See the section for
Morocco of the Trento Bike Pages.
Morocco by bike - November 1994
By Andrea "Andrea is a guy's name in Italy" Casalotti ( andrea@mcmail.com), Thu, 20 Apr 1995
12:35:17 +0000
This is the diary of a solo trip I made in southern Morocco. From
Marrakech I crossed the Atlas, rode along the Draa valley to Zagora,
then coasted the Sahara to Tata and Akka. I then crossed the
anti-Atlas to reach Tiznit on the coast. I used the Michelin map. If
anyone is thinking of a similar trip I will be happy to provide
additional info.
Day 1 - 19th November
At the airport FX counter, the two Gibraltar sluts change a grand.
The guy doesn't accept my card, so I tender stg 70, all I have. I must
see if a hotel can advance some money (banks are closed). I enter the
walls of Marrakech: immediately I am engulfed by stalls, shops and
colours. I get some money and mandarins and I set off on the desert
plain. The Atlas stands majestically and magnetically in front of me.
I pass herds of goats, an attractive kasba and a dam. By now I know
that I will not make it before dark. A sense of fear is soon
dispelled. The sun sets in a flourish of red and I keep on pedalling.
It is only when I arrive at Cafe de France in Amizmiz, that I realise
that I pushed a bit hard. I feel feverish, but still able to enjoy my
first Moroccan meal: tajine was the name , but I am served first a big
tomatoes, peppers and sardines salad, then an omelette, followed by a
lamb tagine and a side order of chips. A few mandarins conclude the
feast eaten in the garden and washed down by my first and last beer.
Day 2 - 20th November
In the centre of town I have a liberating haircut. Then a young guy
invites me in his shop to try some tea: he adds some fresh mint,
brings it to the boil again and then adds a lingot of sugar. We chat:
he tells me how her Berber mother always refused to learn Arabic.
Berber men wear their long tunic with a hood, which can become a
pannier. I set off skirting the foot of the mountain; a lot of olive
trees, but in the valleys they are ploughing for wheat. I reach a
river where women collect water with beautiful jars. The slopes are
wooded and I climb to reach a col with beautiful views over a lush
valley. Great descent into Ourigane with its luxurious hotel. I have
this wonderful olive tagine cooked in lemon juice, followed by a
delicious apple pie. Then up the valley following the river. At times
it is quite narrow, but where it widens, it is quite well cultivated.
I reach Ijoukak with the last light as the muezzin tunes his call. So
much life in such a small high street. People playing cards, eating
tagines, changing buses, playing drums and singing, even a woman with
fishnet tights!
Day 3 - 21st November
It is Monday morning and from the terrace I watch children going to
school. I had left my door open to let the strong moon light come in
but so did the cold and at 8:30 when I set off, it is still intense.
First I follow a beautiful narrow valley, then I start the two hour
climb, always watched by the snow-capped Toubkal. After the pass, this
amazing valley, totally surrounded by mountains, opens up. Beyond it
is the Souss. The long descent is exhilarating, often broken up to let
the view sink in. Once in the middle of the valley, I stop to look at
a ruined ksour; next is a school and I don't need a lot to be
convinced by one of the teachers to spend the night there. He invites
me to take a steam bath. It is only when we are in the tiny domed hot
shower room, that he tells me about his black belt in aikido and how
he gets inspiration for his practice from the beautiful setting of the
village. As all village schools, the teachers come from some far big
city and live in spartan conditions in the school compound. After a
game of chess, we have a good lentil stew
Day 4 - 22nd November
The valley is famous for its honey, and I taste it with some local
bread. Then the piste takes me smoothly downhill, then up a col to
reach this forested plain, followed by a steep narrow valley. The
track is smooth, gently downhill, halfway up the steep slope: just
paradise, and it goes on and on. Finally I reach the plain and after
half an hour, a souk in full swing. I am directed to a restaurant
where my order of tagine is brought to my private chamber. I share it
with my guide who later shows me around the souk. The parking lot is
full of mules and asses. On one side they can be bought, a good one
costing 7-8000 dirhams (=$1,000) and lasting 30-40 years. Seems a
pretty good deal, considering how much they carry. I buy some dates
and watch the closing hour of the souk. People make their way back to
their villages as the sky turns red and the voice of the muezzin fills
the valley. My hosts spend the evening huddled in blankets in the
moonlit patio watching Moroccan music videos.
Day 5 - 23rd November
After a breakfast of dates and mandarins at a lovely spot by the
river, the path takes me through a surprisingly fertile valley, well
cultivated with plenty of irrigation. Then as I climb, it becomes ever
more arid with few trees among the thorny bushes. Wherever there is
some water a group of farms can be seen. The final climb is quite
steep and the sight of Askaoun, with its two mosques and the garden of
the palace of the caid is welcome. The souk section of the town is
vast with many shops but hardly any customers. I have a quick
omelette, find a room, look around the shops, and then, guided by the
local kids, including the caid's son, all very knowledgeable of world
capitals, even more of footballers, visit the hills around.
Contrasting the beauty of the plain with Toubkal in the background, is
the rubbish strewn next to the caid's palace. A cold wind begins to
rise which makes the slender telephone line go down. I meet Paul, a
charming researcher on soil erosion on his second winter in Askaoun.
He tells me of his adventures over a tagine in Cafe Seroua.
Day 6 - 24th November
The cold wind is still blowing mercilessly, and we have a hot barley
soup. The souk has a "High Noon" atmosphere with few souls venturing
across the central area. But by 9, the wind has died down, the sun is
starting to warm up and traders are starting to set up stalls. People
arrive by mule or by truck and by 10 the market is in full swing. Paul
does his weekly shop of fruit and vegetables, I linger by the date
seller with his many varieties. Stocked up with ready calories and the
wonderful local bread, I say good-bye to Paul and set off for the high
passes. It is a memorable journey with the piste rising first from an
arid plain to green carpeted ones. These are the summer pastures, but
on the way I see two or three shepherds with their flock. I climb to
2500m. then descend lightly to climb again to the final pass. In front
of me opens a magnificent view: A green valley with sheep and a
village in the distance; the valley is enclosed by two cliffs; beyond
them, in the distance the yellow and orange plains of the desert. I
start to descend; soon the track has to negotiate the deeply eroded
mountainside, so that, even if I see Tachokchte around 3, it will take
me an hour to wind around the deep gullies and reach it. At four
kilometres from the village, my tire slips and I fall, wounding my
hands. I am very fortunate: at the village, my host has a very well
equipped medical cabinet. He disinfects and covers my wounds and then
offers me a delicious tagine. By 9, I start to feel cold. Is it me or
is it the air?
Day 7 - 25th November
I feel unwell and my hands hurt. I still have some 40 kilometres of
piste before reaching the main road and the discomfort is balanced by
the sheer beauty of the landscape. Arid plains with fascinating
mountain shapes overlooked by Mount Seroua. Further down some areas
near dry river beds are ploughed, waiting for the rain. I reach the
main road at midday, resolve that I want to visit a hospital; after
some tea, I hitch a lift to Ouarzazate, where at the hospital my
wounds are well tended. I find a hotel, have a ramadan soup and crash
out in 40+ temperature
Day 8 - 26th November
Rest day - I change the tyre of the bike, visit the kasba, have a good
tagine, relax at the pool and rest. I am the only guest of this large
hotel until it is invaded by a coach load of Japanese.
Day 9 - 27th November
The road to the Draa is through arid hills occasionally crossing some
dry river beds. I pass a small caravan of camels and have breakfast by
some palms. After 40 km. the road rises to a col from where a magic
view opens: the green Draa valley snakes itself among amazingly
looking red mountains. The descent is long, twisty and exciting. At
Agdz I enjoy a good kebab with vegetables, then a merchant ensnares me
in his den, asking to translate some letter, and I end up buying a
beautiful Tuareg bracelet. Then in late afternoon a magic ride along
the Draa, with the golden colours of cultivated fields, the palms, the
kasbas and the glowing mountain sides: joy. When dark arrives, I stop
at a cafe, which offers me a room, or shall we say a carpet, and a
tagine. The out-door satellite TV is being zapped continuously,
rivalling in volume the one of the cafe across the road. Finally I let
MTV to the locals and take a walk under the starry sky
Day 10 - 28th November
Mornings are still cold, so I spend half an hour watching kids go to
school and sipping tea. Then I continue along the valley. I want to
visit a kasba, but it is closed, so I see a well appointed three
storey clay house in the village. The floor is a bit rubbery but very
solid. I reach Tinzouline where today is market day: very cramped,
lots of junk, everyone seems to have some facial defect, and where are
the women? Much more pleasant was a snack by a bend of the river
overlooking its turgid flow, the palms, the brown kasbas and the now
widening valley. Zagora is a large dusty town, and I find refuge at
the Fibule, where I have couscous by the pool watching a guy plucking
the dates and pruning the palms. I relax in the evening after my first
hot shower in a week.
Day 11 - 29th November
The Fibule is charming with a beautiful dining room. The sky is
threatening rain, and I set off for a circular tour. However, after
one and half hour of hard desert piste, I decide to get back. The
desert was lively with various plant life (it had rained heavily a
month earlier) most beautiful of which were some delicate white
flowers, As I get back to Zagora, I am trapped by Mustapha, the
Christian Dior pseudo- Tuareg merchant for whom I had translated a
letter yesterday, (by now I start to think it is a ploy). He spreads
out all these different carpets and then spreads himself over them
asking what my last price is for one for which I deigned interest. I
say "I will think about it", leave the shop to be greeted by rain.
After a siesta, during a tour of the town, everyone wants to invite me
for tea, but they are all sirens. I retreat to have couscous at the
Fibule.
Day 12 - 30th November
The sun is shining and I enjoy breakfast of bread and honey by the
pool. I then set off for a 15 km. desert ride to Tagounite to view the
koranic library. A few layabouts do the Marrakech hustle and I return
after viewing a few of the 4000 old texts, and the yard of a mosque
where some ill people spend a year in hope of being healed. Not a
wholly productive morning, especially because when I get to the souk
at 1 o'clock, they tell me that the truck to Foum Zguid had left an
hour earlier. There are a still a group of traders waiting for
transport to the halfway village. They (and I) hang around for a
couple of hours, only to see that the truck is only half the expected
size and the driver is having a hard time fitting the sheep, the sacks
of flour, box of chicks, the merchants, etc. Quick change of plan and
I catch the bus back up the Draa valley and as the sun sets I relive
those two beautiful days of riding.
Day 13 - 1st December
I set off early on a delightful piste: against a background of
two-tone mountains, villages in palm-rich oasis are dominated by
minarets. Then after some bleak mining countryside, an exhilarating
ride at the bottom of a twisting canyon, its stark contours contrasted
by the beauty of the oasis and occasional kasba. After 135 km I reach
Foum Zguid, which at first sight seems a charming desert outpost with
its portico square. It turns out to be a dump: after the sunset, the
generator is turned on, drowning the square with its noise; no-one is
willing to provide me a meal, everybody too busy watching Turkish
comedies and Italian soaps at the only bar.
Day 14 - 2nd December
Greeted by the news that the 140 km of piste to Tata have recently
being paved, I set off determined to cover the distance today. A good
wind is friendly pushing me on. The first half is through flat desert;
at one point I pass the carcass of a camel. Then the road reaches the
oasis of Tissint where there is a breach in the Bani mountain range.
The next 30 km are beautiful with bare mountains on the left and on
the right the palm-fringed dry river bed in front of a large plain and
the Anti-atlas behind. The approach to Tata is dramatic, with the town
framed by towering mountains and stormy clouds. By the time I settle
at the comfortable Tata hotels, it is pouring. Later I visit Tata, by
far the most charming town that I have seen, with its tiled porticoes.
I meet the local dude, who shows me his villa and friends; we all have
a wide selection of nuts, before a good tagine.
Day 15 - 3rd December
Again the clouds of the previous day have vanished. I meet Sluman and
friend for breakfast. Then, after watching the arrival by chopper of a
minister for the opening of the new mosque, we go for an exciting ride
through the palmery of a nearby village. I am then invited for lunch
when all the males quickly devour from the single tray a big plate of
beef and peas. The women are washing clothes next door. Nevertheless
I have a chance to thank and shake hands with the mother. I set off
for the 60 km. ride to Akka through sheer desert. At Akka, I find
solace from the drabness and dirt of the hotel/restaurant by watching
the sunset in the palmery.
Day 16 - 4th December
Akka's market turns out to be the most charming that I have seen. Just
outside, at eight o'clock knives were being sharpened at the small
abattoir; when the vet gave his OK there was no escape for a dozen
goats and an unlucky camel. The souk is divided into three sections,
the smallest hosting the wholesale date market, where merchants were
tasting the different varieties displayed in big piles. Leaving the
souk I meet Mouloud, a small man with a vast knowledge of the area,
and self-proclaimed protector of the hundreds of prehistoric engraved
rocks in the desert. I cycle a few km's. to this idyllic pond at the
edge of the oasis, where I sunbathe for an hour watching red
dragon-flies, a pair of white heron, small frogs, and in the distance
Berber women washing cloths. Then at 3:30 I have a rendezvous with
Mouloud at his village. We walk for more than an hour in the desert,
past burnt-out Algerian vehicles from the war, to reach a low ridge of
hills, where on top he shows me many samples of engraved rocks,
depicting elephants, rhinos, giraffes and, most beautiful, gazelles.
Not long ago there must have been a lot more water in this area. We
return to Mouloud's house where his mother serves a simple dish of
rice and milk.
Day 17 - 5th December
After a delicious barley soup and dates, I set off on the desert
highway, always assisted by the wind. After passing through a couple
of pretty oasis, I reach Tizguy, where I buy some bread and tomatoes
and lazily wait for Mouloud to arrive. He is delayed by his perennial
conflict with everyone in Akka, but at 2 o'clock we start our walk in
the desert. We pass a large herd (100+) of camels, a pretty, small
oasis, and then we get to the brick hut of a nomad, where we are going
to spend the night. We then go to a small lake nearby, where with the
sun ready to set, the big herd of camels arrive, drink a bit and
continues in their search for "green" pastures. A really beautiful
scene. We go back to the hut where he have an omelette with very good
bread. Mouloud doesn't appreciate some of the comments by the nomad,
whom he helped become guardian of some of the rocks, so we decide to
leave and return to the village in a mad ride in the night.
Day 18 - 6th December
I cross the Bani through a gorge and follow a nice wide valley on a
good track. There are a few trees with long menacing thorns. I cross
only one a man on his mule and a herd of camels. Then at the mouth of
a canyon Tadakoust appears, scenically perfect: the lush palmery, the
mud houses on the side of the mountain and on top of the red mountain
the ruin of the old fort. The teachers at the school are a riot and
they convince me to stay. A local youth shows me the way to the spring
deep in the canyon. Here I relax, bathe and soak the sun for a few
hours. Later I explore another arm of the canyon and return to the
school at sunset; here the party is in full swing: everybody is
dancing to the repetitive beat of Moroccan music, the session
interrupted by a good lentil soup. Later they surprise me by knowing
how to play Machiavelli, or Casse-tete. The dishes will be washed the
next day by the pupils: women are not allowed in the school compound
after a few years earlier two teachers were discovered bonking two
local girls: a chase in the mountains and a trial ensued; severe
punishment was avoided only because the act took place in the school,
i.e. the girls were partly to blame
Day 19 - 7th December
An early rise for the climb of the peak on which the fort is perched.
It was built as a look-out and as a granary. Parts of it are still in
good conditions and it commands a spectacular view over the village.
As we watch the women going to the fields, Mohamed tells me of his
life in Rabat still unsure of which he prefers. Back to the village
and I set off continuing yesterday morning's track passing some
Nomads' tents. After a couple of hours I rejoin the tarmac road,
which slowly climbs. When I reach the place where I think I should
turn off, I mistakenly ask confirmation to a young shepherd who
happens to need a ride. He tells me the turn-off is further down and
climbs on the pannier-rack. Not only he attracts a buzzing fly colony
thirsty of my sweat, but his sense of distance is so mistaken that a
conspiracy theory soon takes hold of me. After 10 km. from the
original three, I tell him to get off. I now have to approach Amtoudi
from a different track, which turns out quite pebbly and
uncomfortable. At the end I am spurred by a dramatic sunset. I reach
the hotel at dark; there are no guests, no electricity and no hot
water, but the sheets are clean. I walk in the village with the
caretaker to buy some provisions and he then cooks me a delicious
tomato omelette.
Day 20 - 8th December
The kids are going to school and Amin, the man with the key to the
fort is already tilling his plot. I therefore start climbing alone. It
takes about twenty minutes to reach the top and as I turn to see the
panorama, I see the rounded 50ish Amin climbing the last rocks: he
must have set a personal record. With the Berber key, he shoves his
arm through a hole next to the big door and opens the fort for me. It
is beautifully preserved, still holding many apiaries, but the bees
are gone. The view is splendid. Amin acts also as tourist rep and we
organise the rest of the day: with a picnic pack I start the walk up
the gorge, first through the palmery, then up nice rock formations,
until I reach an opening where a spring bathes palms, bamboos and
other shrubs, the birds sing and I find a perfectly smooth rock to
relax and attempt to smooth the sharp tan line of my cycling shorts.
When it gets too hot I slide down a rock into a pool of cool water.
Bliss. It is hard to leave this Eden, but Amin had arranged a tagine
at the village; so I return and in a charming courtyard, I have a
great meal. After a short nap, I find a spot up the slope to look at
the sunset. For dinner I am invited at the home of the restaurant
owner, where we share a big plate of chicken couscous, softened with
goat milk; delicious. In the middle of the night I wake up and sit on
the roof terrace for an hour, looking at the stars and the rising
moon. It is the last time I am offered such a spectacle.
Day 21 - 9th December
Amin has assured me that a track, not signed on the map, will reach
the Tiznit-Tinzouline road and that it is rough for only one hour. I
set off at dawn, and the track criss-crosses a dry riverbed up a
beautiful canyon. The pebbles are literally a pain in the bum. After
two hours I reach a village, with the usual teachers eager to share a
few words in French. I chose a beautiful spot to have a flat tire;
cycle past an amazing agadir, and keep climbing until I reach the
forbidding and arid plateau. Far on the horizon, the major peaks of
the Anti-Atlas. Mining has lead people to this inhospitable area, and
I start to see some of the pink painted houses. The track goes on and
on, finding a few pockets of green, until after a small col, a
magnificent valley opens up: reminiscent of the Cape, the land has
different colours from yellow to ochre, the villages are white and
pink, many with wind mills, and a beautiful mountains frames it; I
finish the last of my mandarins. The tarmac road is not far. The first
kilometres are lined with eucalyptus. Then, after a while I reach the
edge of the escarpment and the beauty of the vista is matched by the
exhilaration of the long winding spectacular downhill. Joy.
Impermanence was taught by the very long last fifteen kilometres to
Tiznit, a roller coast ride on an arid plain with the wind and the
setting sun blasting my face. In the walled city I have time for a
quick soup before boarding the bus to Marrakech. At one a.m. in the
middle of Allah-knows-where the bus stops at a refreshment area, with
its own butcher ready to supply the kebab sellers. It is only three
before we reach Marrakech and with the help of a con artist I find a
bedroom facing Jemaa el Fna.
Day 22 - 10th December
The square is waking up and the orange juice sellers are uncovering
their stalls. The bread women take their places. Olives, figs, spices,
mint, fruit are stacked up high. And then leather, wood, jewels,
carpets, plastic buckets,... Delicious pastries are preceded by a good
chick-pea soup. Hustle is minimal. I buy a silver bracelet, not
knowing how much I have over-paid. The last dirhams go into dried
figs. After three weeks I learned a bit of this country, but I am sure
that it will continue to surprise me.