Call of the Wild.

Today I reached a landmark in my writing career. Oh, I know, that definition, ‘writing career,’ will produce the odd bark of mocking laughter – it certainly had that effect on me when I wrote it – but 2011 has been the year in which my oft-derided and most definitely unheralded ability to string a meaningful sentence together finally bore fruit. Writing has its appeal as an abstract form of expression, but having decided to write a novel, the most viable definition of a book’s success lies in the number of people who want to read it. Especially if they’re prepared to pay for the privilege.

Ignoring my flirtation with penury when I inflicted a free book on a disinterested world as it became evident how apt was the old adage, ‘can’t give them away.’ A mere 2,000 ‘free’ books were snapped up by those skinflints who peruse the bargain basement section of Amazon.

What I’m terming a landmark is in reference to ‘paid for’ books and, in particular, the accrued sales of my four books so far this year. Okay, so it’s almost December and the year is drawing to a close, but today, 27^th November 2011, I sold my 60,000th book, thereby becoming a (self-styled) proper writer. 60,000 books in less than a year; that’s about 59,998 more than I’d anticipated selling when I embarked on the process.

Jake Barton, writer, is now moving on. Been there, done that. Not abandoning the process of writing and still cherishing the prospect of keeping in touch with those lovely fellow writers I’ve met along the way. Not quite, Jake Barton, ex-writer, but I’m no longer counting sales or even checking the progress of my books. That was then; this is now.

The mountains are calling, the deserts await. I’ve been fortunate enough to have lived in a few different countries and, in recent years, the place that gripped me and still won’t let go is Morocco. I spent many months traversing this incredible country and I’m heading back without a plan, lacking an itinerary, no time-scale; that’s the only way I know!

Two years ago, I met a young man, a Berber, in a village called Imlil in the High Atlas, very close to the summit of Jebel Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa. Imlil is where the road ends. No more tarmac. Only mules are suited to travel beyond this point. The village has a little tourism as it’s a centre for trekking in the High Atlas and it was as a mountain guide that my young friend, Zinedine, was employed. He spoke French, at about my level, and we formed one of those oddly incompatible friendships that I’ve often made when travelling.

Before the trekkers arrived, the Imlil area subsisted on its walnuts, apples and cherry production. I deliberately said ‘subsisted’ as having met Zinedine’s extended family, the expression ‘dirt poor’ is the only one that comes to mind. The Film ‘Seven years in Tibet’ was partly filmed in the village and Zinedine’s father still wears a shirt given to him by one of the actors. I asked if the actor had been Brad Pitt, but he had no idea of the identity of any of these strange visitors who were ferried up the mountain roads every day from their luxury hotel on the plains.

Zinedine wasn’t my friend’s real name. He told me his name, but I can’t recall it and certainly won’t attempt to spell it. He’d adopted the name of his hero, the great French footballer Zinedine Zedan, who was of Berber descent.

Berber history dates back to prehistoric times, at least 4000 years. They fought against Roman, Arab, and French invaders. Many attempts have been made to colonize the Berber people, but up in these high mountains, they have managed to preserve their own language and culture. The people of the High Atlas were never conquered and their identity lives on.

Zinedine is the only member of his family able to read or write. He went to school, another first, by virtue of being the youngest of thirteen children and the only one who has ever left the immediate locality. The language spoken in the village dates back thousands of years. Arabic was imposed elsewhere in Morocco but in the mountains the Berber language remained the only form of expression. Things are not very much different even today. The language is purely spoken and does not exist in written form to any degree.

Zinedine’s family do not own a car, or even a motorbike. They live in low single-story buildings, topped with flat stones in the shelter of the hills where the climate varies between snow and bitter cold in winter to baking heat in summer. The family own two mules and a donkey, between thirty or so dependents, and scratch a subsistence living from the earth, working twelve-hour days, every day.

Zinedine is the spoilt boy who was encouraged to break away, earn a living outside the family, and I want to see how he’s getting on. He’ll be sixteen by now, a young man, perhaps with a moped to mark his progress. I’ll be back, very soon, with gifts of clothing and in particular a replacement shirt for his father as the ‘film star’s cast-off’ must be in a sorry state by now.