, around and around we go. We eventually appear in Portinho at eight p.m.

There, two floors up framed in an office window is the Jadauji family. In relief and thanksgiving, I give Williwaw’s air horns a blast. It is to be the first time and the last time that they work. Ten minutes later we are following close at the heel to the Jadauji home in Vale de Lobos outside Lisbon. We are welcomed to the bosom of their home by Lumbo, a Portuguese sheep dog of Swartznegger proportions.

The following morning Florence armed with an automatic push-button umbrella and a small battery operated car tackling her fear of Lumbo to celebrate her seventh birthday in style.   Fanny hits the downtown Lisbon with the credit card.   Williwaw gets a new security system sent out from the UK, to replace the one that had been installed without removing some of its packagings. The original alarm suffered a meltdown in the Polish Ship.

While the girls are having a ball I on the other hand to the apprehension of Juan (Pedro’s dad: a Sporting fan), cause a near riot at the Final de Taca de Portugal in Estadio Nacional.

Entering the stadium, we are met by a sea of waving flags – Red for S.L. Benfica and green for Sporting C.P.   In order to take our seats in the Bancada Central we pass in front of the green Sporto supporters. I am wearing some of Fanny’s glorious red lipsticks, and a Benfica scarf bought outside the grounds. To be expected both these items attract some choice Portuguese catcalls not found in the Portuguese Phrasebook. Any true football junkie would nevertheless have no difficulty in translating them.   Donning a Mick Jagger pursed-lipped I throw a kiss in the direction of the Sporto terracing. It brings a shower of apple cores, banana skins, and any other item of worthless value. It looks like I am not yet for cloning.

Finding our seats the floodlight-playing surface is surrounded with no boundaries capable of testifying to where one colour ends and the other begins. An explosion of green and red signals the player’s arrival. The stadium burst into the religious tribal fever of football. Only the lights of Lisbon blinking in the distant darkness separate the supporters. Ten minutes into the game there is a large movement of green towards the exits.   Slowly at first, the Sporto fans are leaving until only a handful remained.

It turns out that a rocket has been fired from the Benfica end of the pitch. Descended out of the spotlight darkness it has struck a young man dead for the wearing of the green: Such a waste of life.

Although I had never met or seen the young man in question, I felt saddened by his tragedy.   Many a young man in my country met their end for the wearing of the green. I am probably the last one to have blown his killer a kiss.

Armed with boxes of South American samba music we unwillingly prepare to leave Lisbon.   The tapes are a gift from Pedro father, who supplies Brazil with their latest hits in return for large boxes of fresh tropical fruit. His large Mozambique smile asks us to say Jambo to Africa, before he bestowed us with one last surprise. He has arranged for us to stay for a few nights in the Algarve at his expense, in his hotel Monaco, where he promises us, there will be a bottle of whisky awaiting our arrival.

So here we are basking in the luxury of Algarve sunshine for a few days. It will be a difficult to return to life under canvas.

Fanny retraces a holiday from her past.   Finding some of the little villages she and her friends had visited.   I introduce Florence to her first real experience of nature at its best.

Lazing on a small sandbar the tide ripples between our toes. Two Arctic terns are feeding on the edge of the tide. Hovering over the blue Mediterranean water, they dive for whitebait within inches of us.   I try without much success to explain to my daughter that the enemy of life is not so much death as not living it without an element of Awe. She far too young for such a conversation I can only hope that Africa with its easel of life will take care of the explanation for me. It is difficult at this point, if not almost impossible, to contemplate what we all will learn over the course of the next two years.

Later that evening out on the Hotel bar balcony I muse over, what if any sanity went through the mind of Vasco da Gama before he set sail to find the sea route to India. Did Fernao de Magalbaes remain sane? He never returned from the first circumnavigation of the world. Then there is Diogo de Silves, he just followed the sun to the edge of the known world and turned left discovering the Azores before he fell off. And how about Pedro Alvares Cabrol who discovered Brazil – was he blinded by the sun, or had he set off in the dark? Why was it that Henry the Navigator never went to sea?

One way or the other they all I am sure watched the setting sun, with the same feelings that I was now experiencing a sense of adventure, a touch of fear that gives you the urge to pee, a moment of solitude finely tuned by being alive, a moment of prayer.

It goes without saying that a world without the unknown is indeed going to be a boring place. Perhaps at this point, it is sheer cruelty to speculate what is in store for a man in the future, but somewhere, recently I read that the average modern man (if that is his correct label) of seventy-two years spends twelve years watching the idiot box. The destroyer of living life, imaginations, languages, conversation, ethics, feelings, intellectual capacity, and nature, to name but a few of the idiot boxes negative contributions to the world we now live in. The question to be answered is will Twitter, FaceBook and the Web combined with all of our technology advances leave us living in a world without a sense of truly living in harmony with what really matters our differences and nature.      

SPAIN once more:

For us, its Faro out on Cape Santa Maria with a stop on the way in at a small village called St. Juan de Puerto for no other reason than our craving for a cold drink. Our request in the local, the only bar in the town, for two beers and a coke brings a scratching of the heads, followed by general all-round body scratch from the old lady standing behind the counter. Florence takes over communications. Hanging her tongue out in panting doggy fashion our request is finally understood.

While waiting for the drinks I engage a youth and older man in small talk. “Come here often?” I enquire; “Si twice a day” the answer comes in perfect English.

“Two trains pass here daily says the young one. “ “I am in training for a year.” God rest my soul if it’s not the Spanish Open University level crossing course. After a visit to the railway station, which I could not refuse, to see the role of honour we press on to Faro – Malaga.

Two more wonderful wild pitches, (Pitch; no 11/12) one on the lake shore below Villamartin, the other up in the hills outside Ronda, both sleepless due to the girl’s sense of hearing which is now so finely tuned they can hear the earth breath.

On the other hand they are both showing signs of shaping up a little for the trip ahead,   ” Be more precise when you want something Dad, “ I am told by Florence, and ” put things back where you find them.” are hopeful indicators that those small accidents that could cause our whole trip to end in disaster will be avoided.

(Top Tip: Small accidents have a habit of turning into major disasters. Their probability can be greatly reduced by putting things back where one finds them. )

After a thirty-mile downhill section of twisting bends that almost untwist our necks with me saying at every bend ” Don’t ride the brakes, Don’t ride the brakes, “ Use the f… gears, “ By the time we stop for a morning coffee, in Atjate. Fanny is a short burning fuse. She is threatening to go home.

We stop at Bar Pandara. Out of one of its open windows pours an unending volume of noise in the form of Spanish voices intermingled with the alluring chimes of the resident one-armed bandit machine. Followed by the ever-increasing volume of noise from within. We retreat outside with our morning coffees.   All is brought to a shattered crescendo of silence by a woman’s scream from somewhere down the street. It is a scream of such piercing intensity that daylight rape can be the only explanation. We don’t hang around to find out.

Fanny’s spark plug is still glowing on our arrival at a new camping site called Camping Rio Genal, Pitch: No 13 named after the river which we have been following for most of the day.   The morning session of “don’t ride the brakes” does not stand us in good form for the next Spanish Tourist attraction.

Over lunch, we are treated to the dispatching of a pedigree Spanish free range chicken without the use of a fork or knife. At the table next to us, eyes closed, against recoil, a rather large Hombre, equipped with lips that have the suction of an industrial vacuum hover proceeds to demolish Pollo Selecto.   Ripping the legs off with a quick twist of the wrist, he breach’s the breast with trembling fingers of anticipation.   Using a Canadian beaver bark-stripping technique the carcass is cast aside without coming up for air.   Next, each leg is lowered into the airlock.   The door closed. Only the conclave of the outer cheeks against the cheekbone gives any indication of the suction being applied before the leg re-emerges snow-white. Stripped cleaner than if a flock of vultures had picked it for a week and left it in the sun to dry it is then tossed aside for some unknown archaeologist dig in a thousand years from now to find the remains of an unknown Plover that once lived on the banks of the Rio Genal.

A swim in the Rio Genal is a welcome catharsis.

Four am, I am awakened to find my loved one Fanny, crying. Her airbed has collapsed; her sleeping bag refuses to close. Bags traded with a re-inflation I am back to sleep dreaming of cannibalism.

Morning: Camped under the shade of a cork tree there is no rush to move in the hot breaking sun. The clear soft mountain water of the river is calling.   A bit perky at first, but soon we are sliding down a water Shute into a deep pool.

Florence returns from upriver exploration with a new friend from the previous evening’s domino match. They have discovered a sandy beach, with a deep swimming pool on one of the river bends. We follow our guides, into the carefree pleasures of a wonderful afternoon that no amount of money could buy.

(Top Tip: Camp site Camping Rio Genal is to be recommended.)

Later that evening we traverse the last of the mountains to Costa del Sol, Malaga. A shining example of what happens when a country sells its cultural identity to hardcore tourism. Profit for the sake of profit. This is to be a trinity of tragedy we will witness over and over again throughout our journey, all encouraged by the very worst of western “values.”

We book into Hotel Patrica on the main strip.   Walls like tissue paper, but clean and cool. Dinner at a pizza joint goes down well with Flo. Fanny and I talk about Africa, our new source of energy. A shopping list is drawn up that will require a trailer.   Television images are strong, winning out to a day visit to The Rock of

Gibraltar, to stock up on essentials. Tea is a must, fly repellent, Game Boy, Barbie Safaris gear, you name it, and it was on the list.

Armed with our list bright and early, we are walking across a runway that has tested many a pilot and passenger stomach to Gibraltar.   The shops are closed. Over an English breakfast, we are made wise to the fact that it’s an English Bank holiday.   How was I to know, I plead, “You can rest assured that the Arab community will not miss the opportunity to trade with the rest of the competition out of action.”   Some hours later laden down, we take a taxi back across the runway to the Spanish border, purchase our ferry tickets to Ceuta at a cost of one hundred pounds – departure at eight thirty am in the morning. The tomorrow departure allows the ladies to upgrade their swim wear, flip-flops, hats, snorkels, flippers, and new camera lens.

That night is interrupted by another dose of bullfighting dreams for Florence and too much 103 brandy for ourselves.

To be continued.

As theretofore any small donations would be much appreciated.

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2

Sorting Code: 98-50-10.

                                           Africa is approaching fast at

                                                     5 cm a year.

By Robert de Mayo Dillon.

To see a world in a grain of sand

                                         And a Heaven in a wild flower

                                   Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

                                            and Eternity in an hour

Auguries of Innocence c1803

To All that value living time.

Introduction.

To this day the gregre (charm) is still hung around my neck. A cowrie shell has replaced my wristwatch and wallet. We’re skint. So what; the poverty of our minds has being enriched far beyond our dreams.

St Malo is on the bow. My mind is telling me that Sitting Bull died with an Irish Papal Medal around his neck.

“Passengers are requested to join their vehicles”.

In the confines of a Polish ship, Williwaw’s engine, (our Land Rover) comes to life with a roar worthy of a lion on heat – not that I have ever heard an oversexed lion roar, other than in Dublin Zoo when I was five or six. On that occasion, in the heat of the day, in the moment of terror, I squirted urine all the way back to the ice cream van.

Fanny beside me, Florence our seven and half-year-old daughter is perched behind on the one remaining seat.   No going back. We are fully loaded. Fanny has never seen the inside of a tent.   Florence is not going to see the inside of a conventional school for the next two years.   It’s four months since I put Travels to Africa in Fanny’s Christmas sock. Eight months since the collapse of our business.   Thirty years since I went swimming in the 1979 Fastnet Admirals Cup race.

Many have asked and still do ask, why? Why Africa?

The question has no real answer, other than the sea in 1979 had spared my soul from Albatross flight.   An uninvited swim in the worst yachting disaster of modern times had somehow or other released me from living my life on the HP of a Banker’s monthly salary. The mortgage and the pension at all cost syndromes were well and truly canned.   The Fastnet swim unstrapped my corset of security and replacing it with a living clock that is ticking fast.

So Sitting Bulls spirit is at this very moment whispering in my ear,

“If you don’t write a book on this trip it will remain between language and silence

the most beautiful musical notes ever heard. “

Chapter One:

FRANCE

WHAT WE KNOW:  

Paris, Eiffel Tower, Napoleon, Frogs Legs, Cocks, Resistance, Foreign Legion, De Gaulle, Mona Lisa, Guillotine, Revolution, D. Day, Pasteur, Van Gogh, Garlic, Wine, Quasiomodo, Perfume, Cognac, Mitterrand, Mount Blanc, Chateau, Seine, Riviera, TGV, Burgundy, Louis, Boules, Scandals, Love, Fois Gras, Fêtes, Bastille, Le Monde, Cannes Film Festival, Grapes.

Down the ship’s ramp – Within a wink of the eye our first navigational problem, a T-junction is upon us. Bristling with information that is entangled with graffiti an arrow hints at the direction we want to go – Left or Right.   Right we go. I drained of colour, looking somewhat like an Aids Victim, swearing that I will never again be nobbled by Polish cooking. (Sauerkraut with polish widows memories or sausages if you likes is the cause of my dull complexion)

If by any chance you might be thinking of following in our dust. Be warned! The Left or Right syndrome is fraught with dangers, far greater than any African off-road driving hazards, wild animals, frontier crossings, AK 47, diseases, malaria, racism, wars, bushfire, or letters from the bank manager.

After a day’s driving, using all the skills acquired from our four-hour 4X4 course in Andover we arrive, at our first campsite.

“Allo bonjour, une place S’il vous plaît”, with Dieu Merci being the operative word”.

Darkness is falling. You guess it right; it is raining les chiens et les chats.

(French for woofers and pussies) Enough to irrigate the Sahara, I struggle to get our tent pitched. ” Where is the effing hammer,” ” In the toolkit my dear,” which of course is on the roof, under the Jerry cans, lashed with chain, and bonjees, and for good measure locked to the roof rack with a combination lock, which of course refuses to open.   All of which combine in a sense – to a stunning introduction to the do’s and don’ts of camping.

“Well done my love,”

Who gets wet that night? The wife of course! Who else?

By late morning, on the completion of our first repack, plastic bags are banned.   I discover we have no loo paper the frustration of which I take out on an oversized red wok. Wrong, I didn’t crap in it. I did, however, reshape it with the wheel brace.

We no sooner on the road again, yes! In thunder and lighting, a little voice asks, “Are you really my daddy?”

“Of course I am.” “What do you want a DNA test”

“Well if you are.”   “Where’s the wedding photo?”

Pitch number two; see us in the darkness of the night drinking wine out of yoghurt jars. Rather than picking out what is on the dinner plate, our head strapped campers lights are beam fencing. Founded on decades of western education there can be no doubt that we have moved into a different world, and for the moment I am the undisputed leader, the shining light.

Next morning, I find myself, in a shower with a push button on the wall. You know the type. Push the button and it delivers a squirt of water sufficient to wash one pubic hair at a time. Then when you most need it to work for no visible reason it decides to come to a dribbling halt, leaving a long streak of white frothing shampoo down your back that disappears into the crack of your ass reappearing for good measure down or up the inside of your legs depending on who is looking. I am all for water conversation, but there are some pleasures in life that requires a certain amount of inanity such as enjoying a hot shower.

After my rationed of organic soup I emerge, disgruntled, lifeless in Royal.   (France)

One p.m., we’re on the move again, straight through an overhanging red light.

A hundred yards further down the road concentrating on the next set of overheads; we go airborne over a speed ramp. The look on the girl’s faces said it all.   Stop for a beer, and start again.

Out in the country once more:

Wine to the left, wine to the right: Where do we stop?

A Vineyard!   Of course not! We stop at a Napoleons Brandy tasting house. Why? Because we don’t speak French that’s why.   Two hundred francs lighter, one bottle heavier we hit the Bordeaux ring road, where doubting Thomas takes over.   Don’t worry luck is with us.   Fanny’s satellite navigation ausfarts (Germany phonetically sound for Exit) has us on the right road number, according to Michelin 989.

An hour later after acquiring some rubber matting for the hall of the tent, some fresh food for the evening meal, not forgetting a plastic three litres barrel of wine, plus the connoisseur complementary bottle, we arrive in the valley of the owls at Lou Broustaricq Sanquinet base de Loisir et d’Accueil Route de Langeot Nr Arcachon.

 Pitch no three.    

That night, from inside the tent, every hoot is followed by,   “What is that?”

“What is that noise?”   “It’s a too twit too how “I slur in ever improving imitations of a pissed owl, owls, till noddyland arrives.

We are awakened at six thirty am by a squadron of French Airforce Jets. Their low flying passes resulting in the nerve end of my scalp causing an accidental erosion of the hard disk of my brain.   Shrieking at tree level they scare the B Jesus out of the girls, displace the resident population of owls who immediately start a dawn concerto to add to last night’s entertainment.

Bleary-eyed, I venture over to the Sanitary Unit this time to be confronted with a stand-up and do it French Toilet.   Not for the amateur, not the faint-hearted, or the hungover, not to mention my microchips warped by last night’s Napoleon juice and the French Airforce.

A deep knowledge of gravity is required. The whole trick is in the use of wishbone knee pressure to hold one’s shorts out of the firing line. Finding the precise angles of squat, which I am sure I will never master. No matters how often I adjust the angle the turd misses that goddamn little hole in the middle of the floor. A fact, which is customarily confirmed by a revealing bout of coughing, with extra flushing, a set of wet shoes, and rapid retreat to whence, I came from.

We decide to venture down to La Dune de Pyla, a small sandcastle down the road on the coast, which turns out to be a Micro Sahara. A few hours later Fanny with a thousand other Chesterfield, Gitane, Gaulois, lovers is panting as we labour up the first Dune.

“Jesus I wish, I wish, I had given up the fags “.

Venturing over the slip side off a dune I leave her with a concerned Florence puffing, on top of the first dune. “You’ve got to give up Mum.”

Away from the great unwashed, I spot a set of footprints in the deep sand disappearing in the direction the blue sea. Incoming waves carry more gritty troops in a relentless attack to secure a beachhead for the Sahara. I can’t help thinking that perhaps the footprints belonged to that bloke we have all seen in one of those old world war desert movies.

You know the Monty desert rat type.

A curly red-head of a short squat statue, in threadbare khaki shorts, stiffer upper lipped he-man. Hairy chest, in a string vest with moveable sweat stains, clasping an oil rag, standing in hob-nailed boots. Each weighing a ton- socks optional.   Yes, you’ve got him. He is the one that clambers over one dune after another, with ten thousand dunes to go in search of water. While back at the other end of his footprints his buddies are lapping up the sunshine till all of us are panting with the thirst, and can’t wait to get out of the cinema to down a pint of beer in the nearest pub.

I see him in my mind eye arriving at a four-star hotel set in the classic palm-filled oasis. Agonizingly, crawling, crawling under the scorching unforgiving noonday sun, he reaches the revolving lobby doors. In his demented mirage, the whole place is spinning as he gasps through cracked blistered lips, “Water! Water!”   Only to be confronted by a doorman in full number ones who retorts, in classical Lord Irvine style English   “Sorry Sir, one must have a tie to enter here.”

Thank God! Tomorrow, it’s up and over the Pyrenees before I lose my marbles.

to be continued

After a day’s driving, using all the skills acquired from our four-hour 4X4 course in Andover we arrive, at our first campsite.

“Allo bonjour, une place S’il Vous plaît”, with Dieu Merci being the operative word”.

Darkness is falling. You guess it right; it is raining les chiens et Les chats.

(French for woofers and pussies) Enough to irrigate the Sahara, I struggle to get our tent pitched. ” Where is the effing hammer,” ” In the toolkit my dear,” which of course is on the roof, under the Jerry cans, lashed with chain, and bungees, and for good measure locked to the roof rack with a combination lock, which of course refuses to open.   All of which combine in a sense – to a stunning introduction to the do’s and don’ts of camping.

“Well done my love,”

Who gets wet that night? The wife of course! Who else?

By late morning, on the completion of our first repack, plastic bags are banned.   I discover we have no loo paper the frustration of which I take out on an oversized red wok. Wrong, I didn’t crap in it. I did, however, reshape it with the wheel brace.

We no sooner on the road again, yes! In thunder and lighting, a little voice asks, “Are you really my daddy?”

“Of course I am.” “What do you want a DNA test”

“Well if you are.”   “Where’s the wedding photo?”

Pitch number two; see us in the darkness of the night drinking wine out of yoghurt jars. Rather than picking out what is on the dinner plate, our head strapped campers lights are beam fencing. Founded on decades of western education there can be no doubt that we have moved into a different world, and for the moment I am the undisputed leader, the shining light.

Next morning, I find myself, in a shower with a push button on the wall. You know the type. Push the button and it delivers a squirt of water sufficient to wash one pubic hair at a time. Then when you most need it to work for no visible reason it decides to come to a dribbling halt, leaving a long streak of white frothing shampoo down your back that disappears into the crack of your ass reappearing for good measure down or up the inside of your legs depending on who is looking. I am all for water conversation, but there are some pleasures in life that require a certain amount of inanity such as enjoying a hot shower.

After my rationed of organic soup I emerge, disgruntled, lifeless in Royal.   (France)

One p.m., we’re on the move again, straight through an overhanging red light.

A hundred yards further down the road concentrating on the next set of overheads; we go airborne over a speed ramp. The look on the girl’s faces said it all.   Stop for a beer, and start again.

Out in the country once more:

Wine to the left, wine to the right: Where do we stop?

A Vineyard!   Of course not! We stop at a Napoleons Brandy tasting house. Why? Because we don’t speak French that’s why.   Two hundred francs lighter, one bottle heavier we hit the Bordeaux ring road, where doubting Thomas takes over.   Don’t worry luck is with us.   Fanny’s satellite navigation ausfarts (Germany phonetically sound for Exit) has us on the right road number, according to Michelin 989.

An hour later after acquiring some rubber matting for the hall of the tent, some fresh food for the evening meal, not forgetting a plastic three litres barrel of wine, plus the connoisseur complementary bottle, we arrive in the valley of the owls at Lou Broustaricq Sanquinet base de Loisir et d’Accueil Route de Langeot Nr Arcachon.

 Pitch no three.    

That night, from inside the tent, every hoot is followed by,   “What is that?”

“What is that noise?”   “It’s a too twit too how “I slur in ever improving imitations of a pissed owl, owls, till noddyland arrives.

We are awakened at six thirty am by a squadron of French Airforce Jets. Their low flying passes resulting in the nerve end of my scalp causing an accidental erosion of the hard disk of my brain.   Shrieking at tree level they scare the B Jesus out of the girls, displace the resident population of owls who immediately start a dawn concerto to add to last night’s entertainment.

Bleary-eyed, I venture over to the Sanitary Unit this time to be confronted with a stand-up and do it French Toilet.   Not for the amateur, not the faint-hearted, or the hungover, not to mention my microchips warped by last night’s Napoleon juice and the French Airforce.

A deep knowledge of gravity is required. The whole trick is in the use of wishbone knee pressure to hold one’s shorts out of the firing line. Finding the precise angles of squat, which I am sure I will never master. No matters how often I adjust the angle the turd misses that goddamn little hole in the middle of the floor. A fact, which is customarily confirmed by a revealing bout of coughing, with extra flushing, a set of wet shoes, and rapid retreat to whence, I came from.

We decide to venture down to La Dune de Pyla, a small sandcastle down the road on the coast, which turns out to be a Micro Sahara. A few hours later Fanny with a thousand other Chesterfield, Gitane, Gaulois, lovers is panting as we labour up the first Dune.

“Jesus I wish, I wish, I had given up the fags “.

Venturing over the slip side off a dune I leave her with a concerned Florence puffing, on top of the first dune. “You’ve got to give up Mum.”

Away from the great unwashed, I spot a set of footprints in the deep sand disappearing in the direction the blue sea. Incoming waves carry more gritty troops in a relentless attack to secure a beachhead for the Sahara. I can’t help thinking that perhaps the footprints belonged to that bloke we have all seen in one of those old world war desert movies.

You know the Monty desert rat type.

A curly red head of a short squat statue, in threadbare khaki shorts, stiffer upper lipped he-man. Hairy chest, in a string vest with moveable sweat stains, clasping an oil rag, standing in hob-nailed boots. Each weighing a ton- socks optional.   Yes, you’ve got him. He is the one that clamper’s over one dune after another, with ten thousand dunes to go in search of water. While back at the other end of his footprints his buddies are lapping up the sunshine till all of us are panting with the thirst, and can’t wait to get out of the cinema to down a pint of beer in the nearest pub.

I see him in my mind eye arriving at a four-star hotel set in the classic palm-filled oasis. Agonizingly, crawling, crawling under the scorching unforgiving noonday sun, he reaches the revolving lobby doors. In his demented mirage, the whole place is spinning as he gasps through cracked blistered lips, “Water! Water!”   Only to be confronted by a doorman in full number ones who retorts, in classical Lord Irvine style English   “Sorry Sir, one must have a tie to enter here.”

Thank God! Tomorrow, it’s up and over the Pyrenees before I lose my marbles.

To be continued.

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