Ouarzazate - MOROCCO
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 We awoke this morning to the noise on the street - a barrage of polluting motorcycles, street vendors and unemployed youths looking for something to do. Yet another warm shower awaited and the rushing torrents of warm water poured over our skins. Although as soon as you turned the water off your skin would become very itchy and dry due to the fact that the water is full of chemicals to kill off any bugs. Ah the joys of foreign travel.
Our breakfast consisted of the omelette and orange juice of the Gods, bought
for a measly GBP0.40 at the restaurant/cafe we dined in last night.
By 9:30am we embarked upon a car rental mission. Last night our friendly receptionist so "helpfully" offered the hotels agency for 400DH a day plus 400DH one way drop off (in order for us to partake in the delights of camel trekking near the Algerian border). We were smart enough not to agree to his terms and staked out the big names. Budget lacked an agency in Erfoud (a large town 50km from the Saharan dunes) but did offer the price of 400DH a day. The man from Budget of course had a sister with an agency behind the souq and in a quick moment we were whisked to her lair. Her prices were marginally better, 350DH per day plus 350DH drop off, but her old beat up Renault sedan had clocked up 98000km and we could foresee a breakdown somewhere far out in the stony desert.
By midday we returned to the hotel to pick up our bags and were cornered by
the receptionist again. We politely told him that we'd found something
cheaper and to our advantage he bettered the price, now 330DH a day and 300DH
drop off fee. The gleaming Fiat Uno parked outside Tafukt Cars had clocked
only 4000km and without a smile or hint of excitement we took his offer. By
1pm the papers were signed, we agreed to meet him at Cafe Merzouga in Erfoud
to drop off the car and finally we were off on the open road. The car had
that "new car" smell and the added bonus of being a haven from all the
dangers and annoyances of the outside world.
The searing sun of midday set in as we came forth blowing dust and desert behind. The first landmark passed was the huge film sets and studio outside Ouarzazate, home to some of the filming of Lawrence of Arabia and Jesus of Nazareth. Even Martin Scorcese filmed parts of Kundun in this region as the unforgiving hammada, or stony desert, is somewhat reminiscent of Nepal.
We continued past small ochre-toned mud hut villages, forever passing small
children covered in all the dirt imaginable, waving feverishly at us as we
drove by. A small road off the main road to Marrakesh led us to Ait
Benhaddou, an oasis dotted with palmeries by the stony Ounila river bed. Its
kasbah and mud brick homes dominate the hillside and shine with all the tones
of red in the afternoon light. This is considered to be the most exotic and
best preserved in the region, thanks to the ongoing preservation poring in
from film-makers. It truly is a magnificent sight, especially from the ruins
that crown the hilltop. Although only th exteriors have been restored and as
you emerge into the courtyards you are presented with the crumbling remains
of another time. Only seven families live here now and two young girls from
one of them ardently followed us around the village, hoping for bon-bons,
Dirham, or just plain conversation. From the hillside we looked across the
town to find a multitude of busy builders make an amphitheatre structure,
complete with white columns, obviously for some up-and-coming movie.
Note by David: Two years later this turned out to be Gladiator.
On the way down we lost our new friends and wandered into a lonesome dark courtyard graced with a donkey, his shadow, and a lifetimes rubbish strewn around the edges. A family could be heard behind windows and doors. As we left the square a mangy cat caught our eyes and we followed its footsteps to a large crack in the door. Inside echoed large dark rooms, the noise of the family, and a hint of movement. The interior consisted of the most rudimentary structure and it was sad to see such squalor in the midst of "Hollywood wallets". On the other hand these people were happy and content with their lives, knowing no other, and I then began to think that they were more similar to us than I'd realised.
We left the village with a wave from an old crones hand and crossed the
trickle of river to the new village. Bustling with the events of the day, men
on donkeys, ladies washing in a concrete aqueduct and olive eyes peeping from
behind closed windows as we passed by.
After passing some souvenir stalls run by undemanding old gentlemen in peaked jellaba (Muslim long dress) we returned to the car. The cafe owner nearby anxiously was awaiting our return and made a bee-line for the car in order to "welcome us to Morocco". His scam fell through though as we could see in the Berber tent outside his cafe and knew what his welcome was actually about. After some small talk he said "Come and see my carpets, just to look" (another of their famous lines). "I couldn't possibly come and see your carpets as I don't have enough time. I'd need at least an hour", I replied. The man really was left gobsmacked as he knew we had to get to Zagora by dark and that we really didn't have a second to wait. It's so pleasurable to win the game and he even took defeat well by wishing us a safe journey!
The drive to Zagora via the magical Draa valley is worth every moment of
ploughing through hammada desert to reach its rich oasises. Between
Ouarzazate and Agdz the rocky, steep and bare hills rise out of the plain.
Every so often a small red-bricked Berber village emerges surrounded by small
palmeries. The people would often wave at us. Idle men in the street,
children and women carrying loads of vegetables, seemed so far removed from
the dishonest false hitchhikers that ply the area taking weary tourists to
their homes and ripping them off blind.
We ascended the Tizi-n-Tinfifft pass along a narrow and windy road, often dodging trucks driven by utter lunatics forcing us off the paved road and onto the shoulder. Though it was better to do this willingly as it saved having the front windows shattered. Often we'd see an entire windscreen shattered by the side of the road. The 100km between Agdz and Zagora is the most stunning as the raid often follows the winding River Draa, along the fertile valley which is filled with an abundance of palmeries, ochre-toned kasbahs, and busy Berber villages. The going was slow along this stretch, once part of the caravan route linking the Sahara and High Atlas, as the villagers tend to use the entire width of the road going about their business of the day. We'd often have to swerve around them and only the "grand taxis", or old Mercedes, would frighten them off the road. The sun set over this spectacular setting and between 6pm and 7pm the villagers packed the streets. This is the busiest time of the day - shepherds returning with their flocks, women from their afternoon washing in the rier, children returning from school, ever enthused by our passing by, and scores of old men and male youth sitting idle by the roadside, visible in firelight telling the stories of the day. The tones on the walls of kasbahs and villages turned red to brown to black and as night rolled in so did the Saharan sky, filled with billions of stars all reflecting light off the many palm trees. It was an evocative vision and finally we felt we'd entered a secluded corner of the earth. We rolled into Zagora nearing 8pm, passing the gates of the city and onto yet another Boulevard Mohammed V (the first sultan of the modern Moroccan nation). It seems to be the name of every high street in Morocco. We took the cheapest hotel available out of a choice of three, a kind of best-of-the-worst strategy. Before enjoying dinner we sussed out a camel trekking firm, complete with the standard cup of mint tea and explanations from four salesmen. They were just the kind of people we were looking for, with great guides, trip maps, professional photos and feature articles in international newspapers. The half-an-hour hard sell was worth it and we left with prime price knowledge, ready for the onslaught in Merzouga (near the Saharan dunes). As we emerged from their den the streets were deserted and all the restaurants were closing in good Muslim fashion! We then made the decision to splurge at one of the grand kasbahs turned hotel. It was decked out in the most exotic designs - red fabrics inlaid with gold thread decorated the walls, seating and table covers - and with the Arabic music you almost felt like a Persian King or Queen. In the blue corner of the restaurant sat our only neighbours - two Moroccan men adorned in fine jellaba and head-dresses in absolute hysterics. One was obviously smashed and the barman who sat down to join them would be constantly propping him up. It was such an unusual sight and it almost felt taboo after spending what seemed an eternity so far in Moroccan culture. Dinner was nothing short of an extravaganza. We started with Moroccan soup with bread, then out came the hugest ceramic dish filled with couscous with meat and vegetables which took and eternity to consume. To finish off we had a cup of strong coffee, paid the bill and left our Arabic friends, who had now toned down due the the fact that one was fully intoxicated. It's not a sight you're likely to see again in Morocco. We returned at 11pm to find the hotel doors locked. A local hiding in a dark alley helped us bang on the doors and the night clerk emerged from the depths of his room, reeking of kif. "Bon nuit Monsieur. Merci beaucoup", we replied and retired into the depths of our GBP 3 room, with only the comfort of a noise in the roof which I hoped would not emerge into the room overnight. |
