Boumalne du Dades - MOROCCO
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 The view that graced us this morning was breathtaking as the colours of the morning sun danced through the valley. The air was very crisp and the bustle in the valley below was set in for the day, well before we rose.
Today we are driving to the Dades Valley and Todra Gorge, each adorned with a
treasure trove of High Atlas mountains, palmeries, oases, fertile farms with
women in traditional dress ploughing and collecting in the fields, villages
framed by ksars and red earthen kasbahs, and more breathtaking scenery than
you can poke a stick at. The car is do invaluable here and we set of from
Boumalne mid-morning, passing all the usual donkeys, people and taxis that
line the streets. Just before leaving town we passed over the River Dades, a
slight trickle over a bed of rocks, and watched young ladies doing the family
washing.
As the road forked we began the journey up the winding Dades Valley, passing village upon village framed by the picturesque red rock formations of the High Atlas mountains. In such stark contrast to the wide plains below the odd impressive kasbah would emerge, and palmeries chock-a-block with date palms, almond and fig trees were filled with the sounds and colours of busy workers of all generations.
During the midday hours the villages were like ghost towns, devoid of any
movement or sound, and we continued along the rudimentary, ever-narrowing
road with the glistening water by our side. Finally we drove into a small
tourist village before the river carved through the narrowing gorge. We only
shared this site with other travellers, the local hoteliers, and a goat
herder. The tranquility echoed out around us and the calming sounds of
running water were in such contrast to the Morocco we know and love. Indeed
it is a country of variation.
The road led past the hotel and a small forking gorge and turned into dirt piste ascending the cliff-face in short zigzagging turns. Along the way an elderly gentleman was working on the road who, at the first glimpse of company, desperately tried to catch our attention to offer friendship and a cup of tea. We of course declined, so used to other deceitful Moroccans. After taking in the surrounding majesty and descending the piste we realised that perhaps we had made a mistake. He was such a rough yet gentle and hospitable man, and you could call him one of the real workers of Morocco. Just the person we were looking to spend some time with. Although we decided to carry on to the bottom and perhaps drive back up later to join him.
After throwing off the hoteliers and so called "friends wanting to help us"
(like wanting us to park in the hotel parking and having other youngsters
piping his exact words in concert) we made our way over the stepping stones
across the river and began a walk in a crevice off the main gorge. During the
rainy season obviously a torrent of water rushes through gathering all the
large stones at the bottom. To the side of us were a herd of goats as
sure-footed as can be, daringly hanging off ledges to get that one piece of
grass. Dave tried to photograph some but the shepherd jumped out onto a ledge
above us and shook his finger. Perhaps the devil really does steal the soul
in a picture, so we refrained. A hundred metres further on the gorge began to
narrow and we followed its winding dry path up and soon found ourselves far
away from it all. You could have heard a pin drop and we sat down on a rocky
ledge above the river bed and let the searing heat of the day seep through
our skin and the bright red ochre tones of the gorge walls blind the eyes. A
bottle of coke with a funny Arabic label went down like a dream and we
continued back down the river bed, catching a sneak photo of a few stray
goats.
The emerald river flowing through the gorge proper was so enticing but unfortunately its temperature was freezing. The best thing about Morocco in winter is that the sun is always shining, the sky is stark blue, and the crisp winds that sometimes blow through can be combatted with a jumper or two.
On returning to the car we declined the idle hotelier and his "monkeys" on a
trip to their cafe and continued up the rough piste to hopefully find a new
friend - the elderly road grader. We could see him jump for joy as our car
turned the bend nearest him and we wound the window down to yell out a big
"Bonjour". He returned the greeting and ran up the hill as fast as his legs
would carry him to put on the tea. When we arrived he had lit a small fire to
boil the water and was washing out his one and only glass for his guests.
Although he never told us his name we found out about his family of eight children (one in Casablanca) that lived in the mountains three kilometres away, and of his lifestyle, all in rudimentary French. The tea he brewed was mint and it was some of the best we've tasted, pouring out of a seemingly never-ending pot. He was so happy to talk with us, especially about our lives (of which most Moroccans never bother to ask) and as he stood there in the sun in his well-worn trousers and tweed coat full of hundreds of holes we savoured the true and genuine hospitality of a local looking for no more than friendship. We offered him the glass and a chocolate wafer biscuit from our bag. He thanked us warmly and put it away in his bag (obviously to take home to his children). I guess this was the case and gave him a dozen more to put away making sure he had one for himself. His selfless gesture warmed my heart and I could imagine how happy his children must be in their mountain home with such lovely parents. Most children here are forced out onto the street to beg or steal money, but not his. They are cherished and encouraged to make a good life for themselves. Somehow we got talking about where we would be tonight (after the fourth cup of tea) and he offered his home to us, but we declined as we needed to press on to Todra Gorge and for the fact that the Fiat would never make it up the rough piste!
We spoke for a good half-an-hour, enjoying the surroundings and each others
company, whilst a few trucks filled to the brim with people ploughed back and
forth between towns. These trucks were a good thirty years old and it was a
wonder they could make it up the hill. After taking a photo of him and myself
arm-in-arm in riotous laughter Dave and I returned to the car. We pulled off
a u-turn on the hairpin bend whilst from below a smoking truck came
struggling up the hill and had to do a frightening hill-start in order
proceed. Although when they reached the flat on the bend a man jumped off the
back and topped up the water level, allowing them to continue up the next
piste. What a hair-raising sight! I thanked my lucky stars that we weren't on
it.
We waved goodbye to the road-grader and thanked him again for his hospitality, whilst he began the slow exercise of taking the stones across the road to flatten the surface.
After returning to the town happy as larks we picked up a local youth who was
hitch-hiking back to Boumalne du Dades to fix his cassette player. He asked
to be dropped off by the palmary one kilometre from town as it's not often he
gets to "walk through the greenery here". In Boumalne we picked up another
local in his twenties who needed a lift to Tinehir to return to the family
home. Tinehir was 50km away and is basically the closest neighbouring town.
We decided to take him as it's expensive and difficult for locals to travel
that way as there is nothing in between except stoney hammada. Houssain's
English was immaculate and we spoke almost the whole way about the silver
mines, police we passed, and a horde of other questions about Moroccans.
We reached Tinehir and dropped him off in the suburbs where he invited us to his home for dinner. The deal was to meet him at the Hotel Aslam in town "where we could stay if we wanted". Houssain could see that we were a bit apprehensive and said it was in return for a lift, although he did offer to "show us around Todra Gorge" if we liked, whatever that means. Dave and I declined but said that we would pass by the hotel to check it out later. Tinehir's not an inspiring town and almost any clean hotel would do.
The 15km drive up to Todra Gorge was spectacular. Firstly we ascended a
hillside overlooking old Tinehir in the valley and the many large palmeries
below, looking like a sea of green surrounding the river and dwarfing the
town. We then passed through villages where the locals were no strangers to
the vision of bus tour after bus tour after bus tour. As we drove by the
children did not wave but held out their hands and yelled for Dirhams or
bon-bons. This is what some tourists encourage and indeed it is a sad sight.
The villages all have pretty rudimentary housing and it's easy to put
yourself in their shoes, seeing shiny buses fill of wealthy westerners.
Tourism is usually good for the locals but brings no money or transactions to
these towns on the way to the gorge.
We paid a park ranger to park the car and were cornered by a few men working for the local hotelier. Dave thought it wouldn't hurt to check the hotel out as it was surrounded by a palmary and close to the tranquility of the gorge. I thought it was a dump and declined. After fobbing off the "you think about it, then come back" we continued along the road on foot to the river and where 300 metre cliff faces tower above. It was an awesome sight in the afternoon light, though the air was freezing. This towering monster curves around for about 800 metres before opening out into a small rugged stoney valley. Two hotels marred the vision of the centre of the gorge and whilst walking around the next deserted corner a man with donkeys passed us and set up by the stream. He looked like a real character from a poor background, although obviously familiar with the tourists camera. We gave him ten dirhams for the shot.
A piste led out the other side of the canyon and headed along the valley as
far as the eye could see. Dave and I sat by the river in a vegetable garden
dotted with palms and irrigation channels to watch the sun set over the
mountains. The light was spectacular as it danced across the valley walls and
at dusk we continued up the piste to see what lay around the corner. There
was more of the same so we returned to the gorges gaping mouth where a few
more people were mingling. The gorge, though very short, is certainly
spectacular but seemed well trodden by hordes of tourists, and is marred by
kiosks and hotels. I much prefer the Dades Gorge that seems to be a bit more
untouched by tourist enterprise and more in its natural element.
We shopped around hotels in Tinehir to no avail. It turns out all the hovels on earth are located here and supposedly have visitor's books "where other Australians have stayed with us and loved it", as one proprietor said as we entered the hallway passed a leaking pit toilet that left water all over the floor. On a dark bustling corner we ran into Houssain who was wondering if we were lost. He took us towards the medina to the family hotel which again wasn't to our standard (and we thought our standards were low). To our surprise he told us to choose a hotel that suited us and to meet him back there at 7:30pm. We'd thought that the "meet the family for dinner" trick was in order to get us to the hotel or to buy carpets. Anyway, we agreed heartily but still kept our wits about us as he may yet have an angle. Outside the busy medina walls lay Hotel de l'Avenir, it was five star compared to the others. The room contained comfy beds, colourful carpets, a shared warm shower, and clean western toilet.
We'd emptied out the car, ready for a quick dash in case Houssain's family
turns out to be other than we're expecting, and headed off to meet the man in
question. The Chakiri family home turned out to be about two kilometres from
the centre of town and lay in a dirt side street - one of many in this area.
The exterior walls were adorned with cement and the windows had the usual
grills in intricate Arabic designs, not allowing passers-by to peep through.
Muslims believe in having a very private life far from their public one.
Houssain mother (who's name I can't pronounce) came to the door. She wore a
smile from cheek to cheek and had a single decaying tooth perched on her
bottom gum, almost as though its sole use was to open cans. She was dressed
in the Berber tradition with a long colourful skirt and long sleeve top,
draped over with metres of black lace. The lady of the house welcomed us
heartily - "As-salaam 'alaykum" (peace upon you) and Houssain took time
messing around with keys to open a thin wooden door into a kind of sitting
salon. The room was very cold and the walls were made of cement. A football
picture cut-out from a magazine hung on one wall, half the floor was covered
with a plastic mat, a blanket or two was used for seating and on a cane shelf
sat a small cassette player. Whilst humming in Arabic Houssain took forever to
get it started and like all the other cassette players we've seen it was
missing a door. The music that blared out in sporadic intervals was Arabic
and in order for it to work a metal or plastic object needed to be balanced
on top. Every five minutes or so this would fall off and Houssain would fix it
without a care in the world. To him this is how things worked!
For half an hour we talked, mostly about his family's lives - we even got the family photographs which mainly consisted of pictures of his brother's fruit stall in the souq. He was so proud of the operation "Ah, those were his first Granada apples", watermelons, etc. The photographic paper was the oldest I've seen, and to him were treasured masterpieces, just like holiday photos are to us. In a sudden moment he jumped up and took me out into the kitchen to meet the women, Dave was not allowed an inch past the door, for male guests just do not go into the kitchen. The layout of the ground floor was of four or five rooms around a central courtyard, all adorned with cement, but the central area was painted in the most fluorescent of greens, yet the floor remained grey cement. The kitchen was of normal size and yet again Houssain's mother came to touch me with one of her most precious smiles and kept saying in Berber "your face is lovely" etc (in Houssain's translation she could of course be saying something very different). There I met Latifa, his only sister, a beautiful young girl with a face and set of teeth from a magazine cover. She spoke French and was a little easier to converse with than the mother, who kept laughing and smiling. The kitchen was very very rudimentary, in one corner lay everything - a gas bottle with attachable grill, two large mixing pots, a huge water bucket, a small old wooden table that didn't seem to have anything on it and a few pots and pans underneath. Couscous was the mail of the day (which Houssain said they eat four times a week) with vegetables and a piece of meat. It is said that an opportunity to eat couscous in the family home should not be avoided and indeed, this offer was now turning into an unforgettable experience comparable to nothing else. Latifa dealt with the couscous and mixed it forever in bowls then put it in a double-boiler type contraption over the flame. Another brother entered the kitchen who was unfortunately blind in one eye and deaf and it was hard to imagine how a disabled person fits into a Muslim family. It must be impossible for him to find work and I doubt he will ever obtain a wife as he has no prospects. He was treated much like a woman and expected to go fetch and clean things up. I spent a good twenty minutes alone in the kitchen with Latifa and Mrs C which was quite a challenge in French. Latifa was taken out of school a few years ago and now helps her mother. They seem to get up early to collect water and food for the day, prepare bread in the wood-fired oven for breakfast, look after animals and all the chores of the household, similar to mine but taking ten times as long to complete. They work hard for at least eighteen hours a day. There is no room for female slackers here. Houssain soon returned me to the salon, where delicious mint tea was served. We asked endless questions about his life, yet he did not once ask one of ours. As for interesting facts, the Muslim year is now 1417 (because of Mohammed's coming), Latifa left school at fifteen as parents believe that education is useless for girls, Mrs C only speaks Berber and refuses to speak Arabic as she dislikes its sound, and, as Muslims do not celebrate birthdays, Houssain did not know how old Latifa was, "at a guess, perhaps nineteen". I found all these sorts of things very fascinating and never have I come in contact with a group of people so different to myself - the gap was mind-boggling. Dinner was served in a huge dish and was well worth the wait. Houssain ate with us whilst the rest of the family ate separately. Thankfully we'd mastered the "no left hand usage" trick and would use a spoon first (each digging into separate corners of the dish) then use homemade bread to pick up portions, using our right hand only. For those of you who don't know Moroccans use their left hand to wash the nether regions after using a pit toilet. As you can see it would not be good manners to put your left hand in your mouth. Although you can break bread with both hands, as Houssain showed me. he must of thought I was a complete clot spending an eternity trying to break it against the table with one hand. You start with the vegetables and save the meat until last. We cleaned the plate and in a flash the brother returned to collect it. Now it was time to change the music to set the mood and before we knew it classic songs from the USA came blaring through the most clapped-out speakers - Hotel California, Dolly Parton, etc. It sounded so wrong to hear them here. We finished off the evening with a few cups of obligatory mint tea when Houssain began to usher us out the door at 10pm, mentioning a cafe. Mrs C and Latifa came rushing to the door to say their goodbyes and I gave both of them a hug and kiss as a sign of appreciation. We thanked them for their meal and were invited back to join them for breakfast tomorrow, which we heartily accepted. We gave Houssain a spin in the brand new rental car in the backstreets, although his driving (worse than mine) made my heart stop and I had to yell for him to "STOP!". The concepts of a straight line, caution after large rocks, and changing gears had not occurred to him. Although it must have been a thrill for someone who has almost nothing but the clothes on his back. He wouldn't even dare to dream of owning something like a car as it just does not happen. In the sticks the only cars on the road are grand taxis, tourist rentals, and just a handful of other cars. The gulf between our lives was so large and I now realised why he did not ask about ours, as in his mind he would think it was the same with only a differing religion. The cafe we went to was at a service station and whilst polishing off a coffee he whipped out his kif to smoke. The conversation died and he became even more dopey. Although whilst asking him how to tie a head-wrap he asked Dave "how many camels" for me - a joke obviously. Dave, knowing what's good for him, replied "more than anyone could possibly own". Houssain returned to town with us, apparently to meet a friend and he asked to borrow twenty Dirham which he swore to return tomorrow. We figured two dollars wasn't too much to lose for such a great evening out. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet at his house sometime the next morning. Once retired to a more familiar scene in our room I lay in bed savouring the unforgettable memories of a brilliant Moroccan evening. One I shall never forget. |
