Daytime shortens here
And my dreams drift in twilight
I reach out to friends
Sensing what is not expressed
Mere words won’t convey
The wistful curve of aging:
Our rites of passage
The oblique motions of love
Joint woes and delights
Parties under a full moon
Old secrets re-found
The joy of every new birth
Our shared memories
Flow round and round forever
In parallel realms
We fling stories to the void
Calling on magic
We count losses of
Dear companions and places
The death of loved ones
Those vanished treasured landmarks
Familiar routines
Our rights being curbed …
As if numbers were cyphers
Of life’s mystery
Though they tell us nothing new
After all – Zero
Faces both past and future
With blank indifference
decisions is a fascinating experience for me, if slightly unsettling. I reckon Ulla’s moods slow my futile attempt at reducing ruminating thoughts, like I puzzle over how frequently she marks events in a negative frame. ‘I knew it was going to be a bad day,’ that sort. I made the decision (ha ha, I made a decision after all) to trust in her powerful guardian angel. The sharp way she sums up the occasional unpleasant person we meet, I fully admit, creates an instant emotional clearance, which I like, as long as an analysis of my congruence follows. I was 
born that way, and too easily succumbed to my mother tabooing cuss words from my vocabulary. Further, with vital exception in cases of injustice, or when pushed too far by idiots, which sparks pure anger in me, I tend to neutralise my attitude when negative reactions towards people perk up. That is to say I trained myself stepping into other people’s shoes, even when they pinch. I fully own the torture of this tricky ideology. I’d not recommend the style. Phew, that was a droll effort at self-observation.
1st January 2008 … Last night was a non-event, though a hilarious late TV show diverted me away from sulking. We wait ages for a camel dish. I’m unsure about eating the mutton of such useful and loyal creatures. The dish tastes fine, but scenes I witnessed of how animals are treated before slaughter always trouble me. Just then Ulla storms off in disgust as a truck with cramped chicken cages arrives at the restaurant. She eventually returns. Our waiter friend packs up the content of her plate for us to take along. On way back to 
Bou Jerif we almost turn around when another troupe of four-wheel drivers showers us with clouds of dust. Short of time, we call the fort and order a tent for me. All turns out well. I get a tower room for the price of a tent. And the manic French group leaves shortly, for whatever reason.
Tomorrow we’ll head up the Atlantic coast.
rent a room for the night, we have lunch and go shopping. Ulla strikes a bargain for a beautiful hand-embroidered Kaftan, intended for cushions. She frowns when the trader asks her to smile. A deal that is not sealed with smiles seems to signal disapproval here. The trader relents, is forgiving, ‘Inshallah.’
Near Agadir we stop for the night at a place called Paradise de Nomade. I’m impressed by the fresh sheets in my Berber tent. And the massive boulders in the dry riverbed nearby are an epic sight. Unfortunately the night turns noisy from 11:30 pm onwards. Four wheel drivers arrive, dogs bark, music, jolly talking … until 3 am.
Being a stranger seemed more exciting. There is a kind of accord with other strangers around the world, due to a gap in narratives, demanding keen attention, shaking up perceptions and allowing for the unfamiliar to astonish.
27th Dec. 2007. Instead of committing to another night at Bou Jarif, we decide on a day trip to Plage Blanche and perhaps return for the night, or the next day, depending on whether I can occupy one of those deserted cottages at Plage Blanche we heard about. Turns out I can. The former manager of the dilapidated Hotel, if it ever was a hotel, sweeps out the layers of sand from one of the cottages.
28th Dec. 2007, Ulla has taken the dogs for a run along the beach. I furtively look for a spot to dig a hole for what finally stirs in my intestines, since I never use the chemical toilet in the van. The spot I find looks upon miles of surf before the Atlantic horizon. The occasion allows for a most spectacularly relieving bowel movement, certainly with the best view ever. The argan oil I soaked yesterday’s excellent local bread in must have worked the magic.
sells fresh fish to Ulla, filleted on sight. I set up a folding chair along the sacred line that marks the boundary between reality and dream, a place of sweet solitude.
signifying their readiness of trusting in God’s will, ‘Inshallah.’ While I enjoy the sense of being lost between dream and reality, I drive Ulla crazy with the tunes I hum unawares. The melodies arrive from nowhere; old songs from the 70s, or themes from symphonies and operas. Brought to my attention, I try to place the tunes and can’t rest until I do. This peculiar habit of mine taps into an unconscious matrix where emotional memories find fresh connections, a kind of dark and invisible womb in which experiences are recorded. I feel embarrassed when Ulla admits irritation, though I thank her for bringing this habit to my attention. I learned to value this unconscious process as a mnemonic tool in the process of writing.
We drive an hour back to Goulimine and enjoy lunch in a restaurant with a familiar friendly waiter. He accepts and arranges for the fish which Ulla bought from a young man in the dunes to be prepared. I later get two bottles of wine for the next four days from the known secret corner in the souk.
I inspect a lovely tower room at Ksar Tafnidilt, but my budget is dwindling. So after some dreaming of luxury, it’s back to the main road. The four wheel drivers have churned some nasty holes in the sand. At one point we collect rocks to make a passage. Ulla’s bondage to the van conjures up her fears that we’ll get stuck. The scary possibility sparks my usually drowsy determination into action, physically and mentally. All went well in the end. We continue towards Tan Tan Plage.
22nd Dec. We go shopping in Tiznit, for candles, water, yogurt and postcards. The souk is empty, maybe because of the holiday. Afternoon we walk along the coast, with two, three, four bands of surf under a misty sunset with pink clouds, and also stroll along Aglou promenade. We contemplate renting a flat for a few days. A Moroccan scout suggests a few, but they’re all in a dire state … half functioning appliances, smelly and dirty, nothing that couldn’t be righted with a little effort, but we are in conflict whether to commit to one place or push on.
23d Dec. Massive rainfall, through which I run to make it dry to the breakfast terrace. The sky clears quickly. By lunchtime we drive on towards Sidi Ifni, stopping in Mirleft for lunch. As only customers we are served like royalty.
VW bus, and got stuck ascending a vertical narrow road in the mountains of South Tirol. I was younger then, with more guts. I relied on my handbrake to exit the car and put rocks under the back tires, mainly to gain time and catch my breath. In the end you do what needs doing. Once you’re on a sheer slope you keep your nerve. Gliders have most excellent nerves around here and, for us, Legzira’s red rocks were well worth the effort.
Sidi Ifni was relinquished back to Morocco by Spain in 1969. The beach is massively dirty, yet overall the place has an odd charm, and seems to have escaped mass tourism.
track to Fort Bou Jerif. The stillness among the bare hills is eerie. Not a soul for miles on end. Lost in the desert, the fort attracts visitors because of its stunning ruins. The guest quarter, including a camping area, run by French people, has a Disney feel and lacks authenticity. Only mad tourists like us attempt this arduous journey, which should require a 4×4 vehicle. The room I book is expensive, sigh, but since everything is clean and well cared for, I anticipate the unique pleasure of a hot shower. Close by is a river with a palm grove oasis. We opt for a tagine dinner in front of Ulla’s van, prepared traditionally on a wood fire by a clever trader hiding among the bushes. It tastes delicious, and we enjoy the sunset with a full moon rising. Tomorrow we’ll explore the ruins.
Marrakech airport, 16th Dec 2007 … new arrivals are greeted by hundreds of placards. I scan the display showing names of people, Hotels, and Riads, until I spot Dar Pangal, my Riad. In the rush my top heavy case topples and grazes a man’s toes. He shouts an avalanche of abuse, in French. I say, ‘Sorry,’ which raises his blood pressure even more. My understanding of French being embarrassingly basic, I do grasp the questions he hurls at me like projectiles. ‘Where do you come from? Why do you come here?’ His insolence finally riles me. ‘Why do you want to know?’ I ask. He snaps back in English, ‘Shut up.’ Young Saladin, who will bring me to my Riad in the Medina, casts his eyes to heaven and shrugs his shoulders, so do I.
Turning into a narrow backstreet, we arrive at Dar Pangal. The inner courtyard is an island of peace. Julio offers a warm welcome. He’s South American, but spent years in Paris, working as a designer. He likes Werner Herzog films, and once met Klaus Kinsky. Eccentric people fascinate him. I reveal how I worked for some of these eccentric people in the past. On that wavelength we share reminiscences over mint tea. Using a mobile and texting is a new experience for me. Somewhat nervous, I practice sending messages to 
Ulla, Ruth and Zohra. Connections work well. A hot shower also works well, and helps me to sleep after a long day.
notice that most people don’t like to be photographed without permission, which I respect. The plenty starved cats have no objection.
their fare the men wedge me into the backseat. Pressure of time cancels choice, so I trust the arrangement. Magnificent white clouds over the Atlas Mountains compensate. A short cigarette stop provides a memorable photo. After an hour being cramped together, the men invite me to mint tea and pancakes. We communicate in made-up language, hand gestures and smiles.
I meet up with Ulla, her van and her dog family, a Dalmatian, Leila, and an adorable adopted Moroccan street dog, Ali, in the parking area of Marjane Shopping Mall. I had visited Ulla’s home a year earlier, refreshing a connection from eventful past decades that combined in our memory. Besides, there was our joint mother tongue. Mine had become rusty. Being challenged to speak German brought not only forgotten words to the surface, but also forgotten experiences. Where I can 
be hesitant and avoid conflict, she has a no-nonsense manner, often with an edge I admire. Shouting the name ‘Ali’ down the road for your dog to behave, is potentially asking for trouble, that is, in Morocco. The predictable raised eyebrows before the penny drops remind me of childhood pranks my mother used to censor. We make an interesting pair of travellers.
Some call it a lunar landscape. Wrongly. For lack of atmosphere, as mentioned in my recent post, the moon has no blue dome with cloud beings.
horizon, the then white hills left a deep impression, bringing to her mind a city of temples, namely Ezekiel’s prophetic vision of a New Jerusalem.
In uniquely attuned spiritual warriors mode we conducted many seminars and workshops together, on dreams and archetypes and the imagination.
Human industry values the hidden treasures under the earth, black stuff, white stuff and golden stuff … Cornwall supplies white gold, the clay prized for porcelain, paper, paint and rubber.
pumped to the surface for processing.
The museum is planning a celebratory exhibition this summer …
Later that day, Rahima and I travelled along narrow, sun-speckled Cornish lanes towards Lamorna Bay at the coast.
a tall fox appears
even hunt their kind
The thought brought on a Haiku last week …
Course of Mirrors 