Crystal Balls and Moroccan Walls

by David Fletcher

  Sandra was OK. Obviously. And Sue and her husband, Will, weren’t too bad either. But, by and large, this group of birders were to animated conversation what bankers were to merit. They couldn’t have found a scrap of it within a million years. Which got Brian into thinking.

  How, he thought, was he going to cope with days of stultifying company – on top of miserable weather, miserable surroundings, miserable food – and the sort of birding that he just didn’t care for, where ticks and a list would trump “birding for fun” and where finding that last “target” bird would trump drinking for fun? Well, there were a number of options: he could grit his teeth and just accept it; or he could get himself (and Sandra) back to Marrakesh, and from there back to Gatwick; or he could use this expedition for another purpose entirely. He could make a start on his book – or at least polish his balls...

  Yes, Brian was a very amateur writer who had produced a number of works, none of which, it has to be said, had come close to threatening his amateur status. However, despite this unfortunate lack of commercial recognition, there were inevitably even more masterworks waiting in the departure lounge of his mind, and one of these was to take the form of a provocative prognostication. More specifically, Brian’s intention was to gaze into a series of “topic specific” crystal balls, and by doing so, compile an extended essay on the future of Britain – and where this country would find itself later this century. Its working title was The End, and he already knew the topics it would cover and therefore what crystal balls he would require. But he had yet to do much gazing. So far he had only taken the odd glimpse into their cloudy depths and he still needed to peer into them intently – and evaluate what he observed there. So why not use as much time as he could on this expedition to do just that? And, as Sandra was in the same unfortunate position as he was, why not ask her to act as a sounding-board? Why not “invite” her to comment on what he’d seen in his balls? Why not indeed.

  Back in their room, he put this plan into action. Although, to start with, he did encounter just a soupçon of resistance from his tired and weary wife.

  ‘You want me to do what?!’ she exclaimed. ‘Listen to the results of your peering into crystal balls?! Listen to more of your half-witted ramblings, more like. And for the next seven days. You must be joking.’

  ‘Well, I was hoping we might start tonight. So, technically, that’s actually eight days...’

  ‘We might start? Don’t you mean you might start? I’m just the sounding-board, remember. I’m just a sort of target for your thoughts. And I know what your thoughts are like, whether they’re the result of crystal-ball gazing or not. So why the hell would I want to be the target?’

  ‘Well, could I just give you a flavour, so to speak? You see, I’ve already made a bit of a start...’

  ‘Have you really? Have you indeed?’

  Brian looked at his wife and said nothing. He thought that, at this point in the proceedings, it would be better if he didn’t. He’d just let his pained silence do the work. And it did. Within just seconds and after a long sigh, Sandra (almost certainly against her better judgement) relented.

  ‘OK,’ she conceded. ‘Let’s hear some pearls.’

  Brian grinned from ear to ear. He was sitting on the side of Sandra’s bed, still with his fleece on, and he now addressed his wife as she sat in this bed – trapped.

  ‘Well, you see, I haven’t done much, but I have had a look into a sort of miscellaneous ball, and what I’d like to do is give you just of couple of the things I’ve seen there. You know, what I’d want to incorporate in my book as my predictions. To give you a general idea of where I’m coming from – which, as I explained before, is to try to describe how Britain might be in, say, forty years time.’

  ‘I’d get on with it if I were you.’

  ‘Right. Well, OK, I’ll start with prisons...’

  ‘Prisons?’

  ‘Yes. Because we know how they are now, don’t we? Kitted out with televisions and sports facilities – and halal food and all manner of bloody stuff. Just so the convicts won’t have their precious human rights interfered with. I mean, shit, they’re even allowed to smoke in the things, when the rest of us can’t even smoke in a friggin’ pub...’

  ‘Yes...?’

  ‘Well, just think what will happen. Britain will be in such a bloody mess in forty years time, that prisons will be seen as some sort of refuge. Life will be so bad for so many people that life in prison will be something to be really envied. And so, by then, what we’ll find is that one of the major causes of crime is people’s desire to get put away. They won’t see it as a punishment anymore, but more like a long holiday – well fed, well looked after generally, and free from the strife of outside life...’

  ‘Brian...’

  ‘No, I’m not kidding. A prison term will be a sought-after prize. And so much so that what will happen is that incarceration as a punishment will start to be denied, and the ultimate deterrent will become a spell of community service – in what will now be the brave new dystopia of Britain. And there’ll be more: early release for bad behaviour, payments made to long-termers to get them to accept a premature release, and people bribing their way in. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if, by the middle of this century, parents had stopped putting down the names of their offspring for a particular school, but were now doing it instead for prisons – and paying a fee in the process. So that when the time came, little Nigel would be guaranteed an entry into the prison of his choice, where maybe his father had been before him. And who, in all honesty, could blame them?’

  ‘Brian, you’re not serious?’

  ‘The next one is shorter...’

  ‘And that is...?’

  ‘Errh... well, you see, they produce a remake of Bridge on the River Kwai at Pinewood Studios, but they have to use CGI characters for all the Allied prisoners. Because there aren’t any thin people left in Britain...’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘And just one more...’

  ‘Yes, just one more and then no more.’

  ‘Well, we see in 2050 the emergence of a new disease. And this is known as “AND” or, to give it its full name: “Acute Normality Disorder”. And this, of course, would be a very rare disease, as it would be experienced by only a handful of people: that dwindling band of heroes who hadn’t yet been diagnosed with some sort of behavioural disorder. And what I’m talking about here is the “medicalisation” of what are just various manifestations of the human state, that then allow the “sufferers” to make a claim for some sort of assistance or even a sick-note for life. But now, with AND, that tiny minority, which is the worryingly normal, wouldn’t be left out of this universal bonanza. And with the need to develop a new AND drug to address their regrettable hold on normality, the drug companies would be happy as well...’

  ‘I think I get the general idea,’ interrupted Sandra. ‘But, well, I’m not sure I like it. And, even more so, the prospect of more of it.’

  ‘I’ll sort it out a bit for tomorrow. With another crystal ball. So it makes more sense. And so it... well, so it won’t make you look like you’re looking like now.’

  It was true. Sandra was wearing one of those expressions on her face that is normally seen only on the faces of teachers in reception classes – when they’re observing the outrageous behaviour of one of their delinquent students. Brian knew he would have to raise his game if he was to harness Sandra’s help. And her last words, as she turned her attention to her book, weren’t very encouraging either. They were: ‘We could always go back to Gatwick’.

  So that was it. A challenge. And Brian loved a challenge, or at least a challenge he thought he could win. And, at the moment, he wasn’t too sure. No surer than he was that he might just have to call a halt to this whole damn holiday if, at any time tomorrow, he was presented with another one of those bloody tajines...

  2.

  Shortly after breakfast, Brian had discovered why he’d so clearly heard snoring in the night. (It
had been one of his unaccompanied Nature-seeker companions in the next room, and the sounds of his nocturnal whooflings and snufflings had passed through their adjoining wall as if it hadn’t been there.) What he’d first noticed – in his post-breakfast stroll to the hotel’s green and frog-infested swimming pool – were the sizable rocks in the flower-bed near reception. Or, more accurately, the holes in these rocks, through which one could see their hollow insides. And then there was the (old, traditional-looking) hotel itself. In patches on its outer walls, the “make-believe” clay had simply dropped off – to reveal the breeze-blocks beneath. And then there were the “temple ruins” near the hotel’s approach. Closer inspection revealed that they were made of just plaster and wire. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Most of this hostelry and many of its surrounding features were a product of one of those film studios up the road in Ouarzazate. It was a bit of Disney in the desert, and that “clay” wall between the bedrooms was probably no more than a big sheet of cardboard with a millimetre of clay-effect plaster applied to each side. No wonder those sounds of snoring had passed through so well.

  Still, there was only one more night here, and already he and Sandra, together with their fellow adventurers, were off for a day of birding, well away from this “plaster-cast lie”. Yes, they had now joined that main road through El-Kelaâ M’Gouna again, and were driving in convoy with the other minibus to a site further east. Which passage revealed that the ribbon development they’d witnessed just the previous day didn’t stop at the hotel, and didn’t get any better. Just more boxy buildings, more walls, more decay and collapse – and more rubbish and litter than ever. Indeed, this last aspect of the environment was still there when they finally made it to their intended destination beyond the linear conurbation, which was a huge gravel plain, running off into the distance under a grey and threatening sky – and scoured by a cold and biting wind...

  Super.

  Well, that’s a little unfair. This place might not have been the most scenic stretch of Morocco, and the weather could have been a great deal more clement, but this was the place to come and see various desert birds, birds such as rare and splendid wheatears and rare and splendidly-difficult-to-identify larks. And they were seen – often with the help of a colourful piece of litter – as in: ‘It’s just past that blue bag to the right.’ or ‘See that white bag over there? Well, he’s just beyond that.’ Sad really. But these days, that’s just the reality of much of the “natural world”: not yet consumed but already polluted and abused.

  Oh dear. Brian’s reservations about this holiday were being more than reinforced. What he needed was a fillip. And he got one and then another in quick succession: first, a close-up view of a handsome snake near a rock, and then a very good view of a number of “fat sand rats”. These chaps were nothing like their name suggests, but just gopher-like residents of this gravel-plain environment, and quite charming as they ran around all over the place before diving down holes. And then another fillip: the morning birding had drawn to an end and it was finally time to re-board the buses and make off for lunch!

  Well, things were certainly looking up. The sky had now cleared, it had become considerably warmer – and the buses had just stopped outside a respectable-looking eatery. And when the Nature-seekers disembarked and entered this restaurant, they soon found themselves on an expansive terrace at its rear that offered them a fine view of the course of the Dadès River. But only the course – of course – and not the river itself. And this was because the river was embraced, if not almost smothered, by a narrow strip of verdant vegetation and even more of that ribbon development. This was no longer a river; it was a literal urban lifeline, and a lifeline that sustained the crush of pink-block “urbanity” all about it, which, with that green vegetation, now completely concealed it.

  Nevertheless, from up here on this terrace, it was still a fine prospect. In fact, just as fine a prospect as the imminent arrival of a restaurant lunch and possibly even a beer. After all, this place was clearly in a different league to that dirty, banjo-infested dump of the previous day, and Brian was almost sure it would have a bar.

  Well, it didn’t. So, no beer. And to extinguish that fine prospect of a proper restaurant experience entirely, Brian soon realised that there would be no restaurant food either, not even a bloody tajine. This was because, rather than sampling any of the restaurant’s own offerings, the assembled Nature-seekers were about to partake of their very own “bring-your-own” picnic. In exchange for the opportunity to flog a few coffees and teas, the restaurant owner was allowing the Nature-seekers to feed themselves – at his tables and on his terrace – with their own food. And now that food had arrived...

  It was on a small table, and it was housed in a collection of Tupperware-type containers. It consisted of a selection of salad items, all diced into granule-sized pieces, some protein in the form of mashed-up sardines, more of those big burger buns – and no butter and no cheese. It had been prepared by one of the Nature-seekers’ two drivers and, to be fair, he had put a lot of work into it and, in this poor part of the world, it was something of a feast. However, Brian could not that easily discard his selfish, spoilt European expectations, or his recollection of the amazing food available at both lunchtime and dinnertime on his trip around an equally impoverished Syria – or indeed, his craving for some sort of dairy product, and especially cheese. There again, he had to eat something, and there were olives there as well. So he had a go, and at the end of a far-too-healthy lunch, he felt well enough prepared for the next instalment of intense birding, if not exactly replete or in any way gastronomically dazzled. Oh, and this next instalment of avian observation would involve a ride up the Dadès Gorge!

  As its name might suggest, this was a gorge running into the Dadès Valley. But what could never be gleaned from its name was the degree to which it had been colonised by those same cube-shaped buildings that now occupied so much of the valley itself. Brian was rather appalled. (He appalled very easily.) But the fact remained that what was a truly gorgeous natural feature had been not just blighted but also ruined – by all this uncontrolled building. And even worse than this was the suspicion in Brian’s mind that, taking account of the fact that many of the buildings here were better maintained and significantly grander than their counterparts in the valley, the gorge had been ambushed by Moroccan wealth. There were houses here that weren’t the property of the rural poor, but of the metropolitan rich, well-heeled and well-connected citizens of this nation who could afford a pad in the country – and who weren’t too bothered about the impact of that pad, even if it was to screw up a very special place. It just didn’t seem right to Brian. Spoiling through need was one thing. Spoiling through greed – and the desire to have what you want, regardless of the consequences – was quite another. And so, as he was driven up the gorge, he was now more despondent than ever. Thank God he’d had that idea of sorting out his book...

  Thank God also that the constructions of both the rich and the poor finally began to peter out, and what replaced them was wildlife. Yes, there on that tree (and not on a rock), was a blue rock thrush; over there (by a discarded bottle), was a black wheatear, and just behind that broken culvert was a Moussier’s redstart, one of the truly iconic birds of Morocco. Shit, this gorge expedition was turning into a real treat, and might finally drag Brian from his swamp of indulgent despair. In fact, by the time they’d arrived at the top of the gorge, where the road ran out but the splendour of the gorge still remained – untainted by any signs of human encroachment – Brian was beginning to feel pretty chipper. He even relished the idea of an extended walk. For now the plan was for the minibuses to drive back down the gorge for about a mile, and for the middle-aged birders to then ease themselves down the sloping road and re-board them at their lower situation. It was a good idea. Because, not only would the walkers be presented with more bird-spotting opportunities, but also the downward incline would reduce the likelihood of coronary-induced fatalities to a minimum. An
d, to start with, it worked absolutely fine. Within minutes, a long-legged buzzard had been spied, and then a glorious hoopoe. But then something else was spied – coming over the brow of the gorge. It was a grey sky, which very soon turned into a black sky, and then, soon after this, into an even blacker sky, which, in no time at all, was providing the perambulating Nature-seekers with an onslaught of hailstones, followed closely thereafter by a torrential downpour of more conventional rain. So, despite the perambulation turning into a desperate jog, and despite the minibuses racing up to meet them, by the time the not-so-happy hikers had gained the shelter of these vehicles, they were all completely soaked. And Brian’s jeans (which he’d worn this day in preference to his Rohans for their insulation qualities) were sticking to his legs like a pair of overgrown leeches. And he didn’t feel especially chipper any more.

  The only good news was that the buses wouldn’t now be stopping until they were back at the hotel – and that Brian had purchased a hairdryer at Gatwick Airport. Sandra had scoffed at him at the time. But little did she know of Brian’s prescient powers, and how he just knew that, at some point on this holiday, a hairdryer would be needed to dry his jeans.

  That said, they were still damp when it was time to report for dinner, and Brian had to resort to another pair of trousers. And then, at dinner, he had to resort to his innate sense of restraint – when another friggin’ tajine appeared on the table...

  Well, that was it. He would whisk Sandra away just as soon as he could, retire to their room, and there regale her with his first serious bout of book preparation. Even if it meant missing out on some of that sparkling post-dinner conversation.