actions speak alongside words

i woke up and said:  if the boy in the beach cafe wants to buy my bike for 750 dirham, i will sell it to him.   the boy said there were plenty people in the village who would be interested in my bike, but it was too early in the morning...if only you had come by last night.  i painted their menu for them, something i said i would do a few days ago when they saw me watercolouring, but everytime i passed by they were waiting for a decision to be made as to exactly how the menu would run, or they were waiting to buy some blue paint. jakke's prediction was:  you will never paint their menu for them; jon (another belgian surfer) said he would do it for them; that was five weeks ago.  

jakke had to return to belgium for a few days and sven and i decided to head to a place called paradise valley, an hour into the mountains. where jakke left us there were 45km or road. i got on my bike and waved goodbye to sven saying, "see you this evening in the centre of  immouzzer". sven was going to hitchhike. however as i continued along the road i saw that there were very few cars and none that passed contained sven.   it was hot work cycling uphill so i removed most of my clothes. there was a light drizzle when i stopped at an auberge-cafe that also sold honey.  the price of the honey was high but the man gave me a little wad of honeycomb anyway, and some bread to accompany and two oranges.   really, it is very kind of you.  he tells me he has lived all over europe - france, germany, switzerland - and i wonder if the experience of being a foreigner in an unknown country makes one more aware of hospitality shown to the stranger.  can i give you a coffee?   -no, really.  i had better keep on the road.   he says i should really put more clothes on  "at least put your shoes on. you will catch a cold"  my usual response "i am from scotland i am used to the cold" does not impress him as he insists with his eyes and then plants a big kiss on my cheek wishing me a bonvoyage.

i am sitting in a little cafe in one-street immouzzer, darkness, drizzle and now i agree pretty cold, something over a thousand metres above the sea, i walk my bike down to the big cascade which attracts visitors and sleep in the olive trees; finally the usefullness of carrying a tent proven.  the next morning no sign of sven so i let myself be pulled by my desire to be more north and begin to cycle that way.
cresting the top of a small pass to be surrounded by a gaggle of garrulous boys wanting a drink of my water which i gladly give them.    how will these boys use their energy - which they now channel into their voice volume - when they are older?   so much energy i observe.   and the energy of the garrulous girls? - they are taught to be submissive.    curiously i notice a little further on is the doorway where i asked for water a week or more ago on my way to meet jakke, and waited a while while it was fetched.   perhaps water isn't easily obtained here.

jakke said the same thing: our encounter happened very naturally.  "everything is meant to happen" was something he said half-jokingly when the van got broken into and sven's camera went missing.   sven wasn't in agreement with that.

i told jakke that i had spent two and a half hours on the internet in sidi ifni and told him about my blog entry, etc.  at a later moment he was sitting in the van saying "i'll tell you what the most important thing in life is"  with a serious twinkle in his eye "it is to show off"

so i began reflecting on the concept of showing off
the good thing about searching for truth in life is that when one seriously searches and arrives at some conclusions, one is wont to share them with one's fellow travellers and cohabitees of the planet.  if words do not do the communicating, then everything else will: little hand gestures, eyes, sighs - any kind of sound made - tuts, whistles, hums, yelps, ooooos, aaaaaas, shoulders shrugging high, gait.
the language of the body communicates.
communicates one's state of mind, one's feeling of heart, an experience, a habitual experience, an underlying attitude, a philosophy, a way of life, a vision of the world, a world-view or a way of being or seeing things, an understanding or a feeling of one's place in the wide cosmos.

the spice man said something i instantly liked in the souk of essaouira where i arrived this afternoon.  he said "la premiere chose est aimer"
"et puis, partager"

first of all to love, and then to share.
yes yes yes, i thought.

Jakke, the belgian surfer who lives in a van (an encounter parenthetical to my cycle)

it is an ongoing liaison which i have slipped into.

first i left tafroute and followed all the small roads back to the coast.   the landscape was a crazy medley of mountains and valleys.  i sometimes have to pant to reach the top of a pass, and am soon whizzing down the other side - a great feeling of excitement to be moving at such speed - the brakes life-savingly important to navigate the twists the twists.  the thorny twisted argan trees scattered most everywhere, sometimes the bright white blossom of an almond tree, beside which i rest my bike and rest my body and close my eyes and feel the warmth and hear nothing but the drone of insects.
i say: that sound, this scene... in which place am i?

i am deep in the countryside.

how do the people in the little villages make a living?  all i see them do is herd goats and sheep - lot of goats and sheep.  i slowly cycle through a village far from any other village.  i smile at the man sitting in the village store and he almost jumps to his feet, greeting me effusively.  i nod to him and cycle on.   i would like to give him trade but my bike is already loaded (heavy) with everything i need. 
man in the store of the isolated village, where can your trade come from?

i reach the larger village of tanalt at sundown.  the village is perched like a casbah on top of a minor hill surrounded by valley which drops all around, and then rises to form a ring of mountains.  i ask where i can find water and the task is assigned to two ten-year-old boys, who lead me through the streets to the well, where water is pulled up in a bucket.  they also show me where i can buy bread and oranges.  at first a little shy, they soon begin to ask me questions in french, which they are taught at school.   i tell them that i will sleep in the countryside at night.  "tu n'as pas peur?" one boy asks.  "peur de quoi?" i say, afraid of what?
the boy has to think.
"des animaux sauvages"
ah, i didn't realise there were wild animals. comment ils s'appellent?
the boy isn't so sure what they are called, but assures me they are dangerous.
i tell him i love to explore, and will watch out for the animals.
we shake hands at the edge of the village as the darkness arrives and i think:  very mature boys.   a child has to be mature here to help the family work.   i see lots of children alone on the roads transporting things or guiding donkeys.

i was happy to cycle in and cycle out of agadir - a big town full of banks and holiday appartments close to the beach.  everything is different on the coast.  i am happy to feel the sun on my skin as i roll along the coast road north, sharing it with huge campervans, each one driven by older man with his wife sitting next to him, and the older local vans, crammed full of passangers, inside or sitting on the roof or hanging on to the back.  "you want cheap room?" calls out a boy in one of the towns full of visitors who come to surf.  i roll on past each successive headland and cover many kilometres, finally sleeping under the full moon on the dry bed of a river, next to a banana plantation.
the next day i continue to roll and when i stop at a market town to buy some food, i see a guy standing in the street wearing dreadlocks and sandles, waiting for the water tank in his van to fill up.  we share some of the warm bread i have just bought and Jakke tells me how nice the beach and the bay is where he is staying.  he invites me to put my bike in his van and come back with him.  it is an hour or so back along the road i have just come along, but i am easily persuaded and realise i will be happy to take a break and do some painting.

and so the days have passed, and my bike is now gathering dust, tied to the back of the van.
we are both solitaries, with the freedom to migrate for the winter, who are glad to suddenly have company.
i pose the purpose question to jakke and straight away he says: to surf.  there is no feeling that compares to catching a big wave.  it keeps you going; it keeps you alive. 
then he thinks a bit more and says: the most important thing in life is to be yourself, and to be happy.
i think the two are one and the same.
then he says: we need love. we can't live without love.
i say:  love, yes; yes.

from the spot where his van sits overlooking the bay, we walked into small village of imsouanne each night for a bowl of soup.  the days spent looking at the waves, learning about surf theory, the thrill of catching a wave (like hitchhiking with the ocean's energy) and being pulled along, even if i am still lying on the board.  otherwise swimming in the sea, playing with the waves, collecting mussels sitting around a fire at night, making big fish tagines or roasting potatoes.  we drove back to agadir to pick up Sven, another belgian friend, and have now headed further south to sidi ifni, a small fishing town where most buildings are painted blue and white, a spanish colony since the middle ages ceded to morocco in 1969.
everyone is pretty friendly here.

hamdoullah

i contracted a rip-roaring stomach bug somewhere and spent most of last night groaning with exaggerated exuberance, knowing that there was no-one around to hear me besides the bats, and making the most of the situation to practise for my potential dying day.  

in between my groans i was made to think of the arabic expression "hamdoullah".

i first encountered this back in tetouan when i met up with couchsurfer Mohamed for an afternoon, in the course of which he invited me to accompany him on a hospital visit to a friend of his mother.  communication with the patient - who had lost all feeling in one of her arms - was very limited for me, but i remember the look of serene acceptance in her eyes and that she was telling me something about God.
i was fascinated to listent to Muhamed filling me in after we left the hospital:  "we muslims say hamdoullah - coming from al hamdou lillah; praise to Allah - not only to thank God for anything good in our lives, but also when we are ill.  it is to recognise that God is the source of everything in life: it is He who will give the strength to overcome all maladies and He who is the sustainer of our lives in all moments - be they good or bad"

until then i had wanted to thank God for being the source of all goodness but had not been sure what to say to God when things were not so good. 
hamdoullah is the spiritual side to the c'est la vie attitude that accepts whatever is beyond one's control.

it also has currency in the market place.
the honey men spoke a little french, and with my little bit of arabic we made our way through a very basic conversation.  i perceived one honey man saying that he would like to go to Scotland, but that the cost of a visa made it impossible

(a moroccan arrives at the border and says: i would like to cross.
the border offical says: i will not let you cross unless you give me a lot of your money.
with the algerian border closed to everybody, and western sahara a place of conflict and danger, most moroccans are effectively imprisoned in their beautiful strip of north-west africa.)

i expressed condolence to him with my eyes and then said: hamdoullah.
his face creased into a big smile, and he had to nudge his companion and tell him what i had just said.

i told them how very tasty their honey was and one of them put a big wad of honeycomb in a bag, saying to me "c'est un cadeau"  - a gift.


on the way out of town i met hamish the architect from london who had been cycle-touring for the past month.  it was good to speak with another westener and exchange our impressions of morocco.  also good to receive his recommendation to explore the roads to the east towards the desert.  "there are gorges there that are so..."
he searched for the word,
"gorgeous"


i am pushing my bike along a bumpy stoney lane surrounded by gorge.  up front moves a woman doubled over with a bundle of sticks on her back.  i am not sure where to look as she approaches (never sure how interactions with women should be conducted here).  her eyes meet mine from behind her black shawl - entirely expressionless - then she looks away. 
what is she thinking? i ask myself
what is her general experience of life like?


i recall that hamish had thick resilient tyres on his bike, and realise that my road tyres bind me to a strip of tarmac if i want to roll anywhere fast.
i love to roll.
tafroute and its environs are very linger-worthy but i am happy now to have given myself the goal of heading back to the coast and following it north towards casablanca and rabat.

life is ever new

yesterday was a day to question. i had followed the winding road for two days to arrive at tafraoute - a market town 1000m above sea level in a wide valley in the anti-atlas.  it is a centre of peace and is surrounded by rocky granite outcrops and huge scattered boulders (some of them rounded like prehistoric eggs).  i found a secluded valley not far from town where to light a fire and sleep at night. 

it was yesterday when the question arose in my mind: what do i do here?

that question had never arisen before. my plan had always been to head to south to warmer climes.  i had spend several days here; each day it was warm and sunny and each night it was clear and starry.  i had taken delight in avoiding the question of overall purpose, but yesterday it became manifest and made me feel unsettled. the simple joys of life (feeling sun on skin, eating well, etc) suddently seemed to lack a super-justification and became insuficient. i saw the whole of my life streching out in front of me, overhung by the question:  what do i do?

i had finished reading the only book i carried with me. 
i thought: maybe i could begin cycling back up north again, but i knew it would be cold up there.
i thought: maybe i could get in touch with a couchsurfer and share my time with somebody friendly.

i considered this option and thought: why is it unsettling for me to be here alone and not have anything concrete to do?  i began to realise the importance of purpose for a human life. i also realised that all instances of engaging in an activity - be it relating to another person or reading a book - were simply ways of entertaining the mind; constructing towers of meaning to distract us from facing alone the vast, silent, unfathomable, implacable, intractable, irresoluble mystery that is life.

it is very good that we let ourselves get caught up in all sorts of meaningful activities, but it was sobering to be confronted with the alternative.   i was made to think of nietzsche's void at the centre of life.

today i awoke still feeling somewhat unsettled by yesterday's ponderous question.   without any plan for the day, i clumb to the top of a big boulder

i sat there for a while.
i felt the warm sun on my skin.
i saw a butterfly fluttering by.
i listened to the birds singing.

somehow the old sensation infiltrated into me that these simple sensations were justification in themselves.
andrea had asked the question in the andalusian sierra:  what are we looking for in life? why so much searching?  i had just observed a cat sniffing everywhich object in great curiosity and replied "we are just like cats, full of curiosity and desire to explore the world".

ah, happy is the man who is content to spend his life sniffing things with curiosity!

it is the great blessing of humans to have been given a higher consciousness than the animals and to be so given to comprehending things.   it seems ungrateful to lament the complications that may then result from our high levels of consciousness. 

nike have adopted an injunction with universal applicability:  just do it.

act.  the path of life lies in action.  of some sort

my friend lavanya has her own personal slogan:  just have faith.

faith in what?
- in the Infinite Goodness of the universe,
(notwithstanding the riddle that is searching for an adequate meaning of goodness.
but: definitions without experience are unworthy.  a piece of fruit can be intellectually contemplated, but cannot be known without taking a bite.)


amid all these words the recognition will arise that all these words are insufficient
they are perhaps a way of playing with ideas, or skirting round a great silent truth.

Juan Mascaro has a way with words:
the silent voice of the eternal is perpetually whispering in us his melodies everlasting.  The radience of the Infinite is everywhere, but our ears cannot hear and our eyes cannot see: the Eternal cannot be grasped by the transient senses or the transient mind.  This is beautifully expressed in the Taittiriya Upanishads: 'words and mind go to him, but reach him not and return.  But he who know the joy of Brahman fears no more'.

blessed is the one who has faith, for she will inherit the kingdom of heaven.
also blessed is the one who questions, for that is all he can do.

the author of the Rig Veda questions humbly:
Who knows the truth? Who can tell whence and how arose the universe?
Only the god who sees in highest heaven: only he knows whence came this universe, and whether it was made or uncreated.  He only knows, or perhaps he knows not.


i had clumb to the top of a big pinnacle of rock and sat looking at the tiny winding streets of the village below. from the mountain track came a woman dressed in a dark shawl followed by a small boy.  i suddenly realised that the boy must be able to see me for he was waving his arm and looking up to where i was sitting.  i gave him a big wave back. 
the woman looked up but quickly looked down again and followed the path into the village.  every few metres the boy would turn around and wave at me, and i waved back at him with a big smile on my face.



where did the coin that is in my hand come from?
what choice it gives me in the market place!



i am cycling along the street in tafroute.  a man with a dark beard and a big blue robe calls out to me: nomade francais?    i pause as i wheel slowly past him and then call out: oui! and smile.

he returns my smile.



from the top of the large rock butress i first hear, and then see a group of younsters moving across the valley.  their quick footsteps on the grainy granite grit echo through the clean air.  a small boy runs in front.  from this height; their passage seems smooth, almost as if they were gliding, only slowing down slightly to cross the dry rills of dried-up water courses.  these are the first people i have seen entering this valley in days
i see that they are making directly for the stand of palm trees where i have tied up my bike.   i watch their progress with apprehension and ask myself: why are they moving so quickly? do they know that my passport and credit card and key for my bike lock are hidden under the gravel?
i begin to pick my way down the big face of rock. the sun is sinking and with relief i see them passing by the palm trees and describing a big loop and are now making towards the very spot where i will descend.  i see that it is in fact a family.  they climb on top of a big boulder and begin to pull out things for a picnic.
i like to be respectful of the dress code which i observe all around me.  no limb skin is shown - always trousers and long sleeves.  but today, in my unfrequented valley, i have wanted to surreptitiously disrespect the dress code and to feel some sun on my skin while i scramble over the rocks.  consequently i am only wearing a thin berber head scarf around my waste, in the fashion of a skirt, and when the father calls out from the boulder "ciao! voulez-vous du pain?" and i accept and make my way over, the first thing i say is to apologise for my lack of clothes.
he offers me bread and cake and a cup of warm sugary milk from a flask.  i have to decline at first, but accept when he insists.  moroccans are very giving and very accepting when it comes to sharing food, something i am very glad to participate in.  in a guide book to morocco i read that it is considered impolite to eat on public transport without first offering to all the other passangers.  it is customary for them to decline the first and second offer but to then accept the third.  i was keen to test this out on the night bus journey with francis and caitlin to marrakesh and as we broke open our bread, olive oil and dried fruit i began to offer to the nearby passangers.  after offering a second time i felt it would actually be impertinent to insist further.  i could hear a low chuckle come from francis' seat as we ate our bread alone.  "i was sure that guidebook commentary was spurious" he said later.

i sit a little awkwardly with my shawl-skirt and perceive the two girls suppress their giggles.  the man says he noticed my bike.  he has spent some time in italy working and communicates half in french half in italien with me. the mother, covered in her black shawl, makes no contact with me.  however, after conversing among themselves, the father says: my wife wants to know: why do you sleep out here at night when it is so cold?
i smile and give myself time to think.
i love nature - i say. - being among the mountains, and sleeping under the stars.
the father nods comprehensively.  - yes, the europeans are like that - he says.
- us moroccans are different.

i think: why is desire for contact with nature culturally dependant?  if i was brought up in morocco, would i still love to sleep under the stars?...but that question is idle. i had to have british parents.
is my love of nature something i have learned from my surroundings, a sentiment begun perhaps with the european romantics, with poets like Keats who, in the words of Julio Cortazar "walked tirelessly, to rest by a stream in the woods, beneath the sun or the moon, exposing themselves to the influx of shapes and sounds and fleeting elements" and continued with the US nature-lovers such as Thoreau, Emerson and Whitman?


i thank the family for sharing their picnic and gather my skirts, heading back to my palm encampment in the gathering gloom, wondering if the woman might have suspected that i was running away from the law, with my unconventional desire to hide out in a secluded valley.

rolling across morocco

in chefchaouene a tall fellow with a huge smile sells me a bicycle for 100 euros and i start rolling with friends caitlin and francis, who are on a two week holiday bike ride across morocco.

the freedom of cycling
being able to stop at any roadside curiosity
a horse walking in circles, pulling a huge millstone, grinding olives.
we fill a bottle from the vat and begin the pleasant experience of eating bread saturated with olive oil.
we roll through the countryside, up and down hills, leaving a wake of staring eyes and an exchange of greetings.
"bonjour!"
"bon voyage!"
"asalam alaykum" with the response "alaykum asalam" (peace be upon you, be upon you peace).  groups of children running after us or cyclying alongside us with smiles of wonder.


i was thinking that the roadside exchanges were very brief and would have liked a longer exchange with the moroccans.   the opportunity came when we were looking for a place to camp amid agricultural land.   we followed a dirt lane away from the road and were discussing the few options available to us amid the coming darkness when El Mktaa came from his house and invited us to eat with him and spend the night there.  this had to be inferred from his friendliness and his gestures to follow him with our bikes.  my arabic had got to the stage where i could ask about prices and buy things in the market but could only leave me nodding reflectively when el mktaa showed us round the polytunnel banana plantations, giving arabic explanations from time to time.   francis and caitlin got by admirably with the word "mezyan" (good) which responded to the buckets of water they warmed for us to shower, the glasses of sweet mint tea and the platter of lamb tagine and warm bread they served in a simple room with carpets and cushions. a television set was the only adornment.  el mktaa's two brothers and various sons ate with us (no woman here) and it was confirmed to me that eating with the right hand is the only acceptable way of participating in the comunal dish.   twenty-year-old mjid made a valient effort to communicate several things to me, and mostly left me nodding reflectively.  "ma fhamtsh" (i don't understand) was the phrase most often on my lips but i thought i managed to discern questions such as "how much did my bike cost?", "how much would a car cost in scotland?" and the fact that he would like to go to spain to work.   what i do remember were his searching brown eyes, and his desire to ask questions which i could not answer. 

the next day mobile phone numbers are copied down but unlikely to ever be used, when face to face communication is so limited and based on gestures.   Mktaa showed me his identification documentation and i understood that he wished me to take a note of the address.  it occurred to me that he quite posssibly did not know how to write.  i read that the adult literacy rate for morocco is 56 per cent.  not knowing how to read is a major disadvantage when it comes to educating oneself about the world, commented francis, - the only way to learn about the world is through passively aborbing the television images.  it made consider how good it would be help educate people one day.

we spent christmas day singing carols in the rain cycling up a big hill then rolling down to the city of fez.  francis and caitlin were short of time before their return flight to london left from agadir on the coast, so we took the bikes on a night bus to marrakesh to save a few hundred kilometres.   marrakesh is hustle and bustle and palm trees and a huge part of town given over to the market.   we spent the morning hours in a quiet plaza drying out everything in the warm sun, being served mint tea by an old woman who first asked how much i would sell my waterproof jacket.  i hesitated a while and her daughter said: vous comprendez le francais? ma mere rigole avec vous.  we are now far enough south to escape the winter rains and cycle happily into the atlas mountains - a more relaxed note to people's behavious there.  less badgering us to buy and more van stopping at the summit of the 2,100m pass to sell us oranges for 20 cents a kilo; also a dutch driver pulling over to give us a bottle of coca cola.  the colours are intense: blue sky and red red earth. twisting road, rocky gorge, the snowy plateau of Jebel Toubkal not so far away.  prickly pears - the fruit of the cactus - opened with caution to avoid the spines, mixed with honey.  also little roadside pomegranates, slightly sour tasting but the body knows they are good and wants to eat many. must be full of vitimin C.   always snacks of dates and figs and olives and olive oil with bread and a beautiful bean soup brewed by our camp fire. one night we roast chestnuts and caramelise the figs on sticks and francis makes little ape grunts to show his appreciation of the scene.  soon we are all giving each other little ape grunts (these are the sounds francis would make if here were born thousands of years ago, i say) and also barking like dogs - many sentiments can be communicated via the tone of the bark - howling gleefully when rolling for 30km down the other side, past a cascade, into the argan trees - which the goats can climb to reach the upper leaves. 

two more days of rolling in the sun and we have reached the sea.  jumping into the rolling waves. they have aquired vigor from their atlantic trajectory.  they impart energy to the tumbling human body.
new year's eve is roasting vegetables on the embers, hidden in the trees of the natural park.
the first day of the new year is soaking up more beach in the morning and then seeing francis and caitlin off at the airport from where they must return to cold london.  "why not continue rolling down the west coast of africa?" francis is not genuinely serious.

one of the porters in suits at the airport wants to buy my bike for 500 dirham (50 euros).  i say: yes, it is a good bike. maybe i will call you but for now i want to take a trip up into the anti-atlas.
more mountains.

i also want to be able to communicate better in arabic.