Sunday,
5th. The first job is to get down off this mountain. According to the
book, we've broken the back of this route.Shouldn't say things like
that. Be more accurate to say "we aren't out of the woods yet".
We hadn't gone more than a kilometre or so before we found the track disappearing into a gully, ten feet deep and twenty wide....It's difficult to put into words just how your heart sinks when you're confronted with something like this, knowing that, somehow, you've got to find a way to beat it. We search upstream for a bit and find a place to cross the gully - now more a deep ditch - but the far side is a bit of a soggy landing, to put it mildly, and the Up side of the ditch is very steep, but not as steep as the Down side, and it's only about ten feet across. Something under Daphne is going to get a thumping here. We both get to the other side on foot and inspect the ground, Mike then returns to fire up Daphne for a cautious stalk of the options. We don't have a pickaxe but even that probably wouldn't make much impression on the concrete-like agglomerate of the ground, so we'll just have to be extra careful not to get hung up.
Once across, he's underestimated the depth of the swamp and Daphne slows, slows, labours and stalls. Bugger! Not a Good Thing. Before she has time to sink, Mike is reversing to the edge of the ditch and takes another run at the bog, then lots of gas and out and racing forwards onto firmer ground. Luckily I'm out of the line of fire of the rear wheels. The mud flies thirty feet astern.That's one more obstacle overcome. This can get a bit fraying on the nerves!
The track does indeed get "better now", but this is, of course, in comparison to what it's been like up to now. We continue, very aware that the "better" track is of a standard that had everyone - tour guide included- on our Alps trip stopping to take photos of 6 feet or so of Big Rock Crossing. We thought it was a big deal at the time, too....
Still crawling slowly along, we come across a shepherd squatting at the side of the track, making breakfast on a fire made of camel droppings. His kit seems to consist of little more than an ancient blackened teapot, an equally black cookpot and a bucket. His water bottle was empty, so we gave him a couple of litres of ours, although he was probably quite happy without us happening along.
At last, tarmac. Never thought I'd be happy to see it, but even though the last 24 hours have been a fantastic experience, I'll enjoy it more now if I can have a very long exhale!
With 30kms to go to Anzal, we passed a diminutive elderly woman bent double with the weight of a huge bundle of grass, presumably for her animals. The size of it was far bigger than her. She was almost running with the weight of it, though, because of the fact that she was going downhill at the mercy of gravity. She didn't stop or falter or look our way as we passed by.
We stop for bread at Anzal and look for a shady spot for lunch. As we go along we pass a dilapidated roadside building, but not, as we'd become used to, built of mud. This one had been plucked straight from the 1950's US Route 66 - a sun-bleached, fly-blown back-of-beyond gas station and Joe's Diner, reminiscent of a Road movie. It'd been built for a remake of some slightly dodgy psycho-movie then abandoned to the ravages of time. The plan is to head for some culture now- the town of Ait Benhaddou, and onwards to Ouarzazate for a shower and a beer.
Ait B, according to the Rough Guide, is one of the "most spectacular sights of the Atlas". It's a remote hillside ksar which is one of the best preserved in the country. Its buildings are towered and crenellated, the sheer walls standing out a terracotta red against the blue of the sky. The river that flows past the base of the walls provides a natural barrier to the way in, which is as effective now as it was in the 11th Century.
Once across the river - and we did use the stones - we tried to get in via what we assumed was the "usual way", judging by the well worn path and steps. Entry was denied unless we coughed up dirhams. We suspected that this might be another unofficial "try-on" so bantered the young chap to find something more useful to do other than rob tourists, but he was adamant that the charge was for "renovation of the buildings". Yeah. We retreated and found a pathway around the walls to another entrance - the more usual tourist one at the end of the bridge. Entree Libre. Funny old thing.
Once inside the walls, Sue's impression was of the set of Monty Python's "Life of Brian". It certainly had a feel of another, more ancient time, about it. The streets are only wide enough for 3 people to pass, or one donkey and a squeeze.
Doors are small and interiors dark and impenetrable, which is why most of the merchandise is outside on the street, I guess. And very colourful it is too. There are fabrics of every description and lots of shiny metal, all there to catch the eyes of the visitors.
What isn't clear, though, is how the laws of Economics work here. Every shop sells the same stuff as the one next door. Maybe they all get together at closing time and divi up the takings? Certainly, our experience in other towns has been that if your chosen emporium is deficient in the item of your desire, the boss will despatch a runner to get what you want from another shop. Probably owned by a relative.
On the way out we stopped off at a carpet shop, claiming to be an outlet for a co-operative. Please forgive my cynicism here, but you've probably got the drift from our previous posts that we're beginning to feel that most of the people in Morocco are out to get their hands on what we've got, be it money or otherwise. Clearly, this is a difference in cultural "normal" and perhaps the fact that we've never heard a "please" or "thank you" is colouring our judgement a bit. It does have it's interesting aspects, though. We'd been in the town for 5 yards before Mike had a guy wanting to relieve him of his boots in exchange for the ones he was wearing. The chap in the carpet shop was willing to barter anything we had, with a cash adjustment, for his wares. He seemed a genuine, honest guy so it's a great pity that we've met so many of his countrymen who have left us with a very different impression and that's the one that'll last, I'm afraid.
We planned to nightstop in Ouarzazate with a secondary aim of replenishing stocks of alcohol at the supermarket. We heard about this place from a group of Belgian offroaders that we met in the site at Moulay Idriss. "It's opposite Dmitri's, the best restaurant in town". In fact, Dmitri's has the reputation in the 4x4 Trekking world that Harry's Bar had to well-heeled ex-pats in Singapore. We had our beer on the terrace and felt that, somehow, we'd earned it! Refreshed in every way, we made to leave but as we were about to drive off we were intercepted by Michael and Anja, our Mobile Bankers from Zagora. We swapped tales of our experiences and they gave us a recommendation for a campsite just outside town.
The site, once we'd found it down a dusty back street, was compact and pleasantly shaded but was suffering a little from what smelt like a rubbish pit just beyond the walls. For the first time ever, we got back into Daphne's dusty seats and drove straight out again, heading north, to whatever we could find up the road. We settled on "Camping Continental International Amadril", obviously an upmarket place with all mod cons. The GPS co-ordinates took us to the right place. The proprietors had, since the guidebook was written, renamed the site "Gites Rural de Amadril". This was possibly as a result of the Moroccan equivalent of the Trade Descriptions Act being applied. Facilities were basic but, given our last 48 hours of excitement, we really couldn't have cared less as long as the water was hot (it was) and the air didn't reek of something dead. Sue shared her luxurious shower with an equally grateful beetle the size of a wheelnut.
With the prospects of a quiet night, we make our plans for tomorrow. Along the Dades valley and through the Todra gorge - a must-see item that was on our list made so many months ago. Another week of new experience lies ahead.
Mike slept well, Sue stayed awake listening to the tent flapping in an increasing wind and the usual serenade de chiens, so there was no sympathy when M had to exit at 3 am to take the awning down before it did it on its own. I told him he should do it before coming to bed. Tee Hee.
We hadn't gone more than a kilometre or so before we found the track disappearing into a gully, ten feet deep and twenty wide....It's difficult to put into words just how your heart sinks when you're confronted with something like this, knowing that, somehow, you've got to find a way to beat it. We search upstream for a bit and find a place to cross the gully - now more a deep ditch - but the far side is a bit of a soggy landing, to put it mildly, and the Up side of the ditch is very steep, but not as steep as the Down side, and it's only about ten feet across. Something under Daphne is going to get a thumping here. We both get to the other side on foot and inspect the ground, Mike then returns to fire up Daphne for a cautious stalk of the options. We don't have a pickaxe but even that probably wouldn't make much impression on the concrete-like agglomerate of the ground, so we'll just have to be extra careful not to get hung up.
Once across, he's underestimated the depth of the swamp and Daphne slows, slows, labours and stalls. Bugger! Not a Good Thing. Before she has time to sink, Mike is reversing to the edge of the ditch and takes another run at the bog, then lots of gas and out and racing forwards onto firmer ground. Luckily I'm out of the line of fire of the rear wheels. The mud flies thirty feet astern.That's one more obstacle overcome. This can get a bit fraying on the nerves!
The track does indeed get "better now", but this is, of course, in comparison to what it's been like up to now. We continue, very aware that the "better" track is of a standard that had everyone - tour guide included- on our Alps trip stopping to take photos of 6 feet or so of Big Rock Crossing. We thought it was a big deal at the time, too....
Still crawling slowly along, we come across a shepherd squatting at the side of the track, making breakfast on a fire made of camel droppings. His kit seems to consist of little more than an ancient blackened teapot, an equally black cookpot and a bucket. His water bottle was empty, so we gave him a couple of litres of ours, although he was probably quite happy without us happening along.
At last, tarmac. Never thought I'd be happy to see it, but even though the last 24 hours have been a fantastic experience, I'll enjoy it more now if I can have a very long exhale!
With 30kms to go to Anzal, we passed a diminutive elderly woman bent double with the weight of a huge bundle of grass, presumably for her animals. The size of it was far bigger than her. She was almost running with the weight of it, though, because of the fact that she was going downhill at the mercy of gravity. She didn't stop or falter or look our way as we passed by.
We stop for bread at Anzal and look for a shady spot for lunch. As we go along we pass a dilapidated roadside building, but not, as we'd become used to, built of mud. This one had been plucked straight from the 1950's US Route 66 - a sun-bleached, fly-blown back-of-beyond gas station and Joe's Diner, reminiscent of a Road movie. It'd been built for a remake of some slightly dodgy psycho-movie then abandoned to the ravages of time. The plan is to head for some culture now- the town of Ait Benhaddou, and onwards to Ouarzazate for a shower and a beer.
Ait B, according to the Rough Guide, is one of the "most spectacular sights of the Atlas". It's a remote hillside ksar which is one of the best preserved in the country. Its buildings are towered and crenellated, the sheer walls standing out a terracotta red against the blue of the sky. The river that flows past the base of the walls provides a natural barrier to the way in, which is as effective now as it was in the 11th Century.
Once across the river - and we did use the stones - we tried to get in via what we assumed was the "usual way", judging by the well worn path and steps. Entry was denied unless we coughed up dirhams. We suspected that this might be another unofficial "try-on" so bantered the young chap to find something more useful to do other than rob tourists, but he was adamant that the charge was for "renovation of the buildings". Yeah. We retreated and found a pathway around the walls to another entrance - the more usual tourist one at the end of the bridge. Entree Libre. Funny old thing.
Once inside the walls, Sue's impression was of the set of Monty Python's "Life of Brian". It certainly had a feel of another, more ancient time, about it. The streets are only wide enough for 3 people to pass, or one donkey and a squeeze.
Doors are small and interiors dark and impenetrable, which is why most of the merchandise is outside on the street, I guess. And very colourful it is too. There are fabrics of every description and lots of shiny metal, all there to catch the eyes of the visitors.
What isn't clear, though, is how the laws of Economics work here. Every shop sells the same stuff as the one next door. Maybe they all get together at closing time and divi up the takings? Certainly, our experience in other towns has been that if your chosen emporium is deficient in the item of your desire, the boss will despatch a runner to get what you want from another shop. Probably owned by a relative.
On the way out we stopped off at a carpet shop, claiming to be an outlet for a co-operative. Please forgive my cynicism here, but you've probably got the drift from our previous posts that we're beginning to feel that most of the people in Morocco are out to get their hands on what we've got, be it money or otherwise. Clearly, this is a difference in cultural "normal" and perhaps the fact that we've never heard a "please" or "thank you" is colouring our judgement a bit. It does have it's interesting aspects, though. We'd been in the town for 5 yards before Mike had a guy wanting to relieve him of his boots in exchange for the ones he was wearing. The chap in the carpet shop was willing to barter anything we had, with a cash adjustment, for his wares. He seemed a genuine, honest guy so it's a great pity that we've met so many of his countrymen who have left us with a very different impression and that's the one that'll last, I'm afraid.
We planned to nightstop in Ouarzazate with a secondary aim of replenishing stocks of alcohol at the supermarket. We heard about this place from a group of Belgian offroaders that we met in the site at Moulay Idriss. "It's opposite Dmitri's, the best restaurant in town". In fact, Dmitri's has the reputation in the 4x4 Trekking world that Harry's Bar had to well-heeled ex-pats in Singapore. We had our beer on the terrace and felt that, somehow, we'd earned it! Refreshed in every way, we made to leave but as we were about to drive off we were intercepted by Michael and Anja, our Mobile Bankers from Zagora. We swapped tales of our experiences and they gave us a recommendation for a campsite just outside town.
The site, once we'd found it down a dusty back street, was compact and pleasantly shaded but was suffering a little from what smelt like a rubbish pit just beyond the walls. For the first time ever, we got back into Daphne's dusty seats and drove straight out again, heading north, to whatever we could find up the road. We settled on "Camping Continental International Amadril", obviously an upmarket place with all mod cons. The GPS co-ordinates took us to the right place. The proprietors had, since the guidebook was written, renamed the site "Gites Rural de Amadril". This was possibly as a result of the Moroccan equivalent of the Trade Descriptions Act being applied. Facilities were basic but, given our last 48 hours of excitement, we really couldn't have cared less as long as the water was hot (it was) and the air didn't reek of something dead. Sue shared her luxurious shower with an equally grateful beetle the size of a wheelnut.
With the prospects of a quiet night, we make our plans for tomorrow. Along the Dades valley and through the Todra gorge - a must-see item that was on our list made so many months ago. Another week of new experience lies ahead.
Mike slept well, Sue stayed awake listening to the tent flapping in an increasing wind and the usual serenade de chiens, so there was no sympathy when M had to exit at 3 am to take the awning down before it did it on its own. I told him he should do it before coming to bed. Tee Hee.
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