So,
another day. Heading north east for Boumalne Dades, the intention is to
visit the Todra Gorge and then use an offroad route to connect us with
the N13 and from there slowly start our homeward journey north to
Tangiers and the ferry on Monday 13th.
The start of the day's journey took us through a small town called Kelaa Magouna which sounds like one of the songs from the Lion King. I digress. Mike would say "so what's unusual?"... This rather mundane place is the centre of the rose water industry. Roses were brought in originally from Persia by the Phoenicians and were used for hedging the fields. The shops sell rose petals, rose water, rose scented soap - you got it. This hive of activity also includes the making of les poignards. Daggers to you and me, and you've guessed it, there's a commune here that makes them too. We decided that a blade might be a good souvenir and having decided on what we wanted to pay for one, we went to see what was on offer.
Our attention was caught by a young man who was sitting cross legged outside his shop. He was forming metal decorations for scabards out of pieces of tin, on a last that was rammed into a log which may have been used by several people before him for the same purpose. He was delighted to show us how he could decorate them and we were invited to enter his shop where we spent an interesting 15 minutes or so looking around. His price for a dagger was too steep, but we did buy a couple of items made of camel bone and which were tinted with henna.
Having passed through the valley of Dades and stopped to take photos of the palmeries at Tinerhir:
we turned up the road to the Todra Gorge. The Lonely Planet says " At its' deepest narrowest point only 15 kms from Tinerhir, this trench through the High Atlas presents an arresting spectacle - its' gigantic rock walls changing colour to magical effect as the day unfolds". There were a few stalls around the small parking and viewpoint areas at the outset who were hoping to take advantage of the fact that people were stopping. Once past these, we were able to see the gorge in all its' glory. It is breathtakingly beautiful and despite knowing that there were cars ahead and behind us it felt as if we were the only ones there. The presence of the "usual tourist stalls" didn't detract from the experience one bit. The monumental spectacle of the natural features completely dwarfs the bling and glitter and made the tat-sellers completely irrelevant to the scene.
We manoeuvred ourselves carefully amongst the wandering spectators as they all seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they were walking on a motor road. Up until recently, the road was piste. It was obvious that even with some tarmac there is still a battle against the elements. Several rock falls had blocked the road and we had to wait patiently while a dumper truck manoeuvred its' load at the side of some repairs. I usually write notes as we drive along so that we can always conjure up a snapshot memory of places and events. Todra got just one word - WOW.
Farther up the gorge a huge rock had fallen and demolished part of a hotel ("auberge" in Maroc-speak) after the heavy rain at the end of last year. Apparently all the auberges in the gorge are now closed as a precaution. Good idea. You wouldn't want to wake up to that kind of a hangover.
We continued north to pick up MH11 from Scott's book. This route I called the triple A route as it starts at a place called Ait Hani and wiggles north east through Assoul (Mike called it Ar*ehole) and Amellago. It is a useful link road, all "sealed" which means its' all tarmac-ed - cos I had to ask - and it would connect us easily and quickly with the village of Rich on the N13 south of Midelt.
So, we are on the Triple A. Let's look at the notes I made. Mike put the washing machine on. I kid you not. We have all the mod cons in Daphne. We have a shower. We have a fridge, a cooker and an electrical recharging system. We have (intermittent) wifi courtesy of Moroc Telecom and we have a washing machine. It is a container for a mortar bomb with a lid. Add water, soap and dirty clothes, seal and reattach to roof rack. It is black so absorbing the heat of the sun and with all the shimmying (poshword = agitating) that we do along the way, it is supposed to clean the clothes.
I just packed enough to last me. George at Asda supplied my nicks £4 for 6 and they get binned every day.
I am brought back to earth by the vehicle in front of us. One of the worst jobs in the world must be driving a two tiered slow goat truck with a following wind. A short time before we'd overtaken a small car on a narrow uphill hairpin section. He was dawdling and Mike was getting concerned that we'd get too hot, engine-wise, if we stayed behind him in low gear. As we passed him, he swerved out (towards us and a vertical drop) to avoid a hole in the road. He obviously hadn't seen us due to the dust he was kicking up so to suddenly be aware of a big yellow Landrover adjacent to his left ear might've been a bit of a shock! He stopped very suddenly, anyway, and he was still stopped when we looked back after the next hairpin. Poor chap. We suspected an explosive evacuation of the colon.
Pay attention...we are now nearing a place called Imiter but no one has told us that it has a gorge.
Not quite as good as Todra but its' close...it is so far up this lonely road ( Mike will probably add something here connected with ar*eholes), that I don't think many tourists venture here. This is where the River Rheris begins and the ground is fertile and lush.
There are stone lined allotments and almond trees which border the river, all hemmed in by the ochre gorge walls. While the road is a good one, it sometimes disappears under water at the oueds. Mike's got his MUVI action camera running but we can't upload to this blog so the more dramatic stuff will have to be added here later. Enough to say that everything got pretty wet outside which, if you own a Landrover as old as ours, you'll know that also means everything inside gets wet too.
We are nearing Rich and the N13 but the weather is starting to get a little iffy. The landscape is flat as a pancake with no obvious places to pull over and wild camp and there are no known campsites nearby. It is getting to that sort of time when we want to stop nay should stop. Mike needs his beer and I've got to set up camp, sort the washing, plan and cook the meal and make the bedroom up...as well as thinking about breakfast for the following day...what we need to supplement a lunch and work out how I can get him to do the washing up...
The weather is getting iffy-er and I think I'll let Mike do the next bit...
....because I've got nothing else to do, clearly! This is being written some days after the events which I now relate.
Just as we began sorting ourselves out for the evening's chores, the sky began to darken considerably and the wind picked up. We'd been watching the approach of a line of clouds beyond the mountains for some of the late afternoon, and as we forged northwards looking for a camping spot it was getting obvious that things weren't going to improve, weather-wise. Vehicles coming the other way had headlights on. We decided to stop ASAP and turned off the road just north of the "gap" at Ait Labbes, heading for some open ground to the west.
The ground proved too hard to get the pegs in for more than 3 or 4 inches; below that it seemed to be concrete, so we did what we could. Retreating inside we watched as a shepherdess moved her flock closer to us and we half expected her to come and ask for shelter as the wind increased to gale force and, minutes later, hail began to fall. Well, not exactly "fall". That implies downwards motion. This hail was going sideways. With stones the size of peanuts. The racket on the roof and windows was really something but outside and exposed must've been really painful.
Shortly after, the noise of flapping canvas changed enough for us to realise something wasn't right, outside. I went out to investigate (the scene reminiscent of Oates in the Antarctic) and finished up like Leonardo's Man, making like a starfish with each foot on a tie-down and each hand above my head, holding everything down against a roaring storm. I remained in this classic pose for about 15 minutes before 'Er Indoors twigged that I'd been gone rather longer than it takes for a pee. I'd have taken some pics, but I had my hands full of tent.
With the pegs almost all ripped out, all we could do was pile up rocks and hope it didn't get worse. We ate in a rocking, pitching rowboat simulator as the wind just got worse. I could see plastic bags whipping across the landscape which made it easy - and concerning - to see what speed the wind was really hitting. I said nothing out loud.
After all, no point in getting worried about the inevitable, eh? The thunder and lightning just added to the drama.
By 2200 it'd all blown through. Sigh of relief. Tent is a bit torn at one corner but otherwise we've survived OK. Could've been very different.
Still, with enough Bombay Sapphire onboard, one can survive anything....
The start of the day's journey took us through a small town called Kelaa Magouna which sounds like one of the songs from the Lion King. I digress. Mike would say "so what's unusual?"... This rather mundane place is the centre of the rose water industry. Roses were brought in originally from Persia by the Phoenicians and were used for hedging the fields. The shops sell rose petals, rose water, rose scented soap - you got it. This hive of activity also includes the making of les poignards. Daggers to you and me, and you've guessed it, there's a commune here that makes them too. We decided that a blade might be a good souvenir and having decided on what we wanted to pay for one, we went to see what was on offer.
Our attention was caught by a young man who was sitting cross legged outside his shop. He was forming metal decorations for scabards out of pieces of tin, on a last that was rammed into a log which may have been used by several people before him for the same purpose. He was delighted to show us how he could decorate them and we were invited to enter his shop where we spent an interesting 15 minutes or so looking around. His price for a dagger was too steep, but we did buy a couple of items made of camel bone and which were tinted with henna.
Having passed through the valley of Dades and stopped to take photos of the palmeries at Tinerhir:
we turned up the road to the Todra Gorge. The Lonely Planet says " At its' deepest narrowest point only 15 kms from Tinerhir, this trench through the High Atlas presents an arresting spectacle - its' gigantic rock walls changing colour to magical effect as the day unfolds". There were a few stalls around the small parking and viewpoint areas at the outset who were hoping to take advantage of the fact that people were stopping. Once past these, we were able to see the gorge in all its' glory. It is breathtakingly beautiful and despite knowing that there were cars ahead and behind us it felt as if we were the only ones there. The presence of the "usual tourist stalls" didn't detract from the experience one bit. The monumental spectacle of the natural features completely dwarfs the bling and glitter and made the tat-sellers completely irrelevant to the scene.
We manoeuvred ourselves carefully amongst the wandering spectators as they all seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they were walking on a motor road. Up until recently, the road was piste. It was obvious that even with some tarmac there is still a battle against the elements. Several rock falls had blocked the road and we had to wait patiently while a dumper truck manoeuvred its' load at the side of some repairs. I usually write notes as we drive along so that we can always conjure up a snapshot memory of places and events. Todra got just one word - WOW.
Farther up the gorge a huge rock had fallen and demolished part of a hotel ("auberge" in Maroc-speak) after the heavy rain at the end of last year. Apparently all the auberges in the gorge are now closed as a precaution. Good idea. You wouldn't want to wake up to that kind of a hangover.
We continued north to pick up MH11 from Scott's book. This route I called the triple A route as it starts at a place called Ait Hani and wiggles north east through Assoul (Mike called it Ar*ehole) and Amellago. It is a useful link road, all "sealed" which means its' all tarmac-ed - cos I had to ask - and it would connect us easily and quickly with the village of Rich on the N13 south of Midelt.
So, we are on the Triple A. Let's look at the notes I made. Mike put the washing machine on. I kid you not. We have all the mod cons in Daphne. We have a shower. We have a fridge, a cooker and an electrical recharging system. We have (intermittent) wifi courtesy of Moroc Telecom and we have a washing machine. It is a container for a mortar bomb with a lid. Add water, soap and dirty clothes, seal and reattach to roof rack. It is black so absorbing the heat of the sun and with all the shimmying (poshword = agitating) that we do along the way, it is supposed to clean the clothes.
I just packed enough to last me. George at Asda supplied my nicks £4 for 6 and they get binned every day.
I am brought back to earth by the vehicle in front of us. One of the worst jobs in the world must be driving a two tiered slow goat truck with a following wind. A short time before we'd overtaken a small car on a narrow uphill hairpin section. He was dawdling and Mike was getting concerned that we'd get too hot, engine-wise, if we stayed behind him in low gear. As we passed him, he swerved out (towards us and a vertical drop) to avoid a hole in the road. He obviously hadn't seen us due to the dust he was kicking up so to suddenly be aware of a big yellow Landrover adjacent to his left ear might've been a bit of a shock! He stopped very suddenly, anyway, and he was still stopped when we looked back after the next hairpin. Poor chap. We suspected an explosive evacuation of the colon.
Pay attention...we are now nearing a place called Imiter but no one has told us that it has a gorge.
Not quite as good as Todra but its' close...it is so far up this lonely road ( Mike will probably add something here connected with ar*eholes), that I don't think many tourists venture here. This is where the River Rheris begins and the ground is fertile and lush.
There are stone lined allotments and almond trees which border the river, all hemmed in by the ochre gorge walls. While the road is a good one, it sometimes disappears under water at the oueds. Mike's got his MUVI action camera running but we can't upload to this blog so the more dramatic stuff will have to be added here later. Enough to say that everything got pretty wet outside which, if you own a Landrover as old as ours, you'll know that also means everything inside gets wet too.
We are nearing Rich and the N13 but the weather is starting to get a little iffy. The landscape is flat as a pancake with no obvious places to pull over and wild camp and there are no known campsites nearby. It is getting to that sort of time when we want to stop nay should stop. Mike needs his beer and I've got to set up camp, sort the washing, plan and cook the meal and make the bedroom up...as well as thinking about breakfast for the following day...what we need to supplement a lunch and work out how I can get him to do the washing up...
The weather is getting iffy-er and I think I'll let Mike do the next bit...
....because I've got nothing else to do, clearly! This is being written some days after the events which I now relate.
Just as we began sorting ourselves out for the evening's chores, the sky began to darken considerably and the wind picked up. We'd been watching the approach of a line of clouds beyond the mountains for some of the late afternoon, and as we forged northwards looking for a camping spot it was getting obvious that things weren't going to improve, weather-wise. Vehicles coming the other way had headlights on. We decided to stop ASAP and turned off the road just north of the "gap" at Ait Labbes, heading for some open ground to the west.
The ground proved too hard to get the pegs in for more than 3 or 4 inches; below that it seemed to be concrete, so we did what we could. Retreating inside we watched as a shepherdess moved her flock closer to us and we half expected her to come and ask for shelter as the wind increased to gale force and, minutes later, hail began to fall. Well, not exactly "fall". That implies downwards motion. This hail was going sideways. With stones the size of peanuts. The racket on the roof and windows was really something but outside and exposed must've been really painful.
Shortly after, the noise of flapping canvas changed enough for us to realise something wasn't right, outside. I went out to investigate (the scene reminiscent of Oates in the Antarctic) and finished up like Leonardo's Man, making like a starfish with each foot on a tie-down and each hand above my head, holding everything down against a roaring storm. I remained in this classic pose for about 15 minutes before 'Er Indoors twigged that I'd been gone rather longer than it takes for a pee. I'd have taken some pics, but I had my hands full of tent.
With the pegs almost all ripped out, all we could do was pile up rocks and hope it didn't get worse. We ate in a rocking, pitching rowboat simulator as the wind just got worse. I could see plastic bags whipping across the landscape which made it easy - and concerning - to see what speed the wind was really hitting. I said nothing out loud.
After all, no point in getting worried about the inevitable, eh? The thunder and lightning just added to the drama.
By 2200 it'd all blown through. Sigh of relief. Tent is a bit torn at one corner but otherwise we've survived OK. Could've been very different.
Still, with enough Bombay Sapphire onboard, one can survive anything....
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