Playing Catch-Up

Tue, 31/03/2015 - 12:00

Forgive us, but it's been another few days since our last confession. The limiting factors are 1.time, as there are a lot more chores when you live like this, and 2. power supply.We've discovered that at this end of Morocco the socket/plug combination has not only defeated us but several campsites as well. Despite all efforts, we remain reliant on Daphne's electrical supply and the 600w inverter - and what a bonus that's turned out to be. Even so, we have a max of 3 hours laptop power with 2 batteries, and the daily batch of photos has to share time with this blog....
So back to the Travelog. We left Erg Chebbi, as you know, with the intention of follwing a southern desert route through to Zagora. The end of the tarmac prior to this route is at Taouz, and it literally is The End of the Road. There's a barrier at the end of the main street and it's quite clear that progress beyond is not as free as eleswhere.
Because of the proximity to the Algerian border there are a lot of these checkpoints around, as we discovered later. The "stopper" on this occasion was not the barrier but a persistent "helper" who appeared at the window asking if we wanted to visiit his fish farm This was, apparently, on a different route to the one we wanted to drive. Our preferred route was, according to our new friend, impassable due to a "broken bridge". The truth of this was hard to verify and we had the choice of believe him or not.
Since we had an alternative off-road route to the north already planned, we elected to take that instead. The Fisherman's Friend saw us detour and set off in pursuit on his moped. In followed us for about 4kms, riding close behind and in our dust cloud, shouting that we were going the wrong way and being generally annoying. Eventually we stopped, explained our intentions and asked him - politely - to Go Home, which he did. Reluctantly.
We did our detour to the north, roughly following the printed directions but very soon striking off on our own bearing as it seemed to be more interesting. We made our own line over the Black Rock Desert, covering about 35 miles across country before hitting the westbound road towards Zagora. We won't make it there tonight and need fresh meat and bread for a meal, so we head for a recommended campsite at Nkob. Shopping was done in the town and we collapsed into hot showers after a very long - 10 hours plus - dusty day.
The site was smal, comfortable and hosting a wedding party, or similar. We'd seen them setting out the tables as we arrived, including the bowls of salad, pasta and nuts. We'd also seen Morocco's allocation of feral cats helping themselves from the table when the staff weren't looking. Glad we're Eating At Home tonight.
Sunday 29th, and outbound from Nkob to an off-road route south to Zagora. A largely uneventful drive, basically following a pylon line across a largely featureless plain, hemmed in by mountains. A confused mass of tracks towards the end of the planned route saw us heading for the tarmac rather sooner than we'd intended, so we took a deliberate "90 left" onto south, as M would say, to take a more sandy line down to Zagora. We've got loads of video of the last few days of very exciting driving, but as this site doesn't support it and Mike hasn't the software to snapshot, it'll have to wait - but it's really wild!

Stopping for lunch under a convenient tree, we intended to relax for half an hour or so.

No such luck. As we've now discovered, if we stop for more than a few minutes (and sometimes not even that long) we attract an audience, most often with their hands out. The conversation normally starts with the usual pleasantries and we have no problem with that. Howver (said loudly) the conversation rapidly moves on to "Donnez-moi...stilo, bon-bon, water, food, money, cigarette, clothes or anything else that you might be persuaded to part with. This is becoming annoying and, to be honest, a little intimidating for me. I was quite unnerved by the pursuit yesterday.
On Sunday at lunch we had a total of 3 visitors in 15 minutes. The last one left, empty handed but with a parting comment: "Bonjour, et ne reviens pas!". Ditto the above four or five times over the next couple of days. We've seen perfectly fit people running from their tents or houses suddenly develop a debilitating hobble and arrive alongside the track with pleading hands, wanting medicine. Denied that, the request might be for "vetements" or "dirham" or whatever else catches their eye, and this is beginning to "adjust our attitude" to the local people we have the opportunity to meet. We expected poverty and wracked our brains for some way to help with this without being patronising or condescending.
While we have seen what, back home, we'd assess as dirt-poor and subsistence living, the picture is more complicated than that and might be illustrated by the above-mentioned well-dressed 20-something chap who suggested that we "don't come back" went off chatting on an I-Phone. Clearly, his need of "d'leau" wasn't too pressing. As for the dozens off kids and their demands for sweets, we've come to the conclusion that it's just some kind of game they play amongst themselves, to see what they can get from the passing trade. Maybe it's only one point for a bon-bon but 2 for a pen, 3 for a dirham, but you get a jackpot Dix Points if you can score a chocolate bar.
We made it through the back streets of Zagora, pursued by blokes on mopeds trying to divert us to their garage "for Squeegy grease, 20 dirham only". Stopping for vegetables, these outriders surrounded us and were in some competition to get us along to their establishment - as opposed to the opposition's -before we got to our campsite, which they would, of course, guide us to later. We've now got a more wary mentality than we had a week or so ago in Moulay Idriss, and while the offers might be genuine, they might also be a prelude to another money-making enterprise to which we will be invited to invest. "Nuts" as Patton said. "Je n'ai pas besoin d'un guide. Au revoir".
A pleasant evening in Zagora's backstreets.

Doesn't sound promising, does it? The site was off a dirt road in an area that, if we were at home and found ourselves there, we'd lock the doors and reverse out. Appearances are deceptive - throughout Maroc, as we've found out - and the site is inside it's own castle walls and is a tranquil haven from the scenes beyond. We parked, switched off, and let out a sigh of relief. The sort of noise that might make your husband say "sounds like you need a drink". After the last 7 hours of dust, washboard roads, hot sun and Bon-Bon bandits, I think I'll have several!
We had the pleasure of meeting Anya and Michael from Germany who arrived at the site in their converted mobile Sparkasse Bank.

This 7 or 8 metre (might've been longer) bus is a true home-from-home and Mike and I got a guided tour. Michael is clearly a talented engineer, and Anya has made their bus a real Des Res with every comfort. We're jealous. Maybe one day.....
Monday. Desert tracks again, from Zagora to Foum Zyguid (MS7, for Scott fans). A choice of routes - the north (boring one) or the south (risky one) across the deeper sand, dry lake and the close approach to the Algerian border. Guess which one Mike wanted to do?
Long hot slog with LOTS of deep sand and stony tracks to a coffee break under a camelthorn bush while we planned the next move. Mike was cracking stones to find fossils, finding not only images of Mike's work colleagues but also evidence of ancient fairies. That what I think, anyway.

We were stopped at a military checkpoint, where a very freindly chap, dressed for a disco, inspected our paperwork and passed the time of day without asking for a sweet or a pen. What a pleasant experience! Mike did his best to follow the rapid French cum Berber the guy was using, and after some repetition we got the gist - he was giving us alternative directions to save us some time. How many times have you asked directions of a policeman and been told "Go south by southwest for 10 kilometres, then west to pass north of that mountain. Straight on for 30 kilometeres. Bon Voyage."

A few K's to go to F-Z and we decide to stop for the night. Our first visitor arrived after 25 minutes. Mike won the bet. Trying to make conversation: "That's a nice animal. What's it's name?". There's a few seconds pause, a quizzical look, and the reply...."C'est un chamelle". As he left, with a few litres of water, we could hear him thinking "Idiot!"

Sun and fun

Sun, 29/03/2015 - 12:00

Off to the dunes! This was one of our major objectives and, though the Erg Chebbi dunes aren't considered to be the "proper" Sahara, it's close enough for the moment.We tried to make an early start from the campsite at Karla, but had to pay due attention to the ritual farewells and gift exchanging before we could make a polite exit. The route down to the south end of the dunes was on tarmac, but we left this as soon as we could and pulled into a gravel area where the ordinary surface met the sand. A Spanish couple had abandoned their hire car here to take a walk into the soft terrain, but reappeared in time to hear our deflators singing as the tyre pressures dropped.

The early stages of the drive we took very carefully. driving in soft sand is a bit like driving on new snow - very smooth and comfortable until you want to change direction. Turn the wheel and sometimes nothing much seems to happen. The car continues in the same direction, pretty much, until the front wheels get into a rut or otherwise get some grip, then the whole thing twists and bucks as the drive kicks in. Need to be careful or we'll rip the tyre off the rim.
We identified a place with fairly firm surface that we marked as a possible camping spot, but then went off towards the bigger dunes - carefully - to see what else might turn up. We soon came across an abandoned Berber camp complete with shower and loo in a somewhat parlous state. We had a look around and climbed the nearest big dune to check out the possibilities for good photos, particularly of the sunset and sunrise, and decided that we couldn't find a better spot without taking a lot of risks by going deeper into the dune system. Tranquility Base decided, we set ourselves up for a relaxing afternoon and a specacular light show later.

Mike got stuck into writing up the last few days of the blog, and some of what happened next you already know. We'd expected to be fairly well ignored as "just another tourist 4x4", assuming that anyone would come across us in the Emptiness of the Desert. A bit naive, perhaps, as this is just a bit of real estate to the locals and the track leading past our chosen camp turned into a regular transcontinental highway as the afternoon wore on. Several camel trains of precariously balanced trekkers gallumphed by, led by surly guides who took a dim view of being photographed. Or perhaps they wanted to negotiate a deal before allowing it. A regular convoy route for 4x4s out "dune bashing" was visible in the distance, and we could hear quite a few ATVs about as well, although none came close to us. As the sun went down, though, they all disappeared, leaving us in peace and quiet - no, peace and silence. No noise whatsoever. Bliss.
We climbed "our" dune at the requisite time to get ourselves set up. I struggled to the top using herringbone steps as the sand slipped away - two steps up, one step back, as my trainers filled with sand. Mike, of course, in his desert boots, had no such difficulty. Nobody likes a clever clogs...

Mike had left a camera at the truck on timelapse so we'd have a video record of the event, we had 3 still cameras with us and a mini-movie camera too, so we were pretty sure of getting some good images. As the sun began to slip towards the horizon the colours changed from orange to amber to mahogany, but having looked at the results of our efforts the images don't really do justice to the reality.

Maybe there'll be some PhotoShop work done when we get home to compensate for our ineptitude. Maybe Scotland 360 could help?
As we reached the Moment Critique, so to speak, our friend from earlier appeared and had obviously spotted us from some distance away. We were, after all, probably the only living things for quite a distance, or so we liked to think.

He climbed up to us, lay in the sand as we snapped away, including one portrait of him to be, as we thought, polite and "inclusive" in our work. Sunset complete, we went our separate ways, although he did promise to visit us again dans le matin.

We had a very pleasant evening, with a tagine cooked on our gas stove, as already related, and a comfortable sleep without being chilled to the core or raided by touaregs.

We were up at 0530 to catch the sunrise and, true to his promise, the Radio Rentals rep turned up at breakfast time. He was making a big show of "just ambling by" but made a lot of effort to make eye contact. We were busy but invited him into conversation again - it seemed rude not to. We discussed our plans for the rest of the day and made it clear that, much as we'd like to natter all morning, we had to get on with packing up. Then the Sting came. We had, apparently, put ourselves in debt to him by taking his photograph and he wanted "un petit cadeau de rien importance" as a reward for this service. Our intitial reaction wasn't negative, more astonishment, but which we tried to hide out of politeness. Here was the guy with whom we thought we'd developed some kind of rapport, some fellow feeling, acting like we had an obligation to him, to give him a tip, a present, for doing nothing except sharing our conversation with him. Mike isn't much impressed. We gave him a packet of shortbread biscuits -we've brought a lot of these for just these occasions - but the episode left us feeling a little disappointed that our new "neighbour" was just another passing chancer, like so many we were learning to dodge.
Off to Taouz now, and the start of another piste route from Chris Scott's tome.

Off on the Piste

Sun, 29/03/2015 - 12:00

Wednesday 25th..
A pleasant night at Camping Karla although the wind’s been getting up and the loose bits of the tent were flapping and cracking like loose sails on a windjammer.
We say our farewells to the staff – and it takes some time, given the need to have more tea and a tour of the fossil shop – and get directions to 1. the souk in the village and 2. the start of today’s adventure. We’re off on our first “off road” excursion.

Morocco is well known in some circles for the opportunities it gives for off-road driving on unmade roads or tracks ("pistes"), an activity that attracts a lot of adverse comment back home, and is practically impossible where we live. For those familiar with Chris Scott’s book "Morocco Overland", we’re doing MS11 with the aim of getting to the back of Erg Chebbi (the big sand dunes) for a night out under the stars. Finding the start of the route took a while, as Chris’s description says something like “after the Ziz, turn off left”. Well, as far as we were concerned “the Ziz” was the river we'd followed yesterday and there was only one place where it crossed the road in the area we thought it should. Thirty minutes of faffing about, and Mike set off on a compass heading as we knew pretty much where we needed to go, and there aren’t too many reasons not to just set off in a straight line. There’s nothing in the way and ultimate freedom to choose the direction we go. After a while we realised our mistake. The “Ziz” referred to is a petrol station.
Once we’d connected with the piste we had a great day. The photos don’t do justice to the sense of remoteness that being away from tarmac in this environment can give. The maps are small scale so are not much use for normal car navigation, and the compass, odometer and general “feel” are pretty vital tools. We had a sat nav but this wasn’t playing too well, so we went by the route description in the guidebook and had no difficulties.

With the route, that is. As the day went on it became increasingly windy, so much so that Mike gave up getting out of the truck to take photos as he risked losing the skin off his arms in the windblown sand.

It really wasn’t too much of a problem until later in the afternoon, when we got into a very sandy area running south towards the dunes, our destination. If you’ve ever been on a mountain in winter when the snow blows across the surface and you can’t see your feet, it was like that. A normal day on the Cairngorm Ski area, in other words. This made picking up the track difficult as it was invisible under the “sand mist” a lot of the time. We knew we needed to head roughly south, so Mike watched the compass, I watched the sat nav, and we both watched for obstacles and drop-offs.
Progress wasn’t bad until we had to turn west, into the setting sun. We’d already decided that a night out under these conditions was going to be quite an unpleasant experience – one we didn’t need to have – so we were heading for the road to the north of Merzouga. This was a challenge. A lowering sun and now howling wind and blowing sand made conditions very difficult as we were looking straight into a rose-coloured fog. We ploughed onwards, not relishing the prospect of a night trapped in Daphne’s back end, so to speak. In fact, if we’d paused to make a proper plan we’d have bogged in to the deep soft sand, so momentum and determination got us through..
At one point we had to do some sharp manoeuvring to regain the right direction, and this coincided with a group of three locals on mopeds coming the other way, headlights blazing, which was the only reason we didn't run straight into them. Mutual avoidance having been achieved, they asked us if we wanted a guide because there was still “ beaucoup de piste” still to negotiate. We declined on the basis that we would do no worse on our own than we’d do trying to follow a Motobecane, and there’d be a good chance we’d run them over anyway, given our limited visibility.
We got back to the tarmac just as it got dark. Luckily. Given the terrain and the weather, Mike said that there was no way that he’d try to drive it at night. We retreated to Camping Karla to recuperate, but what a day! Big smiles (and glasses of stuff) all round.
Thursday was a day off. We thought we’d earned it. Apart from catching up on some domestic stuff, like laundry, we spent some time surveying the site for an entry into the Moroccan Camping Guide. We’ll send this off when we get back, but the guys at the site are clearly keen to get their site publicised, so we don’t mind helping them do it. Our reward is a ride to the hotel in the village and a liquid lunch…

Still searching for Sun

Sun, 29/03/2015 - 12:00

Tuesday 24th March (was the day that this entry was started).
We stayed last night near Temnay, cold and disturbed in the night by rain and a chorus of barking dogs. The latter seem to be a feature of all the sites we've stayed at - perhaps it's some form of "piped musak" to help the locals get to sleep.
We ate well last night with home-cooked chicken and Edam, wrapped in ham from the Marjane.
OK, I hope that you’re paying attention at the back: I should say at this point that I'm writing this in our desert camp on the east side of Erg Chebbi on Friday 27th, so clearly we've a lot of catching up to do! The reason I mention it is, as I write, there's a Bedu wanderer (Touareg?) sitting on the ground not 4 feet away, watching me. He turned up 5 minutes ago, alone and on foot. He muttered something that neither of us could understand, but then, with gestures, made it clear that he quite liked the look of Mike's shirt. No. The shirt isn’t negotiable. OK, then, how about the trousers? When this second suggestion was rejected, he's just sat down to observe me tapping away. A bit unnerving but I'm sure I'll get used to it. Hope he clears off soon, though.
Anyway, back to the Ship's Log, and I’m copying what I wrote 3 days ago, so bear with me if the present tense swaps with the past sometimes. I ate on Monday night almost sitting on top of the stove, wearing 4 layers and a woolly hat. On the way to the shower a French lady asked me where I'd bought my mitts, and that they looked jolly warm. Clearly, she wasn't. The hot shower was very welcome though. Before we left that morning we had time to seek out one of the five wi-fi hotspots around the site. When I say "had time", I mean that there was no point in staying in bed, cold and needing a pee....
Back to the present, and at last, my private audience has got bored and wandered off, at least by a few yards. Doesn't look like he intends to give up completely yet, as he's circling us like a renegade Navajo round a wagon train. I'd take a photo, but Mike's already been ticked off for snapping away at a tourist camel train and we don't want to give this chap any excuses to get more interested in us. He looks healthy enough, so we think we'll leave him to his own devices unless he collapses at our door. Tricky one, this. Mike's experience in the Middle East makes him want to offer hospitality, swap travel stories etc, but this guy’s demeanor isn't conducive to repartee.
Where was I? Oh yes, site wi-fi at Temnay. It was the first connection we'd managed to get since we arrived in the country so we had a lot to catch up on, and sending stuff out was done at the rush as we didn't know when the connection might break. The pages of this blog had already been prepped, so all we had to do was log on and copy & paste. Amazing that this simple job took an hour. The alternative hotspots included "la piscine". We went to look for this only to find a big blue hole sans liquid which is clearly what rejoices in the description of "swimming pool" when the weather gets a little warmer. The Maroc Telecom modem hasn’t been a lot of use so far.

We paid up and left in a minor snowstorm, pausing only to take the obligatory photos at the gate. These are actually so that we can remember where we've been and on what day, as they are beginning to merge into one, or at least it's getting difficult to recall the order that things have happened or sights seen. The date stamp on the photo at least helps with that. Mike was keen to get away quickly as we could see the High Atlas from where we were and they looked pretty snowy. A detour to avoid them would take a day or so extra to what we'd planned so we were keen to get over the top before the weather really turned on us. The road twisted upwards with the altimeter. The thermometer went downwards. I sat with alternating items of bedding draped over my knees, trying to get them aired using Daphne's heater. Being a Landrover heater, this doesn't really push out much in the way of comfort, but it's all we've got at the moment and it gave me something to do as we climbed through the clouds, passing increasingly larger patches of snow. Of course, eventually the sun just had to make an appearance - we're halfway to Timbuctou, for Christ's sake! When it did and the murk below us burned off the view back over the plain was stupendous in the clear air. Altimeter was now unwinding and the air was getting warmer – nay, actually verging on hot. I exaggerate a little, but this was in comparison to last night, OK?
We were now in the area that we’d seen on the news late last year, where there had been some really bad flooding. The results of the deluge were everywhere to be seen. We had several detours to avoid damaged or completely washed out bridges and the oueds (watercourses) had obviously been nasty places to be as all the junk and debris from higher up the mountain came tumbling through.

The locals seemed much more interested in us than “ them up north” as well. Berber kids and mums would come running to the roadside to wave as we passed by. It reminded us of the times when, as children ourselves in the 1950’s, cars were enough of a novelty in country areas to warrant a wave as they passed the garden gate….that tells you more than you need to know about our ages and backgrounds, doesn’t it?
The architecture is now very different. The houses are made of mud bricks, flat roofed and often just single storey unless they’re what looks like forts of some kind. We stopped and had a quick look around one of these – a ruin- because it was mentioned in the Rough Guide as a real “Beau Geste” Foreign Legion throwback. We were surprised to find a donkey tied up inside, so obviously not as “disused” as its ruinous state would suggest.

Into the Gorges du Ziz. A deeply cut incision which had its fair share of ruins and spectacular rock formations. We spent quite a bit of time here, taking photos, but we’re beginning to realise that if an opportunity of a great view has just been missed – we stop and go back.

"Stop and go back?" This, up to now, would’ve not got a great deal of cooperation from Mike, but his attitude has changed. We may never pass this way again.

Still heading down, we can see the big manmade lake that feeds water to the power station at El Rashidia. The water is a brilliant blue – a “Caribbean blue” - and Mike compares it to the water around Arisaig in the Highlands. Same colour. Same temperature too, probably. The sun is blazing down from a cloudless sky but the altimeter still reads over 1200 metres and the air is pretty chilly.

We stopped in El Rashidia for groceries since there happened to be a supermarket on the route, an “Acima”, where we wanted to get water, meat, bread and booze. Not necessarily in that order. With no obvious racks of the local vintage in sight, Mike asked the security guard if the shop actually sold “les vins ou les bieres”. Non. In fact, Non throughout Morocco. This could be bad news…still got the emergency stocks from Windswept Brewery, though.
Freshly replenished apart from alcohol, we stopped for lunch at the side of the road, to be joined after a few minutes by a large Toyota 4x4, kitted out for the Dakar Rally and covered in advertising for a tour company. The driver made sure that we didn’t need help and asked where we were heading. A few minutes conversation followed at the end of which we had a recommendation for our next nightstop, a business card, emergency telephone numbers in case of “depannage” and 2 very large –and gratis – oranges. Lhassan – our new friend – said he’ll see us later and sped off northwards as we finished lunch and went south. A few k’s further on we stopped for fuel. A pair of local guys at the garage, also refuelling, wanted to know where we planned to stay tonight. Wary of getting caught in more long negotiations and unwanted offers of “free” guiding, we said, fairly truthfully, that we had already got a recommendation for a very good site, but thanks anyway. They seemed happy enough with that but asked if we’d take their card anyway. He handed us the same card that we’d been given 20 minutes previously. All laugh, lots of Franglais-inspired banter, and we end up at Camping Karla in the company of Atman, Mohammed and Ismail – with Lhassan turning up later as promised….

If it's Sunday, this must be...

Tue, 24/03/2015 - 12:00

Moulay Idriss. We caught the bus here from our campsite. Mike suggested walking as we hadn't had any exercise for a week, but the Maitre D' suggested a Number 15 bus might be a better idea. Guess who was right?
It only seemed a short distance between the two points last night as we searched for the campsite, but it's a damn sight further today, and it's uphill, too.

As soon as we got into Idriss, we were greeted by Ashrouf, our personal guide. We were unaware that we had a preplanned arrangement but he seemed to be expecting us and launched into his spiel before we'd had a chance to object. Aware of what was going on, we decided to "go with it" for just this once. We were going to get ripped off at some point, so we may as well get it over with. A bonus might be that his presence would keep the other Chancers at bay, and there certainly seemed to be a number of them hanging about.
It was a fascinating tour up and down stairs, through grubby corridors in the Medina, taking in several mosques on the way. At one, we were told, we could take a photo of the inside. The "guardian" suddenly appeared like the Genie from the Lamp, saying that good luck would come from taking the photograph. This relied, of course, on us buying 5 Holy Fairy Cakes for 20 Dirhams. The Genie wasn't impressed when we didn't agree, but we finally bought 3 cakes for 10 dirham and considered it a donation to the local religious community. Clearly, there would be a restriction on the amount of luck forthcoming at this reduced price.... Ashrouf remained somewhat quiet throughout these proceedings, and we became convinced that the guardian was actually related, probably his uncle.
The tour ended a while later (not because of the cakes) but because Ashrouf had a further engagement with his sick mother and demanding brood of orphan children etc etc. He said we had been such good friends, that he would only charge us 120 dirham, that he also spoke French, Spanish and Italian and would not insist that we accompany him to his brother's cookware emporium where many goods could also be had at discount prices. All this because we were his Special Friends. I guess he really thinks that tourists don't actually talk to each other and therefore might believe any of this.
Nonetheless, we paid him, but after we'd had him running all over the place getting us sorted out with our Internet access. We needed a modem and Maroc Telecom SIM card. The shop he took us to was run by a guy who bore a remarkable similarity to Mr A, but to think it was indeed his bro would be too cynical, surely? Since said shopkeeper was difficient in modems, Ashrouf was despatched to obtain one from elsewhere. He reappeared 10 minutes later with the required hardware, breathing like a 100m sprinter but wasn't going to get a tip...Equipped for access to the world, we made our way back to the bus via the souk and a very tasty kebab lunch.

This was my first visit to a Muslim market. Very narrow alleyways with twists, turns, steps and stairs going off in all directions. Fruit and veg in abundance, olives of every size and colour, preserved lemons in jars - and then we discovered the poultry section. We were looking for something for supper, and fancied chicken. We queued behind two local women to get an idea of the procedure. A chicken is chosen and weighed, hoping that it stays still! Once the price has been agreed, said bird disappears under the counter, is despatched with a squawk and then shoved into what looked like a tin box. Seconds later it's pulled out, sans feathers. Feet and head are removed with three flicks of a (very) sharp knife and....we had beef instead.

The butchery department was just across the alley. Close enough, in fact, for Mike to bang his head on that of a goat hanging from a hook. Just the head. Nothing else attached to it except the hook, of course, and still dripping....We bought our supper and made for the bus stop.
We lurked at what we assumed was the right place to catch the return bus, entertained by what also seemed to be the transport hub for the town - in other words, donkeys everywhere. We'd become quite used to them by now but at a distance. Sharing the same bit of personal space with Eeyore's cousin is a new olfactory experience...

We hoped that the Number 15 going home could be caught opposite the place we got off it. Within a short time the same bus we'd used on the way in appeared. We knew it was the same one because of the intricate pattern of cracks across the windscreen - the same as an aerial view of the Nile delta, apparently. Mike notices boring stuff like that. I recognised it from the string holding the doors closed.
Back at basecamp, we tried out our new high-tech communication device:

Unfortunately, even having the required hardware won't get a connection if the nearest telecoms mast is out of sight behind a hill and 15 miles away.

Onwards and upwards

Tue, 24/03/2015 - 12:00

Ksar Temnay, near Midelt. We decided to kiss off the planned visit to Volubilis and Fes as the rain is really beginning to get a bit of a bind. We reckon that the only way to escape the weather and get dry is to head south, as fast as we can get there.Monday 23rd

I’m sitting as close as I can get to our little woodburning stove. It’s 1800, bloody cold and forecast to get colder. The locals are expecting 5 to 10 cms of snow tomorrow night. This was supposed to be an escape, among other things, from the Scottish winter….It’s warmer back home! We got here early this afternoon, stopping a bit before we'd normally do as we wanted to take advantage of a break in the weather to get the bedding dry and try to get an internet connection.

I’ve just opened the gratis bottle of red wine from Carlos’ “thank you” package and, well, let’s just say that as alcohol is hard to find in Morocco I’d better grin and bear it. A wedge of Camembert and this morning’s bread go well with it. Blunts the edge, in other words. I've also just had one of those "King Alfred and the cakes" moments. Sue put her purple fluffy socks (sorry Kristen, I know they're yours. Or rather, were...) on the stove pipe to dry and went for a pee. I was tasked with "keeping an eye on them" but the wine pouring and cheese eating distracted me. On her return, she found me trying to scrape the now melted socks off the pipe with a breadknife....
As we paid the bill at the campsite this morning, the young chap at reception had to disappear promptly out of sight to throw up. He reappeared looking decidedly ill, dripping sweat and barely able to stand. Having checked that there was a doctor available should things get worse, I paid the bill – less than £10 for two nights – and took several paces backwards quickly. We set sail for southern parts via Meknes, which allegedly contained a Marjane supermarket, and the Atlas foothills, at the time obscured in cloud.
I’ll let Sue note down the sights and sounds of the day as I was a bit busy with Defensive Driving. In other words, trying to predict what everyone else was going to do in an attempt to bring our trip to a premature and noisy end.....
The incident Mike has in mind, in particular, is an orange seller pushing his barrow, which is is as wide as we are, northwards up the southbound lane, and aiming for a head-to-head with our radiator grille. We left Meknes shrouded in mist and climbed rapidly into the clouds. The rain that we'd endured for so many days now disappeared, to be replaced with sleet. Passing snow gates just north of Azrou, the altimeter hit 1300 metres.
Azrou is the first real town of the Middle Atlas. It grew at the crossroads of two major routes. North to Meknes and Fes and south to Khenifra and Midelt. The road between Azrou and Midelt held several interesting sights - and smells. We drove through large cedar forests with a smell of Vick's Vapour Rub seeping through the Landrover's natural ventilation points. Coming round a sharp bend we had to brake hard to avoid a monkey sitting quietly in the middle of the road. These are similar to the notorious Gib apes, but seem quite a bit larger. The reason for this became clear (unlike the weather) a mile later. We passed the cloud-shrouded summit of the pass where there was a large carpark, several coachloads of Spanish tourists and possibly the rest of the monkey population, getting an early lunch.
The weather didn't improve on the downside of the mountain. In fact, it got a lot worse with visibility down to 30 metres or so for quite a while. We passed through our first police checkpoints, the officers seeming to have little interest in us. Not surprising given the conditions. We became aware of dogs sitting patiently at the side of the main road at the ends of forest tracks. They seemed quite happy to be waiting, but for what, we couldn't work out. There must've been several dozen sightings of them, but no accompanying humans or signs of other activity. Later, in the valley, we saw many individuals - humans, this time - standing at the side of the road, miles from any habitation. We knew from yesterday's bus ride that they were expecting scheduled transport to appear. Maybe the dogs are smarter than we thought.
Down in the valley - actually a vast plain at about 2000 metres altitude - the sun came out. Yippee. Wasn't very warm, though, but it lifted our spirits and the clouds, allowing us to get our first view of the High Atlas. Another noticeable feature in several towns we passed through were huge nests on the tops of chimneys, containing storks. The scenery is very reminiscent of what we'd seen in the USA in Death Valley and Nevada. Vast sandy brown plain with low scrub, flat-topped mesas and abandoned, roofless pueblos. At this point, although only just after 2 pm I found a campsite in our guidebook which we decided to head for. The lure of sunshine and a breeze was too tempting given the amount of damp bedding we needed to dry.
It wasn't until we climbed out of Daphne that we realised how cold it was....

Hello Africa

Tue, 24/03/2015 - 12:00

One of the perceived difficulties of making this trip seems to be the fear of crossing a major practical hurdle, that being the entry into the bureaucracy of an African culture. Our homework and the advice of many who've done this trip promised that this hurdle is a lot lower than many believe.

Sure, we had some moments of confusion at the customs post particularly, but these were caused completely by the inability of the officials to organise themselves. It was still pouring with rain and the roof of the customs shed had large gaps in it, so all the vital paperwork that'd been taken from us got drenched. I wish I could've taken a photo of the little man in the big hat holding up our "D16 ter" by one corner as it dripped ink onto his shoes. Luckily the UK registration document we'd given him was a photocopy. Given that, as we were forcibly reminded three times, "it is the most important piece of paper you will have in Maroc" he seemed remarkably unfazed at the state it was in and let us head out into a very different world to the one we're used to.
Next stop was the insurance office, conveniently sited on the road out of the port together with currency exchange. For anyone who hasn't had the benefit of "reading ahead" on this, it's very easy to miss it and then the next opportunity to get this vital bit of paper may be some way off - and a very careful drive.
We'd decided that due to the late-ish arrival we'd make for a campsite within easy reach of the port as Mike didn't relish the idea of night driving on roads that are notorious for "interesting" driving habits. We did, indeed, pass the scene of a probably-fatal accident as we climbed the hills behind Tanger. A sharp bend on the narrow road had clearly proved too much for someone and the crash barrier hadn't been enough to prevent the vehicle - and it looked like a big one - going over the edge of a very steep drop. Like, precipitous. For about 150 feet. The wreckage was strewn down the mountainside for a couple of hundred metres...whatever it was, it bounced several times. We made the campsite in Alboustane as it was getting dark and shoe-horned ourselves into a space barely big enough, but we really didn't care. We were in Africa!

Even though it was still raining, it was Africa! Then I heard my very first "call to prayer". I'd heard so much about it but never realised how loud it was and for how long it lasted. It was a sound so completely different to anything else I'd ever heard before and it made me realise that we were now enveloped in a culture that is completely alien to us, as our church bells on a Sunday morning would be to them. The following day reinforced this feeling. Driving along a main road to Chefchaouen we passed a shepherd and a young boy on the roadside, watching a flock of sheep graze. The shepherd was wearing what could only be described as a "hobbit gown with a hood". Further along, we passed three people with a donkey laden with four or five black bin bags of stuff. This sight generated some comments, as you might expect, but within half an hour we'd seen so many that they'd almost become routine. I guess you'd equate them to our "white van man" in that they seem to be the method of choice for moving everything from groceries to bricks.
Chefchaouen....

What a place! A regular rabbit warren of narrow streets and overhanging houses that give the feeling of being almost underground. The deeper we penetrated the maze of tunnel-like streets the more disorientated we got.

The shops, if you can call them that, were no bigger than the average bathroom back home, and opened straight out onto the street - dressmakers, barbers, bakers - and we bought a round loaf that was still too hot to handle straight off the counter - and all the usual groceries and hardware you'd find at home but all available in miniature versions of a local hardware shop. One thing we did notice the lack of..there were no newspapers or magazines. Maybe we didn't look in the right places, but as yet we've not seen anyone reading one anywhere.
Apart from one chap who'd tried his luck as a guide as we parked the truck, we had no pursuit from hopeful locals wanting to "help" us do our sightseeing and this was a relief in some ways. All we wanted to do was soak up the local colour and settle in to a new space. And it didn't matter that it was still raining.