Feeling much rejuvenated at the lack of bread and oil in
our diet we breakfasted on boiled eggs, bread, coffee and jam and set off for
Azilal. The old man in the hotel had warned us there was a little climb to get
to Azilal. That was the understatement of the decade! It took over three
hours of slogging upwards in a low gear to reach the col overlooking the
reservoir. The summit, like the end of a rainbow was just over the horizon for
a further hour. I gave up four times, lying on the verge at the side of the
road and cursing the bike. It was like opting out of an Everest Ascent to take
on the Tour de France instead.
Just as the tenth final summit came into view, a team of
little skin-head children dashed out onto the road with invitations of tea and
shade. It was too good an offer to pass by. The stone home was cool and
refreshing and the family large and sprawling. The brothers ranged from 32 to
8. All were uncles and the youngest nephew at three months old lay wet haired
and pink in a cloth in the young mothers arms. We slurped mint tea, ate bread
and oil and made small talk, whilst the rest of the hamlet's children clustered
round the wrought iron window frame to peer in.
The last part of the climb seemed eased by are rest and we
donned our jackets for the hard earned descent. It never came though - as the
gentle downhill stretch was foiled by a strong head wind. Anzilal lay hugging
the main road in a straight wind swept boulevard and was in the midst of a
rolling thunder storm as we rolled in to cries of `You are Welcome.'
The hotel we were told was above the cinema. It wasn't,
but the restaurant that was below it made gorgeous freshly squeezed orange
juice. We couldn't resist, and downed three before heading off to find the
hotel. It was cheap, bare and without water! As we stood on the balcony a
wedding procession passed below, pipers and drummers stirring the bucksome
coal-black haired women into frenzied head shaking dances. The men pranced
flamenco style, from foot to foot, clapping their hands to the drummers. In
front of this turbulent eddy of people was an albino horse pulling a cart laden
with wedding gifts - amongst which was a box of tide.
The main industry in Anzilal seemed to be engineering, and
particularly welding. Perfect to get a carrier repaired. The old one was
aluminium which was proving impossible to mend. Instead they copied it's
dimensions and angles to make a steel one. We celebrated with a vegetable
tajine and a trip to the cinema.
It was only twenty-five minutes before the film was due to
start when we arrived, but the ticket office was still closed. In the end we
bought three for the orchestra pit from the projectionist. Women were not
allowed in the cinema, but they made an exception for Andrea. The
projectionist insisted that we have a tour of the place, from his bedroom on the
landing, to the projection room in the gods. Two large Victoria IV projectors
stood tilting at the windows like dragsters on a start line. The little room
was full of Flash-Gordon style controls, and lights and audio equipment. The
walls were coated with film posters, Dan Akroid in Dragnet, Young Sherlock
Holmes... As he talked he was rewinding the film for tonight. It was done by
hand on a huge fixed wheel gear cranked by a handle. The huge full one hour
reels weighed about 20kg and span with the momentum of a London Bus' fly-wheel.
He received a box of films from Cassablanca each day and
could put on a different double bill twice a day. Tonight he was showing
`Friday the Thirteenth - the final chapter' and `Le Declique'. How many people
did he expect in the audience - the ticket office was still unmanned and it was
only five minutes before the start? Twenty - thirty forty - he didn't seem
sure - it was the second night of `Friday the 13th' which meant a slack night.
In the end about forty turned up to spread themselves
thinly round the mass of folding metal chairs that were the stalls. We took
our places near the front and the projectionist disappeared to start the
programme. We sat through the predictable corny murders and strangely
pointless sex scenes. The all male audience lapped these up, with whoops and
cheers from the dinge behind us. The film came to an anti-climax, and we
trooped out to get a drink. The bar was sadly closed, but the projectionist
ordered it open for us.
Part two, found us promoted upstairs on the padded seats of
the circle on the insistence of the projectionist. We stuck out the dull
mysterious plot of Le Declique for half an hour before excusing ourselves to
stroll back through the deserted dull Beirut style streets of the decrepit
town. There was till no water in the hotel, so we went to bed.
Just as the tenth final summit came into view, a team of
little skin-head children dashed out onto the road with invitations of tea and
shade. It was too good an offer to pass by. The stone home was cool and
refreshing and the family large and sprawling. The brothers ranged from 32 to
8. All were uncles and the youngest nephew at three months old lay wet haired
and pink in a cloth in the young mothers arms. We slurped mint tea, ate bread
and oil and made small talk, whilst the rest of the hamlet's children clustered
round the wrought iron window frame to peer in.
He received a box of films from Cassablanca each day and
could put on a different double bill twice a day. Tonight he was showing
`Friday the Thirteenth - the final chapter' and `Le Declique'. How many people
did he expect in the audience - the ticket office was still unmanned and it was
only five minutes before the start? Twenty - thirty forty - he didn't seem
sure - it was the second night of `Friday the 13th' which meant a slack night.