Schweiz in Spring

A plan to jump off the Verdasco dam with two Germans, a Swiss and a fellow Brit fell apart. The other Brit and I consequently found ourselves with a ticket to Zurich and no plans. A refreshing feeling. When squeezed by the pressures of work and responsibility that creep with the years it is easy to plan away every spare minute. It is done with the best of intentions. When time is precious there is a badly felt need to assure every iota of it is used to its max. A balance though has to be struck and landing in the stereotype of a regimented city I felt I had grabbed back something momentarily lost. Spontaneity.
Over a day and a night wandering around the sights of this tick-tock town it grew on me. From the gray, quiet place we first encountered, the sun broke through, the people broke out and scattered themselves on the banks of the [Zurich Sea]. Sunbeams make people radiant and change a city. You see it in London. The clothes get shed, the muscles relax and the smiles break out. Against its rigid reputation I ask anyone to walk along the Zurich lakeside for an hour or two in the early evening on a bright spring day and not be taken in by the place. Green park-side banks littered with people kicking back, watching the small white sail-boats skirt amongst the swans.
The town is blessed with a mixture of impressive churches, grand town houses, the odd ginger-bread street juxtaposed with bits of modern monstrosity. I suppose nothing out of the ordinary for a central European city, but, sipping a coffee by the side of its crystal clear river, I noted a distinct lack of stress. Just what I needed.
Or maybe that was the 'til dawner we pulled. Highlights include not even scoring a goal against the best table football players I have ever met (an obsessive people the Swiss), being nodded into a far too up its own arse night club by some random stylish ladies we met on the street and ending up in a thoroughly disgruntled, but welcoming Spanish bar. From the slurred banter it was clear Latin and Germanic culture do not always mix well. These flickering memories pale in comparison to a surreal moment of Alice in Wonderland proportions. Had someone slipped us some potent hallucinogens? No? The beerhaller was full of an ageing but energetic “oom-pa-pa” troop dressed as exaggerated Royal Box frequenters of Ascot. (think My Fair Lady on 'shrooms). Feathers, top-hats, boas, monocles the lot. Inane grins intimidated and Dave and I looked at each other confused. Apparently this was a traditional post-Carnival activity.

The Swiss are an odd but, in this instance if not others, entertaining people. Tradition has told them to be momentarily off their respective rockers, so, as good, conservative people that is just what they do. And in some style.

INTO THE ALPS

Somewhat under par, we jumped on a train to the hills. Where exactly? A place called Braunwald. Neither of us had heard of it before a Zurich'er had pointed us in its snow-capped direction the day before. Our passage took us along the long, narrow. glimmering lake, before skirting off into the rising, narrowing valleys. Before we knew it we were in postcard Alpine territory. Steep fertile valleys cut by carbolt blue glacial streams and sprinkled with wooden houses that combine a twee matchbox quality with necessary hardiness.

The particular selling point of Braunwald, apart from the stunning mountain scenery bit, is that is car free. Apart from the little John Deer Gator, a miniature fire truck and a diminutive taxi, the nearest thing to an automobile has four legs and goes moo.

On arrival, we made it all of 50m's to a cafe, dropped the pack, took some much needed refreshment and soaked it all in.

Simply, unashamedly spectacular. Peering down over steep green slopes, far below, to a valley floor scattered with mountain villages and rising up to the crowning glory. Approaching from our right, the valley climbed across the panoramic to a sheer end. Jagged, snow-capped peaks extended across the far side of the valley and cupped around its demise, increasing in their precipitous nature as they neared our very own piece of connected rock. Confused with the dullness of sod all sleep, a headache and non-diminishing elation, we sat for what felt like hours. To top off the scene, a herd of cow-bell clanging mountain bovines munched their way past.

The following day was spent trekking a circuit up and around the mountain-side. The views only got better. As we transversed up the hill-side we crossed fields carpeted with wild flowers. We had lucked out. The same breaking of the weather on our first day in Zurich had broken the winter hold. The snow had within a couple of days been banished to the peaks and spring bloomed in yellow, blue and red.

The inclined fields sloped up to a crown of sheer cliff, cutting up to the last of the forests. The water newly freed from the clutch of winter crashed over these cliffs in a multiple of waterfalls.
Passing (or being passed) by troops of healthy Swiss, we eventually broke off the main path to touch the snowline. A couple of km's high, the predominant flowers were now white crocuses. To my delight, an illusive marmot showed himself. Again, we sat and savoured.
Via a dodgy ice-strewn tunnel we broke out onto the other side of the mountain. A fresh, different panoram, leading down to an alpine lake. Perspective rammed home when, on commenting to a local how special this place is, he replies with a moustachioed smile “this is normal in Switzerland”. Lucky, lucky people. We trekked down and back to normality. Refreshed.

Cornwall

A few days in deepest Cornwall reminded me that you do not have to cross continents to find outstanding beauty. This outstretched limb of Britain, flailing out into the wild Atlantic to the island's most Southerly and Westerly points is as spectacular and awe-inspiring as any stretch of coastline I have seen around the world. Proud granite cliffs and jagged rock formations stand proud yet battered against high, violent seas. This show of force is broken by golden sand beaches. Some are small coves sheltered by arms of rock, others wide expanses stretching for miles. In all cases the waves keep rolling in.

Humanity has prevailed here for millennia. Ancient standing stones in green fields divisioned by Medievil stone walls. Crumbling 19th century mine-heads remind of tunnels reaching under the sea for copper. Picturesque fishing ports show rare instances of man taming the wilderness with beauty. Thoughts of smugglers abound.

I love this place. My great-granfather is bured just up the road and I feel at ease. A different country to where I abode. People take time, are humble and friendly. A reminder of what is important. Lying atop the wind-swept cliffs staring past the wild-flowers to where land and sea collide, my mind drifts with the swooping gulls.

New Year’s in North Africa

Leaving the dunes of the Sahara, we took a more easterly road back towards the Atlas, passing through hundreds of miles of arid land before reaching the momentarily lush Draa Valley. Flanked by red, white and cream striped hills, we took a short walk through the mesh of little tilled fields shaded by date palm. On departing, comedy ensued as Dave took the wheel. A close-shave, a shout of "pull-over" and a joke or two later Dave relinquished control.

The most spectacular part of the journey was saved until last. Climbing to higher ground we flanked a huge canyon, strewn out of brown-rugged rock. In the most shaded recesses, a puddle or two of water were all that bore evidence to the scar's culprit. Goats and their herder clung to the steep near side. The full moon hovered on the horizon as the last night of the decade fell.

On we plowed to the city of Ouarzazate, where we hoped to find some fiesta to see out the naughties.

Bon Anneé Morocco

The night really started when Ramsay arrived back from his hammam (bath) "experience" with Aziz. Few things have made me laugh more than the terrified, vacant look which hung on Ramsay’s cleanly scrubbed face. Anything that does that to an army man has to be interesting.

Knowing it was coming, I had been winding him up for a couple of days. It had been a truly unique experience for me a couple of years ago and I left him nervous as to what surprises could be at hand on entering those scorching men-only steam rooms. The answer, being scrubbed until your skin peels off, stretched and massaged by a huge barely-clad Moroccan man, while gasping for air in the close, vapour filled atmosphere. I had never felt so clean as when I emerged from the hammam, a sentiment Ramsay shared with his now baby-bum smooth face. Ramsay described it as a life changing experience and, for all his pale demeanour on returning, it was evident that he enjoyed it!

Time to tuck into the remainder of the beers which had accompanied us into the desert and back and psyche ourselves up for an unknown party venue of whatever type might be available in a North African desert town.

“Bob” was our chaperon for the night, starting at a strange bar/club which was approximately 90% men accompanied by limited atmosphere. Despite a couple of people strutting their stuff, the place had a weird feel of no-one quite knowing what they are doing. Clearly a percentage did not frequent bars and others were only their to impress. A distinct lack of comfortable charged vibe. We moved on…

Drink in hand we raced through the streets of Ouarzazate desperately trying to find a place that would (a) let us in, (b) not be bad and/or (c) if (b) was not possible then at least somewhere interesting. Despite some race-car driving from Bob and mad dashes to various closed or full places we celebrated the coming of the new decade in a car park. Still a nice moment.

Not the scene from our car park
With little remaining hope we managed to scratch together what dirham we had and obtained entry to a dark basement dance-floor. A good choice indeed. Our expectations were flipped wrong side up and satisfyingly blown away.

Good music, vibe and females in a mid-desert Moroccan club. OK, most of them were prostitutes - the unsubtle pimps removed any shadow of doubt with their greedy manipulation - but not all. I got the impression that many of the blokes splashing around cash were returning from France to see their family and friends. We spend so much time obsessing over how immigration is changing our safe little Western European countries but rarely consider the effect in the other direction – empty towns and reverse cultural influence on return.

Back to the ladies. Unless you have travelled in a country where many women are covered up and kept out of your way, it is hard to convey the interest of a place where females are out in the open, being sexual beings. For some it seemed unnatural, like this was their first time in such a club. The confidence of others showed it was there new way of life in a changing Morocco. The blokes were similarly split between tongue hanging-outers and too cool for school. The world is converging.

Snakes and Sweat

Once we had made it back over the Atlas by windy country roads, we had the pleasure of staying with Aziz and his young family.

After an evening dominated by a huge tagine, we awoke to trek the undulating hills surrounding his village. A beautiful place stuck in a past age. Shepherds tend their flocks, farmers plough their fields with beasts of burden and manual labour deepens the local quarry.

Long rambling conversations with Dave are rudely interrupted by an agitated viper. Rasping along with purpose, Aziz jumps after it brandishing a large stone. Crash on its back. Mightily pissed off it writhes fiercely, looking for something to pierce. I jump back. Another stone, another smashed vertebrae. I pick up a stone and with less skill or force land a further blow. Aziz with a huge grin goes to pick up the snake and offers it in our direction. Not funny. "Don’t you bloody dare!!" comes out my mouth and Aziz puts the snake back down with a big grin. A bit of adrenaline for the day.

The snakes been Aziz'ed!

As a just reward we go the local hammam, get skinned by a big Moroccan man and sizzled. I think you can be too clean. As on my last visit, a unique and rather terrifying experience.
As we head back to Marrakech I consider how everyone seemed to know everyone in this place. Wonderful hospitality and generosity. I feel humbled.

Discussions and thoughts

As this short Moroccan trip went on and I got more of a feel for the politics, we had some pretty interesting and thought provoking conversations with locals. For instance, on Israel. It was so interesting to hear Moroccans detail to me how the BBC is a puppet of the Jewish state. Strange, because most of my Jewish friends claim the BBC is pro-Arab. Can’t people please make up their mind which way it is biased!

They start 'em young on politics in Morocco.....

Later we moved on to the topic of women and what arose was a feeling of tension. Modernisation is slamming into a very traditional country. Once they are married, women are constrained to the home. They have their distinct role and it definitely does not involve doing the sort of things those ladies were doing in the club. I just wonder how bumpy the transitional path will be between these two different and clashing worlds.

Racially it is even more complicated. A co-existence of four tribes, all mixed up with the legacy of French colonial times. While in public locals expressed how well the Berber, Touareg, Arabs and Bedouin co-existed, in private there were references to high tension. The Arabs and the all mighty King hold on to power with a thirsty grip. Other are left with to make a life from the scraps.

My final night in Marrakech showed in all its glitz the juxtaposition of this diverging society. Everyone in jeans at a packed McDonalds. Guys and girls checking each other out on the street corners. Flashy lights and a "British Pub" that beyond selling alcohol had nothing in common with either Britain or a pub. This can not and does not easily co-exist with the very traditional country that surrounds it. Parts of the old town have barely changed for centuries.

A rich elite are leading a consumerist Western lifestyle. It is in your face and can’t but create tension with the majority squeezed out of the political system. A place of real potential, but little link to the masses.

In the recent past one person described Morocco to me as the progressive hope of the Arabic world, another as the next Yemen. To reconcile these two potential futures is beyond me.

Much to think about over a final cup of Arabic tea aside Djemaa el Fna.

And up to the Premiership too!

What a beautiful day. Leaving the likes of Peterborough, Plymouth and Preston behind Newcastle are back where we belong. And in some style!