McAlpine flushes (at the bottom)

The foremost centres of Morocco have been mystical, strange and, let it be said, quite stunning - insofar as natural beauty and architecture can define one’s experience. Yet, in our hearts and souls we have been troubled. And in our wallets, have we been troubled. Two weeks have been quite enough for the truth to hit home – we have been the unfortunate subject of a ruthlessly co-ordinated and systematic swindling.

Every man and his dog is out to pull a fast one. Dogs, though, are not ‘kept’ here. It would resonate truer thus: every man and every dog. I have little doubt those sordid canines are operating their own villainous syndicates in the dodgier ends of the Medinas. But a few nights ago – Dr. McAlpine will attest (DMWA) – we were privy to some russet runt, in the style of a corgi, scampering into his lair of rubbish, chicken foot in his gob. Now, I would be willing to wager (never say bet out here), the initial deal between dog and fowl involved the chicken being offered some kind of service from the corgi runt; transport, hospitality, maybe even a massage in the local hamam (McAlpine still wants one of these - not from a corgi hopefully). Then, very quickly and silently, the chicken winds up legless. He sits (what else to be done), waiting, for the unavoidable. It is not unheard of in these parts – DMWA – to see such chickens squirming heaving their way to the butcher’s cleaver. “Make it quick, ready the couscous, I am not long for this place,” they seem to be wail. Digression? Read on and decide for yourself.

Taxi drivers, snake charmers, taxidermists, village idiots, tambourine players, drunk Samaritans, “friends,” and even herbal tea brewers (the contagion runs deep), have all had a go. Sarcastic insults are discharged with generosity, and this when a deal goes well:

“Hey, starvin marvin, look at you, you’re soooo skinny. Come eat at my stand”

“Maybe a little later my friend”

“Ya ya, later, tomorrow, next week, NEVER. F*ck you.”

Hucksters finally found our threshold in Essaouira – billed as a quaint fishing town, unspoilt by commercialism:

(9am. McAlpine & Mallen sitting on a bench. Strawberries and dates for breakfast)

Huckster: “My friends, you smoke some?”

(11am. McAlpine & Mallen strolling gaily in the sunshine)

Carpet salesman: “You Frrrench, English? Come inside and see my carpets…”

McAlpine: “No merci, monsieur, we are travelling far and we don’t have money”

Carpet salesman: “You want some hash?”

(5pm. setting sun, seagulls flocking behind the ramparts)

Biscuit Seller: “Ahhhhhh my friends! Look at these cookies. I have coconut, ginger, choc-chip, vanilla. This one, she is marijuana and that one is hashish. My friends this is strong sh*t”

(9pm. the weary travellers make for bed)

“My friends, you need some sun cream?”

“No Thanks”

“Hash?”

On our way home that night, some unruly juveniles started swearing at us in their best pidgin French. A bottle was flung in the midst of the throng and general chaos set in. Apparently, it could have been very dangerous (the bottle). Dave said so, and I believe him, he is a doctor.

Persecuted. Harried. There was only one conceivable escape – throw our lot in with sympathisers. Seek out those who went before us and also found themselves elbowed to the margins of town squares. Women. Women and Berbers. And, hopefully, Berber women. The Doctor and I had a little think about our opening fortnight in North Africa. Amidst these two contingents we had felt that life-giving sensation: ease. So, we make for the mountains, our flight takes us from one Berber stronghold to the next. Outcasts; either with bowed heads in the lengthening shadows or deep in the bosom of the matriarchal herd.

Berbers or, literally, barbarians are no strangers to persecution. The solemn mountainfolk were being harangued long before the Romans tried to unify the North. For Caesar (can’t be certain which one) it was an ultimately futile exercise. Battering the Berbers into submission just didn’t work. Berbers are robust, too robust for Romans. And, let’s be candid, too clever. What would now be classified “Guerrilla tactics” were employed with resounding success. Deliberately unpredictable movements, the ability to swiftly traverse the freezing upper reaches of the Atlas and the will to take the fight right back to the aggressors and Caesar thought better of it. Again, I’m not sure which Caesar – one of the fat ones –this is entertainment, not a lecture. Of course, the natural ‘barbarous’ disposition of the Berbers didn’t hurt. No, your mind does not deceive you. History hurled such scenarios at the Romans on many fronts. The indomitable Clan McAlpine, champion piper and part-time assassin Sandy Mallen; do these names ring true in your bonny ears? A self-fulfilling prophecy we are proud to honour.

The topic I really want to write about, however, is women. As per usual with women, it will have to be brief.  Even more so, here. A glance in the olive groves or a giggle on the bus must be extrapolated – for that is all one gets. But, I’ll tell you what else you get: conspiratorial solidarity. And, this is the best kind of solidarity two outcasts could hope for. Behind the dusky veils, towards the periphery of daily routine,    we see eyes. Enervated, practised, yet, curious eyes, returning our cursory stares with a keener intent. And, within these exquisite eyes; a helping look radiates. Strikingly, from behind the creperies, resignedly, in smoke-filled trains, vigorously, betwixt the olive groves; they emanate a silent, dignified sentience. It is the same silence and dignity that has been dealing, for centuries, with the kind of nonsense we couldn’t handle for a few days. They are, at once, the beautiful essence and the toiling backbone of these Northern territories. Their ardent senses were imbued with the redemptive scents of Spring, many moons before the men groaned into action last year. As they continue fortifying the edges, and look inwards, may the most potent angels and graceful sirens see them well bestowed.

WILDLIFE