Category: Africa

Rabat is home to over 1.6 million people making it the 6^th largest city in Morocco and also it’s capital. Literally translated to ‘fortified place’, Rabat is a city teeming with history, ancient tales and is the perfect place to look out over the Atlantic ocean and wonder might be were it not for the huge scale fortification around the Medina.

Founded in 1146, an ancient ruler by the name of Abd al-Mu’min decided that he needed a perfect vantage point that could be fortified, somewhere that gave him and his army access to the Atlantic, thereby giving them a launch point to take over Iberia. The city served as a fortress for a few centuries, even hosting pirate attacks right up until the mid 1800’s. The strategic location of Rabat meant that people could be seen arriving via sea for miles. The rugged coastline made approaches dangerous and Rabat remained a stronghold for centuries.

In regards to history, a sweet story is that of Yaqub al-Mansur of the Almohad dynasty. Born in 1160 Al-Mansur loved a fight and was once credited with mounting an army which killed 150,000 men. But when he wasn’t busy wiping out nations and attempting to squat Spain he loved building mosques. One such project was an attempt to build what would’ve been the largest mosque in the world in Rabat. By the time the Hassan tower (a large minaret) reached 44m (half of it’s planned height) Al-Mansour checked out and work was never completed. Today the Minaret still stands and draws tourists from all over the region all keen to look at, and perhaps imagine just what might been.

For some reason, and I say this with the greatest respect – Rabat was awarded 2^nd place by CNN in 2013 in its annual ‘Top Travel Destinations’. I kind of understand the UNESCO status, parts of the city really are really quant and tinged with historical beauty. But all things considered it’s a little edgy.

According to my 1995 travel guide for Rabat there is/was a left luggage counter at the train station. Nope. Not anymore. Rocking up with all our gear we found out that the only left luggage in Rabat is apparently at the bus station. Of the two train stations in the city we used ‘Rabat Ville’ which is a modern station right at the centre of it all and where you need to get off if you want the Medina or main street. Having our bags with us and knowing we had a lot of walking to do I spotted a hotel opposite the train station and went in asking if we could leave our bags. The guy was only too happy to rip us off to the tune of 50 Dirhams (£3.40) when I had a sneaky feeling it should’ve been much less. In any case we headed straight for the Medina and hoped the lightly spotting rain would have a short respite.

The Medina is not what one would expect, yes it is gated, yes it is a maze of alleyways, but it is pretty much a modern market selling fake iPhones, trainers, jackets and food guaranteed to attach you to your toilet for a few days. But by no means even remotely comparable to the Medina of Fez for example.
Through the Medina is a huge cemetery, but follow the road down to the Atlantic coast and with excitement and intrepidation look out over one of the grimmest coastal views you will ever witness. Walk along a while and you will also find one of the skankiest beaches on earth filled with litter, dirt and various guaranteed diseases.

We kept walking and the rain picked up into a full on downpour, oddly though it didn’t ruin what was already a tired looking promenade generations past an investment. A little further up the road was what we were looking for – the ancient Spanish refuge of Kasbah des Oudaias, the oldest part of Rabat offering up tranquil views out over the neighboring city of Sale and naturally, the Atlantic Ocean. Now, bearing in mind the guide book I have for Rabat was published in 1995, it tells of a scam where locals advise you that the Kasbah is closed/forbidden. But guess what – They know a secret way that will fleece you some baksheesh. It absolutely stunned me that we were told on four separate occasions that the Kasbah was closed/forbidden. I mean seriously, these scamsters need to get some new material rather than recycling failures from twenty years ago! Anyway, the mosque at the heart of it all naturally was typically Moroccan in that foreigners were prohibited from entering. A real shame, but nonetheless we strolled the tiny streets of white and blue walls and eventually found our own panorama over the intimidating, dark brown ocean of the Atlantic. Shortly afterwards we declined a personal tour of the Andalusian gardens nearby. Which by all accounts are free, and filled with Muslim women seeking refuge from the hormone ravaged Moroccan guys.

We spent most of our time in Rabat relaxing, soaking it all up and enjoying the mix of Islam with a real European feel. Rabat for us was the tie we needed in terms of relaxing before heading to the High Atlas. It gave us time to recharge our batteries from the Imperial cities we had travlled through thus far. Importantly it began our focus on the task ahead, of an attempt at a winter ascent of Jebel Toubkal less than a day away.

Morocco’s third imperial city is just a stone’s throw from Fes (if you’ve got a strong arm) and just 30 minutes on the train westbound towards Rabat and Casablanca. At a puny 20 MAD you can funk with the locals as you burn through the vineyards in your own, 2^nd class cabin. Or, if you are like me, you can select your own cabin and then have some kid kick you in the leg repeatedly before he decided to nut a table and then sit himself down.

Meknes is a city surrounded by fields filled with olives, vineyards brewing up one of the nastiest wines you will ever taste and trees dotted with oranges. It is, all things considered a small vibrant city rolling along at snail pace and despite its proximity, could not be any further away from Fez.

The first thing any traveler will notice about this fabulous city is how cheap in comparison to other Moroccan cities it is. At least a third cheaper than Fez, and half that of Casablanca. Accommodation wise it blows Rabat out of the water. One might think that this tiny little hamlet has nothing to offer the traveler. You would be wrong. Rocking Africa since the 10^th century, Meknes has popped up a tight little Medina, a new city, some walls and has managed somehow to weave it into a modern lifestyle whilst retaining that Berber feel. It is like Marrakesh on downers. No one is in a rush, even the car manufacturers have yet to move on from the 70’s Peugeot, and the painters are still licking things in baby blue. Life has grinded to an almighty halt, and rather than cause friction with daily life it has seamlessly intertwined itself into a laid back, chilled out existence of happiness, understanding and appreciation of what life should be like. I have no doubt that should Bob Marley ever have a second coming and somehow find himself in Morocco – He will head to Meknes.

In contrast to Fez and Marrakesh and even Casablanca, Meknes is easy. We haven’t been asked a single time for a taxi, or to go into a shop, or offered the services of a guide. In fact, the only person that has spoken to us throughout our whole time in Meknes was some dude sat chilling, as we walked past he must’ve realised we were headed for the Medina and said “Bro, the Madina is that way” pointing down a road, barely moving his festering limbs.

The Medina was quite unique in that it was empty, we literally had much of the place to ourselves. Occasionally a kid would run past kicking a punctured football, or a woman would mooch by with a basket on her head. But it was so quiet it felt surreal. What didn’t feel surreal was that yet again we ended up getting lost despite me yet again feeling skilled. Eventually I rescued us from the labyrinth of alleyways and we stumbled upon the most amazing souk, a quant place filled with the smoke of coal fired chicken mixed with fresh mint and cilantro, both of which formed huge piles of herbs and spices piled up outside makeshit market stalls.

After a while we popped out of the Medina and found ourselves at Place el-Hadim. A vast and lovely open area filled with markets, donkeys pulling tired carriages and vendors plying their wares. Not a single “hey Mr., hey sir” – nothing. We were left alone to roam in peace and absolute tranquility amongst the fantastic Islamic architecture and gated walls. It was true bliss. I know of nowhere like it in terms of being able to just roam freely without any hassle or concern in another Islamic country.

The day drew on and I fancied a beer – I hailed a taxi and asked ‘Label’Vie” pronounced La-bell-Vee – We hopped in the taxi, the meter was started and 7MAD later (40p) we rocked up at Carrefour where I bagged a few beers from the only off licence I know of in Meknes. So hassle free it felt like the Truman show.

That’s actually pretty much it. Genuinely our time in Meknes was spent strolling the streets, laughing, kicking cans and loving Morocco. I can’t think of a single fault, and really – Don’t want to. But I will recommend this – Forget about Fez, head to Meknes and kick back whilst saving a small fortune in the process. J

Researching Fez prior to our arrival it was clear that we should expect hardcore hassle ringing to the croaky voice of the old dude knocking out the call to prayer every 5 minutes. I expected an ancient walled city brimming with medieval life and Fassis going about their daily life to the bell of centuries past.

The plane touched down with a thud and the aircraft erupted in applause as people seemingly they thought they were goners. I hadn’t realised, but was glad to be alive in any case.

Security at Fes – Saiss was slick and within minutes we were welcomed back to the slice of Northern Africa that is Morocco. The airport really is an engineering feat of minute proportions, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if it turns out that it’s someone’s kitchen in disguise. From the airport there is a bus that ferries passengers the 40 minutes into Ville Fez for a couple of quid. Naturally, as we walked out into arrivals we saw it driving off. And obviously – It was the last one of the day. Taxis are a fixed price of 120 MAD (£8) and we were off into the night in no time without even the slightest hassle.

Two things struck me as odd as we made our way towards the Medina (where our hotel was) firstly it was absolutely freezing cold. Colder than the UK we had left behind, and without sounding naïve I had just never been to Africa before and not felt a blistering heat. Secondly, the roads were empty. It was around 9pm and the city looked deserted.

Once at the hotel the owner introduced himself unsurprisingly as Mohammed. It is a trend which extends throughout the Muslim world. Guaranteed if his name wasn’t Mohammed it would’ve been Ahmed. He didn’t get the joke when he brought me a mint tea and I asked if it had vodka in. I decided to go to bed. En’ route to the room a woman busts out of a room and introduces herself in French, I stood listening to her and didn’t have the slightest clue what she was talking about. I looked at Charlie and neither did he. I spoke the only French I knew ‘non Francais’. She switched to English and started telling me how she was from Senegal, did I want to come in for a drink. Normally I might have considered it, but it was late, Charlie looked red eyed and within no time at all we were asleep. That’s strictly not true, as anyone that has ever been to an African/Asian country can testify. Horns rang out, people shouted, and a dog that must’ve taken a dislike to my face earlier parked itself outside my room and sat barking all night. It was freezing cold, and when I was woken by a knock at the room door around 1am I wondered what now. Miss Senegal was at the door “is my music too loud” she smiled. I hadn’t even heard it. “You should come in, your boy is sleeping yes”. I looked over at Charlie hoping he had woken up. He hadn’t. So you have to understand the checklist that went through my head. Single – No. Would she get it – Definitely not. Has she got alcohol – Maybe. Two out of three failed, I made my excuses and went back to a half slumber, making sure we would get up and out early in the morning.

Fez was one of those places that I had always thought I would end up going to, but was in no rush to do so. Any visit to an Islamic country should always start in the same place – The Medina. This is usually the beating heart of the city, a bewildering maze of dead ends and alley ways fringed with every craft you could imagine, the smell of spices in the air, and a constant battle against camels, donkeys, motorbikes and general folk just going about their business. The Medina in Fez is slightly different.

First of all I have to say, we walked around 20 miles throughout the city and not a single time did we get any hassle. In fact, we found Fassis to be overtly friendly, helpful and more than willing to try and understand my broken Arabic and mispronounced names of some of their most revered sights. Unfortunately that’s where it ends.

Stepping out into the Medina I have to say that I was feeling skilled. Within minutes we were lost. And not just lost as in we could retrace our steps, but completely unfathomably lost. I know that’s the beauty of it and I love getting lost. But the streets were filled with donkey shit and litter. It was freezing cold and the tanneries stank the place out. It turns out that there are several routes through the Medina. For example, if you like Islamic culture you follow a blue route, there are other routes for crafts and things. Problem is, the signs randomly end. But when we did finally find the places we wanted to go it really pissed me off that we were either not allowed in because we are non-Muslim or they were closed, and/or under construction. Let me elaborate on my initial point, we have been all over the world and been in some of the most spectacular mosques on earth since I absolutely love Islamic architecture. In Cairo I recall escaping the midday sun on the floor of a Masjid in the Islamic quarter. Istanbul, Dubai, Malaysia, Indonesia – I have even had work published for the Middle East online about a visit to the Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi. It really annoyed me that these ancient, centuries old buildings of absolute beauty and splendour were off limits to us. We were in the largest medieval Islamic city on earth and couldn’t do anything. After a few hours checking out a few Babs (gates) we walked into the new city a mile or two down the road. The only thing we found of any interest was a shopping centre that sold alcohol (Carrefour) and so we walked back to old Fes wondering what to do next.

I had spotted some cemeteries that looked like they had a good vantage point over the city, I decided we would head there, then to a castle on a hill adjacent. Once at the graveyard we spotted a human turd on the ground, rubbish was everywhere. It lost its appeal and we made our way to what was the war museum that was naturally closed. We were now amongst green hills and looking out over Fez I wondered what had gone so tragically wrong that such a city could fall into such disrepair. Charlie and I sat and looked over a gated city that would’ve once been the centre of Islam for miles around. A city that not just mattered, but that was palatial in its grandeur, the emerald in the crown of Morocco. It was hard to imagine looking over tired sandstone walls that once Fez was a place of rarity. That some of the greatest Islamic minds of centuries past studied in this once behemoth of religious theory.

Fez is a city trapped in years gone by surfing along on a slither of history that will soon be forgotten. Was it not for the immensely friendly people we met then I would never think about Fez again or recommend it to anyone. The city is in dire need of a clean-up, of investment and a wakeup call that we are now in the 21^st century and it is possible to employ modern values whilst still keeping an ancient ones. Sadly it seems the Moroccan government refuses to give the city and the people the boost they need, which is sad. Considering we have been welcomed with open arms by an amazing bunch of people we will leave Fez hoping that change is on the horizon before the place crumbles.

When we first arrived into Morocco we were completely taken aback by its mystique and exotic feel. From Marrakech we made our way into the High Atlas Mountains and had a truly memorable and simply amazing time. Our attempt at Toubkal will certainly take some beating this summer and in many ways we have set the bar high early. But once we got back to Marrakech and started to see beneath the glam surface cracks started to appear.

One of the first things I noticed was how spiteful some people are, and I say some, but I tarnish every single taxi driver we came across, whether we used their service or simply enquired. For example, in India if you know the price of a journey, you will haggle and always get the price you want, or at least very near it. But in Marrakech I found that drivers would rather not budge on their ridiculous price and go empty than meet you in the middle. I joked with one driver he was more expensive than New York taxis, I say joke tentatively as it was probably true. Let me illustrate what I mean, it was in the forties and we needed to go to the train station some mile and half out of town. Ordinarily we would walk it, but the sun can be so unforgiving and it was simply too hot to want to walk. The price on a taxi meter would be around 1.5 euros, we were getting shaken down for 10 euros. It eventually came down to 5, and even though the road we were one went only one way, the driver refused to even budge to 2 or 3 euros. Rather he went the exact route with no passengers in his cab. As I alluded to in an earlier post, getting a bus out of Marrakech for a fair price is near impossible and cutting out the self appointed (but not needed) middle man is fraught with aggression.

And that’s leads me on nicely to a real aggressive undertone in Moroccans generally. We saw at least three fights in the short time we were in the country and countless arguments and pushing around. I thought for a short while that Moroccans simply hated other Moroccans, but then I realised, they have a real disdain for anyone and everyone. I was personally mocked, verbally abused and there was attempts at intimidating me. I got called a rubbish tourist, told to go home, get out of Morocco and called a bastard, none for any other reason that I didn’t want a particular service or saw through centuries old scams. One old guy literally stood in the middle of the main square mocking the fact I told him no thank you; “la shukran, la shukran, la shukran” he said over and over again at the top of his voice as we walked away.

Though it could’ve been worse, the Chilean guy we caught a taxi with from Imlil had been in the country 2 weeks and been robbed at knife point, and then later pick pocketed.

So genuinely, as we made our way from Marrakech to Casablanca on the 08.55 train I wasn’t bothered. As usual I had shielded the kids from anything directly at them, but they notice things and Charlie had someone pushed into him in one of the alley ways, of which is pretty much most of the Medina and surrounding areas.

Truthfully though, did I ever fear for our safety? No I didn’t, but did I feel we were somewhere that seems to be teetering on the edge of boiling over? Absolutely.

Our flight left Casablanca airport which is easily connected by train from Casa Voyeguers and costs about 3 euros each with a journey time of some 20 minutes.

Once at the station you have the usual airport scam for everything, so blatant in fact that despite the fact you are not allowed to take Moroccan currency out of the country you can’t actually change your money after security. Naturally the are no signs telling you this, and in any case, security at the airport was pretty much a bunch of guys that couldn’t have cared less if they had tried. With that in mind I had to nab a guard and ask him to change our money on the sly, he took us into a back room and was more than happy to change our Dirhams for euros.

The next stage of travel was to take a Qatar flight to Doha which would take 7 hours and travel from 7pm, arriving into the Middle East at around 5am. Travelling on what I consider to be the best airline in the world helped, and within no time we were in the skies over Northern Africa and I was into my new book ‘one summer 1927’ by my favourite author – Bill Bryson. The kids (despite being advised strongly to go to sleep) were sat making the most of the on demand movies and free munchies. As they usually do, about an hour from landing in Doha they all decided to go to sleep meaning it was a very sluggish wake up call when we had landed.

Doha airport is brand new, and easily one of the best and most modern airports in the world. With 3 hours until our next flight (and actually the 3rd longest passenger flight in the world), we did what most people in our position would do… Grabbed a Burger King for breakfast the chilled in the kids play area.

The flight from Doha to Miami would take around 16 hours and and was due to leave at 8am Doha time. Doha was 3 hours in front of Casablanca, but Miami was 4 hours behind Casablanca. The skill in avoiding jet lag is working your timings to perfection. What that means is that it is easier to adjust 4 hours than a loss of 8. In other words we stayed on Casablanca time. The difficulty was that the flight would arrive into Miami at 5pm having essentially flown back in time, meaning it would be day light all day. Anyone that has flown long haul will know that usually once airborne and after the first meal the airline turns out the lights, everyone puts their window blinds down and the cabin is in darkness anyway. I made sure that I timed this to perfection for us and literally gave us a false night en route. The result was that of the 16 hour flight, I slept around 6 hours and the kids a little longer.

No doubt about it, the flight was hard, exhausting in fact. With turbulence for at least 8 hours it meant we were confined to our seats which on a snide airline would have been an absolute nightmare. Thankfully on Qatar we had plenty of room and the 16 hours passed by reasonably, though exhaustingly well. Actually en route I asked the kids, would they have rather done this flight in small hops or one big flight like we had chosen. They all chose one long flight.

We landed in Miami (and our fourth continent in the week) around 5pm and had the usual long wait for US security. The only bonus for us is that because we have so many stamps in our passport and are quite obviously well travelled, we never get questioned. Whatever country, we just get stamped and welcomed in. I saw plenty of people being grilled, and taking ages.

Miami International airport is straight out of the 70’s and by now I was feeling the tiredness, oddly the kids had jolted to life and were skipping through the airport and singing. Other than the sleep en route, we had been awake about 38 hours. Which is why, once at the car hire pickup I grabbed the first car in our class, got a strong coffee and made our way onto the I-95 headed north. I know the turnpike is about 20 minutes quicker, but for that you pay about $20 or more in tolls. It pisses me off no end having to constantly stop, so literally we weaved onto the I-95, put the car in cruise at 75 and sat back and chilled out. In no time Jack and Abi were asleep and Charlie was trying his hardest to stay awake for me, he was finding it impossible and after an hour it was just me, the open road illuminated only by our headlights and 3 exhausted kids.

About 11pm we were about 20 miles out of Orlando and I pulled into Taco Bell (a Mexican fast food joint) I had promised the kids one and they were really looking forward to it. The food was as good as we remembered and we pushed on to familiar roads, and eventually climbed into bed in Celebration, Kissimmee at just after midnight.

It had been one epic journey, but I couldn’t help but smile knowing that it was over, and that the real trip this summer was about to begin.

Heading up North Africa’s highest mountain which stands over 4000m was never going to be easy. But I was convinced that with a bit of will power and a strong bond between us we could do it. The trek would take two days and is split between an ascent to base camp, (know as the refuge) at 3300m and then an early morning attempt for the summit.

The main issue I felt we would face was not the hard, steep climb, but the altitude. Previous high altitude hiking has affected Charlie and I and so before leaving the home-stay at 6am on the first day of the climb I sat and spoke with the kids. I explained to them about how we are a family and if all four of us cannot do it, then none of us can. It was really to emphasise the family ethic to Jack and that if anyone of us got tired, we should consider the affect that would have on the rest of us if that person started lagging behind, or complaining. At just 7 years old it was a tall ask for Jack, and so I split the load between Charlie and I. Literally all Jack and Abi would have to swap between them was my camera case. Charlie was to carry all the warm clothes for the summit, I would carry all the water and snacks for the first day of the trek. The second issue that I had was discussing the altitude, I had to make them aware of the potential symptoms, but I knew full well this left us wide open for any one of us claiming we had altitude sickness as a way out of the hike. With that in mind I told them that I wouldn’t tell them when we were above 2000m so they couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t suss them out. I knew full well Charlie would know, but he wasn’t my concern in this instance,

I had spoken with Khadija (the woman at our homestay) about sorting us breakfast for the morning. She explained she would be up for prayer around 3am so would bake us some bread and sort some eggs and juice out. So, at 6.30am we set off and made our way into Imlil before heading up onto Toubkal.

We left early to beat the heat, and it was a cool 24 degrees as we made our way down the hill to the village passing local farmers en route. The route begins at the top end of the village and is an instant climb through a forest before winding its way up to a track. It is pure uphill and was a tough introduction to what was going to be a very hard day. I had set a really good pace and led the way with Jack directly behind me, Abi behind Jack and then Charlie keeping up the rear. Within no time at all we were all sweating and I wondered how on earth Jack and Abi had energy to argue about who put the lid on a bottle tightly!

The uphill kindly blessed us with about forty minutes of flat plateux. It was from here onwards that we now faced altitude sickness.

I was keeping a close eye on all the kids, but particularly Charlie who by this point looked like he was struggling. I asked him what was wrong and he told me he was waiting for his second wind. But I wondered if the sun was getting to him, after leaving the trees (after about 15 minutes) we had been completely exposed to the sun, there was no shade and so it just happened we passed a building with an old guy sat outside. I asked to buy his hat from him and he went inside and came out with 2, one for Abi and another for Charlie. He charged me about £2 and off we went.

By this point we were surrounded by absolutely jaw dropping mountain beauty. Completely enclaved by 4000m peaks we steadily made our way up a dusty track littered with dry arid rocks strewn across the landscape. The path followed a huge gorge which took some very careful navigating as a single slip would have meant certain death.

After about 4 hours of hard hiking almost all uphill I looked at the line behind me and asked if they were ok, they all responded yes. But I knew they weren’t. We were at 2800m, I found some shade behind a rock and asked them straight to the point “Let’s have a vote, we can carry on or go back” It genuinely brought a tear to my eye when each one of them voted to continue. I asked how they were all feeling and Abi had a headache, Charlie said he could fall asleep instantly and Jack was fine. I had a headache for which I’d already taken a couple of paracetamol, but it looked good. And so we carried on.

A short while later we could see the summit of Toubkal and we had all naturally slowed down. We had been trekking up hill for around 7 hours and Abi had told me her headache was getting worse, Charlie said he was fine and Jack was breathing heavy. Again they all voted to carry on.

It was clear we were all tired as every couple of minutes we had to stop to catch our breath, the altitude was really getting to me and Abi, but I had expected it. And I know some parents reading this might suggest we should have quit, but symptoms of altitude sickness are common and whilst mild not dangerous. I knew we were literally 200m in height from a night of acclimatisation and I made the decision to continue on the basis that if symptoms got much worse, or if overnight things hadn’t calmed down then we would descend.

By the time we made it to the refuge we were at about 11,000ft and I was completely wiped out. The kids sat and waited for me to sort us a bed for the night which was to be nothing more than a dormitory bed in some concrete refuge building just a couple of hours from the summit.

The cost of each bed should have been 7 euros, but just like i had feared there was not a hope we were getting it for that price. Turns out the only beds available were full board ones for 20 euros each. I physically didn’t have that cash available since there was no ATM in Imlil. Naturally there was no wifi or visa services so I explained that I would transfer the money into his account once back in Marrakech. He was having none of it and so we left with 2 options.

I knew in our state it would be risky carrying on, the kids wanted to, but we were completely beaten. The trek had sapped everything from us. I decided I would ask if we could leave our bags at the refuge, and then we could make a last ditch attempt at making the summit. Having now descended Toubkal I know now that was the wrong decision. The warning signs were there and I ignored them.

We had a quick refuel, another talk, and we set off for the summit of the highest mountain in Northern Africa.

At around 3500m we could clearly see the summit and the way which we would be going. It was pretty much straight up and our pace had fallen dramatically, we were hours past our maximum effort and we still had to descend, As we pushed on the scenery to me was blurred in the distance, and I felt sick. I figured we would stop for a few minutes and try and catch our breath. Looking at the kids I noticed Abi had a nose bleed. I asked her if she was OK and why hadn’t she told me, she said “I didn’t notice”. I asked how she couldn’t have noticed and she looked at me blank and said “I didn’t notice” She had made no attempt to clear the blood from her face despite it now dripping down her chin. I knew we had to descend.

No one questioned the decision for a while, but once back down at about 2500m Charlie asked if I felt I had made the right decision, I asked him what he felt and he said absolutely you did. Of course I knew I had, but it was off the back of two very wrong decisions. People have asked me in the past if I feel like i ever push the kids too far and I do give it some thought, but then I believe everything worth living for is difficult and I teach my kids that if you stop working for something then you will never achieve your dreams.

But high on the mountain of Toubkal I pushed my kids too far, and through resilience, stubbornness and a closeness between us all we pushed on together. And though we failed in our ascent of Toubkal I personally learnt an important lesson of the capabilities of my children and just what they would put themselves through in the name of family and not wanting to let each other down.

As the day drew to a close I realised that I had learned and loved more in the last 16 hours than I had in a very long time.

Thanks kids, you’re amazing; sorry I pushed too hard 🙁

X

Getting out of Marrakech was every bit as difficult as I expected. We were headed to the High Atlas Mountains, and to the tiny village of Imlil. Roads snake out of Marrakech and the single bus route ends at a place called Asni which is on the fringes of the Atlas Mountains. From there it is a precariously winding route some 17km up the valley and towards the highest mountain in Northern Africa; Jebel Toubkal.

Due to Ramadan the bus to Asni was not running (supposedly) so we made our way through the searing morning sun to Grand taxis, which really aren’t that grand at all. Just a large collection of relics posing to be Mercedes surrounded by greasy looking blokes whose sole purpose in life is to extract even the beads of sweat from anyone looking to get somewhere. Generally, they are meant to be share taxis with set prices of 30MAD per person, but of course these were no longer share taxis, but top of the line chauffeured AMG Mercedes that had a price to match, they were just disguised as pieces of junk.

Bargaining literally (and im not exaggerating) took about 30 minutes to get the whole car for 200MAD (£14) for the 90 minute journey, and that took every ounce of my haggling skills. It started at 800MAD.

It quickly became apparent that the problem with taxis is the cartel. The bloke dealing with all the customers is just a go between, drivers actually send you to him. So the issue is that he has to get his cut, and he doesn’t really give two shits about a few Dirhams or the driver that loses out on a fare. Dealing direct with the driver would be so much better for both parties involved, but its probably because the drivers speak little English, I don’t know. But I know I got scammed.

The taxi was easily built in the fifties, a light brown huge, long wheel base Mercedes that was falling apart. The seat-belts probably hadn’t worked since the seventies and my window was jammed down meaning sand blasted my face for the duration along with the odd fly to the face. The driver kept talking to me in French despite knowing full well I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He would say something, burst out laughing and I would look at him and courtesy laugh.

After about 20 minutes the arid, dry Moroccan landscape wound out into the distant mountain filled horizon. We could have been in the middle of anywhere in Africa. Reds, yellows and browns draped cacti filled dunes and ground which had dried out long ago with palm trees suckling for the last bit of water in the tormented earth. This was the Morocco I had seen in the pictures, this was the exotic mystical Arabia I had envisioned. And as the kids played top trumps in the back trying not to lean on a door in case it bailed them out, life was almost perfect.

Before we knew it dunes became hills and hills became mountains. We were in the High Atlas Mountains and cautiously winding our way up through the mountain path with huge drops on the drivers side. Still talking to me I continued the charade, and eventually we arrived at Imlil having passed through some quite beautiful scenery en route. In fact I’ll correct that – Having passed through some simply stunning scenery en route.

Imlil is one of those places that wherever you walk and whatever direction you go in you seem to be going up hill. Situated at 1740m (5,710ft), and at the foot of Northern Africa’s highest mountain it existed previously as a tiny enclave that harvested walnuts, apples and cherries. I say previously, as tragically on the 17th August 1995 there was a huge rainfall of some 2.8 inches in just 2.5 hours. Given Imlil’s positioning at the mouth and foot of a huge valley, a wall of water six metres in height rushed through the village made just of light bricks, mud and with barely thatched roofs. To put things into perspective, the amount of water was about 27 times what the village and valley would usually have to deal with, as a result 150 people were killed, which includes a number of tourists. Homes, cars and crops were completely destroyed and even now, the full loss has not been accounted for. For example, walnut trees take about 15 years to mature. The village was left in ruins, as were the lives of the inhabitants.

These days farming is still big business, but it is completely eclipsed by the tourism industry and for the climbers wanting to take on the mighty Toubkal. As you would expect, Imlil still very much has retained its roots, farmers, kids and women can all be seen tending the fields, mules are used to carry pretty much anything and no one at all speaks English other than the words “map” and “guide”. Despite Charlie bursting my ear drums all day yesterday about how awesome at French he is, it turns out he really isn’t, and all Jack and Abi could offer was days of the week and numbers.

So when we jumped out of the taxi on arrival I looked up the steep hill, looked at the kids, looked at the name of our hotel and knew it was up hill. With our bags and in the heat it was a killer walk up a long and winding hill that seemed to be the road to no where. I didn’t know how to pronounce the name of our hotel and Charlie’s effort was worse than mine. I looked across the valley and saw through a crop of cherries and apples that luck would have it we were at the wrong side of the valley.

Now, the great things about having such bad luck when it comes to things like this is that you can count on it. So, we started to wade through this field and I spotted some kids playing with a Victorian hoop where they run it along with a stick. I found myself speaking in a French accent as I tried to pronounce ‘Chez Les Berberes’ (google it, its gorgeous) I must have skills because they led us off up a huge hill which they bounced up with ease. We were all knackered and after winding past mud huts, shady looking buildings, midget sized doors and what looked like the world’s dodgiest ever building skills, we were eventually shown a door which the kids knock-a-door-runned. Some woman came out and said “Hey Stuart” I was high fiving the kids and Jack was trying to do a moonwalk in celebration. The kids reappeared and wanted a little backsheesh so I swift handed them 5 dirhams each (enough for some sweets) and we offed our boots and were shown to the upstairs which we had all to ourselves.

It was explained to me that in Imlil you rarely can get snacks and things like omelettes etc without paying for a meal. In other words it was set prices of around £7 (90MAD) each. Naturally I keeled over for five minutes after she dropped that bombshell on me. The kids were like “bonus, does that mean we’re having munchies instead”. We actually found out that in the town centre is was about £12 each. But, on a promise that once Ramadan ended we might be able to shifty some local prices we are now (as I write this) sat waiting for the sun to go down. But, the leading photo is taken from our room, and with a view like that – It’s hard to get bored. So roll on 7.30pm so we can chow down, but in the meantime we have some serious scenic beauty to feast on 🙂

The flight left Bristol a few minutes late headed south towards Africa, some 3 hours later we were in Marrakech. Whilst waiting for the bags I saw Jack jumping up and down, a scrunched up face of excitement had completely taken over him, I responded with a smile – The summer had begun.

Marrakech – Morocco

Morocco is one of those countries that bans its currency from leaving the country, meaning you have a ball ache in arrivals where you are screwed on the exchange rate. Some keen calc’s assured me I would be better off using an ATM (as I usually do). However, the cunning airport has thought this through ensuring that their ATM’s only dispense 200MAD notes (100’s if you are very lucky) The cartel run taxis have no change for the 40MAD ride into town and the bus is a dream away. So, I changed a tenner and planned to withdraw cash in town.

The airport is some 6km from Marrakech proper and it could easily have been walked. But it had been a long day so we took on the taxi drivers. Eventually, I settled on 60MAD which I am told is as good a price as you will ever get and was some way from the 250MAD we started at (£18). And, obviously despite the fact I clarified, and clarified and clarified it was for the whole car the driver insisted it was per person. He got laughed at, and we walked off.

So basically where you stay in Marrakech (like most places) depends on your wallet. Travellers like myself who want to be amongst the action stay at Djemma el Fna, prices are midrange, but still good by Western standards. Those who like to relax amongst crisp white cotton stay in Ville Nouvelle, from here you can get ripped off to your hearts content, buy fake goods at genuine prices and see everything from an air conditioned coach. But the sun won’t get in your eyes.

Djemma el Fna (Jemma el F-na) is a huge square that by day is the fore-drop to the stunning La Koutabia which is a huge minaret built in true arabian style. The square is home to souks, juice sellers, horse and carriage and craft stalls. Its a pleasant place with only a mediocre hassle which is easily brushed off with a quick “La Shukran”. But at night, things change dramatically, the square becomes the worlds largest BBQ as hundreds of stalls pop up and smoked fish and kebabs sizzling away fill the air. Acrobats, snake charmers, break dancing monkeys and dancers all come together beneath music, lights and an open air theatre group that has been performing for over 1000 years. It is perhaps Arabian nights at its most finest and finished off perfectly by cobras rearing their heads from baskets illuminated only by hand made lanterns from beautifully crafted silver.

Charlie commented that he felt the only thing missing from a set of Aladdin was flying carpets and I found it hard to disagree, it genuinely is like being on the set of a Disney movie.

Our time in Marrakech was limited and so we woke up at 7, dotted where we would like to go on a map and then joined the lines. By 8am we had managed to find some chocolate croissants (despite it being Ramadan) and by 10am we were all scorched to the bone under the 36 degree heat. But we kept walking, through gardens, palaces, museums and souks that rival anywhere else we have seen on earth. By 1pm it was 44 degrees and we stopped for pizza and then had an hour back in the cool of the hotel.

The afternoon continued as we walked north towards the bus station and by around 5pm we had walked over 12 miles. We were at the bus station to find out the time of our bus the next day to Asni or Imlil. Throughout the whole day I had contended with hustlers who were little more than an accepted norm felled easily by a shake of the head. But in the bus station we were instantly hounded by three guys waving tickets in my face. The official language of Morocco is French, but most also speak Arabic and I’ll be honest, the only thing I know about French is that they speak it in France. My Arabic is not much better, but I know more Arabic than French. I was explaining that I wasn’t interested whilst trying to look around for what we needed. One guy in particular was relentless “I am official, you stupid man listen to me” he kept saying. I told him I wasn’t interested and he said “You are a rubbish tourist, get out of my country”. Translated to English that means “I can’t believe you didn’t let me rip you off” – Despite the aggression he certainly isn’t the norm in Marrakech, quite the contrary in fact. Well, that excludes all taxi drivers who by the way are as difficult as in Cairo, Egypt. Seriously, if anyone reading this gets a taxi driver in Medina to put their meter on you should share your knowledge, because believe me I tried and it was simply not possible. One guy even told me it was broken, despite the fact it was turned on and blatantly working!

As night rolled in and Ramadan was officially broken the city sprang to life. The tired eyes of fasting vendors were suddenly filled with desire. Roads were shut as thousands of men and women made their way to the cities huge mosque to pray. It felt almost surreal stood watching so many people dedicating themselves to god under a stunning illuminated minaret. It solidified all we had felt throughout the day, and that is that you don’t come to Marrakech and experience the North African culture; you become immersed in an ancient aestheticism that is so engrained in everyone around you that its impossible to separate yourself. Its like jumping into an ocean and trying to stay dry, or being in a concert at Wembley and trying not to listen. You just can’t do it. And so as we stood watching the masses pray it was hard to detract ourselves from it. Well, that was until we heard some loud cheering from about 30 feet away, I looked and saw a shop crammed with people all cheering. We headed down and noticed they were all crowded around a 50 inch flat screen and Germany had just won the World Cup. We were suddenly whisked back to 2014 and for me, that summed up Marrakech; a perfect balance of an ancient Islamic city tinged with modernity.

As I write this it is 7.30pm and finally the temperature has dropped to a nightly 30 degrees. Fire ants are trying to make a meal of my leg and I am secretly sipping away at a can of local beer warmed to perfection. I am surrounded by palm trees and luxury. The kids are playing in a huge pool illuminated in the darkness by under water strobe lights adding ambience and tranquility. If I look to my left I see a beautifully kept garden leading out to the river Nile twinkling in the moonlight. And to my right I see one the best and most luxurious hotels in Upper Egypt. This isn’t how we normally travel, we tend to have rare opportunistic nights and touches of luxury occasionally, but I capitalised on an opportunity and bought us paradise on a shoe string.

Upon check in I asked how many guests were staying at the hotel and was told occupancy was around 5% and that is good when compared to other hotels in Luxor. Bekkie told me she was the only guest at her hotel, and I was talking to a friend I’ve met who spent two nights at the Sheraton, he explained there was just 5 guests at the entire resort. He had paid just £25 per night, only slightly less than the £35 I have paid for tonight.

I doubt there is anywhere else on earth right now where you can get a 5 star hotel perched on the banks of one of the most famous rivers in the world for the price of a travelodge by a motorway in the UK.

As we boarded the flight from the UK an English guy asked me how we was getting home as the next flight was in two months. And it’s true, there are no flights to Luxor from the UK now. Thomas Cook et al have all bailed supposedly due to the security situation. I honestly believe they were struggling to sell seats and so cut their losses without a second thought. But it’s absolutely true, we must be one of just a handful of tourists in Luxor and no more are coming. My advice? Get a flight to Hurghada for as cheap as you will ever pay on Easy Jet. Then take a SuperJet bus down to Luxor and stay in 5 star luxury from just £25 per night for a double with breakfast included. It’s absolutely crazy, but completely do-able.

That said, with the increased prices of the temples and sites on the West Bank the prices can still rack up. Taxis are desperate and so haggling starts at a much higher price settling on a lower price than usual. Average cost around town is about £5LE (50 pence) and for longer journeys up to about 7km about £15LE (£1.50)

Horse and carriages are relentless and get very nasty, very quickly. For years they have been milking tourists for every penny they can and now they can’t even afford to feed their horses. I am not joking when I say that we see perhaps one other tourist per day around town. Yesterday I had a guy follow us for about half a mile constantly sniping away at me, and then today a guy got off his horse and came over to me telling me I was empty inside. Bear in mind I had just given two little kids a toy from McDonald’s and made their day. But the very fact that I wouldn’t let this bloke rip the piss out of me enraged him with such anger he felt the need to get off his horse and hiss at me. I don’t get angry when travelling, opting to take the higher ground by smiling and speaking the local language where I can. For instance in Arabic the key phrases are:

Laa Shukran = No thank you

Ma-fish faruce = I have no money

The thing is, horse and carriage scams have been going since before the Pyramids were even invented. They are nasty, intimidating scams that go a little like this:

Horse and carriage rider asks if you want to ride on his Ferrari (despite the fact the horse looks decrepit and kaput) he offers you an absolutely ridiculous price like £5LE for one hour. Once you fall for that you get on and the serious intimidation and hard sell begins, you will end up at markets and all sorts of other places that you have absolutely no intention of visiting. When the ride finally comes to an end it turns out the £5LE was actually £500LE or some other ridiculous amount. The guy kicks off, this attracts all his mates and you supposedly just hand over anything and everything whilst he smiles through sly, dirty teeth and kicks his horse in celebration.

Seriously, ask anyone that has travelled to Luxor what their number one tip would be and they will guaranteed reply “don’t take a horse and carriage” they are scumbags.

Anyway, the start to the blog has been a bit lame I think, mainly because we have literally not done anything. We have been getting up, having a local breakfast and then mooching about the Nile enjoying peace. In the hot afternoons we have chilled out on the roof of Maria’s place playing UNO, listening to music and relaxing. If I smoked weed it’d have been a real gangsters paradise.

But Egypt now draws to a close and probably this is the perfect time to wrap the country up. In the next few days we head east to Doha, before taking a hefty 12 hour long haul flight to Manila in the Philippines where we get a few hours rest before heading on land down to the Visayas via Mindoro. For me that is when the real trip will start. But Egypt has been an excellent taster and relaxing start to the summer. I don’t expect anywhere to be this hot and so it’s been a real baptism of fire with temperatures reaching fifty degrees almost every day we have been here. I have laughed reading Facebook and my friends back in the UK talking about shutting schools as they Instagram their car temperature being 27 degrees. We have forgot what clouds look like and the air con has been working overtime in our rooms as we have tried to drive the nightly temperature down to something a little more comfortable.

I genuinely feel like we are probably the last wave of tourists to head to Luxor for some time, but hopefully not too long. That said and as I have already alluded to, the city is in trouble but the so is the whole country. For a country that markets itself as a tourists paradise (and it really is) and for a nation that has absolutely nothing going for it other than tourism times are understandably hard. But if you reflect for a moment, see past the violence and troubles and ponder. Egypt has some of the best diving in the world, it has history to match anywhere else on earth, year round sun and gorgeous beaches. And as tourists flock to just the Red Sea resorts bypassing the real Egypt you have to hope the country will find its feet and regain the prestige it once held so firmly. After all, Egyptians are simply standing up for what the believe in, and though no one can agree with how they are going about it, you have to admire their passion and their desire for a future.

For me it is no surprise, back in 2011 Muslims made a wall around Christians as they pray, this is a country as rich in culture as it is in diversity.

And I genuinely feel sorrow and pity as I look around and see we are still the only people in this beautiful resort.

I look to the Nile that glistens more than ever with a slight breeze in the moonlight, there is a small fishing boat chugging along, a sure reminder that life continues. The river Nile is an artery of life from Central Africa finishing its 4000 mile journey in Egypt. Running through some of the most poverty stricken countries on earth it has provided life since time began.

Earlier today we reflected on its absolute beauty, the kids asked to throw a coin in and make a wish and I agreed. They all wished for perhaps their own selfish wants, but I couldn’t help but wonder what a local might wish for.

But then I could probably guess.

See you in the Philippines.