Into the mountains
Looking into the mountain, from the terrace that I sit to write this, I can see the little patch of green where I slept last night.
It doesn’t look like much from here, and perhaps it isn’t, however the journey up and the arrival just before sunset felt surreal, only 16 hours ago…
-
I’ve been in Chefchaouen for a week now.
Before arriving, I was advised that I wouldn’t need more than a couple of days here.
It’s the odd kind of thing one traveller says to another.
“Chefchaouen, it’s beautiful, but you can do the whole thing in 2 days”…
I suppose I have a different approach to the places I visit.
In the first two days, I saw the sites, did the walks, ate the food and swam below the waterfall - but it is the days that follow that have been my favourite here.
Something happens once the stillness sets in.
Going from seeking, to sitting, I’ve spent days observing the people who wander these twisting cobble streets.
The multi-lingual local children at the square, hustling with anything they can, learning business skills and trade before being able to write their own names.
The women sitting along the pathways, goods displayed beside them, yarning with one another as they trade in produce and hand made crafts.
The charming men, spinning menu’s and calling out various catch phrases from each passers language, attempting to create familiarity and lure guests into their restaurants.
So much is seen and felt by becoming an invisible shadow on the side lines, and simply observing all that passes by.
-
This place is nestled up into the loving shoulder of a great mountain.
The mountain watches, as I do, at the miraculous happenings of the notoriously lovely blue city of Morocco.
One day I looked up, and caught the mountain watching me…
Our eyes locked, and as we held the gaze, I could feel she was attempting to seduce me.
Each day, from time to time, my curiosity had me peering back, the persuading seduction slowly growing.
Until I gave in…
—
I emptied my backpack into the locker at my hostel, filling it only with the essentials for a night in the mountain.
Warm clothes, water, fruit, instruments, journal and camping gear.
It was 5:30, and with sunset at 8pm, I began my walk across the medina, towards the Spanish Mosque.
The locals have become familiar with me by now, and we share a little chit chat as I pass by their shops.
This time, with a trekking bag on my back, we had something new to talk about.
“You are leaving Chefchaouen,” they would ask, and soon after smile when I told them I was on my way into the mountain for the night.
“Good idea! Mountain is very powerful”, they would tell me.
I really love the way people pronounce “mountain” around here.
They make use of the “ou” and “ai” sounds, speaking it with almost 2 words…
“Moun-Tain”.
—
I made my way up to the Spanish Mosque, a path I had walked every evening since I discovered it.
It is a beautiful view of the city, and the sunset behind, as it drops below the mountains western edge.
This time I continued past the Mosque, towards the first feeling of unfamiliarity since I’ve settled in here.
The track grew more and more rocky, as it was clearly used a less and less the higher I went.
I passed rock walls and little farming houses along my way.
A man must of heard me coming, because as I came around a bend he was on his terrace waiting for me.
“Salam” he greeted
“Salam” I replied.
A few more words were offered until he determined that English was my language.
I told him what I was doing.
“Ahh good idea! The Moun-Tain is very powerful” he said.
If something went wrong, he offered me his place to stay as a plan b.
Otherwise, “come tomorrow for tea” he told me, “on your way back down”.
I appreciated how open and welcoming he was, as I continued up the hill.
—
I passed a woman, squatting below the shade of a boulder as she watched over herd of goats.
She had her full traditional garments on, beautiful materials covering almost all of her body, with a great wide brimmed sun hat.
Her stillness and presence was palpable as I passed her with a quiet smile.
—
I found myself in a moment of decision as I weighed up the options of either the rocky track to the left or the wider path on the right.
As I stood at the tip of a little hill, considering my options, I heard a voice call out.
“Salam”… “Come here”…
It was a man sitting on the roof of a half built house down the hill from me.
Surrender.
I put my mission on hold and climbed down to him.
A dog came out barking aggressively, baring its teeth to threaten me.
As it viciously circled, I kept my front to it as I tried to keep my fear hidden.
The man rushed over yelling something in Arabic, and the dog promptly disappeared as he reached for a rock on the ground.
A moments pause, before we laughed, shook hands and walked across to where he’d been sitting.
Another man had appeared on the roof, we greeted each other and I sat down.
These men spoke Arabic, French and Spanish, and so we spoke very little.
They poured me tea and offered me hash, two things a person is never far from in this city.
I took the tea and said no to the hash.
With my limited use of language, I explained to them I was climbing the mountain to sleep for the night.
“Ahh bueno, la montaña es muy poderosa”
I understood.
We drank our tea in quiet contemplation, before I thanked them, “shkran,” and put my pack back on.
The man who originally invited me down gestured to the rock track to the left.
“Camino” he said, as he walked me down some steps and through his gate.
“Camino” he pointed up the mountain.
—
I followed his directions, once again passing the beautiful woman in the sun hat, and her goats.
She did not look up until I was a step away.
Clear grounded presence greeted me in her smiling eyes.
—
I began the steeper traverse, on looser ground.
I could see goat tracks and human foot steps along the earth path.
Higher and higher I climbed into the large crevice between two peaks.
There was a thin plastic hose that followed me along the way.
Breathing heavily, I watched drops of sweat fall from my face and hit the dirt, as I climbed, step by step.
Shrubs, boulders and lichen surrounded me, as I explored my way further, in search of a soft flat clearing to camp for the night.
I thought I could hear another person, but the sounds were so infrequent, I believed it was my imagination. The moun-tain has a way of doing that…
Eventually I stood still, below some boulders, looking into the distance ahead.
A colourful hat emerged from behind some rocks, and a man appeared.
He saw me.
“Come here” he said as he waved his arm towards himself.
I climbed up the boulders and walked over to where he sat, on the edge, overlooking all below.
As I climbed up and approached, I noticed the green fields that surrounded us.
Marijuana.
The man sat there, watching me as I walked towards him.
He was wearing a white shirt, blue jeans and beaten up earth stained Asics.
The formal inquiry to what tongue we both speak was had.
Apart from his basic English and my less than basic Spanish, there was no shared language.
Conversation was minimal.
But I was able to tell him what I was doing.
“Ahh” he said, as he looked around us…
“Powerful”.
I looked around too, observing the natural beauty, eventually returning my eyes to see him watching.
I smiled, and nodded…
“Powerful”.
With gestures and small words, a conversation was had where he offered me some hash to smoke.
I accepted.
He rolled up a joint with a cigarette, Moroccon style, while I sat and looked over the city as the sun slowly set behind it.
I contemplated how easy it is to sit in silence with someone when you don’t share a language. I realised that if there is language shared there is almost an assumed expectation or obligation to talk to ease each others potential insecurities. I realised how silly this is.
It is so nice to just comfortably sit quietly with a person, sharing in the experience of just simply being.
He sparked the joint, had a few puffs and passed it to me.
“Shkran”.
I had a couple puffs, and exhaled as I looked over the city below, listening to the distant sounds of scooters, roosters and cattle.
He watched me while I smoked.
I had another puff, and exhaled as I heard the first prayer announced from a loud megaphone somewhere in the city below.
“Allahu Akbar"
I smiled.
Out of the 5 times a day that prayers to Allah are amplified in mass, this one is my favourite.
It’s the 4th for the day, and happens moments after the sun sets. It’s my favourite because I am always up high watching the city as it erupts into prayer for a few minutes.
I remember wondering in that moment if the time’s of prayer is universal. I pondered an appreciation for how incredible it is that people stop during their day to unite in a shared practice.
I felt the power of the prayers as they carried up the mountain to where we were sitting.
I felt the greeting that the mountain offered the prayers, as it carried them towards the sky.
I felt the power.
My smile grew as I stretched my arms out wide and gestured appreciation towards the surrounding mountain.
He had been watching me, as if waiting to see if I “understood”…
Once my body communicated its gratitude for the moment, his face lit up and he nodded enthusiastically.
“Si! Montaña”
-
He reached into his pocket for his hash, broke off a big piece for me and wrapped it in some plastic.
A gift, and a token approval.
I felt he could see that I appreciated something that was very special to him.
He climbed the mountain every day to take care of his crop. He must have spent hours up here alone, sitting on this rock, watching the sun set over his city.
He welcomed me.
We shared the joint til we were both done. He told me he had had enough by shaking his head and putting his hands together by his cheek, acting out “sleep”.
I thought about the tent I was still yet to set up and agreed with his gesture.
I put the joint down and placed a little rock on it to keep it there for later.
In French he told he was going home.
“Maison”
I knew that word.
We shook hands.
“Whatsapp” he asked.
I smiled and pulled out my phone, jotting his name and number into my notes.
“Khalid”.
I thanked him and said goodbye.
He disappeared down the mountain quietly.
I sat for a while.
—
I didn’t move far in my search for a spot to place my tent.
I climbed through the soft soiled garden beds in search of the perfect spot.
I considered finding a spot amongst the weed crop but believed there wouldn’t be a clearing big enough, until I came around the side of a big boulder.
Right there, was an empty garden bed.
The plants had clearly been pulled not long ago and the soft, flat earth was open for visitors.
I was blown away at the poetry of my situation.
The crop was built into the hill by using rocks to dam up gaps between boulders and filling them with healthy soil.
The hose that I had followed up the mountain provided water for the crops and the town below.
Khalid explained the hose travelled 2 kilometres to the water-fall, up and over the mountain.
All that could be seen around me was boulders and weed plants.
I couldn’t believe my luck.
The empty garden bed provided me with flat ground as well as soft ground, which meant setting my tent up was easy and comfortable.
The surrounding boulders provided me with wind cover.
After expecting I would be having a hard sleep on uneven rocky ground, I had found the perfect spot.
—
After the tent was up and the bed was made, I sat back out on the rock I had met Khalid at.
I ate an apple, making use of every part of it, and then I watched the city lights as I drifted into thought.
I recognised the medicine of gazing towards light.
Often, when I camp, I will have a fire to sit by and gaze into.
At other times, it might be the stars or the moon to look at.
Last night it was the various orange and white lights dotted across the city below.
There is something incredibly significant about sitting in stillness, staring into some source of glowing light.
That practice took me into a place of comfortable stillness and contemplation.
While I sat there I had flash back feelings to when I had camped by the cave on the Nullabor.
I reminisced on the life changing experience I had there.
I recounted the experience of exiting the cave to sit by fire as I sung to the night sky.
I remembered the song that I sung, or more accurately, the song that sung me.
I sang that song, again, to the stars.
—
Charlie joined me up there.
He often does in places such as these.
I sang to him.
I find it interesting, that when I am my most peaceful and present, I feel Charlie arrive, as he was before he left.
Charlie knew.
—
I climbed into my bed.
—
I woke abruptly to the sound of a mans voice and a foreign language.
I unzipped the tent door and popped my head out.
A man stood there, holding a blue bucket and some hose.
He was smiling.
I have no idea what he said, but he enthusiastically spoke multiple sentences as he kept climbing up the mountain past my tent.
I laughed and smiled, as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.
He disappeared, and I was met by the morning sensations of nature.
The first thing I noticed was the overwhelming scent of marijuana.
With the sunlight I able to really take in my surroundings better than the night before.
The crop was much larger than I had seen in the dim end-of-day light.
It spread wider as it did higher.
I hadn’t realised the smell the night before, but this morning it was wonderfully present.
I sat for a while up there, feeling recharged and rested, feeling grateful for having made the effort to climb and camp.
There had been a resistance to the challenge, the unknown.
I’d decided that if I make the unknown known, I’ll have less resistance to these types of wondrous experiences.
Nike wisdom…
—
And then, I climbed back down the Moun-Tain…
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