Chapter IV: Anti-Atlas
Reported location: N36º 7.3' W005º 20.7' Activity level: 9. Ambient: 19.5 DegC. Days since reset: 55. Daily VMG: 0.2 km/h Local movements only.
You call it Gibraltar. We call it “Cape
Disappointment” - and with good reason.Out in the straits, the wind had shifted to a gusting half-gale out of the south-east. There could be no crossing in such conditions and I had no option but to wait it out. And I wasn't the only one...
Large numbers of migrating birds were in the same case: all loafing around on the Rock and getting in each others' way. I spotted several other ospreys but did not approach them, for already squabbles over perches and roost sites were frequent as the delay caused tempers to become short. I saw a young honey-buzzard try to land in a shrub “owned” by several brown vultures: it got a severe thumping for its temerity and flew away out over the bay, crying piteously. Fresh water was in short supply and food was not to be got: I looked down at the waves thrashing along the base of the crag and the long harbour breakwater, and tried to imagine what it would take to catch a fish down there.
It was three days before the weather relented even slightly, by which time I was almost at my wits' end. Conditions were still far from ideal: I watched some storks make the attempt using their high-soar-and-long-glide technique. Some returned, skimming frantically down-breeze over the Spanish side to shelter. Two of them did not make it back at all. However, I had spotted that many of the smaller birds were making the run successfully, by flying hard at low level – just barely above the water – and “tacking” away from the stronger gusts.
We ospreys are powerful fliers when we need to be (it's all that fish what does it) and I resolved to try the same method.
It worked. But only just.
By desperate effort, I managed to make my landfall at the other side, on a hill just north of the airport. If I had missed it, the wind would have carried me far out to sea with no hope of recovery. Still and all, I had finally made it to a new continent – although this was a bit of an anti-climax as the new continent (or at least, this region of it) looked very much the same as the southern part of the old one, with the same birds, plant life and terrain.
The wind was different, though. In place of the comfortable northerly airstream that I had enjoyed almost every day since leaving Scotland, there were hot drying winds out of the east, gritty and inconstant. After a rest day to recover from my exertions in the straits, I skirted the big bustling airport (scary place!) and continued southwards. The countryside seemed pleasant enough, green and fertile, but human activities were always evident – and sometimes on a colossal scale... Not far to the east, the same wind had raised a gigantic wall of dust that extended right up to the cloudbase. What this was I could not tell from such a distance but it was clearly a place to be avoided.[1]
Another place to be avoided loomed ahead. They were the highest mountains I had ever seen in my short life, so tall that their summits gleamed white with snow even in late summer.[2] The massif could not be flown but there were lower passes around its flanks – and my previous experience meant that I had no intention of using them this time!
So that was yet another diversion: out to the west and round the end of the range before I could resume my proper course.
For Ishrahan...
The land to the south of the mountains was very different in character: dry and sun-bleached. I came over what would have been a wide river valley – at some other season when it might have had a wide river in it. Now, there was only a meandering muddy trickle, nothing like drinkable. I was set to pass over when a sharp glint of reflected sunlight caught the corner of my eye. I did a quick wingpoint-turn (a tricky aerobatic manoeuvre and one that I was quite proud of at my tender age) and glided down.
There were some small human dwellings, seemingly abandoned; an odd-looking tree just beyond them; and a long narrow trough of (fairly) clean water fed by a spigot at one end. I landed on its rough stone coping and took a sip.
“Drink freely. There is no other water here, and I can spare it for thee.”
The voice came from behind me, rather high-pitched and affected in tone. I turned to see one of the most extraordinary birds I had ever encountered.
It was sitting on a T-shaped perch under a small but elaborately embroidered canopy - a falcon of moderate size, but impossibly well-groomed. Not a feather was out of place and they shone in tones of russet and grey. On one leg, fine leather strips were decorated with golden trim and stones of blue and bright,[3] and around its neck hung a tiny silver bell.
“What are you?” I said, startled by such an apparition and forgetting my manners as a result.
“My name is Mahmud al-Kahin ibn Haroud Falku-Francorchamps the Third.” He looked at me expectantly.
“What happened to the other two?”
“Oh, never mind. Thou art an osprey, an infidel from the far north as I well know. But what art thou staring at over there...?” My attention had been taken by the sight of the tree I had spotted from above.
“There are sheep perched in that tree.”
“Saving your presence,” replied the falcon, “but those are goats.”
“They look like sheep.”
“Doubtless – but they look even more like goats.”
“Goats can't climb trees!”
“Thy wisdom almost rivals the words of the Prophet himself,” came the sardonic response, “yet it seems that they are up there nonetheless.”
I was starting to think that thirst and the heat had begun to warp my senses: a falcon wearing jewellery, and goats in trees! What kind of mad place WAS this? [4]
My companion had found a single feather that was marring the perfection of all the rest, and he preened it carefully before continuing:-
“The beasts are in the tree for two reasons: to eat its leaves - such as are left, and to watch out for the giant owl.”
I shook my head to clear it. “I'm sorry – I thought you just said 'giant owl'”
“Precisely so. Not merely wise but perspicacious also. Know then that in these parts lives a monstrous owl - much larger than thee - with eyes that glow. The men of the village hate and fear it, believing that it is some kind of demon-owl and they throw stones if it appears, to drive it away.” [5]
I didn't buy the 'demon' part of this story for a second, but I considered the capabilities of an owl that was bigger than me and it was a sobering thought. But there was another problem approaching: more immediate and familiar than mythical owls, for I could see four men walking slowly up the path from the valley. They were dressed alike in long white garments with leather jerkins, and they had guns. I was searching frantically for somewhere to hide when the falcon piped up again.
“Be at peace. I do not think they will shoot thee - and I am quite certain they will not shoot ME.”
“How so?” I asked, taking nervous glances toward the path.
“There is no shooting of birds here, especially birds with talons such as we. The head man of the area, the Sharif, does not permit such activities and he punishes severely. It is contrary to their Holy Book.”
I dipped my head to indicate suspicion and glared at him: “You seem to know an awful lot about humans and their habits.”
“Why so I do, having lived with them and studied them since I was out of the egg. They are dangerous and unpredictable beings to be sure, but the Sharif - that is him there, with the little red hat - looks after me and oft-times we go hunting gerbils together along the valley, which is good fun and also educational.” [6]
“Gerbils? Gerbils?” I had had just about enough of this nonsense. The meeting needed to be brought to order, and the sooner the better. “What lies beyond those pointy hills over there?”
“The desert.”
“And beyond that?”
“There is nothing beyond that, except more desert. It goes on forever - or so I am led to believe.”
I was about to make a comment about some of the things that this bird seemed to believe, when the group of men arrived. A piercing whistle rang out and the falcon took off, reaching them in two swoops where it perched on the red-hatted one's wrist. The rest of the party gathered round, making soft admiring noises and even stroking the falcon's head. It was sickening to behold.
Eventually the falcon was rewarded with a piece of meat which he brought back to the perch and began to eat, with what I thought was excessive delicacy. The men were discussing something among themselves and several times pointed in my direction.
“What is happening now?” I asked uneasily.
The falcon looked up from his meal. “They have recognised thee by reason of the internet.”
“What is an internet?”
I have no idea but seemingly thou art on it.”
The group started to move towards us, still arguing and pointing. No matter how well-intentioned these humans might be, they were getting too close and I took off towards the sharp-ridged hills behind the village. By now it was early evening, and the eastern sides of the steep gullies below were in inky shadow. I perched on a leafless bush just below the ridge line to collect my thoughts. This might be as good a place to roost as any other, since the only sizeable tree was back down in the valley – and IT was already full of goats. As the land cooled, small gusts of wind began to blow in from the desert, picking up blades of dry grass and flicking them away.
I looked around and then paused, holding my breath: at the very edge of my peripheral vision something had moved in the shadow area under the hill. I stared down there for minutes, wondering if I had imagined it. Nothing happened and I relaxed again but, all the same, I shifted position slightly to give a better view in that direction. It was a tiny move, but fortunate...
Something struck me a mighty blow on the shoulder, knocking me to the ground. A huge round-winged shape was already turning above me as my feet scrabbled for purchase on the loose soil. Desperately I flapped and scrambled to the top and launched into the air as a fountain of dust and stones exploded at the spot I had just vacated.
The attack had been launched without a single sound. If it had not been for that first movement in the shadow, I would have been taken completely unawares. Now my only hope of escape lay in pure speed, for no owl that I had ever seen could outpace an osprey in level flight. I tried to accelerate but pain was lancing from my injured shoulder and my flight muscles would not seem to respond.
Out over the open desert, I risked a look back. My pursuer was behind and well above me, holding a major tactical advantage. All it had to do was wait.
[2] The highest peak in the Atlas Mountain range is Toubkal (Ar: Tubqal) 4167 metres.
[3] Lapis lazuli. A blue semi-precious stone (tectosilicate), fluorescent under UV at 365 nm.
[4] The author first visited the Draa Valley in 1966 as a 14-year-old boy. Like Carron, he was amazed to see numbers of goats clambering about in trees and even jumping from one branch to another. The same behaviour can still be seen there today.
[5] Owls are considered birds of ill-omen across the entire region, as being harbingers of bad luck - or worse.
[6] Falconry has been a popular pastime in north Africa and the Middle East since early medieval times. While hawks and falcons were (and regrettably still are) taken from the wild, captive-bred birds with a listed pedigree have been the most sought-after and can fetch enormous prices. In the Berber dialect of the area “falku” is generally used for any diurnal bird of prey other than an eagle.
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