Cuba - the end of an era

Come last September, Christina and I were choosing where in the Central America/Caribbean region we should visit during the dreariest part of the famously dreary British year. Fascinating places were suggested such as Mexico, Nicaragua and Guatemala, but one factor in particular dragged us to Cuba - the imminently finite nature of Commandante Fidel Castro.

It may sound morbid, but the lure was undoubted. Here is a truly unique country on the verge of huge potential change. The first communist country in the Western Hemisphere, famous for the long-running struggle with its aggressive northern neighbor, would, so developed political consensus would have us believe, change irrevocably on the passing of this character of great fame and infamy (depending on your perspective).

That is only part of the story. A place that is renowned for salsa, son, cigar, mojito, passion and tropical beaches does tempt one some and here is a brief account of 11 fascinating and wonderful days.

The Cuban experience began before we even arrived. Flying Cubana de Aviacon, the national carrier is quite an experience in itself. Strangely shaped incredibly slow planes (probably soviet), with little entertainment beyond the hilarious air steward selling cigars and rum to crowds with skill and aplomb. Then a long sticky wait at Holguin memorable if only for the sign that greeted us:










A stark reminder that we were entering a place of history in the making.

Havana
The first night we truly treated ourselves. In general, tourists stay in two types of places in Cuba. As we did, a highly recommended option is the casa particularis - literally staying in people's homes. A great way to meet the people and spread much needed currency to the local vicinity (although the Government taxes such payment heavily). The other is in hotels. These themselves come in two main categories. There are the cheap places for locals and the foreigner’s hotels. The latter can be from luxury to tacky minge, but are overbearingly cultureless from a proportionate perspective.
That first night we stayed in a rare third option. A hotel brimming with interest and culture. A 17th century villa in Havana Vieja (the old town), renovated wonderfully. A solid stone villa, with 5m high ceilings, mahogany flooring and a tropical garden in the central two-tier courtyard, complete with resident peacock. Simply marvelous. A big thumbs up for UNESCO - they financed the refurbishment with the agreement that all profits from the renovated building going to renovate a new building and so on and so forth. Ingenious as long as corruption keeps its sticky little hands off it and here it is doing wonders.
A sizeable section of the old town is now shown off as in its past glory, but there are countless streets let alone buildings that require the same treatment.

Havana is a strange charming mix. From the magnificent 16th and 17th century plazas of the old town, through row on row of once glorious housing in Centro Havana, now barely fit for human habitation but brimming with character (old cars, cigars, music bursting from every corner - the works), curving north through the grand buildings of Cuba pre-war glory days that reminded me of Buenos Aires, to the more modern and slightly rugged Verdano, the part of town I saw fascinated me. To the north and curling round the east of this area, from the grand mafia era hotels to the heavily fortified harbour (fortified against the British, but too little avail as we took the defences from behind in the summer of 1762 and after 11 months swapped the city for Florida!!), rolls the Malecon. The see wall, with promenade and crumbling art deco backing.

I loved the place with all its edge and vibrancy.

The people interested me. Once you get past the tourist area and leave the majority of jintero/as behind (basically people who want to get money off tourists by various methods from selling cigars to prostitution), the people were simply not bothered by us. In so many places people, seeing you are a tourist, jump up and sell or at stare as you wonder past. Here, nearly everyone got on with their own thing, whether it be pelotta (baseball) in the street or tinkering with the 1950's Buick's - strange that American capitalist goods should be so inseparable from the world's image of Cuba. Apart from one incident when a guy became aggressive and swore when I made it clear that I was not going to play which ever money-extracting game he was attempting, I found the people charming, unobtrusive but undoubtedly full of passion.
After some long walks (before and after the hordes of tourists buses), lobster, mojitos and cigars as the light faded and the music played in the Plaza de la Catedral, we slept well and jumped on the circa 5 hour bus to Vinales - a place that has grabbed a part of me.

Vinales

Settled somewhere in the middle of Pinar del Rio province in Eastern Cuba is this little gem. A small town of one story terracotta tiled houses nestled in a valley of remarkable beauty. Bursting out from the lush tobacco countryside, limestone stacks of white and green. Gentle wildlife through out, deep caves beneath. A wonderful place.

The journey from Havana gave us our first glimpse of inland Cuba. A flat-farmed land crossed by the soviet road on which we rolled, with turn-offs going nowhere – the money ran out. Then a detour into the hills past an idyllic eco-community surrounded by thick vegetation that was refreshing after the flat. Down into Pinar del Rio, small towns, a touch of rolling hills and notably greener.

Eventually we descended into the valley of our destination. The winding roads had taken a bit out of Chris’s stomach, but we both appreciated simply wonderful views as we wound down the road. Each corner and break in foliage bringing enhanced views of the white and green clad hills, verdant surroundings and the town itself. A landscape unfolding.
My lasting image of this special place will be of balance. A very rare thing in much of the world. A place of outstanding beauty, yes, but vitally warm people who allow travelers and tourists alike to integrate. It benefits all. In a way it reminds me of Salento in the heart of Colombia, or perhaps Luang Prabang in this regard, but like these places it is unique.

A few days wondering around, in between and even through the trademark stacks. Breathing in the clean air touched with the warm red soil and drying tobacco. Subtle wildlife all around. Many birds, pigs strolling wild. Local farmers on horseback or tending their tobacco crop while chomping on a cigar. Dropping by wooden-shelters for a glass of warm sugar-cane juice and a shot of eye-cringing fermented product.

Smokin' his very own produce

For large parts it was just Chris and I. Bliss. Wandering with a vague sense of direction and the sole concern being return navigation by nightfall.

For a day, a seriously chilled and charming guy called Axel was our guide. Trained as a teacher and clearly a bright and educated guy (name a country… any country… and the capital will be forthcoming from his memory). He took us across cane-fields, into caves and on a fascinating journey through how we each view each other’s situation. This has replaced teaching for him, as his ambitions require more than 9 bucks a month. A Finnish girlfriend has enhanced dreams of travel that quite frankly make me feel embarrassed (a monumental task to get the cash, let alone the visa). His taste in hard Norwegian metal and tails of how “freakies” like him were discriminated against and even killed were fascinating. Stories of the “special period” Cuba faced during his childhood disturbing.
What I so like about Axel is how critical minded he is. We could challenge each other’s opinions to definite mutual benefit. In a just a few days and few beers we made a real good friend. What touched me most was when he tried to refuse the money for being a guide on the first day. The guy even gave me a couple of novels he knew I would like (worth quite a bit round here). I never thought a Cuban would give me Alan Donald’s autobiography – a surprisingly good read.

Beyond meeting more interesting people on nights out, the other side of our time in Vinales that requires attention were our hosts.

Jumping off a bus in tourist towns in developing countries you are as a general rule welcomed by a furor of people with signs shouting and pushing for your custom. Refreshingly, here there were the people, some bustle, but no hustle. A particular Cuban efficiency was clearly working – 2 people held up signs for James and Christina, though to our knowledge we had only mentioned to one person in Havana where we were heading. We walked off with a kind-looking lady called Neyda and could not possibly regret it. Staying in her house for four nights, complete with its veranda, net curtains, mini-farm and little shrine under the sink, was a delight. People who talk about food being poor in Cuba clearly did not stay in a casa particularis like this (or in fact any of the others we stayed in). The food she rumpled up was tasty and the company of herself and her father in particular bursting with warmth and welcome.
Despite the rubbish bins over the road, one of my favourite places in the world will forever be their veranda at dusk. Rocking back and forth on the rocking chair (an item that Communism has provided on mass), local cigar in hand and at mouth - little regalito’s from the grandfather of the house, Alberto. Sharing basic Spanish conversations with this man in my bad Spanish as we chuffed away on the local delicacy as the light faded. Staring over at Christina as we read our books, subsequent positive interruption from Pepe, a dog I wished to take home, and eventually the call to another meal that would beat us, to the delight of Neyda.

It was fascinating to be shown round their back garden. A veritable farmyard of pigs, chickens and puppies. A vital store where government rations are restrictive.

We both felt just so welcome and touched by this family and I believe they enjoyed our company too. This was tourism as its best - mutually beneficial and bringing people together. Such amazing generosity.

Cayo Levisa

To satisfy our winter thirst for sun, we spent a day on Cayo Levisa. A short bus ride and boat chug north of Vinales, this is a proper little paradise. A little island situated just off the hilly north coast. To its back, lush mangrove swamp, reaching across the island to the pristine white sand beach facing out to the mass of the Caribbean. A one restaurant, 10-shack type of place. Not quite the dollar a night Thailand type (there were a few high end “out there” travel types paying ten times the price), but you get the idea. Other than a nice snorkel and some sol worship, we spent our day wandering along the beautiful beach. We found starfish, hermit crabs and watched the twittering movements of what looked like sandpipers. A romantic place that deserved more time.

Trinidad

Back to a city, and a world heritage listed one at that. Most of a day’s journey back across and down the bottom of Cuba. Again, the majority of the terrain was largely flat, unexciting farmland or brush. I don’t know why, but this surprised me. Again, the road was half-finished. Through some intriguing towns, Cienfuegos in particular, and back to the coast. After some rugged and pretty scenery we entered Trinidad as the sun was losing its heat.

After the laid-back countryside, immediately this place put me on alert. Perhaps it was because I was with Christina. Perhaps it was solely a reaction to how comfortable we had been in Vinales. Or perhaps the situation was in fact more threatening. I feel a mixture of the above (with a large part being the latter). From a place that openly welcomed tourists, the looks from people around us told me that we were not quite so welcome. Those legions of package tourists shipped in on their shiny buses leave me with a feeling of vomit, so imagine how it makes locals feel. Walking dollar signs. I hate to sound like a travel fascist and I openly admit that many people on such things are far more aware of the local situation than I am, but those of that minority I have met, or indeed saw on this trip, seemed embarrassed by their circumstances. Not surprising when surrounded by plump Europeans flashing their money and rich cameras about and speaking loudly of these poor miserable locals.

Who says Cuban food is bad?
This feeling was heightened on a ramble up to the hill overlooking the town and sea beyond. A sunset point strewn with people selling brick-brack and tourists looking bothered. In fact the people we met at the top were pretty cool and, once the sun had disappeared, we wandered back to our casa particularis to lobster for 5 bucks.

The town itself is beautiful. Build with riches from the mills in the hinterland. Streets on streets of one story white crumbling houses with their tiled roves. Little corner bars with men sipping coffee and smoking cigars, dividing avenues named after revolution heroes. Towards the center the houses grow in height and grandeur. Many a mansion.

A more than interesting local shrine

On entering some of these places I was struck by the opulence of their ageing interior. For some reason I just love their courtyards. Interesting churches, where iguana lurk and old monasteries now filled with remains of U2 spy planes. Views from the bell tower blew me away. Red roofs falling into courtyards full of washing and kids. The roads roll out to hills to the side and behind and, in front, down to the warm sea as the sun sinks yet again. Time running fast, but this country swallows you quick.
Our time in Trinidad was capped by a simply unique (for me) and great night out. On a grand set of stairs that rise beside and beyond the main church, musicians play for locals and foreigners alike. Such a divergence from the shiny bus strewn day. Here it was great to see everyone clearly enjoying themselves together. Yes, in some ways this may well be put on for tourists in that there are smatterings of English etc, but I am sure this went on way before the tourist industry sky-rocketed and will continue in some aspect if it ever goes. The people just ooze life-enthusing music out their pores and sol and salsa to it like no one else. It is simply a privilege to join in.

As the night went on, the band stopped to rapturous applause and those on the more young side wandered up through the dark to a club. Through a small entrance in the side of the hill, down through a winding passage to the chasomous heart of the cave. A disco deep in the hollows of the limestone hill above and upon which the city is built. So much fun….and a bit too much rum.

Valle de los Ingenios

Christina on a horse is a wonderful sight – the combination of nerves and excitement. That is the way we traveled over the hill from Trinidad, down and across the Valle de los Ingenios and back again. A great little trip. The landscape changed from cactus to thick scrub to open fields. From the top the view was spectacular. A valley of mighty palms and little shacks stretches to further hills. The remains of the old mills that made this place so profitable. Coffee with some locals, sugar cane and then up into the far hills to find a waterfall complete with fish, a rare rodent and Aussies.

The Ancon Peninsular

Before heading back north we had a few days to spend by the beach. Taking some advice from fellow travelers we based ourselves in the little village of La Boca. A place of not much more than a little scrabbly beach, a couple of guesthouses and a mojito shack. In some ways the highlight of the trip. Our host in the little casa was so kind, his cooking so good and his dog so god-darn ugly. The beach allowed some good scrap footie with the kids (why am I always the one to bleed – just like Christina) and the shack a nice place to sit and watch the sun go down with a questionable mojito. I love the place.

Just a short 8km cycle down the peninsular you find Playa Ancon. A place I just do not get. A pretty nice beach backed by ugly 70’s buildings. In front of these buildings lay what looked like baking slugs. Sun worshipping fat Europeans wobbling back inside for their all-inclusive burgers. Guards giving us a “what the hell ya doing here” look. When you have such charm so close why be here? I can just about understand the pristine perfect resorts (though the fact that locals are banned from being guests at a number of these more than riles in itself), but this was not even nice. Just nasty.

Thankfully the locals were allowed to use the far end of the beach, where we could relax with a can of Crystal and sooth our annoyance at the seeming invertebrates.

Back to the Capital

With some sadness, back to Havana we went. Trips to cigar and rum factories (and the purchase of related items on masse) and long walks along the sea wall and through the old and mid-towns.

A trip to the Museo de la Revolucion was more than worthy of note. Full of room after room of newspaper cutting and memorabilia of this or that key figure in the revolution. The place was interesting as much for its lean on events as on the artifacts themselves. There are some great adapted vehicles (such as the tractor tank), but the highlight has to be the cartoons of Bush, Reagan and the like - sharp satire.
This leads me to one further little rant. The US. I am not a natural US hater. I respect the country, love New York and consider a number of its citizens as my friends. I do though think that its treatment of this little nation just 90 miles from Florida is a disgrace – a tarnish on its honour. Fine, the politics of the late 50’s and 60’s are complicated, so some of the US’s past treatment could be excused in the mist of different times – a debatable point in itself – but why it continues to embargo and squeeze this beautiful country I can not understand. Castro’s regime does have some major human rights issues and its people are restless and are restricted from what their talents and passion deserve. It is also true that the regime itself is a large cause of this restriction, but so is the US. The US never gave Cuba a chance. After the death of the Soviet Union it could not possibly be seen as a threat, yet George “W” in his seemingly bottomless pit of idiocy and cynicism actually tightened restrictions on the country. Far from convincing Cuba’s people that this is a product of Castro’s “evil”, from the little I saw it holds them together. People are frustrated by the regime but proud of what they have done. They are proud of their independence and not prepared for the US or others to walk over them as they have tried on various occasions over the past couple of centuries.

Just a week after we left, Castro stepped down. Times need to, will and are changing and Cuba will never be the same. Having had the privilege of a small incite into the people that inhabit this island I am worried. So much good can come from change, but I cannot help but fear that what makes Cuba so special could be lost. Alongside literacy and life expectancy that match the US, there is relative equality (admittedly in poverty), little crime and most importantly an exuberance of life from the people. If it explodes open to Western capital much of this may be ripped apart. I hope such a comment is an injustice - the people have stood up to hardships and challenges that I cannot imagine and are proud of who and what they are. I hope this stands them in good stead as inequality and greed increasingly bite - foe that have changed many a man and society.

A Final Scene

Sitting in a grand old plaza in the heart of Havana. The warm Caribbean air is distorted by local rhythms enveloping from all directions. Old men dance in the street. Perfect company, Mojito at hand and Cohiba in the teeth. Lobster pizza on its way…

The Hong Kong Sideshow

On the way to Tokyo I took a weekend stop over in Hong Kong that was all a bit of a blur…a city I loved the first time (on $15 a day, riding the 75 cents tram round and a round and staying in the rotting Chungking "Mansions")… and needed little excuse to explore further.

Straight to a Friday night bar, I knew it would be carnage from the cheeky yet "it’s all in my stride" look on Andy’s face. The sort of guy who needs a night let alone a few months to find out exactly where to find a good time and Asian cities are his forte.

From a beer over looking Hong Kong harbour and the Kowloon skyline, to tasty bites in the open street, to all you can drink reserved table at an exclusive bar (nothing like the generosity of a banker leaving town with a bumper bank balance – cool guy though)…to much silliness. Awaking high up in some random sky-scraper, pretty close to the last thing I wanted was to jump in a taxi, strafe to the other side of the island and fall into a dragon boat. Andy being the consummate host had arranged just this.

Loads of fun on short-term adrenaline, followed rapidly by turning a similar shade of green to South China Sea. A couple of hours of hard work, aversion of puking my guts out, awesome views and a crazy coach against all odds proved to be a great hangover cure. Just a pity I would not be in the boat for the real thing a couple of weeks later. Another time.

A very different night with Andy and Felix (who had politely popped down from Shanghai for a visa run) was soon upon us. More fun and games with memorable parts being numerous jelly shots, the sight of far too many drunken rugger-buggers and cavorting girl-friends and, after changing districts, the closest I come to rage… having to constrain myself from hitting half of the old men touching up young prostitutes. I would not blanket criticise prostitution in all circumstances – the world is too complex for that – but Asian sex tourists piss me off….I shall curtail the rant…

Stumbling into Andy’s apartment at a head-ache enhancing bright hour for a couple of hours kip and before I knew it I was back on a plane. Just like that.

These mini-trips have a life of their own. Unique little pockets of time on another world with rules of your own making. Simultaneously good and bad for you. I am never quite sure if they are formulative or you just find what’s already there – a bit of both no doubt. Packed full of life.

From traditional Chinese aspects unspoilt by the cultural revolution to bankers in dragon boats. A city of contrast that just seems to fit. To think I never made it over to Kowloon to indulge myself in the Hong Kong skyline – for me the most impressive man made sight in the world. Lost in the buzz… I will be back, but for the moment move on to the main event….JAPAN

(That's the cheeky look - if a bit hungover)

From Marrakech to the Mountains

A Struggle to the Summit of North Africa

Realising that you "have" to take some time off work before mid-December is not the worst thing that can happen to you. The thought was a long weekend to somewhere in Europe, maybe 2 days, maybe 3. Then the thoughts progress as they invariably do and you think maybe one more day, maybe I'll head to a further reach of Europe. The little bug in your mind says, why not take a week, in fact sod Europe why not head to Africa…..oh no, that is too far away and too costly….but I have always wanted to go there and Africa is the one non-polar continent that I have thus far not been lucky enough to visit…what about North Africa….

And so it came to pass that Dave and I booked up flights to Marrakech (Morocco) and got on with our lives. Some culture, maybe a trek on foot, or on a single humped animal (I automatically think bi-humped, but a colleague of mine informed me that the dual humped camel lives in places such as Mongolia, not North Africa and/or the Sahara).

Then you know how it goes….week before you finally get away….sitting in front of the computer…staring at the screen…mmmm…google…"trekking Morocco"….light treks……medium treks….mountain treks….mountain climbing…..highest mountain in North Africa….in snow conditions…."strenuous to tough"….that is what we're talking about…….the seeds were sown.

Marrakech:
The excitement you feel when you see something that not only you have never seen before, but longed to see for so long. A true buzz of life injected into the jugular. That is how I felt looking out the plane window over the arid plain between the sea and the Atlas. Grand snow-capped mountains guarding the south. And to think we would be climbing the highest of them all – Jebel Toubkal.

It is strange when you land into a country and culture for the first time. You may have seen it on TV, read about it, or heard about it from mates, but it takes a while to actually get it. The more you travel and see new places, the more aware you are of just how little you know when you arrive. Jumping out the taxi and into dusty, crowded street Mohammed 5th, I was consciously aware that I could not make judgements easily. From paying the taxi driver, understanding levels of negotiation, to looking women in the eyes – you only learn these things with time. This is the enjoyment of a new place.

Not knowing quite where we were or where we were going, we sat by the street in a little coffee shop that seems typical of the city, taking the scene in and chatting with a delightful Spanish lady called Laia. One of those people with deep, open eyes who is taking in life. Refreshing.

The place was hustle and bustle, but not quite to the extent I expected. No India. A positive - the women rode motor-bikes and made eye-contact. The hawkers hawked.

On first entering a Riad (town mansion) the serenity is bright. We stayed at the cheap Riad Charma. Like your standard Riad it has little to show to the outside world but once through the low door you enter a fine courtyard surrounded by 2 story white balconies and a polished floor inhabited by healthy orange-trees. London can not reproduce such calm. Initial impressions of the people was also exceedingly friendly, though the guard stays up.


We spent a day and a night wandering through the old twisting streets. Through the colourful markets selling, to my shock, more than just tat. Some real artisans. A place simply teeming with sights, smells and sounds. Past aggressive snake charmers and onto one of many balcony restaurants overlooking the famous Djamaa El Fna - the grand square at the heart of the city sprawled with food stalls, hawkers selling everything from rugs to monkeys, spices - herds of humanity. Watching the sun drop behind the main mosque as the call to prayer wrung over the noise and bustle of the square as smoke rose from a hundred cooking pots. One of those moments.


Into the new town, back with a couple of bevvies to talk into the night with Laia and a bunch of Aussies.

Arranging the wished for climb proved straight forward. The "guides" (read business men) tried to put us off with stories off too much snow, possible danger, very difficult this time of year…come try our camel trek – read more money, less effort on their part. We persevered and struck a bargain that while well below their asking price, was still above the going rate if done solo. We knew it, they knew it, we were happy, they were happy. Business. This is the problem with time. Not enough of it and plans have to change. If I had months, or just weeks I would say screw the middleman….this time we used him as best we could.

Off to the hills and up to the Refuge:

From the heat of Marrakech, with clear weather, you can see the mighty Atlas hogging the horizon with their teeth-like snow settled summits.

Driving first through the dirty plain, initially littered with water-guzzling water parks and golf courses and then dirt and villages, the mountains slowly approach. Into the winding foothills and past many a local Bereber adorned with Obi-Wan Kenobi/Tatooine esque brown hooded robes.

I love the excitement of looking round every winding, sloping corner, peering and leaning to see the next grand vista. Searching for that mountain - our aim.

After a couple of hours we arrived at the base of our trek, Imlil. Freezing cold in the frosted shade of the morning. Once a further 7-8kg has been added to each of our packs and another couple of kg of climbing gear at the next village we have a full 20 odd on our backs.

The villages we pass as we climb are simple but beautiful. We stay a while in the charming house of a local family. A place covered in scrubbed tiles. We eat heartening bread with sticky butter and tea until we are full. Nothing like filling up the stomach for pure energy purposes. Not fuelling fat production on a stool in an office.

Note of etiquette that I found rather interesting – breaking wind is seen as particularly rude amongst these people – a struggle for many a foreign trekker as increasing altitude plays havoc with their guts

The trek out from this last village took across a snow-strewn boulder field and then, via long trodden tracks up the side of a mountain side and along the widening, heightening valley until we reached a little hamlet that exist for two purposes – a tea and munch stop before the lengthy trek to the Toubkal refuge and more interestingly a local holy site. Moroccans have a particular tradition of venerating Muslim saints and here, across a bridge (blocked to non-Muslims like us) exists the site of one such saint. Pilgrims trudge up the valley all year round.

Our progress was thus far comfortable, but not rapid. Personally I was not quite right, but happy to be far far away and going further. Up into the deeper snow with inevitable slips with our heavy packs despite my trusty trekking boots bought to climb a Bornean mountain when I was 18. Around a headland and what a view. For me, there is a point when mountains become intimidating and to a point over-bearing. This was that point.

Steep, snow and ice clad slopes leading to jagged imposing summits. We trekked on, past the last hut and my breathing became heavier. Before I knew it I was having to stop every 5 minutes to catch my breath. Then 2 minutes…then 30 steps. As we climbed up and into the long stretched out valley of our destination I ever slowed.

Strange, for this was at only circa 3,000m. I’ve been up twice that without similar breathing problems. When it strikes, IT STRIKES.

No point in heading back. Dingo and Asiz are encouraging, but I am slowing. A trick of perspective adds a degree of cruelty. In the distance the small refuge does not seem far. Only 30 minuets away one feels. Soon I realized that it was not a small refuge close-by but a large refuge a good hour away at my diminutive current pace.

I was down to 20 steps between stops, heart palpitations and general weakness.

Minor headaches kicked in. If I trudged more than 15 steps my vision blurred and I had to stop. No point in turning back, refuge is hours behind and I can see my destination.

A break of minor entertainment is brought by the passing of a group of shorts and skate shoes clad freezing Aussies. There mates had come through a couple of weeks earlier on sun baked dirt. The snow had come and they were left high and anything but dry. I even afforded my self a little chuckle with one of the guys and his boogie board.

On again as the light began to fail. Behind us sheer beauty. A “V” between the slopes of the valley lights up in darkening blood red as the stars come out. Breath-taking is a rather apt expression for my situation. A simply awesome view for Dingo and Asiz as looked back from ahead.

The final 300,250,200,150..100…80….60……40………20…………10m. Pain, pain………….RELIEF! We had made it before the light went – just.

A night of staring into space in front of the fire, warming the numb feet and fingers. A bitter headache as I toss and turn fully clothed in my sleeping bag within the freezing bunk room.

3,300m and my mind is doubting my will to do such things. When it hurts it hurts. People have told me over and over and now it strikes home!

Purgatory – recovery:

Asiz shook me awake before first light, I tuned away. A couple of hours later the same. A splitting headache, weak, and short of breath - I was going nowhere, let alone further up a mountain. Asiz got the message and Dave (btw Dave and Dingo are the same guy) and he set-off for the summit. I finally got some sleep after a painful night as the temperature rose back towards zero.

Past midday I scrambled out of bed. Better than last night but the walk to toilet left me gasping for air. For the first time I properly take in the surroundings. At the head of the steep long valley a concrete building, part of the French mountaineering association (Club Alpin Francais de Casablanca), keeps continual groups of keen climbers in varying conditions of warmth. Freezing dorms, kitchen, Asian toilets and dining area contrast with the sympathetically heated communal room (at least after night fall). Kneeling on the far edge of the latter room, staring out at the valley before me I drew a big breath. What a place! I feel sick but alive.

Climbers start to come back. I hear from the first in that Dave is making good progress – the sort of news I like to hear. A couple of hours later he bombles down with a big grin on his face. Good on him.

A night of cards, recovery and chill. Should I attempt the climb tomorrow? The thought was spinning around my head. Seriously in two minds – my situation had rather shaken me up in a way I am unaccustomed to. We stand in the cold air that freezes to the bone, and stare at the magical stars over the looming peaks. Draw in breath.

We wake, I’m 60%. No more. Enough, just about to give it a go. Dave is a great sport and up for a re-climb. Asiz is not quite so keen….but convincable.

Toubkal is not usually a particularly challenging climb, but in the deep snow it shattered most of those who attempted it while we were there. Dave is practically running.

With doubt and caution, the layers are shoved on one after another (not that I’d taken many of them off I am afraid to say). I’m shivering. Crampons strapped on and we are off. Fuck it. No more doubts – no point.

So Dave, Asiz, me and second Dave start the slow ascend, criss-crossing the steep first face adjacent to the refuge. The latter of the party is a cool 60 year old who is up here on his own and particularly good company. I befriended him the day before and he took up the offer of joining us.

Trudge by trudge, over the next 4 hours up and over the first two faces we make it to the pre-summit. The others are racing along. I make steady progress but take my time lagging a bit behind – better to make it slowly than to have to turn back with symptoms like I suffered just 36 hours before. Every time you look around you are blessed by newly adjusted picture perfect views as you take in the increasingly thin air. You digest it deep and it replenishes. Only at height or submerged do you appreciate such an essential.

Some snacks, an encouraging smile as usual from the big guy (Asiz), and we transverse the only really precipitous bit. Inching across a steep drop clutching the ice-axe, up, up and onto the summit.

WOW! I get it. This is what I live for. These moments connect together where your mind is in bliss. The self-significance drains away and leaves gaping open-eyes and pure feeling. Love washes out the fear and you’re essence is content.

From all sides around the tragedy of an iron frame pyramid (erected by the government to mark the highest point in North Africa – 4,200m – just under 14,000ft), the Atlas stretch out.

We are at the summit of a great spine that jags out the earth in whitened glory. This falls down into foothills on either side and then to the far-off hot plains. Past the clutches of the cloud, a glimpse of desert – the endless Sahara stretched beyond. My word. Again my breath is taken away.

At the top time lasts for an eternity and a minute. Manly hugs (we convince ourselves), thoughts staring into the distance and we are off. Like that… we leave this staggering place behind.

Dave was still bouncing, the other three of us a bit less so (I was perhaps 70%). We slide down the mountain.

Down and Out……

Contrary to the insinuation of that title, getting down and then out was pretty straight forward and pleasant.

The couple of hour descent from the summit to the lodges was slow, steady and beautiful. A couple of slips and many a trudge were interrupted by a Moroccan documentary. We had noticed some guys with cameras and big fluffy sound devices following a couple of climbers – father and son from France. We caught them up at the summit and as we descended the camera increasingly flitted to us. Different, but not much to write home about.

Their part in my memories of that week in North Africa were cemented by a comical evening. Post-climb, we huddled by the fire, played cards and chatted about the exploits gone by and to come. Warming the chilled parts and drying out the boots. One more hearty chicken terrine brewed up by the wonder chef Asiz and good conversation. This idyllic scene was disturbed by two groups of people.

On the one hand a bunch of Spaniards. When in big groups, people often seem to take on characteristics of their background, or at least they heighten. Like the universally criticized British med tourist, who becomes a drunken lager-lout, so a bunch of Spanish climbers became the most noisy, unthinking group of sober people I have met. To look past the general levels of noise violating the atmosphere, the real corker was people coming into our room, throwing their wet shit all over our stuff, walking all over it and generally being absurdly inconsiderate. Dave, lost the plot with this lot. I have not seen him quite like that before, but they deserved it.

The Moroccan film crew made a re-entry. For context, shall we just say a certain number of the company were suitably chilled on local products when the microphone started going around. Seeing such people struggling in a multi-lingual translated Moroccan interview was something else. Nice to know that we had had a good “clumb” up some mountain people could not remember.

The next morning we were the last to awake in the lodge (as usual). The four hour descent to the origins of our climb was slippery and gorgeous. The Atlas hold their own majesty and mystery and we were soaking it up. The sliding, bum-bone breaking nature of the way down was not helped by either Asiz having to go down in sandals due to his damaged foot, or the dodging of numerous donkeys carrying bags of those who did not see fit to carry their own.

Hamam, hospitality and home:

After the last few days, all I wanted to do was get back to Marrakech and chill. We were pretty knackered in all truth and Asiz’s generous offer of another hours journey beyond Marrakech to his home village just seemed like too much. Against the wishes of tired bones, we took his offer. You have to take up these opportunities and my word was it worth it.

Stopping by some market on the edge of the big city in the dark early evening, we bundled from the taxi into the back of a little van. Squeezed is an apt word when you are sharing a small space with Asiz. Mountain of a man.

We traveled for 50km or so through God knows where to, at least from our perspective, God knows where. A smallish village beside a shallow valley within the open plain that is the region. Up and around a few dusty streets and into Asiz’s house. Far bigger than I expected. He has built himself, with the help of tourist money and a lot of hard graft, an expanding demi-mansion of a place. The new part is adourned with a greeting room which could comfortably fit 50. The old part is cosy and warm. His children, boy and girl of not many years, are cute but a little shy. I don’t blame them. His wife is quiet, but smiles.

Before we have settled in we have bucket, towel and soap in our hand and are heading back down and through those dusty streets to the village Hamam – Turkish bath to many. A multi-roomed complex fit with old man smoking hashish on the door. We are welcomed in, strip down to our boxers and are giggled at by all the young boys. The Hamam is single sex, but alternates men/women through the week. It is men’s night.

Beyond the first room, are three rooms connected with open doors. Mud-brick, domed ceilings and dripping walls. A claustrophobic dark atmosphere full of sweat-sodden men. We saunter through to the far room. The heat builds as we move through the complex. In the final room is the heat-source. We knelt down working up a sweat by a large boiler. Here are a couple of older men who do not know quite how to deal with us. Avoiding eyes. Here at my most exposed – naught but a modern loin cloth – my mind suddenly focused. Here we are in a place I do not even know the name of, in the depths of a local hot house. No one knows we’re here apart from those round us who we do not know and we have put ourselves in the hands of man-mountain Asiz. The odd looks heighten these thoughts, but then a ramble of kids come in and lighten the atmosphere. Chucking water all over the place and being told off by their elders. What awesome cheeky smiles.

Asiz reappears and starts to rub me down with strange gluttonous soapy stuff. A little awkward but when in Rome… This is the start of a cleaning ritual that has several stages and has the result of a cleaner me than I have met before. From sweating to soaping to dunking to rubbing to sweating. Over a couple of hours we moved from room to room and eventually to the climax. A bone-breaking massage from the big man. Pain. Then the scrubbing. A coarse hand-brush scraping off layer after layer of skin. As my back was rubbed near to the point of bleeding while Dave looked on half laughing half concerned (especially as he was next), I realized what an amazing experience this was. The smells of soap and sweat. The echoey sounds of splash and rub. The steam. The mildewed arching walls and peering faces in the dim light.

Exhausted, but as clean as a whistle we laboured back to Asiz’s for feast of food and collapsed asleep.

This incomparable hospitality was topped off with gifts of robes and fossil Asiz had collected on his travels through the desert. Words cannot describe his generosity. This was not for payment – we paid nothing and he would not have accepted it if we offered – this was humbling Berber hospitality the likes of which I have barely ever seen.

Back to the road and via a taxi, a horse-cart and long thankful good-byes and we were back on our own in Marrakech.

A final day through the markets, around deserted rotting palaces and a long meal overlooking the famous square. What rounded this off, was the company of Jez and his lady. Dave was traveling with the Aussie when I first met him in Ecuador. We had traveled up to the north, across into Colombia and through Guerrilla territory via a couple of mind-changing weekends in Cali. So nice to meet up with old friends.

What a fantastic few days. Another place that has managed to grab a small piece of me - and not only the layer of skin I left in the Hamam…

...the Eurasian Railroad

A good walk around Irkutsk, through the town and along the promenade. The city surprised me with its pleasant atmosphere. Perhaps my opinion was scewed by the beautiful weather which showed the place and its people in the best light possible. After the Babushkas we had become used to, the sight of dozens and dozens of young attractive people all around was invigorating. But beyond this there is the gritty poverty and graffiti which we had glimpsed in Vladi. Some drinks a few hours kip at the station and we were off again, again in Kupe (2nd class), on board for the three days to Yekaterinburg.

The charming thing about being on trains for this long is that not much changes. Life is in stasis while you chug along. Just vodka, chats, cards and meeting locals in the dining cart. There are though subtle changes as you cross such vast distances. Trees became ever more common until that is all you could see for hours at a time, punctuated by the odd town.

The highlight of these few days was at its heart inherently comic. In the dining cart we had started chatting to and having a beer or three with some students. We continued this on a stop at Omsk (I had to get that in there along with Tomsk and Chomsk…hahahaha) and into the night. As it happened they were a troop of comedians, traveling from their university to a comedy competition in Novosibirsk. From fascinating chat this advanced into them showing us clips from their shows and eventually degenerated into Dave and I standing either side of the smokers' end of the carriage (only open air bit by the toilets) with a pack of comedians behind each of us convincing us to shout ever more rude and absurd insults at each other in Russian (“your mother blows goats”) to everyone’s huge amusement.

It is not a stretch to say this evening may have changed my life. It is certainly pivotal. I got on particularly well with one of the guys and he asked me a question that knocked me aback. We showed each other pictures of our loved ones and he asked me if I was married to my girlfriend. I said no and he retorted “why not?”. I did not have an answer. Plenty of vodka, some serious inflicting of thoughts on Dingo and some private inward reflection later I was staring out at the mists of first light over Siberia when I became steadfast in what I wished to do…and 6 months later I did it… but that is another story.

Yekaterinburg

The comic troop shared with us some poignant reflections on youth in Russia. For instance, in general they did not touch the national drink and pastime - vodka. In Russia one consequence of vodka is widespread alcoholism that rips up families and causes men to die years before women. It is in many instances a terrible social evil. The nature of a cold dark country that has traditionally been full of privations is a huge contributing factor, along with the inter-linked psyche of the people. Apparently many kids do not touch the stuff because of what they have seen it do to their elders. I fear these students were very different to the average.

None the less, on our short trip vodka was a convenient social lubricant that, when good, did not even leave the inconvenience of a hangover (I did not believe it, but it is true – my God Smirnoff is shit). We were on top form when entering Yekaterinburg, the capital of the Urals, at 1 am in the morning. We had made it back to Europe and we planned to party. Dumping our bags in the lockers we jumped in a taxi and asked where we should hit the town. After a trip round the center we ended up at an all night hard (I mean HARD) techno club and hit more beers. I was not on top form (due to a bit of a bug) but we managed to have as good as time as possible until the headaches were strong from the banging foundations. We wandered out into the morning light to the central lake, back to the station and a few hours kip.

We squeezed a lot into 24 hours in the city. Again, large parts were crumbling, but at its center were shiny new signs of the commodity wealth from the mountains.

The Church of the Blood, dedicated to the last Tsars, the Romanovs, who were so infamously murdered just a few km from the town, is a beautiful place. The serenity and sorrowful charm of the church touched me. The opera on the other hand just got us into trouble. After a first half that had involved two of us falling asleep (me included – come on we had only slept for 2 hours and this was not exactly an enthralling production) and one of the Daves being caught staring down a pretty flutist's chest with opera glasses from row 1, we thought it was best to leave….. and we did at the interval. Onto a weird British themed pub complete with books by Brunel, Old Speckled Hen and, peculiarly, pretty ladies in short tartan skirts waiting tables - just the place to put us in the mood for our final train journey. A night and a day through thick forests to Moscow.

The Final Leg

This time we went Platskartny, third class, and it was perfectly comfortable. Instead of individual cabins you have blocks of 8 beds with a pathway on one side. Generally more social. All in, the full 10,000 odd km only cost us GBP 200 in train tickets. If we had traveled platskartny all the way we could have knocked a third more off that. Now that is a bargain, especially compared to prices quoted back home for trans-Siberian travel, let alone internal British rail.

(A little calculation. A ticket from Guildford to London peak time costs about GBP 25 for a trip of under 50km. If you extrapolate that out to the distance of the Vladi-Moscow trans-sib estimated at 9,500km, that comes to 190x5 = GBP 4750 – that is nearly 24 times the price per km – interesting)

As our final leg progressed, some sadness crept in. The quasi-trance like state you can reach when you are trapped on a train nowhere near anywhere, with only the worries of the present before you, cannot last.

A rather strange but largely interesting lady entertained us for significant parts of the way. When she was not talking about Japanese tea ceremonies (interesting to a point, but a small one), talk of politics was fascinating. She re-iterated what we had heard through out our trip. Putin is genuinely popular. Why you may ask? Well, a decade ago, shops were empty and people were hungry. Now the shops are full and many people are prospering. Fair enough, despite most of the reason for this being high energy prices, the CEO should take some credit. It is also because after the embarrassment of a drunken Yeltsin, this healthy man comes across well (Russians seem to put a lot of emphasis on this point and Putin harbours this image carefully in state controlled media).

What is seriously worrying is the other key reason for his popularity. International bravado. From a super-power Russia fell fast and hard. This left many of the people feeling bitter. The sight of Yeltsin smooching with the West as the economy plummeted and a few oligarchs took the wealth of a nation must have grated. Now here was a man who stood up to the outside world. He said strong words and flaunted Russia’s remaining power – its nuclear stock pile and fossil fuel reserves. One worries when a man’s power and popularity flows from his shows of strength and conflict with the outside world. It is not so long ago that an embarrassed neighbour rose up under similar rhetoric of being wronged and renewed strength.

These are but only passing thoughts, though worryingly borrowed from some wise people. I dearly hope they do not wander from the realm of conjecture to reality.

Whatever you think of such musings, one has to be concerned about a country where a powerful governor can be elected on the official campaign line that he is better than his rivals because at least he admits he is corrupt (such was divulged by the same lady on the train in relation to her home province of the Urals).

The last night on the train rolled gently by and we came into the vastness of Moscow. The train pulled in and we lit a celebratory Russian cigarette. Walking slowly down the platform, bashing into each other with our packs on, we were pretty chuffed. We had made it almost 10,000km by rail in just a couple of weeks with many an adventure and thoughts on the way and here we were…to have fun.

Thilo went off to see the Kremlin and Dave and I wandered the back streets of the central district taking in the atmosphere. A city of contrast, great past, intimidating present and no doubt interesting future.

One last night out on the town. To a techno club via being overrun by young American climbers who had just done Elbrus (they had signed an agreement not to drink a drop of alcohol in Russia as some of their friends had had “drinking problems” when they were 15 - which would be common to most Brits and called growing up – I mean come on, this is Russia) and Dave and I having another one of our long drawn out crazy philosophical conversations that lead everyone around us to think we were losing the plot (thoroughly enjoyable pedantic discussions that were a feature throughout our trip. Then we were packing for the off.

The eternal flame at the Kremlin

Sixteen fascinating and highly enjoyable days with the boys. Packed with katoshka, omul, vodka, new acquaintances and experiences. Our bare scratching of the surface of this world power has set my mind racing. I have a thirst for more which I will, I hope, one day quench. Like the atmosphere in that Kremlin cathedral on day one, it is the juxtaposition of familiarity and unfamiliarity that has gripped me.