Larbi eased his gutless old car up and down the hills, and I gazed, entranced, at this pristine landscape. We pulled off the road and sat at a café in the shade of a carob tree. Water was drawn from the well to make our mint tea. Chickens scratched in the dust. A three-legged dog sloped across the road, then leapt for the verge as the peace was shattered by a gang of Spanish bikers roaring through the village.
On a clear day in winter I can see the snow on the Rif from my home in the Alpujarras; from the north shore of Morocco you can see the lights of Spain glittering in the night. Countless thousands seek to cross from the darkness into that light... for even with the impetus of the new king, Morocco is still riven with corruption and hopelessness, and those glittering lights seem to beckon towards a new life with opportunity, justice and security - bitter irony though this may be. There's no way of knowing though, how many have lost their lives in the desperate attempt.
We were heading for Al Hoceima, but it would have taken us a week if we had stuck to the coast road, so we turned inland and wound up the northern slopes of the Rif. Far below, in a deep lush valley where two rivers met, lay a tiny village with blue tin roofs and a plank bridge across the river. Figures moved to and fro, singing, along the paths amongst the trees.
