So,
we've decided on a plan for the day, Saturday 4th April: 1. Drive to
Taroudant. Get cash. Gawp. Do Tourist Thing. 2. Find Route MH7 and spend
rest of day getting high.
Drive to Taroudant. The Rough Guide has good things to say about this place, and we need a break from driving, a "civilised" cup of coffee and an ATM. There's also an ancient Kasbah that's said to be worth a visit, and the town has both an Arab and Berber souk on every day of the week, which is a bonus as today is the Muslim "Sunday" and a lot of places may be closed.
We decide, on arrival, to chance a drive into the centre of town. We know this is going to be fraught with hazard but, equipped with Garmin and compass, we are prepared for the worst. We get it. Satnav shows streets, does not show one-way systems, dead donkeys in the middle of the road, holes where the road ought to be, broken down cars and corners/junctions whose radius is shorter than the turning circle of a Landrover. Which is, to be fair, about that of the Ark Royal.
Fun over, we retreat to the edge of town and park next to the old town walls and kasbah. Stroll about, take pictures, get a Good Feeling about this place. Everyone is friendly. Two young women approach us and we are on our guard; unfairly. They welcome us to their town and hope we have a good day. Shake our hands, and move on. We are refreshed. A minute later, M takes a photo of the huge entrance gates to the Ksar, and a bloke appears from the shadows, whingeing about "permission"...The coffee is good, though, and we head off into town to find a Hole In The Wall to replenish our cash.
Having found the "money souk", we make our tourist credentials blindingly obvious by looking for a bank that isn't closed. A helpful passer-by suggests that we'd be better off finding our way to the central square, where there are ATMs, as the banks are all closed today. He'll show us the way. Cynics among you will hear the Alarm Bells ringing now, as we did. We explained that "Nous avons besoin d'un guide" but our helper is insistent that he's helping us out from the goodness of his heart, and no money need change hands.
Right. Anyway, he leads us through a maze of narrow streets all packed with humanity going about the business of making or spending money.
The atmosphere is, to be blunt, medieval. The noise, smells and general atmosphere are redolent of a scene from a Crusader movie. We try to keep tabs on where we are and Mike often glances back to fix a scene or two in memory much like Hansel and his breadcrumbs. If this bloke drops us, we may have trouble getting out of here, it really is a rabbit warren.
We are safely delivered to the ATM, after which we are invited to visit our friend's family business, which produces and markets herbal products. OK, we'll play along. This was always going to happen. We do the necessary, play the game, and as our guide delivers us safely within walking distance of Daphne, offer him 50dh "for the children". The money, and him, are gone in the blink of an eye.
We head out of town, and towards our route into the hills. On the way out of town we pass a convoy of British 4x4s coming in. They're all nose-to-tail like a trail of ducks behind their Tour Guide. One of the ducks is clearly lame and is attached to it's mate by a towrope, like an umbilical. We hope that this isn't somebody's holiday ruined. It reminds us though, that what we're doing hasn't the Comfort Blanket of an organised group. If it all goes to rats, we'll have to sort it out ourselves.
Our chosen route is "a thrilling traversal up and over the highest driveable point in the Jebel Sirwa" and "the tracks in Morocco exist primarily for local people to get around in normal cars". These two quotes are from Scott. This encourages us to set out on what we expect will be a gentle scenic drive across Alpine meadows, with a quiet spot to spend the night. Oh how the Brits have mastered the art of understatement!
I don't know what the route was like when Mr Scott wrote his guidebook, but I would suggest a few amendments to the route description based on the nail-biting, heart-thumping rollercoaster that we experienced. While some of the route is completely benign - or as much as a hairpin bendy, 1in3 sloping, steep drop to nowhere single track road can be....some of the rest is enough to give the most experienced 4x4 drivers a good run for their money. I suppose you could liken some of the rougher bits to - well, I've never actually been in a piano while it fell down stairs, but I reckon the experience would be similar. Some of the sections would've been almost impossible to reverse and if we'd had a problem with the truck, difficult to extract from. However, this is what we came for and although we weren't expecting it, the difficulties - increasing as the route progresses - keep our interest firmly on the job of getting to the "idyllic camping spots" mentioned in the pace notes.
Daphne groans and protests loudly occasionally. Her shake, rattle and roll has us thrown around the cab and sometimes on the edge of our seats, craning to pick out the best line. She tiptoes across rocks that are as big as armchairs, all jumbled and angled every which way, and we try to make sure that none of her vulnerable underbelly gets too close to them. Occasional squeals mark our lack of total success. At the bottom of a particularly gnarly-looking ascent up a narrow gully, we debate who's going to drive, and who will guide.
Sue adopts that "don't look at me like that" expression, and gets out to do the talking. Or should I say yelling, waving and generally jumping about looking "interested". As the difficulties ease a bit and we've still got all the bits attached as designed, Sue takes the camera to record the rest of the climb. Of course, the results do no justice to the experience - a bit like the fisherman's best catch - no-one else will believe it, but we were there, and it was a real white-knuckle ride, believe me. Once we'd got to the top, M spent a good 20 minutes crawling about underneath, making sure everything was "all present and correct."
We have to do some surgery on my step, a headlight is cracked in several places and only held together by the beam converter stick-on thing but everything else seems to be in the same state as it started in.
We could camp here,
but Sue is worried that the difficulties aren't over and doesn't want to spend the night worrying about what might be coming, so we press on to the point where "at 2437m the track is better now". The altimeter shows us at 2350, so we've a bit to go. We anticipate nothing much else to slow us down; M's quote "Well, it couldn't get any worse than that, could it?"
Oh yes, it can.
However, you're probably getting tired of this gripping tale now - we were beginning to get a bit ragged about the edges as well. We decided that the crew deserved a double issue of rum and these went down in one gulp once we'd made it to what was, in truth, a fantastic situation in which to spend a night out. At over 8000 feet above the sea, a crystal clear sky and a silence so profound you might almost think that you'd gone stone deaf. We took a glass of wine each and took the time to sit and watch the sun go down over the mountains, aware for the moment of the earth's turning....
Hello Moon.
Drive to Taroudant. The Rough Guide has good things to say about this place, and we need a break from driving, a "civilised" cup of coffee and an ATM. There's also an ancient Kasbah that's said to be worth a visit, and the town has both an Arab and Berber souk on every day of the week, which is a bonus as today is the Muslim "Sunday" and a lot of places may be closed.
We decide, on arrival, to chance a drive into the centre of town. We know this is going to be fraught with hazard but, equipped with Garmin and compass, we are prepared for the worst. We get it. Satnav shows streets, does not show one-way systems, dead donkeys in the middle of the road, holes where the road ought to be, broken down cars and corners/junctions whose radius is shorter than the turning circle of a Landrover. Which is, to be fair, about that of the Ark Royal.
Fun over, we retreat to the edge of town and park next to the old town walls and kasbah. Stroll about, take pictures, get a Good Feeling about this place. Everyone is friendly. Two young women approach us and we are on our guard; unfairly. They welcome us to their town and hope we have a good day. Shake our hands, and move on. We are refreshed. A minute later, M takes a photo of the huge entrance gates to the Ksar, and a bloke appears from the shadows, whingeing about "permission"...The coffee is good, though, and we head off into town to find a Hole In The Wall to replenish our cash.
Having found the "money souk", we make our tourist credentials blindingly obvious by looking for a bank that isn't closed. A helpful passer-by suggests that we'd be better off finding our way to the central square, where there are ATMs, as the banks are all closed today. He'll show us the way. Cynics among you will hear the Alarm Bells ringing now, as we did. We explained that "Nous avons besoin d'un guide" but our helper is insistent that he's helping us out from the goodness of his heart, and no money need change hands.
Right. Anyway, he leads us through a maze of narrow streets all packed with humanity going about the business of making or spending money.
The atmosphere is, to be blunt, medieval. The noise, smells and general atmosphere are redolent of a scene from a Crusader movie. We try to keep tabs on where we are and Mike often glances back to fix a scene or two in memory much like Hansel and his breadcrumbs. If this bloke drops us, we may have trouble getting out of here, it really is a rabbit warren.
We are safely delivered to the ATM, after which we are invited to visit our friend's family business, which produces and markets herbal products. OK, we'll play along. This was always going to happen. We do the necessary, play the game, and as our guide delivers us safely within walking distance of Daphne, offer him 50dh "for the children". The money, and him, are gone in the blink of an eye.
We head out of town, and towards our route into the hills. On the way out of town we pass a convoy of British 4x4s coming in. They're all nose-to-tail like a trail of ducks behind their Tour Guide. One of the ducks is clearly lame and is attached to it's mate by a towrope, like an umbilical. We hope that this isn't somebody's holiday ruined. It reminds us though, that what we're doing hasn't the Comfort Blanket of an organised group. If it all goes to rats, we'll have to sort it out ourselves.
Our chosen route is "a thrilling traversal up and over the highest driveable point in the Jebel Sirwa" and "the tracks in Morocco exist primarily for local people to get around in normal cars". These two quotes are from Scott. This encourages us to set out on what we expect will be a gentle scenic drive across Alpine meadows, with a quiet spot to spend the night. Oh how the Brits have mastered the art of understatement!
I don't know what the route was like when Mr Scott wrote his guidebook, but I would suggest a few amendments to the route description based on the nail-biting, heart-thumping rollercoaster that we experienced. While some of the route is completely benign - or as much as a hairpin bendy, 1in3 sloping, steep drop to nowhere single track road can be....some of the rest is enough to give the most experienced 4x4 drivers a good run for their money. I suppose you could liken some of the rougher bits to - well, I've never actually been in a piano while it fell down stairs, but I reckon the experience would be similar. Some of the sections would've been almost impossible to reverse and if we'd had a problem with the truck, difficult to extract from. However, this is what we came for and although we weren't expecting it, the difficulties - increasing as the route progresses - keep our interest firmly on the job of getting to the "idyllic camping spots" mentioned in the pace notes.
Daphne groans and protests loudly occasionally. Her shake, rattle and roll has us thrown around the cab and sometimes on the edge of our seats, craning to pick out the best line. She tiptoes across rocks that are as big as armchairs, all jumbled and angled every which way, and we try to make sure that none of her vulnerable underbelly gets too close to them. Occasional squeals mark our lack of total success. At the bottom of a particularly gnarly-looking ascent up a narrow gully, we debate who's going to drive, and who will guide.
Sue adopts that "don't look at me like that" expression, and gets out to do the talking. Or should I say yelling, waving and generally jumping about looking "interested". As the difficulties ease a bit and we've still got all the bits attached as designed, Sue takes the camera to record the rest of the climb. Of course, the results do no justice to the experience - a bit like the fisherman's best catch - no-one else will believe it, but we were there, and it was a real white-knuckle ride, believe me. Once we'd got to the top, M spent a good 20 minutes crawling about underneath, making sure everything was "all present and correct."
We have to do some surgery on my step, a headlight is cracked in several places and only held together by the beam converter stick-on thing but everything else seems to be in the same state as it started in.
We could camp here,
but Sue is worried that the difficulties aren't over and doesn't want to spend the night worrying about what might be coming, so we press on to the point where "at 2437m the track is better now". The altimeter shows us at 2350, so we've a bit to go. We anticipate nothing much else to slow us down; M's quote "Well, it couldn't get any worse than that, could it?"
Oh yes, it can.
However, you're probably getting tired of this gripping tale now - we were beginning to get a bit ragged about the edges as well. We decided that the crew deserved a double issue of rum and these went down in one gulp once we'd made it to what was, in truth, a fantastic situation in which to spend a night out. At over 8000 feet above the sea, a crystal clear sky and a silence so profound you might almost think that you'd gone stone deaf. We took a glass of wine each and took the time to sit and watch the sun go down over the mountains, aware for the moment of the earth's turning....
Hello Moon.
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