The rest of the Rooftop story

I had to be careful not to bang my head against the door frame so small it was like medieval doors of an abbey or a castle in Britain. The house is not that old but they must have preserved the old way of building. It was to conserve energy, cold in summer and warmth in winter.

The windows slots had wooden shutters with bolts. There was a green plastic mosquito and fly mesh fixed on the outside of a wrought iron bar fixed to the outside of the window. There were no glass panes or windows proper. Once you close the wooden shutters there is no light coming in.

The floor was concrete with its portion of dust. In the far end to the right of the door there was a makeshift double bed. Next to it there was a straw mat and over it a couple of carpets.

I noticed how Osaobi took off his trainers every time he stepped on the carpeted part and I followed the suit; it served as our bedroom proper.

At the other end of the bedroom, in which I suspect once the entire family slept, there was a commode type cupboard. On top of the commode there were about twenty pillows neatly stuck up towards the ceiling. The rest of the carpets, more than enough to carpet the whole room as well as many blankets were neatly place on two wire ropes suspended from one end of the room to the other. I thought this was because of rats and mice and other intruders. Osaobi confirmed when I asked.

Above the bed area there were a couple of picture frames, one of them containing a photograph of two men, an older person and a younger one. Later I was told that it was the grandfather and the father of my host.

As I was exploring the room Osaobi was busy setting up a small table and he checked the kitchen which only had a gas stove, a little drain hole in place of a sink and a small cupboard that contained crockery and cutlery.

Then we sat ourselves on the side of the bed and had our quick lunch of mortadela, sardines and processed cheese and of course the traditional mint tea.

The road outside was quite a busy road and many kids and adults when passing by saw the windows open and called and chatted to Osaobi. I kept in the background mainly because I was not able to converse with them.

After a brief rest to recover from the five kilometre uphill walk from the transport stop to his father’s village we decided to go out into the wild. This included a descent of some thousand feet to the brook and valley below the village where most of the beauty awaited.

This included a descent of some thousand feet to the brook and valley below the village where most of the beauty was.

It was a walk through a dream or perhaps the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. This oasis of greenery and life was a gift of these few streams that run all year round. And the villages were like a string of pearls along the brooks which were the very source of life and living.

Every village had a mosque and in the morning the boisterous voices of children learning could be heard. This was the big difference from a village here and the ones I know in Serbia which are deserted. Here there was life full of children though every one of them will soon learn a secret desire to leave and never return until retirement if ever.

Every time Osaobi pointed out a house of an aunt, uncle or a relative he would say their sons are all in Holland or Belgium and so on. Most houses had sole occupiers who kept it for those that would hopefully return from distant lands one day.

A man on a donkey passed us with usual salamu alikum. Osaobi told me all his sons and daughters are abroad. This reminds me of his own desire to leave the country.

Yet the fields were cultivated and we saw many women working although it was already late in the afternoon and the sun was setting on one western side of the mountain, only the higher eastern peaks were still sunlit.

I took my camera to record some of the outstanding beauty. I have never seen water to be as significant as it is here in the middle of the most fertile little patches of land shielded by huge and barren moon like mountains. You had only to copy some of the scenery to create most beautiful and exquisite gardens that would be pride of place at any Chelsea Flower Show.

Almond blossom

(please see attachment photos below for :

-Everywhere we went there were curious eyes and greetings from little urchins who were playing in paradise. The girls refused to be photographed.

-The water so clear you could drink it

- We had to be quite acrobatic at times. Osaobi yet again leading the way through paradise

-This was so exquisite in real life I am almost disappointed by the result having taken this photo in the late afternoon.

- One of the giants in predominately olive and walnut groves.

This photo is nearest to real colours and yet not quite it.

More photos in attachments below:

-La Roche (The Rock) is the place where many locals like to sit and meditate. There are cracked walnut shells, cigarette ends and other debris as proof. Otherwise it was our favourite place to see the sun set. There is a sheer drop behind the rock of some thousand feet.

-Beautifully sculpted natural ponds as if made for creating swimming pools.

-Branches branches everywhere like the laces of Nature.

-Here is another example of the exquisite smooth limestone which the water brook sculpted over millions of years.

-More branches and laces.

-I conquered the fear of heights and the paradisiacal beauty conquered me.

-Another picture that is more like a real thing however not quite yet.

Papa's old house; by far the most beautiful house in the village

It seemed there is no end to explorations and we could stay there for hours more. The setting Sun gave me a warning. I expressed desire to start our trek home, thinking of the heights we had to climb and the terrain to cover. I would not like to do it under the cover of darkness.

When we arrived back to the house it was already dark. The Moon was slowly showing its face and the whole gigantic valley was slowly falling into its slumber.

Osaobi quickly lit a couple of wax candles to light up the room so that we could eat our supper. He also made more tea which I enjoyed immensely. It was unusual to have everything prepared by someone else. Every attempt I made to help was rejected and probably just as well I would have been useless until I learn my way round. Osaobi was a good host.

The cold air was already creeping in through the half shut windows. A pair of pyjamas and an extra long sleeved shirt kept me warm under my sleeping bag and a couple of extra thick blankets on top. It was a long and in many ways tiring day so we were ready to go to sleep. We were too tired to do anything and there was nothing to do.

Slowly we were talking each other into sleep.

When the candle light was extinguished I realised that we were in absolute darkness. My otherwise excellent night vision failed to register any light whatsoever. I am positive that it would be perfectly safe to open a reel of unexposed film and put it back in place it would remain intact.

The total darkness was soon matched by total silence. It created a fascinating experience and immediately I thought of Wilhelm Right and his dark box. The effect was unique and my brain started to work exceptionally well. It was the first time I knew how a completely blind person must feel. What an excellent way to get rid of any stresses. I slept well though waking up several times. I could only hear Osaobi soundly sleeping not far from me. I though I could hear a mouse. Then I thought may be there are other creepy crawlies here. What if there is black widow lurking somewhere in the darkness; did he lift the beds to check if anything was not hibernating underneath. I forgot to ask him. I had no heart to wake him up now when he was soundly asleep. What about house snakes. Then I realised it was winter time and snakes are asleep. Ah, but what if they are sleep under my bed and my warmth awakes them.

This sounds nightmarish but it did not last a few minutes. I soon gave in to absolute darkness and silence and accepted the inevitable which was really nothing more then a sound sleep and way of life that natives lived for centuries.

There is nothing healthier than going to bed when darkness falls and getting up when the sun rises. It was a priceless experience.

The Saturday past in the same vein pretty much as some of the photos testify. We also used the time to bond and talk about and also learn some English in his case and some Arabic in mine.

One or two events deserve to be mentioned separately. When I walked up to the Rock, where we sat for quite a few hours, chatting, learning or planning or just plain soaking up the immensity of space and beauty, using the stairs that go to the Mosque I met three little boys obviously leaving their lesson. They were barely of school age and could have been five of six years old. Each of them extended their little hand to shake mine. Each of them said bonjour monsieur, and each of them after shaking my hand brought their hand to their mouth and kissed it. I knew this was a sign of respect. The scene was so extraordinary and so beautiful and full of dignity. I was pleased I knew to bring my hand to my heart and show my respect. They deserve it.

I was also taken by the way people greeted Osaobi and how his face always lit up when he was talking to them, be they his peers or elders, men or women.

I also did something I thought I would not dare do it. I drank water from a spring. This was more from necessity then choice as I got so dehydrated from the altitude that I desperately needed a drink. This was after I told Osaobi we had better head home as I needed a drink. Half way up the slope he stopped and drank water from a spring properly secured and walled so that water remain clean. He did not bother to offer it to me fearing that I may get unwell. I assessed the spring for a moment and was ready to take my chances. The thirst was great. The water tasted delicious and I thought if I go down at least I will not go down thirsty. Nothing happened so the water was pure.

In the afternoon while Osaobi took leave to visit one of his relatives I had a chance to lie down in the bedroom and watch the ceiling and mediate about the centuries this people must have lived in this village. Most Berbers survived by adopting religion from those that conquered the lands and also by hiding up in the mountains. I wondered who made the piste road that scared the daylight out of me. For all I knew it could have been the original trek from Timbuktu. This was unlikely. What was probably the case was that the road was build by those people who decided to go where the water and safety was, the higher up the mountain the better and safer it was.

The second night in the ‘black box’ of Ait Wadjass (the tribe of or the clan of) was just as therapeutic as the first one. Even the days there are completely serene. It is only now that I realise that there were no usual sound one associates with life in a modern city. There were no overhead planes. There were no cars or motorbikes. There was no blasting music. One can only hear birds and water flowing, the chirping children attending their daily class and occasional farm worker communicating with someone at the other end of the valley. One can easily converse with any person miles away the sound carries wonderfully over the valley and bounces back from the mountains.

How long will life like that persist no one knows. The throngs of children and the absent elders send a contradictory message.

Other concerns I had were ecological. There isn’t much pollution but empty tins of sardines and plastic ware could be seen from time to time. I failed to react when Osaobi just dumped our black plastic bag containing rubbish opposite his house in a place that obviously was not prepared to accommodate rubbish. Like anywhere else in Morocco this is an urgent problem. The tetra packs and plastic bags have invaded this beautiful country but they have not accepted them for what they are.

Slowly I am becoming immune to these things and like I do not react to beggars I am starting to fail to react when people just throw things anywhere. I realise I cannot change everybody and after all I have not finished changing myself.

Sunday morning was an early rise. Our phones and this was their only use for the three days we were there- never looked at watches- went off at 6am. It was still pitch dark although a voice or two passed the house. I was already prepared for this first by the cockerels who announced the new day long before the prayer from the local mosque; then by the muezzin calling the Morning Prayer which happens at about 5.30. While awake in the night I again admired the pitch black darkness and the silence that surrounded me.

We did pack the evening before but there were still other chores to see to and leave the place in the state we found it. We had to put everything away to safeguard against mice and rats and other possible intruders.

I stopped interrogating Osaobi about the time of departure and all that. By then I trusted him fully. After all he got me there I was certain he would get me back home. However I could not completely resist finding out the time of the transport. He was quite mean in providing information and all I was given was that we were getting up at six and that the transport will come perhaps six thirty and may be even seven o’clock. I was so de-stressed that I accepted this quite casually and did not mind if I had to wait for hours as long as we made it to Taroudant in the day time- I did not fancy a night ride- and in time to catch a taxi back to Agadir.

Osaobi had a very relaxed attitude and would just casually mention that there were many transports.

He made us a morning coffee and sat himself on the edge of the window still in his pyjamas. I looked at him and he guessed my question. He simply said, ‘I can hear the transport; don’t worry’. He was right the sound of little pick-up could be heard miles away and as it was coming from the next village we were bound to be alerted in time to catch it.

All done and dusted we left the house to which I have in my strange way become attached, perhaps not so much to the house as to the life in there. I wondered if this was a parting for ever and would another visit repeat the experience. One never knows and sometimes is better to remain in ignorance.

It was twenty to seven and the first sign of daybreak was on the horizon. It was not so dark anymore. We were well dressed but it wasn’t very cold. We waited and a pick up showed but this was local produce delivery to the souq at Had Imoullasse. This one was not taking passengers. Then Osaobi asked me if I minded to walk back to the souq, meaning the place we left our transport on the way here. The walk would be downhill and of course I told him I did not mind. We could always stop the truck and hop on it if it caught up with us.

The birds were in full swing of their dawn chorus. Every now and then we were overtaken by a donkey or mule rider on his way to the market with the customary salutations which are always in abundance in Morocco.

After about half an hour and a couple of kilometres a truck caught up and we hopped on. This time I was up with farmers on top of the truck. Some of them looked a little inquisitively but all in the boundary of the polite. Eventually we reached Had Imoullasse. I thought it was a very long five kilometres overestimating the distance we covered walking, and not only that the truck could not really go much faster than we could walk so it did take time.

When we reached Had Imoullasse we alighted from the truck and it was only then that I realised that this was a stop gap ride to the souq where we would catch our transport to Taroudant.

By this time donkey and mules from all corners were arriving in great numbers. Had Imoullasse market, judging by its name Had (Sunday) probably had its main market day on Sunday. The Sun was slowly showing its face over the mountain but not yet reaching the lowly market place.

Osaobi left me under some willow like trees- the name of which I still don’t know- but are very present in Morocco. This is the parking place for donkeys and mules and it is a 'le transport' stand too.

At first there was only lonely women seated on a trunk of fallen trees of which there were many used by donkey owners to tie them down while they are visiting the market. There was a particularly noisy donkey next to me. Soon we started exchanging looks and ayes and nays. He was particularly restless and somehow trying to draw my attention to untie his leg, this I am certain. What he would do after that is anyone’s guess so I resisted his friendly invitation to his absent owner’s delight. However he was very persistent and having seen no help from me he was complaining about this to every new donkey that appeared on the horizon in his loud donkey talk. Many of the oncoming donkeys returned the conversation probably with stories of their own,

There was a particularly noisy donkey next to me but quiet for the photo I took.

So I sat there in the middle of this donkey cantata that sounded like a symphony of dissonant trumpets. At this point I realised that donkeys do have their own language and people could not have been the first animal to greet its kind or perhaps the donkeys of Morocco take after their owners where greeting manners are concerned.

I stood there for it was rather cold to sit down and watched this endless procession of donkeys, mules and their riders.

A donkey and a young teenage boy on his back soon took my attention. They came near me and the donkey in its proverbial way refused to jump over a log that lay in its path. It took several attempts from the friendly teenager to get him over it. The boy used the donkey’s hesitance to say hello to me. I reciprocated in the same manner. Some metres away the boy tied his donkey to a bush, emptied a container of straw for donkey to munch on and then dismounted a large straw bag full of some heavy contents. This I know as the boy was quite slanted to one side carrying its contents to the market. As he walked away he passed me and greeted me again and I would have engaged in a conversation had I not known that he was keen to get to his destination and do whatever his business was. The boy was fourteen or fifteen years old and I admired the way he engaged in bread winning. I think this was appreciated by his donkey as it was most polite and considerate animal. Quite opposite to the nuisance that was trumpeting all the time this one never said a nay and completely ignored the calls from other fellows.

The boy was fourteen or fifteen years old and I admired the way he engaged in bread winning. I think this was appreciated by his donkey as it was most polite and considerate animal

If it wasn’t for the donkey my wait for Osaobi to return would have been very long. It was quite some time when I saw his figure in the distance coming down hill from the centre of the town where the market proper was. He did go to check on out transport so I had no worries. I saw he was carrying something and it turned out it was a tray with a teapot and two glasses. I was impressed as he must have carried it a good quarter a mile if not more.

This was one of the most enjoyable cups of tea that I had in my life under the willow trees surrounded by high Atlas Mountains a stage for a concerto for donkeys and mules.

He told me that our transport was to leave about nine thirty and when he asked what the time was we both found out it was twenty to nine. The sun was over the mountain and warming my cold hands from the open truck ride.

A type of the Daihatsu pick-up truck that we boarded several times there and back took a morning rest under the ‘willow’ trees.

At quarter to ten he went to check what was happening to our transport and I had to point out to him that nine thirty in Morocco could mean anything up to ten or past it. Soon after he reappeared indicating that he pick-up approaching the area where we were was the one for us. He placed me in the cabin again and although there was another place he climbed on top. I never asked him why he did not join me in the cabin.

The driver was unfriendly or appeared so to me. It could have been the language problem- not all of them speak French, be it basic. It could be that he did not like the foreigners or infidels; this was less likely but possible. It was not long before we met the police van and he had to pay the fifty dirham ‘fine’. From then on the driving became a little more hazardous and his silence even more enforced.

On the way we passed all the villages that we passed coming up, but this time I had more time to notice the scenery. I tried to take some photos with my mobile phone and I did but the quality is poor as the road was so bumpy that it was almost impossible to focus.

I wander what is like to use this road when it is raining. Some of it is probably impassable. Many hairpin bends are built with rock meticulously put together. I could not see anything that binds it into a wall so I presume it is only laid down skilfully. In places there must have been millions of pieces put together. This road was not build in a day.

There was hardly any motorised traffic on the road however from time to time a mule or a donkey rider would cross our way.

It was like this all the way to Tamalokte where our driver arbitrarily decided to abandon further travels. I had not concerns other then placing bets how long it will be before we get a taxi back to Taroudant. Enjoyable though it was I was quite relieved that the treacherous road was behind us

It was only about ten minutes and a pick up showed up. Osaobi waved it down and it stopped. I found myself in the lovely company of jellaba wearing man who quickly started talking to Osaobi the contents of which talk I never bothered to find out. There were several children of different ages or furtively or less so examining me with their eyes. It is not after all every time they travel that there is a stranger on the pick up. The Sun was warm and the ride wonderful everywhere around us where plantations of orange groves; cabbage and other fruits and vegetables. This was more like a twenty first century and I was sad that I left the Middle Ages behind.

Thus ended my trip back in time and the forty two hours when I gave up electricity, running water, radio and television and most importantly the mobile phone. I survived and will always want to go back.

It was noon when we reached Taroudant. Previously I told Osaobi that I wished to purchase another ‘le tapis’, a thin carpet that I wanted to use as a bed spread. He took me to the market asked for the size and went to buy it not to risk me being overcharged. A two and half metre square carpet costs only a hundred and fifty dirham which is roughly a tenner. I don’t know how they do it.

Thus loaded with my newly acquired goodies and head full of pleasant unrepeatable memories I boarded le grand taxi and by two o’clock enjoyed a hot shower in my apartment basking in the January sunshine.