Part 12
Morocco nearly the end
It’s 7:45 in the morning, and I’m standing overlooking the High Atlas Mountains, with the sun yet to find its way up over them. I’m looking at a mule having his breakfast and listening to roosters crowing everywhere in this strange, bizarre, random part of the world, where people survive in deserts and in caves on the sides of hills, and in crowded, teeming cities. A multitude of religions and families doing what their forebears had done every day — living as best they can, and in the only way they know how.
This trip has been challenging, and it continues to be challenging for me personally. I think back to the so-called beautiful travel day to the part of the Sahara called Merzouga, followed by two nights in what was, for all intents and purposes, a charming oasis hotel — huge rooms, functioning air-conditioning and two swimming pools.
It’s hard to put a name to the sense of “get me out of here” that I felt at that point. It was a combination of things: the heat, the sand, the smells, the food — which here was not fabulous — and the knowledge that I still had another week ahead. This was going to be a very long fortnight.
When I met up with Anna and Jeremy in Aachen, Anna told me she was ready to go home. They had been travelling less than a month, pushing themselves through visits to major cities and taking in as much as they could. It’s an exhausting business.
I felt I had organised my itinerary quite effectively, but I hadn’t really thought about the time factor with Morocco. That so-called lovely driving day to Merzouga brought home to me the bleak lifestyle endured by many of the people living there. I felt I needed to quell those rather sinister feelings of wanting to escape and instead embrace the extraordinary stories of human survival that the place offered.
The full day started with an optional paid 4WD trip to a nomad camp in the sandhills. Years ago in Dubai, Ron and I had done the selfsame thing and, I’m afraid, a sand dune is a sand dune — Sahara or no Sahara. So I waved goodbye to my younger companions and opted for a quiet stroll in the immediate vicinity of the hotel.
I wore sandals, as that seemed to be the predominant footwear, and circumnavigated the hotel. At times it was more a dance than a stroll. Even at ten in the morning the sand is very hot, and my sandals offered little protection.
I came across the local mob of sheep sheltering from the relentless sun. They were not particularly pleased to see me, but I am fascinated by the local animals — not the cats or dogs so much, but the sheep, goats, donkeys, mules and camels. They are enchanting.
I did make the effort and joined the dutifully slow and ponderous trek aboard a long-suffering camel to an identified “sunset watching” spot. The sun, however, chose to make that day’s exit behind a curtain of thoroughly uninteresting clouds.
The others chose to navigate a couple of dunes on foot. I stayed back and chatted with my very talkative camel man. He was young, in his twenties, and told me he had been born and bred in the Sahara. What a diverse and resilient people these nomads are.
I asked him how he knew his way around. To me, a sand dune is a sand dune. He told me it was a bit like being born in a big city. You grow up finding your way around by whatever means, recognising local features and landmarks. The desert is the same. To him, every sand dune is different.
Once we left the bleakness of Merzouga and headed to Todra Gorge, with its extraordinary landscape, and from there eventually towards Essaouira, my mood lifted. It’s a weird feeling — almost one of entrapment — and I have experienced it on a few occasions in my life. Perhaps it is a kind of culture shock. There is only so much sand, heat and bland bread I can stomach. And, really, it does come down to that.
Two weeks in a developing country at the end of a seven-week trip has been a long haul. In hindsight, I would have given Italy more time and opted for a shorter, quicker run around Morocco. Not because I didn’t like what I saw or enjoy what we did. It’s more that the intensity of every day eventually catches up with you.
In Iceland I travelled with a group of nine, and we got on really well. Here in Morocco I am in a group of four. It is a very small group, and the dynamic is completely different.
Unfortunately, there is a woman from Calgary, Canada, who seems to feel the need to articulate audibly every thought that flows through her head. It has, at times, had quite an impact on my level of enjoyment, and yesterday we had a few words.
I had become particularly tired of her constant references to her daughter and every move her daughter makes. Yesterday morning she was coming down from a walk up to some mountain inn somewhere and said, “Oh, I miss my daughter.”
I could — and perhaps should — have let it go. But I said, “I miss my son. And you get to go home and hug your daughter.”
And I kept walking.
I was thoroughly pissed off. When I caught up with Youssef, I told him what had happened. In a blink she was marching up behind me carrying on like a busted arse. However, I don’t know whether she realised herself, or whether somebody said something to her, but over the following 24 hours she was much more respectful.
The difficulty, of course, is that there are three young people and one old person. That is something I would have to give some thought to with future travel, should there be any. The whole episode was unpleasant, and I felt quite disturbed afterwards. Different people. Different opinions.
Coming back to the High Atlas Mountains and our lodgings, accessible only by mule or by our own two feet, last night was fun. After we stopped for lunch there was a massive storm. We could see it coming, and the rain fell heavily on this side of the mountain range. It became wet and slippery underfoot, but as it turned out we were able to get cars part of the way up and, where the road ended, our overnight bags were loaded onto the mule.
Entertainment for the evening was card games. It turned into one of the best nights I think I’ve had here. I slept like a baby. It was the multitude of roosters that woke me.
Morocco is a beautiful place in many ways. But the biggest and most intense sense of disappointment I have felt — despite the World Heritage listing of so much of its historic landscape — has been the total disregard for the environment.
Youssef, our guide, is delightful and has been one of the highlights of this particular trip for me. My travel companions are a mixed bunch. As I said, I really can’t come at Kim. Dakota is fine in a slightly weird kind of way. And Manisha, a lovely young woman from India who lives in Vancouver, is just delightful. She is a real adventurer.
She is coming back here to trek to the base camp of the highest mountain and then on from there. She is very much into this trekking business and has been travelling for a long time. She even drove around Iceland car-camping.
The mess. Everywhere.
You name it: empty wrappers, plastic bottles, rubbish of every description. Just throw it.
I simply don’t get it. I don’t understand why. When you live in an environment this extraordinary, surely it can’t be that difficult to pick your rubbish up. But that is how it is.
From the very beginning in Chefchaouen I have commented on the mess, and it hasn’t changed. Yesterday we stopped in this crazy little place for a barbecue lunch beside the river with local people, and everyone was simply surrounded by rubbish.(photos above)
And that, for me, has really spoiled something that otherwise could have been quite extraordinary.
