Zagora - MOROCCO
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 This morning we bit the dust early and headed south in order to visit the small towns of Amezrou, Tamegroute, and our first glimpse of the Sahara. The drive to Amezrou took no more than 5 minutes and was surrounded with the stoney desert we are becoming so familiar with. All generations mingled by the roadside on the way to their daily chores and didn't seem to be bothered by the small cloud of dust whipping by. It's home to a Jewish quarter and silver trade, but the fortified walls of the ksar surrounding the village did not look too welcoming and we decided to move on. Stoney hammada and telegraph poles went on as far as the eye could see and on our right were the fertile oases along the Draa River strung with date palms and other bits of luscious vegetation. There was such an unbelievable contrast between the two that it was hard to believe that it was naturally sculpted.
The village of Tamegroute turned out to be rather similar to Amezrou and we
did pass the display of artwork from a surrealist artist of the Sahara, who
cornered us last night. His work was utter rubbish, a kind of palatial vomit
tone that had no appeal at all. At least he was trying to make a living,
unlike the millions of unscrupulous touts and hustlers, so much a part of
tourist Morocco. Five kilometres south of Tamegroute lies the first small
Saharan dunes, although nothing like the great Erg Chebbi, which we'll see
in a few days. One or two small dunes rise out of the hammada and that's the
taste of Sahara you receive!
After turning the car around to start heading back a Berber shepherd and a herd of goats streamed towards the roadside. What a photo opportunity! The shepherd was a female dressed in some lively Berber colours and it wasn't long before she came over to talk to us. She only spoke Berber, which made the conversation difficult and Dave offered her ten Dirham for a photograph. Although she could not understand why he wanted her in it? I yelled out "Merci Madame" from the car and she came over, obviously unable to understand what I was saying. I shook her hand and patted my heart in honourable Berber fashion and from her dirt ridden face gleamed a smile of a lifetime of tooth decay, and a friendship was bound never to be forgotten. It was here where we'd infiltrated the soul of Morocco, past the shell of dirty scoundrels and rotten liars. This short encounter warmed my heart and prospered a new opinion on the Moroccan nation - one we were so desperate to find.
After a long goodbye and watching her disappear into the distance, we drove
a kilometre up the road and parked the car by the roadside in the hammada.
Just a few hundred metres away lay the ruins of a village, mud bricked walls
had crumbled and mostly foundations remained. Behind this lay a palmary that
stretched along the river as far as the eye could see and it was here where
we decided to get lost. A crisp breeze blew in from under the palms and on
the ground grew a complete microcosm from irrigating channels to small
sprouting plants and where blankets of green would cover a sandy soil that
only a few minutes ago was part of the hammada desert. We passed a man on a
donkey returning to town and a small boy working dramatically in order to
maintain an overflowing irrigation channel. His donkey nestled quietly in the
shade with not a care in the world.
For half an hour we followed the tracks within the palmary in constant vision of a water supply in the channels, but no sight or sound of the life-giving river Draa. Although we never did find it, the laden palms were a wondrous sight with ripe dates worthy of a great feast. Unfortunately they were too high up and who knows what they do the date "nickers". Whilst heading southwards we came to the main track and were past by some young lads on donkeys, who were keen to make friends. It wasn't long before he offered to "show us his home" and from then on we knew that their interests intruded into our pockets. We followed the path back out to the ruins whilst enjoying conversing in French to our new young friend. Although unlike others they said goodbye on a positive note and wished us well. The stoney desert soon opened its jaws upon us and we made our way across this harsh landscape towards the car.
The drive back from Zagora to Ouarzazate was again spectacular, especially
the parts we missed last evening. The first one hundred kilometres is dotted
with hundreds of kasbahs surrounded by a continuous stream of palmeries and
oases all fed by the Draa river. All kinds of life bustled from the
roadside from the friendly waves of villagers, donkeys laden with all sorts
of goods (often causing traffic chaos) to grand taxis careering through
the streets - dodging all in their way - and as you'd leave the smiles of
young ladies washing clothes in the stream would make your visit complete.
The dry and rugged expanses north of Agdz towards Ouarzazate were overly stupendous a second time around and were worth it for the complete and utter loneliness felt from being the only souls on the road. Amazingly one or two times we would encounter a Berber family on the roadside - perhaps to watch all the action, but we could not fathom where they came from or lived, as we'd encounter them in the most inhospitable places. These days in an ever increasing population you're never really alone!
The cheap and tasty restaurant in Ouarzazate that serves omelettes watered
our appetites and after picking up a few goodies from the supermarket we
devoured a cheese omelette and a large squeezed orange juice. The afternoons
journey took us north-east of Ouarzazate through the barren Dades Valley,
where to one side the rugged High Atlas lie and to the other the Jebel Sarho
range. Flat-top mesas adorn a landscape clustered with dry grasses and the
very odd Kasbah or Ksar. Some oases began some forty kilometres down the
road, which offered a haven to all forms of life. From here the villages
sprawled from one to another, each giving us a warm welcome as we passed
through. Although we always get stuck in suburbia in peak hour, where the
villages cast off their sleepy atmospheres as the workers return home or
socialise in the street. Then the bustle, more manic than any large city
begins. The hours around dusk are like opening a can of worms and being
surrounded by the curiosities of many generations.
Nearing Boumalne du Dades we pulled off the road to look at the guidebooks listing of places to stay and it wasn't long before a horde of children, returning from school came over to join us. Each poking and pressing their heads against the window and yelling eagerly. Smiles abounded and as the setting of the sun had cooled the earth, my breath began to fog the window in which I would stencil in the letters of my name. Like good students they would sing each letter out aloud and were clapping their hands in excitement when they could say my name. They desperately wanted me to wind the window down. Smartly I declined.
As the car moved down the road the children began to run after us and
desperately try to grab onto the car. Our Fiat Uno proved its worth and we
sped off towards Boumalne du Dades waving goodbye to our new found friends.
The town turned a magnificent rainbow of colours as the sun began to set.
Indeed its location on the hillside was a real draw-card and when we
eventually found a hotel room the balcony looked over the valley. We even
bargained the room price from 150 to 130 Dirham and received an en-suite and
balcony. Although in an entrepreneurial fashion the proprietor was trying to
force us into eating there, by having us order from the menu as we checked in
- Unbelievable!
By 8pm we set off from the hotel, throwing a cheeky smile to the proprietor as we left and hopped into the car to begin a journey that ended up next door. The Ksar restaurant was difficult to find as it included some 800 metres of off-road driving to a lonely light. The restaurant was laid out in Moroccan style with plush fabrics. The waiter served us a sumptuous three course menu - the usual soup, chicken tagine and a desert consisting of mandarins. As we were all about to retire for the evening some Berber musicians came out to play a mesmerising rhythm of drums and we set in for an evening of entertainment. We retired by 11pm and returned to our palatial room to savour its delights. |
