Two weeks as a local (Part IV)

Day 5: I got up early and filled up a water bottle before heading out. A young boy guided me to the road to Imilchil which to me meant a drivable road, but to him meant a shortcut barely visible through the narrow strip of farmland, the only reason anyone was up here. I eventually found the road and at the end of my first hour I took a break. I ate a bit and drank a bit and took a cat nap. I started heading further and very soon realized that my body had little left to offer. I had an overwhelming sense of fatigue, both demanding that I lie down and that I sleep it off. Fortunately at this very time an old man crossed my path and took me to his house for tea. I mustered up enough strength to eat politely and when that was done he offered his house for a nap and I eagerly took one.

He also offered a place for the night and I would eventually agree to that as well. I spent all day in the main room of his house. His name was Hammou, 54, and as it turned out, I knew about him from a story I heard in Tamtatoucht about a guy up here that broke his ribs in a motorcycle accident, and this was the man. He was still recovering, wearing a brace around his torso and taking a mild pain releiver once a day. He spent 5 days with three broken ribs before a French doctor was able to get up there to help. Part of the delay was due to his inability to pay a great deal. I spent a long time in the house and had a chance to meet the whole family. His wife was a phantom. I saw her twice for a total of one minute. No one spoke french or english so I could ask few questions. His daughter, Heno, was the heart of the household. She controlled everything including money, although she had matters to attend to elsewhere during the daytime, leaving her children to run amuck. Her husband never showed up, which either means he is gone for good or he lives in the city trying to make a little money, occasionally returning home to help out. This is how much of life works here. Heno had five children. The oldest was perhaps 20, and I believe her name was Aysha. She was a six foot tall supermodel in the middle of nowhere. I truly believe if folks could grow to like the tattoos on her face she could be on every magazine. The Berbers, the folks that were here first, use tattoos to denote which tribe you belong to and whether or not you are married. It's impolite to ask if someone is available. The marriage tattoo is beautiful. It's a line that starts from inside the lip and goes down to the chin. It passes through a series of dots on each side. Aysha was married, and her husband was also missing. Heno's next in line was a girl approaching marrying age who scowled at me whenever I looked at her. She tended to avoid me. After her was Drizz, a young boy starting to learn French in school. Here you begin life speaking Berber. When you get to school you start learning Arabic, and once you have that under control you learn French. I think he was 9. He didn't quite know what to do with me, but he had a friend who enjoyed spending hours staring at me with a wide open jaw. His friend never said anything but just stared. After him was another girl. She was adorable, and loved sneaking around and darting away whenever I noticed her looking. She wore a scarf around her head and had an old woman gardening dress on. She was 6 but dressed like 60. Her youth came out in her knees which had worn holes through the dress since she often preferred crawling. Not like a baby but more as a fun way of stopping herself. Finally comes the youngest, Mustafa. Say the name a few times OK. Say it loudly and with much vigor and now put all that energy into a two year old. He was truly the master of his domain. Mustafa's favorite thing to do was this bizarre dance with both feet firmly planted, rocking his hips. If I was nearby this would turn into boxing Mustafa. He would start to shuffle his fists with this devilish look in his eyes like he was taunting me. This wouldn't last and he'd go back to his dance. I never knew how to react appropriately so I just stood their until his wheels started spinning and he took off running. That's it for Heno's kids, but Aysha had two of her own, Fatima and Nevil. They were always close by and usually sheltered on their mothers lap. They seemed to be the only people Hammou really talked to, although he was very proud of Drizz and forced me to look at all of his french homeworks to admire his progress, whih I did with many oohs and ahhs. So now you know the family.

Day 6: I spent the evening very ill. I got severe diarrhea. When morning came about my spirits were even lower. I was in a huge household and could not find an ounce of compassion. I imagine that mother's cannot afford to be compassionate for much past the first year. The environment that these kids live in is too brutal and they need to learn very early how to cope if they are going to get by. Most of the time I wasn't even left alone to sleep, there wasn't room to allow that. Towards noon Heno took a nap and I collapsed nearby. She barked at her children to get her a blanket and Aysha brought her one. With closed eyes I expected a blanket to be gently spread out over me and carefully tucked in. Instead Aysha made a noise that she uses to get the lamb out of the house and I looked up to see her through a pillow down near my head. That was all I got.

Shortly thereafter we all headed down to the road to catch a camion. I had decided to drive out. I needed to find a place to get better and I could not do that here. I was a bit said that I was taking the easy way out and catching a lift, but I soon learned that was not the case. First off, I could not have cleared the pass we went over sick or healthy. It was much further than anyone had told me and much steeper than I ever imagined. Now a camion is not a fun thing. First of all it is a dump truck. It is fourth class travel literally as you are thrown in the back with cargo. Everyone uses old feed bags to transport belongings. The camion was a bed of such bags with 20 men tougher than anything I've ever seen. I was given little special treatment and soon found me and my gear shoved in between numerous bodies. The arrangement constantly changes as one person tries to get comfortable, achieving it for a moment until someone tries the same thing. The second problem is that the reason why we had to take a camion is that nothing else can get up there. Local vehicles can't deal with the piste roads, washouts, and steep terrain. The only thing that works is 4x4's but they are a luxury for foreigners only. The trip is painful with constant jarring and folks falling on you trying to relocate.

Amazingly I had fully recovered by the top of the pass; however this didn't last too long. I still had to get to the other side and in a matter of 30 minutes the temperature went from 75 and breezy to 25 and hailing. We dragged a tarp over the camion and went on. The camion went all the way to Imilchil but I stopped after 4 hours in Agoudal. By this time I was covered in mud, my blanket had a huge olive oil stain, and I could feel a cold coming on, one of the many being carried by the passengers. After numerous arguments with little hustler kids I eventually found a beautiful auberge and turned in.

Day 7: I built a fortress of health. I had so many blankets on and below me that it was difficult to move. The folks at the inn would stop by to take my order and then come back to tell me it was ready. I came out of the fortress four times that day. I really enjoyed my fort and had little desire to do anything else. The folks at the inn were very helpful and they don't know how much they boosted my spirits that day.

Day 8: The storm had passed. The sun was bright and I felt good. Today I move on. It was an easy day, particularly since I pushed hard and finished early. About halfway through I came across a woman who started babling to me. I didn't understand anything but that didn't stop her. Eventually she started making vomiting noises, something I had done to keep Heno from force feeding me and I realized it was here. I sat down and of course she gave me bread, which was her way. I didn't expect to see her. She was on the camion, but took a spot over the cab with the other women. She continued on to Imilchil for the souk today and went went her two youngest daughters. Therefore I didn't expect to see her so far away from Imilchil and without her kids. I tried to find out what happened to them but she just nodded. When I left she walked me to the crossroads and showed me which path went to Imilchil. I eventually reached Bouzmou with the intent to continue on, but the man at the cafe said it was 18 km to Imilchil so I took his offer for a room. He offered a room and that was exactly what I got, a room. It was more of a cell to be honest, with a tiny barred window to boot. He brought in a foam mattress and a few blankets but it didn't exactly brighten up the decor. I missed the comfy bed in Agoudal as well as the good food. This guy could only make a poor excuse for an omelette. It only got worse from there. In the evening he started up a generator which powered only one thing, the television, so the town could watch soccer. The television wasn't the problem, but when I went to the bathroom I found the generator sitting in the bathroom and choking up the air. I held my breathe to go but had already taken a big swig when I first stumbled upon it. I had to keep my window open that night because I could smell the fumes creeping down the hallway.

Day 9: I woke up bitter. All of my resting the other day was stolen away by a lung full of exhaust, poor meals and a poor night's rest. I paid up and took off to finish my trip today.

On the way to Imilchil I saw the strangest thing. The sign marking the city name had been painted over. Originally it was in arabic and french, but with blood red paint the arabic had been painted over with berber. I had seen berber once before demonstrated on the palm of a hand in Ait Hani. It looks more like a math equation than a language. It was the first time I have ever seen evidence of the history of this area. The mountain berbers have historically lacked support of an arab nation and these hills have been the sight of many wars. Anyway, I could rattle off all my theories and ideas on what I understood to be the symbolism, but I'll save that for another entry.

After that I walked and I walked. At one point in time I gave up. I could not walk anymore. Honestly my legs were numb. I looked down long after giving up and they were still moving albeit with an awkward gate. What happened next was very odd. I honestly had no control over my legs and I willed them to straighten out and they did. The cause and effect were eerily disconnected. I stumbled once as the thought of stopping crossed my mind, but I picked up again because I knew I wouldn't be able to start up again. When I finally reached Imilchil, 500 meters later I sat for a long time until finding a hotel. Given the state of fatigue in my legs, the pace I was setting and the time I spent I realized something. I had figured on 35 km for the last two days, but realized my sources were wrong and what I took to be a misprint in the guidebook was not. The last two days I covered 45 km, and my body was feeling it, but it was over, and I had made it.

Day 10: Not exactly. I did take a camion out but it was a rough 4 hours. The paved road very quickly disappeared into a gravely washed out mess. This eventually disappeared and at one point the camion was barreling down the rocky riverbed. Once we came out I picked up a minibus, which took me to a taxi, which took me to yet another taxi, which dropped me off in Khenifra.

Day 11: I headed back to Fez.