Day Four. Morocco on Ice
Climbing a mountain is generally forbidden on fun, leisurely holidays; but nowhere in the script did they account for a certain Nicholas Pang. Operation Toubkal had been well-researched since the day I booked tickets; however, again, the script had not called for the handing over of boots to a certain greedy carpet-selling duo. In such circumstances, I had my doubts about making Toubkal; however, thanks to the preposterous amount of guidebooks (FIVE!) the Spanish-British couple had legally requisitioned from the Lewisham Library, London, I was, again, convinced that, despite my frail constitution and lack of exercise other than walking to medical school each day, Toubkal was assailable.
And with that, I made the simple choice of waking up early on Day Four, and heading out to the grand taxi stand for Imlil.
God was DEFINITELY watching over this sojourn of mine. First, he installed a Frenchman (who even LOOKED like the archtypical big, a-little-dunce-like Frenchmen in Jean de Florette) right where I alit my petit taxi, who immediately reduced the starting price. (Note to self: Always look out for dunce-like Frenchman in French-speaking hostile country, ditto for other colonial powers. Further note: Remember colonial powers of country one is travelling to.) With his jovial, a-little-too-much-to-drink banter, he was the darling of the dourest Arab taxi driver, and the traditional kinks in tourist pricing were ironed out effortlessly.
Next on God's List for Nicholas - a Moroccan guy slouched in a corner, who, bless the heavens, could speak English and was ALSO climbing Toubkal.
With that, my financial woes vanished in the blink of an eye. He didn't want a guide; neither did I. He needed company; so did I, presumably. And Kibery, wherever you are now in Marrakech, you are one of those angels from above who will constantly reassure me that God is watching over me, even during my most destitute moments.
Squashed between Kibery and the gearbox, said taxi zipped off to Imlil, the village at the foothills, which was presumably a little like Kundasang, that cowboy town where every Kinabalu Park need is addressed, save a proper Chinese meal.
It was.
One street, about 50 taxi drivers all desperate to get out of there, 30 mules all patiently waiting for their next load, and...every single shop, devoted to milking as much money out of unprepared climbers as possible. This prepared-turned-failed climber had to rent boots for 2 days (120 DH), which was a PRETTY sweet deal until two Slovenian boys at the halfway refuge told me these boots would not take crampons.
Which shall be the subject of my subsequent rant. Apparently, crampons:
are VITAL for climbing in snowcapped mountains, simply because walking in pack ice with a pair of fairly slippery boots just won't do, unless you have ten hours on your hands to inch forward and annoy everyone behind you. Thus my annoyance that the boot dealer did NOT inform me Toubkal still needed crampons, despite the fact it was April (late spring); I would have gladly rented them, if paying that extra 100 DH would get me to the peak of Toubkal.
But those crampons were never to be, and the boots he rented me were crampon-unfriendly anyhow; thus there went my assault on Toubkal.
On the OTHER hand, Kibery was one lifesaver, OH MY GOD. Among other things, he happily supplied me:
And he was...sweet. He bought me an orange juice from what was decidedly the oddest orange juice stall I have EVER seen, or will ever see - perched 2500m above sea level, it simply begs the question: where DO them oranges come from? A rather nifty contraption was also employed; with an upward-spraying hose, he aimed cold spring water at bottles of Coke and juice tucked under a rocky overhang, effectively turning it into a fridge. It was one of those prize-winning moments where you knew that a picture would have certainly worked far better than the proverbial thousand words, of which I am already in danger of overshooting.
No bother; I just followed Kibery up, and up, and up. Toubkal has no flat ground, so to speak - it is just one continuous uphill straggle, which, for the rational ones amongst my readers, of which there cannot be many, translates into Joy at a Shorter Journey. When you are gasping due to oxygen deprivation, however, Joy and Rationality are but farflung concepts in the recesses of the mind.
The recesses of the mind had a lot to say about the view, though; thanks to Kibery's enlightened policy of stopping every hour, I had a fairly good idea how far we had travelled, and can chronicle this climb by time.
FIRST HOUR
Setting out from Imlil, we were reduced to asking for directions - and this is the part where you just want to hug Kibery for just...being there, and speaking the 3 languages I couldn't but needed most - in lieu of a guide. A quick uphill set of steps were soon replaced by a trek on a dirt path that had definitely seen vehicular infiltration. Shrugging aside the thought that rich young party types in Mercedeses probably did the "trek" every weekend for unbeatable mountaintop rave party sites, we plodded on, and soon left the last village behind, fording a stream that had clearly seen better days.
On the other side, Toubkal dan gunung-gunung yang sewaktu dengannya loomed large; and we knew that every step from now on would be one of defiance, of defiance for our collective lack of footwear, specialist equipment (oh, how we envied the suave British trekkers behind us with actual snow poles), and, arguably, money. This hour was soon over, as Kibery and I huddled beneath an, uh, tree (what citizens of any other nation would probably disparagingly dismiss as a shrub).
SECOND HOUR
This part of the climb was certainly driven by male ego; the Old Lady and her Daughter in her Pretty Party Clothes actually overtaking us, two (okay, at least one) lithe young men in the prime of our manhood, clinched it. Seized by innumerable fears of losing face, we hastened our steps a little, and soon left the foothills of Imlil behind. With Toubkal looming larger and larger ahead, we soon realised we were THAT close to the snowline, and THAT close to seeing how our flimsy footwear fared under that litmus test.
Up, up and away, driven by The Man Within; we left grassy slopes behind for more rocky outcrops, and wound our way, languidly, round peaks that, once claimed as one's own, gave way to bigger climbs. Each step was already beginning to take its toll on my lungs; it was to our relief that we spotted the marabout of Sidi Chamarouch - a holy site only accessible to Muslims. As we spotted, from afar, the women entering it, we heaved a collective sigh of relief; now we could proceed at our own pace.
"Our own pace", unfortunately, was a rather poor stab at speed; though we were already leaving the rock fronts behind, and the snow loomed large, my lungs weren't taking too kindly to the constant up, up and away of the trek. Kibery gazed back, almost longingly, every 5 minutes or so; perhaps hoping he had not encountered me this morning? Anyhow, he stayed true to my cause, feeding me a constant diet of dates, cheese, raisins, to prevent me from completely keeling over in pain.
The marabout was the turning point; after that, everything just began getting more painful, and my legs were like deadwood at that point. Dragging them forward in itself was excruciatingly painful; keeping them on the ground was an equally mournful process, as my boots just felt too loose, and they refused to stay in the same place any longer than gravity rendered necessary. The views were gorgeous, no doubt, but my body was nowhere near keeping up, and this hour was simply miserable.
THIRD HOUR
This hour was mercifully short; somehow, the knowledge that we were inching closer and closer to the snowline kept me going like a drug divine. Pretty uneventful, this leg featured a significantly sluggish Nicholas, slowing Kibery down every step of the way, and it's a wonder he didn't just leave me to the vultures. This leg was where said magical orange juice was quaffed, and it really put me back on the straight and narrow.
FOURTH HOUR
The view stayed the same all through Hour 3 and 4, possibly because I was simply inching forward so slowly. On the bright side, we were definitely covering vast swathes of altitude; each time we looped round a slope, we were rewarded by the sight of what we had left behind. These two hours, we trekked alongside a deep gorge where a swift river ran; presumably, the melting snow on the peak was keeping it up to speed, and it soon assumed the stature of a fairly calming refrain accompanying our ascent.
Close to the end of Hour 4, with picture-perfect bad timing, we spotted the damn refuge.
Obviously none of us had read the guidebooks that advised "you will see the refuge at 3100m at least an hour before arriving there."
Deluded by a heady mixture of both the thin mountain air and the thought of a Soft Place to Rest One's Behind, I was now the Pushy One, egging Kibery to make haste, for it was "not too far away" (the English word "near" apparently doesn't translate too well directly into French; thus I had to scream "not far now" instead, potentially draining valuable vats of energy reserves.) This time, he had to continually ask me whether I wanted a break; perhaps he had read the guidebook. Perhaps I was too idealistic in daring to climb a snow-capped peak on my 1st try.
FIFTH HOUR
As noted, due to the Lack of a Break in the interregnum between Hours 4 and 5, the sight of the bloody refuge kept us going; in my case, in an almost-do-or-die fashion. The higher we climbed, the more of the snowline we saw; Kibery and I were already dreading the moment we set our boots to the test.
The first time, I...almost slipped off and fell a few hundred metres.
Not good karma for someone whose stated aim in coming to this particular snow-capped peak was to climb it.
For Kibery, funnily enough it was his FIRST encounter with snow, ever, and he was adapting fairly well, traipsing around fairly familiarly. Not me, the slit-eyed Asian; I was slipping, sliding and generally struggling to not take one step forward without sliding two steps backward, when good old Kibery, Allah?God bless him, finally took hold of my hand, and guided me up most of the snowslopes.
The moment I let go of his hand, to begin walking by myself again, I cramped. On the right foot. Kibery, at that point, was possibly contemplating pushing me into the gorge, but he came over, and wordlessly yanked at my leg till good times returned. Continuing the trek, this part of the journey was more distinctly rocky, and there was water everywhere, one assumes, from the melting of the snow on the upper reaches.
Too tired to even bend down to lap up the life-giving water, I just trudged, on and on, wondering idly why the bloody refuge seemed to be getting no closer.
And to my utter chagrin, 100 METRES from the entrance to the refuge, my other ankle gave way, and this time, I just stood there, yelling (and potentially precipitating an avalanche), as Kibery, from the front, and five buff British boys, from behind, dashed up to debrief the damsel. This time, I was cringing, as British Boy showed me how poorly laced my boots were, and literally told me off, as I was inclined on the snow, for walking up so far with boots that had, for all intents and purposes, hung off my feet as extra weight all the way.
Once the boots were well-laced, the climb was a cinch, and I slipped, slid, and careered my way to the refuge, this time with a tad more confidence than before, and a little less bravado.
Setting down my backpack in the refuge was another of the high points of this trip. I had made it thus far, and, unbeknownst to myself, would not be able to go any further from then on.
Ze Refuge
Operated by the French Alpine Club of Casablanca, it domineers over the "new" guesthouse, a little wooden cabin right beneath the mother lode. The main refuge is legendary amongst Toubkal climbers, not least for its 50 DH dinners, featuring a hefty dose of tajine, lentil soup, bread, and unfettered quantities of mint tea, all intended to Put You to Sleep Fast so everyone would be bright and bushy-eyed for the next day's climb.
Ze Refuge has TWIN double-decker beds (couples, take note!) with absolutely no insulation or heating; the sleeping bag is thus crucial. Also, the toilets are underground, and hot showers are 10 DH each (money well paid, I reckon.) Beds are 96 DH per night, a steal considering a night in a Marrakech youth hostel is apparently more expensive, while food can be bought off the tuckshop for prices roughly double those at base camp, a good deal nonetheless if you consider how many mules would have rather leapt to their death than carry chocolate up for demanding tourists:
The tuckshop with all its Western delights
Ze Refuge is also home to the most interesting company you can possibly find.
Anyone who has 1) made it thus far to Morocco, and 2) bothered to research and climb Toubkal, can only be eccentric, or terribly fit. Today's bunch were two Slovenian medical students; one already graduated and working, the other 1 month from graduating, who, between them, spoke 10 languages. The graduate spoke all the Southern European ones, the almost-graduate everything north of Germany; such lucky people, to have found travel partners truly complementary in this particular way.
On the same wavelength, we had a British IT grad, who was terribly uninterested in being the best IT technician in the schooling world, and was (understandably) more interested in using his salary to pick up various outdoor qualifications so that when opportunity knocked, he would have an entire set of keys with which to open relevant doors. He was another fun guy to talk to, and if they DO respond to my little letter, sneaked into their Lonely Planet guidebook while they were out taming Toubkal the next morning, I assure you, these are friends I will truly cherish forever.
We had a wonderful late-nighter, in between bites and sips of mint tea, we had a rather fascinating Chinese-whispers conversation. Kibery would speak French to the graduate; the almost-graduate would stare at them and somehow get the gist of their conversation despite his lack of French knowledge; then he would translate to me and the Englishman, who had absolutely no idea. And when a reply was necessary, the entire loop would reverse itself.
We dozed off, respectively, at 10pm, tired out, possibly, by the number of translations we'd all had to do in a night.
And with that, I made the simple choice of waking up early on Day Four, and heading out to the grand taxi stand for Imlil.
God was DEFINITELY watching over this sojourn of mine. First, he installed a Frenchman (who even LOOKED like the archtypical big, a-little-dunce-like Frenchmen in Jean de Florette) right where I alit my petit taxi, who immediately reduced the starting price. (Note to self: Always look out for dunce-like Frenchman in French-speaking hostile country, ditto for other colonial powers. Further note: Remember colonial powers of country one is travelling to.) With his jovial, a-little-too-much-to-drink banter, he was the darling of the dourest Arab taxi driver, and the traditional kinks in tourist pricing were ironed out effortlessly.
Next on God's List for Nicholas - a Moroccan guy slouched in a corner, who, bless the heavens, could speak English and was ALSO climbing Toubkal.
With that, my financial woes vanished in the blink of an eye. He didn't want a guide; neither did I. He needed company; so did I, presumably. And Kibery, wherever you are now in Marrakech, you are one of those angels from above who will constantly reassure me that God is watching over me, even during my most destitute moments.
Squashed between Kibery and the gearbox, said taxi zipped off to Imlil, the village at the foothills, which was presumably a little like Kundasang, that cowboy town where every Kinabalu Park need is addressed, save a proper Chinese meal.
It was.
One street, about 50 taxi drivers all desperate to get out of there, 30 mules all patiently waiting for their next load, and...every single shop, devoted to milking as much money out of unprepared climbers as possible. This prepared-turned-failed climber had to rent boots for 2 days (120 DH), which was a PRETTY sweet deal until two Slovenian boys at the halfway refuge told me these boots would not take crampons.
Which shall be the subject of my subsequent rant. Apparently, crampons:
are VITAL for climbing in snowcapped mountains, simply because walking in pack ice with a pair of fairly slippery boots just won't do, unless you have ten hours on your hands to inch forward and annoy everyone behind you. Thus my annoyance that the boot dealer did NOT inform me Toubkal still needed crampons, despite the fact it was April (late spring); I would have gladly rented them, if paying that extra 100 DH would get me to the peak of Toubkal.
But those crampons were never to be, and the boots he rented me were crampon-unfriendly anyhow; thus there went my assault on Toubkal.
On the OTHER hand, Kibery was one lifesaver, OH MY GOD. Among other things, he happily supplied me:
- Dates and raisins for The Munch
- Sleeping bag
- Winter jacket (EVERYONE knows what happened to the other one)
- Saved me a guide and a mule, which I WOULD have done
- Haggled the price of the boots down
And he was...sweet. He bought me an orange juice from what was decidedly the oddest orange juice stall I have EVER seen, or will ever see - perched 2500m above sea level, it simply begs the question: where DO them oranges come from? A rather nifty contraption was also employed; with an upward-spraying hose, he aimed cold spring water at bottles of Coke and juice tucked under a rocky overhang, effectively turning it into a fridge. It was one of those prize-winning moments where you knew that a picture would have certainly worked far better than the proverbial thousand words, of which I am already in danger of overshooting.
No bother; I just followed Kibery up, and up, and up. Toubkal has no flat ground, so to speak - it is just one continuous uphill straggle, which, for the rational ones amongst my readers, of which there cannot be many, translates into Joy at a Shorter Journey. When you are gasping due to oxygen deprivation, however, Joy and Rationality are but farflung concepts in the recesses of the mind.
The recesses of the mind had a lot to say about the view, though; thanks to Kibery's enlightened policy of stopping every hour, I had a fairly good idea how far we had travelled, and can chronicle this climb by time.
FIRST HOUR
Setting out from Imlil, we were reduced to asking for directions - and this is the part where you just want to hug Kibery for just...being there, and speaking the 3 languages I couldn't but needed most - in lieu of a guide. A quick uphill set of steps were soon replaced by a trek on a dirt path that had definitely seen vehicular infiltration. Shrugging aside the thought that rich young party types in Mercedeses probably did the "trek" every weekend for unbeatable mountaintop rave party sites, we plodded on, and soon left the last village behind, fording a stream that had clearly seen better days.
On the other side, Toubkal dan gunung-gunung yang sewaktu dengannya loomed large; and we knew that every step from now on would be one of defiance, of defiance for our collective lack of footwear, specialist equipment (oh, how we envied the suave British trekkers behind us with actual snow poles), and, arguably, money. This hour was soon over, as Kibery and I huddled beneath an, uh, tree (what citizens of any other nation would probably disparagingly dismiss as a shrub).
SECOND HOUR
This part of the climb was certainly driven by male ego; the Old Lady and her Daughter in her Pretty Party Clothes actually overtaking us, two (okay, at least one) lithe young men in the prime of our manhood, clinched it. Seized by innumerable fears of losing face, we hastened our steps a little, and soon left the foothills of Imlil behind. With Toubkal looming larger and larger ahead, we soon realised we were THAT close to the snowline, and THAT close to seeing how our flimsy footwear fared under that litmus test.
Up, up and away, driven by The Man Within; we left grassy slopes behind for more rocky outcrops, and wound our way, languidly, round peaks that, once claimed as one's own, gave way to bigger climbs. Each step was already beginning to take its toll on my lungs; it was to our relief that we spotted the marabout of Sidi Chamarouch - a holy site only accessible to Muslims. As we spotted, from afar, the women entering it, we heaved a collective sigh of relief; now we could proceed at our own pace.
"Our own pace", unfortunately, was a rather poor stab at speed; though we were already leaving the rock fronts behind, and the snow loomed large, my lungs weren't taking too kindly to the constant up, up and away of the trek. Kibery gazed back, almost longingly, every 5 minutes or so; perhaps hoping he had not encountered me this morning? Anyhow, he stayed true to my cause, feeding me a constant diet of dates, cheese, raisins, to prevent me from completely keeling over in pain.
The marabout was the turning point; after that, everything just began getting more painful, and my legs were like deadwood at that point. Dragging them forward in itself was excruciatingly painful; keeping them on the ground was an equally mournful process, as my boots just felt too loose, and they refused to stay in the same place any longer than gravity rendered necessary. The views were gorgeous, no doubt, but my body was nowhere near keeping up, and this hour was simply miserable.
THIRD HOUR
This hour was mercifully short; somehow, the knowledge that we were inching closer and closer to the snowline kept me going like a drug divine. Pretty uneventful, this leg featured a significantly sluggish Nicholas, slowing Kibery down every step of the way, and it's a wonder he didn't just leave me to the vultures. This leg was where said magical orange juice was quaffed, and it really put me back on the straight and narrow.
FOURTH HOUR
The view stayed the same all through Hour 3 and 4, possibly because I was simply inching forward so slowly. On the bright side, we were definitely covering vast swathes of altitude; each time we looped round a slope, we were rewarded by the sight of what we had left behind. These two hours, we trekked alongside a deep gorge where a swift river ran; presumably, the melting snow on the peak was keeping it up to speed, and it soon assumed the stature of a fairly calming refrain accompanying our ascent.
Close to the end of Hour 4, with picture-perfect bad timing, we spotted the damn refuge.
Obviously none of us had read the guidebooks that advised "you will see the refuge at 3100m at least an hour before arriving there."
Deluded by a heady mixture of both the thin mountain air and the thought of a Soft Place to Rest One's Behind, I was now the Pushy One, egging Kibery to make haste, for it was "not too far away" (the English word "near" apparently doesn't translate too well directly into French; thus I had to scream "not far now" instead, potentially draining valuable vats of energy reserves.) This time, he had to continually ask me whether I wanted a break; perhaps he had read the guidebook. Perhaps I was too idealistic in daring to climb a snow-capped peak on my 1st try.
FIFTH HOUR
As noted, due to the Lack of a Break in the interregnum between Hours 4 and 5, the sight of the bloody refuge kept us going; in my case, in an almost-do-or-die fashion. The higher we climbed, the more of the snowline we saw; Kibery and I were already dreading the moment we set our boots to the test.
The first time, I...almost slipped off and fell a few hundred metres.
Not good karma for someone whose stated aim in coming to this particular snow-capped peak was to climb it.
For Kibery, funnily enough it was his FIRST encounter with snow, ever, and he was adapting fairly well, traipsing around fairly familiarly. Not me, the slit-eyed Asian; I was slipping, sliding and generally struggling to not take one step forward without sliding two steps backward, when good old Kibery, Allah?God bless him, finally took hold of my hand, and guided me up most of the snowslopes.
The moment I let go of his hand, to begin walking by myself again, I cramped. On the right foot. Kibery, at that point, was possibly contemplating pushing me into the gorge, but he came over, and wordlessly yanked at my leg till good times returned. Continuing the trek, this part of the journey was more distinctly rocky, and there was water everywhere, one assumes, from the melting of the snow on the upper reaches.
Too tired to even bend down to lap up the life-giving water, I just trudged, on and on, wondering idly why the bloody refuge seemed to be getting no closer.
And to my utter chagrin, 100 METRES from the entrance to the refuge, my other ankle gave way, and this time, I just stood there, yelling (and potentially precipitating an avalanche), as Kibery, from the front, and five buff British boys, from behind, dashed up to debrief the damsel. This time, I was cringing, as British Boy showed me how poorly laced my boots were, and literally told me off, as I was inclined on the snow, for walking up so far with boots that had, for all intents and purposes, hung off my feet as extra weight all the way.
Once the boots were well-laced, the climb was a cinch, and I slipped, slid, and careered my way to the refuge, this time with a tad more confidence than before, and a little less bravado.
Setting down my backpack in the refuge was another of the high points of this trip. I had made it thus far, and, unbeknownst to myself, would not be able to go any further from then on.
Ze Refuge
Operated by the French Alpine Club of Casablanca, it domineers over the "new" guesthouse, a little wooden cabin right beneath the mother lode. The main refuge is legendary amongst Toubkal climbers, not least for its 50 DH dinners, featuring a hefty dose of tajine, lentil soup, bread, and unfettered quantities of mint tea, all intended to Put You to Sleep Fast so everyone would be bright and bushy-eyed for the next day's climb.
Ze Refuge has TWIN double-decker beds (couples, take note!) with absolutely no insulation or heating; the sleeping bag is thus crucial. Also, the toilets are underground, and hot showers are 10 DH each (money well paid, I reckon.) Beds are 96 DH per night, a steal considering a night in a Marrakech youth hostel is apparently more expensive, while food can be bought off the tuckshop for prices roughly double those at base camp, a good deal nonetheless if you consider how many mules would have rather leapt to their death than carry chocolate up for demanding tourists:
The tuckshop with all its Western delights
Ze Refuge is also home to the most interesting company you can possibly find.
Anyone who has 1) made it thus far to Morocco, and 2) bothered to research and climb Toubkal, can only be eccentric, or terribly fit. Today's bunch were two Slovenian medical students; one already graduated and working, the other 1 month from graduating, who, between them, spoke 10 languages. The graduate spoke all the Southern European ones, the almost-graduate everything north of Germany; such lucky people, to have found travel partners truly complementary in this particular way.
On the same wavelength, we had a British IT grad, who was terribly uninterested in being the best IT technician in the schooling world, and was (understandably) more interested in using his salary to pick up various outdoor qualifications so that when opportunity knocked, he would have an entire set of keys with which to open relevant doors. He was another fun guy to talk to, and if they DO respond to my little letter, sneaked into their Lonely Planet guidebook while they were out taming Toubkal the next morning, I assure you, these are friends I will truly cherish forever.
We had a wonderful late-nighter, in between bites and sips of mint tea, we had a rather fascinating Chinese-whispers conversation. Kibery would speak French to the graduate; the almost-graduate would stare at them and somehow get the gist of their conversation despite his lack of French knowledge; then he would translate to me and the Englishman, who had absolutely no idea. And when a reply was necessary, the entire loop would reverse itself.
We dozed off, respectively, at 10pm, tired out, possibly, by the number of translations we'd all had to do in a night.