At Morocco's top

I took up my seat next to the right side windows, a favorite of mine when traveling at night. The bus departed 10 minutes earlier from Casablanca heading to Fnideq.

5:40AM it was, at Fnideq we were. And some 15 minutes later I was on the road again in an old white Mercedes Benz (240D) towards Belyounech. Half an hour later and there it was. The vast blue. Truly a sight to behold. There meets the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. There meets Africa and Europe. And there meets beauty and legend. With Mount Musa on our side, and Gibraltar on the other forming The Pillars of Heracles as the myth is told in classic antiquity.

Right after the sea did thus unfold, Belyounech did follow. We drove on until we were only some 50 meters above sea level. Right down to the borders keeping us out of Benzù guarded by the Moroccan soldiers, the Spanish Guardia.

As I set foot outside of the TAXI, the silhouette of a lady laid on her back immediately caught my eye. Her eyes, her nose, her chin, her neck, her bosom. In complete congruence. She was Mujer Muerta (the sleepy lady as some call her). And Mt Musa and its three tips was her body.

Turning right, I got to see one of the most beautiful sights I have ever laid my eyes on. Punta Leona, a stretch of land with a vertical slope from top to bottom. It's tail in mount Musa, and it's lioness like head far into the Mediterranean.
Under the lee of that very stretch of land was my very destination.
My uncle lived there with his wife and four children. They had, from where they lived, a most fascinating view: in the near north was the great punta leona,. In the far north, was Spain. North east was Benzù. East and south held a panoramic view of the D'cher and mount Musa with all its grandeur.

Time quietly went by while I was still in a trance. I got my backpack and started my slow march home. It was a 15 minutes walk during which I came across three running water sources. With water as a cold as water from a refrigerator, all pouring straight from the rocky heart of mount Musa.

Towards the end of the walk, on the rocky shore stood the ruins of the “Fabrica”. An old whale factory that ceased functioning sometime in the fifties or sixties after whale hunting was declared prohibited in the region. And of which the walls still bear witness to its long lost bloody past.

Looking down on the “Fabrica” was the house where I were to pass the summer. Seing it signalled the end of the road and the inception of a very unique journey.