Merzouga - MOROCCO
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You know you've stayed too long when a cup of coffee and jam on toast becomes blase. We yearned to be thrown back into the Moroccan pig-pen of life. Last night Francoise mentioned that she was going in to Erfoud and asked if we'd like a life. Thankfully we didn't have to stand outside the village carpet shop waiting for a taxi that may not turn up!! Especially after Hussain's outburst. The plan was to spend a day on the road from the Sahara, across the snowy white Atlas and into Fez. A ride in Francoise's jeep turned out to be more than we bargained for. I've never seen a vehicle whose interior was coated more with fine dust and as we sped out across the stony hammada I found myself regularly hitting the roof over bumps and inhaling gobfulls of dust. If you thought our journey to Merzouga in the rental was frightening you should have seen us now. After being dropped off at a small ticket office and into the clutches of money-hungry Moroccans we found that the 11am bus to Fez was cancelled due to a heavy snowstorm on the pass. It seemed like some kind of sick joke. Here we were boiling in the Saharan sun and two to three hours away snow had blocked the road. Well that was the end of that story and it wasn't long before we were sitting in a Grand Taxi, burning heavy diesel towards El-Rachidia on the main road to Fez. Now a description of these taxis is one not to leave untouched. After haggling mercilessly with the driver we got into the back of his old 60's Mercedes and to our surprise found the anatomy of five other beings already crammed in. By the time I squeezed in and shut the door my seat became the arm rest. We sped off creating a storm of dust over the souq, and the driver barrelled on northwards with three passengers in the front and four in the back. The decor left much to be desired, it must have been impossible for the driver to see the road through all his hanging paraphernalia and to reach the pedals in a seat that couldn't be more broken. To most Moroccans this is their only means of travel and it was good to absorb the atmosphere and lives of the people who shared the ride. For the whole journey a man in the back spoke constantly in his loudest voice, the driver regularly turning around to join in for long periods. The lady next to Dave looked like she was going to throw up on every two-wheeled corner. Indeed, it was an experience. We arrived at the El-Rachidia bus station, fending off two or three locals with the sheer force of swinging backpacks and made our way alone to the ticket office. Thankfully a bus was leaving in fifteen minutes and after dumping the bags in the luggage compartment I went to find a toilet. The guard pointed one out in the corner and as I walked across the open courtyard a grotty little attendant threw me the evillest look. "Un Dirham", he yelled in poor French. I tried to tell him that I was busting and that my friend would pay once he returned to the bus. "No, no, no!", he fumed, waving his arms in the air, catching the attention of everyone there. This screaming match continued for a few minutes until I found Dave and then one Dirham was thrown at him. I've never gone through such an ordeal to use a toilet, or what could be better described as a pit. If anything's going to happen you can guarantee it will occur in Morocco and as the dirty, rickety bus pulled away from the station I wondered if this journey was to be my last. As far as we could tell the pass was now open or I assume we'll all spend the night in a cold bus waiting for the thaw. El-Rachidia to Fez is a five hour journey and one full of all the majesty of a varied landscape. The hammada and flat-top mesas first stretched across the plains and the monotony was broken up by the odd mud-brick village, with a handful of colourful peasants going about the business of the day. For what seemed like an eternity we climbed the Middle Atlas and began to see patches of snow on the high peaks. In the villages here the people were decked out with beanies and gloves, in such a contrast to our Saharan pals. Donkeys were again in abundance and one was even ploughing dirt in a field that was mostly iced over. After slowing down at a fork in the road a shouting match occurred between the ticket boy and bus driver. It turned out that the pass seemed a bit dodgy. We then took the narrower of the two roads and continued at 120km/hr, pulling across into the shoulder of dirt to pass other trucks and cars. This journey was every bit as frightening as the one from Marrakesh and Dave and I caught ourselves making emergency exit strategies. By this late stage of the afternoon the temperature in the bus dropped and it was like travelling in an icebox, or perhaps a waiting drawer at the morgue. In addition to this the journey was made even more difficult by almost being able to sit on a seat due to riding camels. After sunset the journey became more like a theme park ride - one which you couldn't stop. The water and frost that covered the roads had turned to ice and from my window I could see it glistening below. Every bend from here on was the luck of the draw and I am unable to describe the elation felt once descending the Middle Atlas towards the lights of Fez. A five hour journey turned into seven and after alighting he bus in a thin jumper and jeans I felt the wrath of the true Moroccan winter. It's a whole new ball game cruising down the street with you face blue, teeth chattering, trying to fend off a whole new horde of friends. One persistent man in a tweed business suit couldn't take no for an answer and I was forced to tell him to go away. There's no fun in "the game" when you're busy trying to fend off hypothermia. Across from the bus station stood the wondrous medieval walls of Fez and from inside you could hear all the mesmerising sounds of the souq and medina. Old men crushed you against walls as they forced their laden donkeys down the narrowing streets and the stench of rotting vegetables wafted out of the gutters. Life teemed out of every available space and, like Marrakesh, never have I seen more hustlers and lunatics squeezed into one space. Dave and I were a bit of a novelty in low season and it was only a few "salesmen" that tried, unsuccessfully, to empty our wallets. Yet again the touts would be saying "Hello. You don't want to go in there alone. There are very bad men. It's very dangerous". "Thanks, but we like a challenge", would be our reply. Within minutes we were already lost and we hadn't even entered the medina proper. Luckily a hustler shouted out the name of our intended hotel and pointed his finger further down the alley. Like a small beacon at night beside a small square and the beautifully tiled gate of Bab Bou Jeloud stood the Hotel Cascade. It had seen better days but it was renowned for its hot running water, unlike any others in the medina. The room we were given was above a busy street and all throughout the later hours of the evening sang out a multitude of sounds, from cassette players to locals in the streets and motorcycles passing. The hybrid of life lay only a footstep away from my door and I eagerly fell asleep looking forward to discovering the world's largest labyrinth - Fes el-Bali. |