Morocco. Pt.2

On the Morrocco trip, we happened by the large film studio in Ouarzazate. It had some sets still open in a vast dusty plain, where sets for previously made epics still stand. Parts of the Elizabeth Taylor film Cleopatra were filmed here. Parts of those sets were re-used to film the more recent Asterix and Obelix. But the set which most interested me was the huge replica castle built for the film Kingdom of Heaven. It’s still in one piece due to another film being planned for production there next year. Our tour guide didn’t know the name of it yet, but he would be working there as a driver.

The castle was mainly wood and plaster painted to resemble stone masonry. The scale was huge, hundreds of metres square. We paid a small fee to get inside and take a look around, climbing up to the battlements and wandering through the courtyards and corridors. We did have some pictures but the person who owned the camera dropped it down a sand dune and it was ruined. But I wrote a journal piece as an inspiration to myself, as a reminder of what it felt like to be on both sides of those huge walls and how it must feel for a soldier in those times. Here’s what I wrote; as with the last post, this will be unedited and copied ‘as is’.

First, from the viewpoint of an attacking soldier laying siege to the defending fortifications:

Staring up at the castle walls, you feel ineffective. They are too big, the tops too high and the stone too thick. Maybe in an assaulting army with battle cries around you, urging those ahead who already climb ladders, trying to gain a foothold on the walkway, men who know death is a strong possibility as arrows rain down from towers and killing windows. The gates are heavy, barred and portcullised. But then you see your siege weapons, trebuchets and assault towers and catapults, and you rain down hell on the walls and gates and ramparts. You sit back out of range and suffer the heat and try to find some shade, wondering when the next attack will be. Too soon, you are called upon to protect the battering ram, which swings heavy and solid under a slanted hide roof. Bodies litter the ground and you wave a temporary truce to collect them. You eat and try to sleep and then take to the walls again.

Bit all over the place, but I was writing it down in a bouncy jeep hurtling across a desert. Now, from the defender’s viewpoint:

You stand on the walls and look down. The armies besieging the city stand ready to attack. From this distance they are small in stature but thousands in number. Behind them the mountains stand, oblivious and uncaring to the fate of the soldiers. Standing at the edge of the battlements demands that crossbows are used while longbows step back, peppering any in range approaching. Stairs leading from wall to tower to courtyard are less than sturdy. Inner stairwells are claustrophobic, leaving little room to manoeuvre before the killing windows, with others climbing over you to make their way past. The courtyard is walled away from the city, the main gate providing a last bastion of open ground before the invaders would reach the streets. Open ovens sit beneath tall chimneys, for both bricks and food. The place smells stale; a mix of dust, manure and stone. Buildings are tiered, differing levels, allowing interesting movement along rooftops, Wells provide water enclosed in an underground stream. Knockers on the inside of the gates would rock as something pounds on the outside. Noise would be muffled or amplified by the natural acoustics.

So that’s that. I guess it’s easier for me to see the pictures because I was actually there (surprise!), but it would be nice to know what anyone reading this thought as well. Can you get an idea of how it must have been? Where there any other details you would have thought I’d include? Feel free to comment!

In other news – NaNoWriMo is still kicking my arse but I’m making a late cavalry charge on it, so it’ll go down to the last couple of days. I’m going home to England for a month to work on a few things. And the editor-in-chief of Queen of the World has been switched to someone who loves fantasy, so surely good things await.

Morocco. Pt.1

I spent the last week in Morocco. It was ace. I kept a journal of the trip, which I’m going to write here word for word, with no edits or amendments. I’m quite rubbish at writing long hand, since it’s too slow for my brain and my handwriting is terrible, so it might suck. At least it’ll be honest. (This post is pretty long - just sayin'.)

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The country is hot, dry and tan. The influence of the colonial power which once ruled is still plain to see. Amidst the palm trees and the castle forts are huge blocks of French architecture and western style models on French language billboards. Women wear beautifully varied throws, scarves and gowns while guys wear shirts and polo necks. Kids wear Messi t-shirts and Reebok hoodies. Cars range from sparkling new to rusted, battered wrecks on wheels. Taxis have ‘official’ labels hand-painted on doors.

The city of Fes feels like the desert encircling it. Buildings, roads and walls are mostly a creamy, sandy colour but a surprising amount of greenery prevails under the pale blue sky. The streets are clean and the construction work light. The people are polite, patient and welcoming, apparently eager to ensure that a positive experience is had.

As we drive further out of the city and the hills retreat to patchy forest, the tarmac trailing through dirt, you begin to get a feel for the scale of the area. In the distance mountains loom as shadows on the horizon, too far to make out in detail but too large to ignore.

The city of Ifram is like a Swiss village, picturesque and calm. Huge European villas line alongside smooth roads and small parks. Evergreen woodland covers the surrounding slopes, separated by acres of plains. As we drive away, soon Ifram looks like a miniature model replica of itsel, red rooftops over white walls.

Near the desert of the Sahara, while not quite reaching the sand dunes so famous, the the air is dry and still. The only like, apart from tinder-bush, is contained in farms or around dams – the latter huge pools of water deep within a canyon of sun-kissed rock. A concentration of date trees sits in a valley bowl, bordered by the homes of those who pick and sell them.

We stop for lunch in a place which looks like a Persian palace, appropriately named The Kasbah. The food is good but a tad expensive. We also attract a horde of flies, which dive bomb us as we eat, assailing our Coke bottles.

The landscape between towns is dotted with forts which seem synonymous with the Foreign Legion, all flat surfaces and right angles. Here and there we see a wall or barricade built for no obvious purpose. In the towns, the streets are full of small shops, eateries and cafes. Kids leaving school are like kids anywhere else; happy, yelling and waving at passers-by.

The Sahara itself is magnificent. We have all seen the TV shows and movies but when in the middle of it, surrounded by the immense dunes and nothing else, you start to understand the scope of it all. Sitting atop a huge peak of soft sand watching the sun creep over the horizon, after sleeping under the stars which are as clear as diamonds and riding camels through shadows cast by moonlight, you realise how trivial your problems are in the grand scheme of existence.

We found a snake on the ride back to base. After a fantastic stay in a desert camp, excellent food to eat and feed to kittens, topped off with traditional Moroccan drum music, we rode our camels like fucking sand pirates. Along the end of the trail we come across a baby sidewinder, which flees into a bush. The guides then burn the bush and hurl stones at the snake. Humans triumph.

Driven further west, we pass what look like termite mounds which act as an irrigation system to store water for the agriculture which sits within spitting distance of the sands. A stop on the road lets us get out and feed a group of monkeys who hang out in a small woodland cluster. We feed them peanuts. They seem quite chilled out, in contrast to the climate. Skar, one of our group, takes a ride on a donkey. A small time bandit with nothing to steal.

The Gorges are a stunning sight. A deep chasm road lets us walk between colossal rock faces, below which a stream meanders, water seeping up through the soil. Vendors line one side of the road, selling trinkets, silks, art and minerals. The natural colour of the scene is vibrant and lush.

We stop in a hotel in Ouarzazate with a pool and a great number of couches and pillows. The decor is both traditional and minimalist. The staff are friendly and polite. The food is a little more western which helps you appreciate the local cuisine by comparison. It’s a nice, peaceful atmosphere.

We leave the next morning refreshed and having slept properly for the first time in three nights. We go to a film studio which has been in use since the Sixties. It is a wonderful location which has served as Rome, Egypt and Jerusalem. We buy tickets to look around a Crusades-era castle. It is one of the most inspiring constructs I have ever had the fortune to explore.

The Atlas Mountains are next, driving up and up along cliff-side roads which fall away to greenland and dammed rivers. We stop for lunch at a cafe overlooking the other peaks in the range. The food here in Morocco is generally impeccable, with everything well cooked and deliciously spiced. We eat liver, heart and testicle on our way. Well, maybe that last one wasn’t so delicious.

Riding down and on to Marrakech we say goodbye to Jourad, our guide, a truly nice and affable man. Marrakech is a far cry from Fes and a startling change of pace. Scooters, horse carts and cars fight for space in cramped, spiderweb streets. The air is hotter and the sun seems brighter. Every building is made from the same sandstone and it feels like walking through a Pharaoh’s maze. Our Riad hostel is small but pleasant, with an open air terrace which we spend the evening enjoying.

The next day, after obligatory sunglass buying and deodorant saturation, we find ourselves in a herb and spice shop. The owner is laid back, charming and genuine. He brews some ‘Kings Tea’ from eight different ingredients. We buy plenty for when we get home, as well as some spices to give Moroccan cooking a try.

On the whole the trip was an unexpectedly overwhelming success. From the moment we landed and walked across the tarmac to a glorious sunset, each aspect has been incredible. The people were accommodating and tolerant, encouraging, defying all of our misguided preconceptions about Muslim countries. The scenery easily rivalled South East Asia for spectacle and wonder. The food – especially tajines – is almost worth the price of the flights alone. The hotels and Riads, the service, the aftertaste of colonial France, the reasonable cost of most things... I can say without question that this was the best short term holiday I’ve had. I will recommend that anyone with some free time and a few quid to spare investigates this marvellous place for themselves.

There's some more about the castle visit and how it relates to improving my writing, which I'll include in a second post in a couple of days. Until then, go find some tajine!