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Walking with Nomads Day 3: One for all and all for one.


This afternoon, there was a violent rainstorm. As it drew closer, the whole family, sprang into action, covering the tent with a big sheet of plastic, doing the same to all the piles of provisions, bringing in anything that might get ruined by the rain and making sure the firewood had somewhere dry to sit.

There we were, our motley crew of foreigners and Berbers, with no languages in common but masses of goodwill. So, we did what all good people do when stuck in a rainstorm, we played a game guessing how many stones there were in everyone’s hands. In the UK it is a drinking game, here we did it with just mint tea. Everyone loved it.

Rain and water is the big preoccupation for Zaid and his family. There has been a drought in the region for the last three years and it has affected him badly. This year he spent over €1000 on feed for some sheep he had in his flock, but he lost 35 of them through starvation. Goats eat anything, but sheep are fussier. I am holding the lone survivor up above. We could see the lack of water even in the little wells and springs that dotted the route. All were just puddles.

For Zaid and his family to survive, everyone works and does their share. From first thing in the morning, even the little ones are working. The tea goes on, the family sit together and eat bread and olive oil or butter, then they are packing up the tent and provisions and getting the animals ready. The chicken is strapped to the mule, Zahra, picks up the little sheep, Zaid and Izza count the goats out of the enclosure and everyone sets off.

Sharing is instinctual here. On the walk,  I had lent my poles to Maymoun to try out. He loved them, he was so proud, walking in front like our guide, checking back to make sure we were all following and joyously prodding every piece of dung on the route. But when I looked up 5 minutes later, he had made one of the poles shorter and given it to his little brother, Hassan, so they could both enjoy it.

It is a small illustration of the core value of this culture. It is completely communal, everyone sleeps in the same place, eats from the same bowl of food, takes their share of the work and sits together in rest time. It would be very hard to be lonely.

Tomorrow: Herding and endings
To do this walk:







Walking with Nomads Day 2:Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang!


210 goats, 1 sheep, 7 mules, 10 camels, 3 donkeys, 2 dogs, 22 people and one chicken. It was crowded in the early morning light as we kicked off the first proper day of the migration. Izza and Zahra left before us with the goats, the dogs and Shaun the Sheep. Their job was to take the slow route and find as much grazing as possible on the way. 

We set off in grand convoy, up to the first pass out of camp and down past the last road we would see for days. We were a motley bunch from Mohammed El Kabir, resplendent in robes, turban, and proper moustache to us with our fleeces, hats and walking poles. Mohammed El Kabir was very taken with my solar recharger and wanted to swap it for his enormous dagger (no, that is not a euphemism). After a spirited negotiation, he was even willing to throw in a donkey, but I wasn’t sure my landlord in Marrakech would go for that. 

Our route was undulating with some rocky, sharp passes. The rhythm was completely new to me as I have never walked with a big convoy of animals before. We were slowing down and speeding up with them. Sometimes, it was hard even to watch. One small donkey was very heavily laden. Twice she fell over a boulder as she was going uphill and had to be hauled up to standing again by Zaid and the muleteers. 

I was fascinated by the camels, especially by their feet. They walk very elegantly and precisely, and the soles of their feet puff up and down like little hover crafts. No obstacle seemed to phase them, and whenever they caught up to us, they would just stop and wait till we had gone a little way ahead, and then start again.

We got to camp by lunchtime. Then the rest of the work day started, the tents were put up, bread was baked, the chicken was taken off the mule and tethered in a little home made chicken hut and we all had tea and a siesta.

In the late afternoon, we walked up to a ridge and looked down onto a tiny farm which supported one family.  Everywhere there is water, there is life. There, we appointed our tribal leader for the week, Paul became Dada Atta and for the rest of the trip, he was to hold sway. It is amazing how a well-wrapped turban can bestow authority. 

We didn’t see Zahra and Izza with the goats till much later. around six, as they had spent all day foraging, Izza walking with Aisha slung round her back. By sundown and shortly after supper, we were all ready for bed.

 That night, it was cold so I was in the mess tent with the boys. I drifted off easily and in the middle of the night, felt warm breath on my cheek as someone moved in for a kiss. It felt lovely, a little peck and nibble – nibble??!!! I sat up with a yelp to find the little lone Shaun the sheep looking at me earnestly. He had come into the tent to try and get warm and clearly thought I was his best bet.

Tomorrow: prodding camel poo, spinning, and the economics of goats.

To do this walk:

Drama in the High Atlas

The start at 4.30 amon the way upon the way up
It had all started out so well. Nouri (of Epic Morocco) and I had got up at just after 3 am and were breakfasted and out on Mount Toubkal by 4.30am. A beautiful night with the stars shining brightly and the Milky Way unfurling above us.
Mount Toubkal is the highest mountain in North Africa at 4,167m and I have wanted to climb it since I saw it in 2008 when I was doing the trans-Atlas traverse on the mountainbike with Charlie Shepherd and a dozen others.

Crampons and an ice axe were absolute necessities and the beginning of the climb from the refuge (3,207 metres) was fiercely steep and really challenging. My legs felt like little short stumps as I bashed my crampons in at every step to get purchase. An hour into the climb, I was starting to feel more confident and thought I had pretty well sorted my crampon gait but not according to Nouri – “legs wider, legs wider” He was obviously imagining the dreaded trouser catch and subsequent tumble down several hundred metres……
He’s a merciful man though and I was allowed a sit down on a big rock and eat a Bounty half way up to the first pass. The dawn was breaking and it was stunning, fingers of pink stretching out through the peaks. The sun took another hour to come out and hit us just as we were about to reach the pass.

From there, it was crampons off as we got to the scree. The gradient had loosened off a bit and the climb was lighter. Just one really nasty section which was a traverse from right to left across snow and boulders with a vertiginous drop to the side. “I don’t like this, Nouri, I don’t like this.”
Until then, we had been the only folk on the mountain, but just at that point two young Moroccan men cheerfully passed us.

the summitthe klaxon five manalice and nouri
The final metres trudge to the top. I felt great, I’d done it at last and no altitude sickness at all. Bright sunshine, La Vache Qui Rit and bread on our own private picnic ledge and a heart stopping 360 view of the High Atlas.

But all good picnics come to an end and we started back down the scree. Within half an hour the two lads bounded past us – Nouri called out to follow the paths and watch their legs, but they were on a high and weren’t listening.

150 metres later, disaster struck. One of them tripped and flipped right over landing on his face. I watched it happen and felt sick with fear. Nouri covered the distance to him in about 45 seconds – it took me another 20 minutes. The boy was lying like a rag doll, unconscious, sprawled and bleeding on the slope and his friend was distraught.

Nouri saved him. He got him into the recovery position, bandaged up his head and got a foil blanket and then my down jacket on him. By the time I got there, the boy (Ibrahim) was conscious but thrashing around and Nouri and I tried to support his head and stop him bashing himself. Nouri got some water and sugar into him but he vomited it straight up. By incredibly good luck, he didn’t appear to have any fractures – when I saw him fall, I thought he’d broken his neck.

At last, a second mountain guide appeared on the horizon and ran down when he saw what had happened. So, there we were on the mountain with a barely conscious boy who was alternately throwing himself around and lying as limp as a rag doll, with no phone reception, air ambulance or any way off except on foot. There was only one option and Nouri and his fellow guide got Ibrahim on his feet between them and started carrying him down.
It was amazing to watch – they were so quick and sure footed even when they were sinking thigh deep in the snow which had now softened under the strength of the sun. They were quickly way ahead of me as I made my tentative way down. I am not that confident in the snow and having just seen such a horrible fall did NOT improve my courage. Two and a half hours later, I saw the refuge and Nouri walking back up to me – the man is a machine!

When I got to the refuge, Ibrahim was lying down, looking much much better and waiting for a mule, which he was put onto and taken down to Imlil where an ambulance was waiting to take him to the hospital in Marrakech.
Lucky, lucky boy that Nouri was so close to him when he fell, and a reminder that mountains have to be treated with respect and caution!

For me, there was still a long long way to go as we were going on to Imlil and Douar Samra that day. The full walk is 38km, and by the end of it my legs were screaming. We were late due to all the drama but set off in good spirits and the walk down was truly beautiful, following the valleys and gorges with the sun bouncing off the mountains and then deepening into the evening light.
The next few hours passed in a blur – a mixture of pleasure at the beauty of the place, teaching Nouri nationalistic Scottish songs, and pain as I thumped down and down and down over the rocky ground.
At quarter to nine, we finally got to the last and final set of rocky steps up to the guest house. Nirvana! Fluffy blankets, a fire in my bedroom and big fat cushions for my achy legs. Mohammed and Rashida had saved me supper and even brought it to my room because I was too knackered to tackle the steps back up to the dining room.
So, the love affair with Morocco continues. Fun, energy, beauty and a hint of danger are pretty irresistible.view from mount toubkal

I travelled with – brilliant!

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