Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  ‘Still playin’ soldiers, him!’ murmured Michael. ‘Jus’ like a liddell kid.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Zero nine hundred hours. Got that? Synchronised watches? Good! Zero nine hundred hours, bus to Imlil. Then march to Tacheddirt. After that, two groups. Hard men will climb Angour Mountain and cross Aksoual Mountain. That’s going to involve some real climbing.’

  He glared at John. ‘So, Jonny boy, you might be seeing some real cliff bands and not the imaginary ones you wrote about in that ridiculous diary of yours! Cliff bands four hundred feet high on the doddle route up the Toubkal? Did you really expect anybody to believe that kind of infantile rubbish? Well, we might just see if you really are the great rock climber you seem to think you are. The north face of Aksoual will be rather more than strolling up an easy path. Will you be able to hack it? I wonder. I really do!’

  While Jim and Rob sniggered, John blushed bright red. What had he done to deserve this? Handle those cliff bands? Yes, he bloody well would – and how!

  The staccato stream of orders resumed. ‘The others will follow the path over the Likempt Pass. I’ll do the hard stuff. Joe, you deal with the weaker bretheren.’ He cast a contemptuous glance at Morris. ‘You might just be able to manage that, I think.

  ‘Then we’ll go down to Amouzeate and back to Imlil over the Ouaanoums pass. Six days. All we have time for. Because of the antics of Kev and his merry men, we’ll have to go home early. I’ll wangle a flight home. We’re strapped for cash, so no taxis. Local bus: cheapest going. One donkey. No guide. Now go and organise yourselves. Be ready at zero seven hundred hours.’

  Morris got up and tried to speak.

  ‘Nothing useful you can add, Joe Morris!’ snapped Steadman. ‘I’ve said all that needs to be said.’

  Visibly infuriated, Morris stalked off, muttering to himself.

  ‘There’s gonna be shit flyin’ roond one day soon,’ Michael whispered in John’s ear. ‘Bob canna gan on treatin’ Joe like that. Joe’s norra liddell bairn, yer knaa!’

  Yes, sighed John to himself, Steadman has gone nutty all right! And why, for Christ’s sake? Still, here, at any rate, was his chance to do some real climbing! He prepared himself with vigour that night.

  Geriatric Bus

  A grumpy trail to the bus station early in the morning. This time the bus was even more dilapidated than before. It was as if Steadman had used the black arts to conjure up a machine that did justice to his masochistic mood. Probably he would have preferred a camel, but this seemed to be the best he could manage. It reminded John of an old Roman helmet that he’d once seen in a museum: so ancient and corroded that it was only held together by congealed mud; wash it, and it would fall apart.

  Hideously overloaded, the contraption groaned and spluttered its way up the road like a moribund camel in the last throes of some repulsive intestinal disease. At increasingly long intervals it stopped to belch and gasp. In a final paroxysm of doomed effort it just managed to stagger up the last steep hill before expiring in the middle of Imlil, like some geriatric marathon runner heroically defying the odds. A frenetic rugger scrum ensued as they extracted themselves from the anarchic throng of passengers.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ sighed Jim. ‘How much more o’ this Pakkie crap are we gonna have ter take? Let’s get a shift on wi’ the climbin’! That’s what I came for.’

  Humiliation

  Steadman hustled them up to the cafe, where the owner recognised them. Greeting them effusively, he brought along a tray-load of mint tea. A scrawny and cadaverous local in a brown robe and white skullcap was summoned. A long and boring hiatus ensued as he and Steadman began an intense conversation in Berber. From the figures they kept scribbling on a scrap of paper, John guessed that they were haggling over the price of a donkey and a driver.

  As the negotiations dragged tediously on, the youngsters grew restive.

  ‘Cor, look what’s comin’ up the road!’ exclaimed Rob suddenly.

  They craned their necks over the balcony and saw an enormously fat European woman waddling up the street beneath them. Only nominally clothed, her vast, wobbling backside was stuffed into a minute pair of shorts, little more than an upgraded G-string, which disappeared up her cavernous bum crack and only belatedly emerged at her waist. A tattered suggestion of a bra scarcely concealed her huge, flabby breasts, which flapped around like overloaded shopping bags. Probably she was a Dutch or Danish tourist making a ‘sexually liberated’ statement. Backwards and forwards under the balcony she went.

  ‘What the fuck’s she on aboot?’ said Jim. ‘Walkin’ roond showin’ her tits an’ that?’

  ‘Probably wants a birra shaftin’,’ replied Rob.

  ‘Yer’d ’ave ter be pretty bloody horny before yer went up that!’ snorted Jim. ‘It’d be like shaggin’ a rubber mattress.’

  ‘Ever done that, Jonnie lad, yer arl porvort?’ he added.

  Delighted at being included in the group again, John responded with gusto. ‘Only once when I was desperate.’

  ‘Aw give ower, yer dorty pigs!’ cried Tracy. ‘Can’t yer talk about oot else but sex?’

  But the intervention had come too late. A kind of resonance had begun, with each young male having to prove his sex cred by capping his mate’s obscene remark with an even fouler one. In the end, the more articulate John outdid them all with a peculiarly repulsive comment, enhanced by vigorous gestures with his fingers. He even managed to shock Jim.

  ‘Cor, you are a sexy ’ard porvort, ye!’

  Raucous peels of laughter duly exploded. John glowed with satisfaction. He’d scored big time. ‘Dirty Denby’ was back in business.

  Suddenly the old Berber sitting next to Steadman let fly a tirade, waving his arms about and thumping the table in front of him.

  ‘What’s all this then?’

  ‘I’m being given a dressing-down about Western decadence,’ growled Steadman. ‘He’s saying that one day all Muslims, good and true, are going to smite you lot down with the sword of Islam, if you must know.’

  He glared angrily at John. ‘And you, young man, by your eloquent gestures have caused him to double the price of the donkey and driver, which I thought had just been settled.’

  John grinned furtively at the others. ‘Oh, er, sorry. But, well, a bloke’s a bloke, you know.’

  ‘Bloke, are we?’ replied Steadman with an angry sneer. ‘Bloke? For heaven’s sake shut up and stop showing off!’

  He paused for a moment, as if he were reloading his gun for a second salvo, and then let fly. ‘You may think you have impressed your mates, but you haven’t impressed me! Stop pretending to be what you’re not! I know what you are, even if the others don’t!’

  There was a frosty silence as everybody stared at John, who blushed bright red.

  A leering Jim dug him in the ribs. ‘Ah knaa what yer really are an’ all!’

  John’s carefully constructed image was in ruins.

  ‘Cor, John,’ whispered Michael, ‘Bob really has gorra a down on yers noo. Ah mean, what ’ave yer gone an done ter him, like?’

  John didn’t reply. He seethed with anger and went over and sat down by Morris, who’d remained silent throughout the dialogue. The lame duck alliance was renewed – and with interest.

  Going Native

  Eventually Steadman scooped them up and led them out of the village and into the Biblical land beyond. The green, terraced fields, the ancient mud brick villages, the vast wrinkled mountains beyond them, the silence… it was a gentle ointment that soothed John’s wounded ego. ‘Here is a deep reality,’ it seemed to say. ‘What do your petty squabbles really matter?’

  His spirit soared when Steadman led them to a large mud brick house, which looked like a miniature castle. Clambering up a ladder, they entered an upper chamber. Richly carpeted and with cushions surrounding a low table, it could have been a picture out of one of his exp
loration books. It was the sort of place that Richard Burton would have stayed in when he so famously went to Mecca.

  After an effusive welcome from an old man in a robe and turban, with his entourage of similarly attired exotics, they all sat down on the cushions round the table. Supper consisted of a vast tagine eaten with spoons out of a communal bowl.

  While Steadman and the old man began a vigorous conversation in Berber, the others began muttering among themselves.

  ‘How’s we gannin ter climb bloody mountains if we’s ’avin’ ter live on this Pakkie crap, eh?’

  ‘Can’t we ’ave a proppa place ter kip, like?’

  ‘Me mam wouldn’t half dee her nut if she knew Ah were kippin’ in a Pakkie hoos.’

  John remained silent. He loathed this racist talk, but he didn’t dare to say anything in case Steadman flew at him again and accused him of being a selfish little prig. And suppose that, like poor old Morris, he was banned from climbing the mountains? He would simply go bananas! It was all so crazy. Daft. But that was the way things were turning out. Steadman, the one-time friend, sponsor and protector, had turned into a primed hand grenade that might at any moment explode with devastating consequences. Why? He was damned if he knew.

  They spent the night on the roof of the house, stretched out under the stars.

  ‘No petting or snogging please, chaps,’ said Steadman as they snuggled down together. ‘They don’t like that sort of thing here.’

  ‘Them Pakkies!’ groaned Rob, ‘No booze, no sex, eatin’ shit all day! Worra life!’

  ‘Yeah!’ added Jim. ‘They can keep it!’

  John winced again.

  Gut Rot and Culture Clash

  Morning came, lighting up the ancient world in a blaze of brilliant light. But John’s spiritual ecstasy was short-lived. Suddenly his innards began to churn up and down as if he had a spin drier inside him. A frantic dash down the ladders ensued. He only just managed to reach the disgusting little toilet at the far end of the garden in time before an explosion of liquid squitter blasted out of him. It was a narrow escape, and a timely warning. A few seconds delay, and disaster would have struck, and he had no spare clothes to change into if he messed himself. Then what? Didn’t bear thinking about. As a precaution he swallowed a double dose of his anti-squitter pills.

  That day saw an easy ramble along a broad trail, which led to the little village of Tacheddirt. Ambling over a gentle pass, they left any lingering remnants of tourism behind them and entered an ancient and unblemished world: more green, terraced fields; more ancient mud brick houses piled up on each other like cardboard boxes in a warehouse; more wild and craggy mountains surging up behind them, grand, snow-streaked and seemingly inviolate.

  They were a compact little group: the donkey laden with the rucksacks; the donkey driver, brown-robed, bearded and sullen; then Jim, Rob and the girls; then the lame duck group, Morris and John; and striding out in front, Steadman. That morning he had gone ostentatiously native, with a blue Tuareg turban round his head and his large muscular body draped in a white Moroccan robe.

  ‘What’s yer dressin’ up like this for?’ asked Jim aggressively. ‘Ah mean, yer looks reet daft, like!’

  Pure insolence. John braced himself for the inevitable explosion. But, oddly enough, it just didn’t come.

  Steadman smiled back from his, by now quite substantially bearded face: ‘Pure commerce, my man, pure commerce! If they think I’m like one of them, they won’t charge us too much. After the antics of Kev and his merry men, we’re pretty short of cash.’

  Again, John seethed at the way that the others could be as cheeky as they liked to Steadman without getting the stinging rebukes he was constantly getting. It was all so unfair! All part of the inexplicable change that had come over him. And this new sartorial display of his? It was more than just a commercial ploy: it marked a change of his whole identity. But change into what?

  When they stopped for a rest, Steadman made a little fire, and producing a little teapot and some glasses from his rucksack, brewed up some mint tea which he duly dispensed. Then he handed round some hunks of dry Moroccan bread. While John devoured it ravenously, the others nibbled a few bits of their slabs and then tossed them contemptuously aside.

  They soon reached Tachddirt, another timeless collection of mud brick houses, piled up against the mountainside, cardboard box style. Robed men and veiled women working in the green, terraced fields completed the Biblical scene. Steadman immediately dashed ahead and hailed an old man in a brown robe. An emotional embrace was followed by another of his fervent conversations in Berber.

  ‘Not another Pakkie love-in!’ groaned Jim. ‘Jesus, what the fuck does ’e think ’e’s bloody deein’, like?’

  This was too much for John, who felt compelled to retaliate. ‘He’s an explorer, like Burckhardt and Burton.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s them?’ Dismissive sneer.

  John withdrew. It was no use trying to argue. After a brief taste of an alien culture, Jim and Rob seemed to have rebounded back into a truculent Geordie shell. Impenetrable and impervious. Don’t even think of reason here. After a tiny, tentative opening, the blinds had come crashing down. It was all so sad.

  Steadman beckoned to them and the old man led them into the bottom storey of one of the mud brick houses that climbed up the hillside like a giant staircase. Inside they were assailed by a faecal animal stench, and through the darkness they dimly glimpsed some big and very greasy sheep. Huddled on a pile of straw in a far corner were a couple of old, veiled women.

  ‘Is this where they put their women, like?’ exclaimed Maureen. ‘Why, me mam wouldn’t half be playin’ war if she saw that!’

  ‘What do you expect?’ sneered Jim. ‘They’re Pakkies, aren’t they?’

  Steadman grinned broadly, apparently relishing their discomfiture.

  They were ushered up a ladder to the next storey where they found a relatively cosy den with carpets on the walls and the floor and a big picture of the Kaaba in Mecca prominently displayed. Animal stink wafted through the gaps in the floorboards and there was no glass in the window.

  ‘I wonder how the Committee’s going to take this sort of thing,’ Morris muttered to John. ‘That ladder’s not exactly safe, and as for the hygiene… It’s risking the health and safety of young people, you know.’

  He was clearly gathering ammunition for a devastating counter-attack when they got back to Boldonbridge.

  John sighed inwardly. Why, oh why, did Steadman have to so deliberately antagonise poor old Joe Morris? He could so easily have made him into an ally. He seemed blatantly to be sailing into trouble. He was like a small boy sticking his tongue out at the teacher and wondering why he landed in detention. Crazy!

  They duly squatted down on the cushioned floor and waited. Eventually a side door opened and some veiled women entered, carrying a large earthen bowl and some sheets of dry, unleavened bread. Having with considerable difficulty placed the steaming bowl in the middle of the group, they handed everybody a metal spoon and then shuffled out. The old man who was sitting cross-legged next to Steadman signalled for everybody to start eating.

  ‘Worraboot his women?’ exclaimed Maureen. ‘Divvent they get owt ter eat?’

  ‘Women don’t eat with men here,’ replied Steadman. ‘Their job is to prepare the food and look after the house. They eat what the men leave over.’

  ‘That’s one thing the Pakkies have got right!’ declared Jim aggressively. ‘Woman gets yer tea and parts her legs!’

  ‘Eeee, yer male chauvinist pig!’ sighed Tracy.

  More Gut Rot

  After an hour the panting and gasping women cleared away the bowl and the spoons and everybody settled down to sleep on the floor. Soon night descended and imprisoned them in an impenetrable pitch-black darkness. John dozed off.

  Suddenly the room seemed to erupt. Unseen bits of black
ness were crashing round. A big foot landed painfully on John’s stomach. Angry voices stabbed the darkness.

  ‘Gerroff me bloody legs!’

  ‘How the fuck dee yer gerrot o’ heor?’

  Clunk! Crash! Thump! Then deep-throated coughs and gurgles.

  ‘Jesus! There gans the tag-whatever-they-calls-the muck!’

  A torch beam picked out a woebegone Jim.

  Steadman’s voice boomed out, ‘Oh, Jim, you idiot! You’ve thrown up all over the rucksacks!’

  ‘No I ain’t! Ah gorrit all oot the windee! Wanna take a look?’

  ‘No thanks, I’d rather not. Good shooting, anyway!’

  A few more bumps and crashes and silence returned. John tried to resume his slumbers.

  A little later there was another earthquake. Crash! Clatter! Clunk! Bang!

  ‘Oyer!’

  ‘Watch oot yer basstadd!’

  Then an almighty crash.

  From the unseen depths below came the bleating of sheep and a raucous, ‘Fucking hell!’

  Steadman’s torch flashed again to reveal a missing Rob.

  ‘What’s up now?’

  ‘Rob’s got the shits.’

  Light off. Darkness again. Then more clumps and crashes. Unseen feet squashing squelchy bodies.

  ‘Mind oot will yers! Yin’s wor legs!’

  Torch on again. Rob revealed in the spotlight.

  ‘Christ! Worra do! There’s nowt left in us!’

  Steadman, obviously relishing the situation, went into ‘tough explorer’ mode: ‘No problem, old thing! All explorers get the shits. You’re not a proper explorer unless you’ve had the shits. If you die of the shits, you’re in distinguished company. Livingstone died of it and so did Francis Drake.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing!’

  The torch went out and semi sleep was resumed.

  ‘Usin’ Up His Nine Lives’

  Suddenly there was yet another earthquake.

  Steadman’s torch went on again. ‘Right, chaps, who’s for Angour Mountain?’