22 October 2007
Ouzoud, Morocco
We arrived in Todra Gorge via the goat market in Rissani, a shitty lunch in Erfoud, and an unfortunate overnight in Tinerihr. We set out the following day to have a walk through the gorge, perhaps to visit the little villages along the way on the road to Tamtatouchte. After walking four or five kilometers, we flagged down a lorry to catch a lift to the next village for some mint tea. Moroccans stop if they have room in the car. People with few means are often always friendly, and always generous.
So we climbed into the back of the lorry, which was filled with cinder blocks. We sat right behind the cab, perched on the concrete, and banged on the roof to signal that we were ready. We held onto a metal bar to secure ourselves, and the lorry sped off down the gorge and into the valley ahead. The landscape is absolutely spectacular, the middle Atlas mountains spread out alongside the river valley, treeless because it is so arid.
We reached Tamtatouchte after a short while, but we were enjoying ourselves so much up there that we asked to go wherever they were going. About 30km further, they replied, to drop off the cinder blocks. And then back to Tinerihr. So we barreled on further, and there is no better ride through such a beautiful place than perched high on a lorry with nothing but the sky overhead. We stopped in a small village to unload, Adam and I bought peanuts in a little store and some cookies for the ubiquitous children who milled about and held our hands and showed off doing bicycle tricks. No hands, look!
We asked if there was a place for tea, and a man on the street offered to take us to his house in as there was no restaurant. As we walked along the road to his house, our two friends in the lorry drove up behind us to fetch us on their way back to Tinerihr. We climbed back on the truck, but the leftover cinder blew in our faces so we climbed into the cab instead, me on Adam's lap. A lot of the road had been washed away as it ran along the river bed. When the river swells, as it does every few years, it takes part of the road with it, leaving huge holes of exposed reinforced concrete clinging to the gorge walls, forcing the lorries and 4x4s to drive through the river and back onto the broken road. Really only safe for lorries, though. Walking along the road we saw a Dutch caravan get stuck in the water, subsequently soaking its engine and probably rendering it useless. They had three small children with them, all little blonde ones under the age of eight. Later we saw them being towed away by more Dutchies in a caravan.
We had had such good luck hitching that day we decided to fetch our bags from Todra and hitch to Imilchil, halfway to the Cascade d'Ouzoud. We left the next morning later than planned, as usual; waited for an hour with no luck and then got two rides at once. Adam flagged down a 4x4 witha German couple and two Moroccans, and I flagged down a piece of shit minibus full of people bound for Imilchil. We debated for a few minutes, finally deciding to take the bus and meet with the Germans later for a ride to Marrakech.
We asked the bus driver if we could ride on the roof, which everyone does not only in Morocco but all across the developing world. He said yes long enough to fix our packs to the roof, and then promptly changed his mind. Furious, we climbed into the bus, seating twelve, with no empty seats and a few extra heads. Adam squeezed into a four seater, now six with him, and I stood leaning against him with his knee supporting the rest of me. It was hot outside, but in the bus all the windows were closed and the people not smelling so fine. There are moments in life when I don't smell so good either, so I don't mean to be judgmental - but this particular smell was really intolerable. We went about 5km like this before I lost my mind and Adam told the driver to either let us up on the roof or let us off the bus and lose our fare. He let us onto the roof.
The minibus was flat-roofed, with a sort of topless cage affixed on top where all of the luggage is stowed, all held down by a net made of rope which is drawn tightly front to back, side to side. To ride on top, you climb up the ladder and squeeze your tusik between two bags. Then you wrap your legs through the net rope and find something stable to hold on to with your hands. Through the little mountain roads, one never goes very fast, so it is not as easy as it sounds to fall off. All things considered, it really is quite safe, unless the bus goes off the cliff. We did almost get a low-hanging electric wire in the mouth passing through Tamtatouchte, but missed it just in time. So other than that, it is pretty safe on the roof.
For the first two hours, winding through places called Tamzijn and Agoudal, we had an extraordinary time. The bus drove slowly and we waved at all the children we passed. We passed villages made of red mud, forts, minarets, all made of red earth. I smiled at Adam and counted my blessings, thinking how few people in the world would come to Morocco with me and ride on top of buses. He is the best travel partner, and he is always helping me. Not that I need help. He said to me the other day that I am one of the most capable people he knows. But I get tired of being capable. It means one is always working something - bargaining, haggling for a room, a taxi ride, a discount, directions, bus times, train schedules. Always something. But Adam and I share everything, including responsibility for each other. It has evolved that way between us.
And I think that he is always concerned for me here, in a Muslim country, with my head uncovered. He secretly thinks that I am going to be abducted and sold into sex slavery in Abu Dhabi. He lost me in the souk in Rissani the other day when I wandered off to look at leather pencil cases while he was tasting dates. As I walked past the stalls, every merchant came out and said "You're husband is looking for you!". When I caught up with him he grabbed me and hugged me and asked me never to wander off again. But I'm always wandering off. I'm still used to following my own rules. And Adam knows I never do what anyone tells me to do anyway.
After two hours on the roof, I shouted down to a child on the road asking how much further to Imilchil. Cinquante kilometres! he replied. Only half-way! One does get a bit windburned on the roof, especially once you cross the Atlas and descend into the opposite valley, straight away, with the wind whipping in your face at 70kph. Cold, too, even when the sun is shining. And the bag under your back begins to feel painful. I became totally exhausted after only three hours, so I held on more tightly and put my head down and tried to rest.
After four hours we arrived in Imilchil, crawled into a cafe with our long curls standing on end ordering two coffees a piece and scrambled eggs, which they served in the frying pan and which we would have eaten as well had they not cleared the table. To make a very long story short, we underestimated the distance between Todra Gorge and the Cascade d'Ouzoud. By a hell of a lot. And we chose to do the bulk of it off-piste, over the Atlas Mountains. It took us two days of constant travel to get to Ouzoud - from Todra to Imilchil, onto Aghbalal, stopping at El Ksiba, Beni Mellal, Azilal and finally Ouzoud.
We found an isolated little guest house on the opposite side of the cascade, which entails climbing down the mountain with your pack, crossing the river by a little hand-pulled boat, and climbing partway up the other side to a clearing with a beautiful piece of land. The shower is very clean and has a lot of hot water, and there is a Western loo and a Turkish loo from which to choose. We are staying in a bamboo hut with no electricity to bother with, and monkeys dance on our roof at night. Adam is off hiking, and I have stayed behind at a little table with grapevines on a trellis overhead, the cascade in front of me. It is beautiful to hear the waterfall at night, under the light of the full moon.
Ouzoud, Morocco
We arrived in Todra Gorge via the goat market in Rissani, a shitty lunch in Erfoud, and an unfortunate overnight in Tinerihr. We set out the following day to have a walk through the gorge, perhaps to visit the little villages along the way on the road to Tamtatouchte. After walking four or five kilometers, we flagged down a lorry to catch a lift to the next village for some mint tea. Moroccans stop if they have room in the car. People with few means are often always friendly, and always generous.
So we climbed into the back of the lorry, which was filled with cinder blocks. We sat right behind the cab, perched on the concrete, and banged on the roof to signal that we were ready. We held onto a metal bar to secure ourselves, and the lorry sped off down the gorge and into the valley ahead. The landscape is absolutely spectacular, the middle Atlas mountains spread out alongside the river valley, treeless because it is so arid.
We reached Tamtatouchte after a short while, but we were enjoying ourselves so much up there that we asked to go wherever they were going. About 30km further, they replied, to drop off the cinder blocks. And then back to Tinerihr. So we barreled on further, and there is no better ride through such a beautiful place than perched high on a lorry with nothing but the sky overhead. We stopped in a small village to unload, Adam and I bought peanuts in a little store and some cookies for the ubiquitous children who milled about and held our hands and showed off doing bicycle tricks. No hands, look!
We asked if there was a place for tea, and a man on the street offered to take us to his house in as there was no restaurant. As we walked along the road to his house, our two friends in the lorry drove up behind us to fetch us on their way back to Tinerihr. We climbed back on the truck, but the leftover cinder blew in our faces so we climbed into the cab instead, me on Adam's lap. A lot of the road had been washed away as it ran along the river bed. When the river swells, as it does every few years, it takes part of the road with it, leaving huge holes of exposed reinforced concrete clinging to the gorge walls, forcing the lorries and 4x4s to drive through the river and back onto the broken road. Really only safe for lorries, though. Walking along the road we saw a Dutch caravan get stuck in the water, subsequently soaking its engine and probably rendering it useless. They had three small children with them, all little blonde ones under the age of eight. Later we saw them being towed away by more Dutchies in a caravan.
We had had such good luck hitching that day we decided to fetch our bags from Todra and hitch to Imilchil, halfway to the Cascade d'Ouzoud. We left the next morning later than planned, as usual; waited for an hour with no luck and then got two rides at once. Adam flagged down a 4x4 witha German couple and two Moroccans, and I flagged down a piece of shit minibus full of people bound for Imilchil. We debated for a few minutes, finally deciding to take the bus and meet with the Germans later for a ride to Marrakech.
We asked the bus driver if we could ride on the roof, which everyone does not only in Morocco but all across the developing world. He said yes long enough to fix our packs to the roof, and then promptly changed his mind. Furious, we climbed into the bus, seating twelve, with no empty seats and a few extra heads. Adam squeezed into a four seater, now six with him, and I stood leaning against him with his knee supporting the rest of me. It was hot outside, but in the bus all the windows were closed and the people not smelling so fine. There are moments in life when I don't smell so good either, so I don't mean to be judgmental - but this particular smell was really intolerable. We went about 5km like this before I lost my mind and Adam told the driver to either let us up on the roof or let us off the bus and lose our fare. He let us onto the roof.
The minibus was flat-roofed, with a sort of topless cage affixed on top where all of the luggage is stowed, all held down by a net made of rope which is drawn tightly front to back, side to side. To ride on top, you climb up the ladder and squeeze your tusik between two bags. Then you wrap your legs through the net rope and find something stable to hold on to with your hands. Through the little mountain roads, one never goes very fast, so it is not as easy as it sounds to fall off. All things considered, it really is quite safe, unless the bus goes off the cliff. We did almost get a low-hanging electric wire in the mouth passing through Tamtatouchte, but missed it just in time. So other than that, it is pretty safe on the roof.
For the first two hours, winding through places called Tamzijn and Agoudal, we had an extraordinary time. The bus drove slowly and we waved at all the children we passed. We passed villages made of red mud, forts, minarets, all made of red earth. I smiled at Adam and counted my blessings, thinking how few people in the world would come to Morocco with me and ride on top of buses. He is the best travel partner, and he is always helping me. Not that I need help. He said to me the other day that I am one of the most capable people he knows. But I get tired of being capable. It means one is always working something - bargaining, haggling for a room, a taxi ride, a discount, directions, bus times, train schedules. Always something. But Adam and I share everything, including responsibility for each other. It has evolved that way between us.
And I think that he is always concerned for me here, in a Muslim country, with my head uncovered. He secretly thinks that I am going to be abducted and sold into sex slavery in Abu Dhabi. He lost me in the souk in Rissani the other day when I wandered off to look at leather pencil cases while he was tasting dates. As I walked past the stalls, every merchant came out and said "You're husband is looking for you!". When I caught up with him he grabbed me and hugged me and asked me never to wander off again. But I'm always wandering off. I'm still used to following my own rules. And Adam knows I never do what anyone tells me to do anyway.
After two hours on the roof, I shouted down to a child on the road asking how much further to Imilchil. Cinquante kilometres! he replied. Only half-way! One does get a bit windburned on the roof, especially once you cross the Atlas and descend into the opposite valley, straight away, with the wind whipping in your face at 70kph. Cold, too, even when the sun is shining. And the bag under your back begins to feel painful. I became totally exhausted after only three hours, so I held on more tightly and put my head down and tried to rest.
After four hours we arrived in Imilchil, crawled into a cafe with our long curls standing on end ordering two coffees a piece and scrambled eggs, which they served in the frying pan and which we would have eaten as well had they not cleared the table. To make a very long story short, we underestimated the distance between Todra Gorge and the Cascade d'Ouzoud. By a hell of a lot. And we chose to do the bulk of it off-piste, over the Atlas Mountains. It took us two days of constant travel to get to Ouzoud - from Todra to Imilchil, onto Aghbalal, stopping at El Ksiba, Beni Mellal, Azilal and finally Ouzoud.
We found an isolated little guest house on the opposite side of the cascade, which entails climbing down the mountain with your pack, crossing the river by a little hand-pulled boat, and climbing partway up the other side to a clearing with a beautiful piece of land. The shower is very clean and has a lot of hot water, and there is a Western loo and a Turkish loo from which to choose. We are staying in a bamboo hut with no electricity to bother with, and monkeys dance on our roof at night. Adam is off hiking, and I have stayed behind at a little table with grapevines on a trellis overhead, the cascade in front of me. It is beautiful to hear the waterfall at night, under the light of the full moon.
1 comments:
Love you guys. Thanks for the postcard. Happy belated Chanukah to Adam (and you). Talk to you soon.
Amy
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