Stories from Beyond
A Morrocan Roadtrip
29-Aug-2011
The King’s guards,” the porter at Dar Les Cigognes announces knowingly, nodding in the direction of the guys outside the Royal Palace gates across the road. “The King’s in town,” he explains proudly, helping us with our bags and guiding us into a light-filled central courtyard.
From the sunny rooftop terrace where we take breakfast, we have views of Marrakesh’s medina and the Mellah (Jewish quarter). As it’s Eid Al Adha, we get to see the butchering of lambs and their bloody carcasses hung from the clotheslines with the family’s laundry. We are also eye-to-eye with the royal storks (after which the hotel is named) nesting on the palace ramparts.
It’s our second time in Marrakesh. This time we’ve brought my mother along. We spend five days shopping the atmospheric souqs and revisiting favourite places – Place Djemma El Fna, the pretty Palmerie, Yves Saint-Laurent’s exquisite Jardin Majorelle, and the enchanting Menara with the snow-topped Atlas Mountains behind, beckoning us.
>When we return to our hotel, exhausted, the porter comes and lights a fire. We have pre-dinner drinks by the fireplace before heading out for lavish long meals at the city’s many magical restaurants – Le Foundouk, Dar Moha, Dar El-Yacout.
Although we never tire of Djemma El Fna with its snake-charmers, storytellers, child boxers, and dancing transvestites, after five days buying too many trinkets and eating too many elaborate meals, we want a change of scenery. We crave the simplicity of life on the road and a home-cooked couscous.
We hire a car and at a tiny table in the sunshine at a pavement café we paw over a Maroc road map. We plan our journey as the waiter pours us mint tea, holding the teapot high, not spilling a drop. My mother wants to see the famous ‘52 days to Timbuktu’ sign, I want to visit some kasbahs and my husband says he’ll be satisfied if he sees some good surf.
From Marrakesh we take a direct route on the P10 to the fishing port of Essaouira. The excitement of being on the road, of being spontaneous, of having the freedom to stop wherever we want, begins when we spot our first Argan tree, dotted black with hungry goats balancing themselves on the sturdy twisted branches eating its tasty leaves. We drive off road to take some snaps, until the young goat herder approaches us for money. We give him some dirhams so we can take pictures of him too. The golden Argan oil is delicious, especially with bread. It’s thought to slow down the aging process and throughout the area you can buy Argan oil skin products.
It takes an hour to get to the pretty white walled town on the Atlantic coast. We park our car near Orson Welles Square (Othello was filmed here) near the city walls, where it will be closely watched for a small fee. We soon regret staying at the much written about, but over-rated Villa Maroc, where the rooms are freezing in winter and it’s compulsory to eat a very average set menu. Wandering the atmospheric streets we stumble upon Casa Lila, a charming riad. Colourfully decorated, with CD players and wine glasses in every room, and sunshine streaming into its courtyard, it could be a little sister to Dar Les Cigognes. We think about changing hotels but decide not to waste time.
The traffic-free streets of Essaouira’s medina, with its various souqs, are wonderful to explore. Its sunny squares make great places to
chill out – Jimi Hendrix and Bob Marley hung out here in the seventies. It’s also a fabulous place to shop. Fragrant wooden Thuya products are handcrafted in workshops under Essaouira’s ramparts. The brass-threaded bread boxes, marquetry serving trays and mother-of-pearl inlaid boxes are hard to ignore, but art is what the town is becoming famous for. Inspired by Arab-Berber history and local myths, the naïve style of Essaouira’s artists is akin to Australian Aboriginal ‘dot painting’, but more colourful, mystical and symbolic. Mohamed Tabal is the father of this group of self-taught artists, and his work is sold at Galerie Damgaard, however I invest instead in the work of a couple of rising stars and load the car boot with six paintings by Tifri and Amal Bouhali.
We eat delicious fresh seafood at Le Chalet de la Plage, a popular restaurant with a terrace by the sea. From our table we watch the tide creeping in, local kids playing football and tourists taking camel rides on the wide white sand beach. We walk off the calories on Essaouira’s sqalas (sea bastions), where we enjoy the smell of the sea, sound of seagulls, waves crashing against the walls and the wind in our hair. We walk to the docks to watch fishermen perched by their blue boats fixing their nets, and we admire their catch, having worked up our appetites already.
Essaouira is windy – they say there are good winds for 260 days of each year – and as a result it’s renowned for its windsurfing and surfing. It’s busiest from April to September, the windiest part of the year. The winds keep the coast cool in summer and in winter provide a good excuse to warm up by a fireplace. That night we have glasses of champagne by the hearth at Hotel Heure Bleue before savouing divine French cuisine at its elegant restaurant. Because it’s off-season the staff show us the palatial hotel’s hammam, rooftop pool, and luxurious suites.
We leave Essaouira along its splendid beach and estuary, Wadi Qsob, where we see the crumbling old foundations of the city walls. We stop at the village of Diabet where Hendrix used to live. They say the ruins of Dar Soltane Mahdounia, an 18th century palace built by Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdullah, inspired him to write Castles in the Sand. The surf is up so my husband insists we stick to the coast.
At Sidi Kaouki, a pretty windy bay, we check out the waves and locals call out to invite us to tea. We drive to Smimou along a quiet country road. The landscape takes on a craggy beauty, dotted with simple sandstone houses, and crumbling low brick walls that climb over the small stony hills of green. Back on the N1, a good main road that runs close to the coast for 165 kilometres between Essaouira and Agadir, we start to see people, even in the middle of nowhere.
>Everywhere there are people, even when there’s not a single dwelling about, and they are friendly and wave and smile. Some walk by the side of the road and stop to wave when they hear the car. Some wait for a ride. We pass through main streets turned into souqs. The tiny market town of Tamanar is capital of the Argan industry and home to a large Berber population. On the road out is a cooperative where Berber women sell Argan products. An old man and his young sons lead camels and donkeys laden with goods and we stop and ask if we can take their photos, having never seen so much stuff heaped so high upon animals before. Like everyone else, they smile.
The scenery is breathtaking. The swell is good. Taghazoute is the most popular surfing spot north of Agadir. Once a hippy mecca, its main street is lined with surf shops and laidback cafes. We find it strange to see bare-chested guys with their wetsuits rolled down to their waists. We pass elderly couples driving camper-vans and count how many European countries we spot on the registration plates. Outside Agadir we’re astounded to see thousands of camper-vans and their owners taking tea in an enormous seaside parking area. We don’t like Agadir, a characterless tourist town, so we drive another 80 kms to Taroudant, passing through rich farmland of fruit orchards, sugar cane, and olive groves.
>We arrive in the fortified town in the late afternoon, quickly depositing our bags at Hotel Palais Salam, so we can hurry to see the ochre walls of the ramparts change to a rich red with the sunset. We notice red Moroccan flags poking through the battlements, where the guns would have rested, but don’t think anything of them.
Visibly wealthier from the trade in the region’s produce, Taroudant’s residents are laid-back and happy. We receive warm welcomes as we explore the tourist-free souqs selling spices, purple saffron flowers, pottery, baskets, and goatskin sandals. That evening we listen to a fine oud player in the hotel’s atmospheric bar before enjoying the hearty home-cooked meal we’ve been craving, a tasty harira soup, a delicious chicken and lemon tagine, and couscous.
The next day we drive some 270 kms to Ouarzazate, with stops along the way to explore kasbahs. We take a backroad and are excited to see our first crumbling ancient citadel, Kasbah de Freija, sitting somewhat majestically by a dry wadi. We continue along this road via Arazane and Tassoumate, through more lush farmland, cotton fields, orange groves, even vineyards.
We skirt around the mountains of the High Atlas, always to our left as we head east – Jbel Tichka (3350m), Jbel Igdet (3616m), and Jbel Toubkal (4167) all covered in snow. Back on the N10, the scenery changes until we’re in a landscape of wild beauty – rocky red earth sprouting smatterings of colourful wildflowers and cacti. It becomes more spectacular as we climb. At Talouine, a town between two passes and centre of the saffron industry, we explore the spooky kasbah of the Glaoui family, inhabited by local Berbers.
The road is good, although winding and narrow, and the drive gets more dramatic as we travel through the passes of Tizi-n-Taghatine (1886m) and Tizi-n-Ikhsane (1650m) with the volcanic Jbel Siroua (3304m) to the north. We get out of the car to take in the spectacular scenery. It’s cold, so we stop in Tazenakht for glasses of steaming milky coffee. The local men look warm in their thick hooded jellabas and woollen capes, so we make mental notes to get some of these. I want to look at the striking orange carpets woven by the Ouaouzguite people that hang outside the shops, but it starts to snow.
At the pass of Tizi-n-Bachkoum (1700m) with a moonscape ahead of us, and snow clouds rapidly moving in, we stop to take yet more photos. By the time I wind my window down, three filthy little children have scrambled up the hill out of nowhere, rocks tumbling down beneath their desperate feet. Bundled up in rags yet shivering from the cold, snot dripping from their noses and running down their dirty faces, they shove each other out of the way so they can get their hands in the window. I give them what I have – a handful of sweets and coins. I feel sorry for the small girl hurled away by one of the boys, but what can we do? We don’t have anything else to give them so we close the window and drive away. I look back and see them squabbling over a few lollies. Sad and embarrassed, we vow to stock up on water, fruit and foodstuffs in the next town.
By early afternoon we arrive at the most famous ksar (fortified castle or palace), the magnificent Ait Benhaddou, situated in an oasis beside Wadi Mellah, with snow-capped mountains as a backdrop. We park in the village and head down to the wadi, hopping from rock to rock to cross the icy water. Although still inhabited by Berber families, it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site and has been used in countless films. With its huddle of impressive red ochre kasbahs with crenellated towers, decorated with geometric patterns and arches, and carved wooden doors, it’s easy to see why. Hungry, we lunch on delicious kebabs and couscous and drink mint tea at a simple café overlooking Ait Benhaddou.
As we hit the road to Ouarzazate, we see red everywhere. Moroccan flags poke out of windows and are slung over buildings. Driving into town, we see people fixing them onto streetlights and hanging banners across the roads. The sun is about to set and it’s freezing cold, so we head to Le Meridien Berbere Palace, an elegant hotel inspired by the local kasbahs. I’m told we’re lucky (“Yes, the heating is reliable and of course we have hot water!”) but we’ve secured the last of the rooms because the King’s entourage are staying here. The King is at his Ouarzazate residence. While my mother has a steaming shower and her heater blasts hot air, the luke warm water trickles from ours and the air conditioner blows cold. After several visits by the repairmen, we’re still shivering, so the manager moves us to a ‘Royal Suite’! We’re getting closer to the King by the minute.
There is not a lot to do in Ouarzazate, apart from exploring the restored maze-like Taourirt Kasbah (and shop for silver jewellery, carpets and handicrafts at the excellent souq) but it’s positioned uninspiringly beside the main road and we’re eager to see more kasbahs in natural oases, so we hit the road early.
As we leave town, we see a man hunched over beside the road slapping white paint on a stone. Another jams a tall red flag into the rock. The road is lined with these decorative fixtures for hundreds of kilometres, all the way through the string of crumbling kasbah towns of the fertile Draa Valley to Zagora. We begin to wonder if the majestic route we’ve unknowingly chosen for our road trip is the same one the King’s chosen for his?
We cross a desert dotted with black volcanic rocks until we climb to the pass of Tizi-n-Tinififft where the landscape is carved by deep canyons. We see a satellite dish ahead on the back of a vehicle and a man waving at us with an empty water bottle. We stop to give him our water. Could this poor man be braving the harsh elements to improve the King’s mobile phone reception?
Although it’s only 150kms from Ouarzarzate, we take the day to get to Zagora, stopping at the many magical ksars, set amid lush date palm groves, lining the road. Our favourites are the partly restored Tamnougalt kasbah, pretty Timiderte, the unusual Igdaoun kasbah, and Benizouli with a Muslim cemetery. We stop to take photos of the friendly children who are happier than those we saw at Tizi-n-Bachkoum, and who grin widely once we reveal our offerings – oranges and bananas, chocolates, sweets, bottled water, coloured pens and coins. In each village groups of women do their laundry together, scrubbing the clothes in the wadi water and spreading them over large rocks or hanging them in scrubby bushes to dry. Later in the day we see Berber women, faces tattooed, dressed in fine woollen cloaks and bedecked in elaborate coral jewellery, their small children dressed up in frilly white dresses and little suits, waiting for rides. We wonder if the King is perhaps on his way…
The people of Zagora are busy draping their buildings with red bunting. The rooms at the best hotels are full – big black shiny sedans are parked outside – so we settle for the comfortable, traditional Hotel Riad Salam. We drive through the lush palmerie, shop for carpets and drink delicious hot milky coffee at a pavement café as we watch the town prepare for the King’s arrival. We find the famous ‘72 days to Timbuktu’ sign so my mother is happy. Its naïve image and faded colours are full of charm. But we don’t take photos as the sun is setting and there’s no light, so we plan to return the next day.
With no news of the King’s arrival, we drive out to see the wonderful ksar at Tamegroute, known for its green-glazed pottery, and the red dunes of Tinfou, which rise strangely from the red rocky earth. Donkeys stand alone, in the middle of nowhere, tethered to white painted stones by the side of the road, perhaps waiting for their masters who’ve headed to town to catch a glimpse of the King.
We cruise through the date palm groves in the pretty oasis of Oulad Driss, giving a ride to an elderly French female hitchhiker. We pass large trucks with massive wheels covered with red dust, packed with hot weary people, so we know we must be close to the frontier town of Mhamid, once a major caravan centre, and now the last stop before the Sahara. There’s nothing much to do at tiny dusty Mhamid – the few people we see are on the move, heads wrapped with scarves to keep the sand from their eyes, and a couple of camels are tied to a post – so we take consolation in the fact that we made it this far and pause before turning around to start our journey back to Marrakesh.
It’s still light by the time we get to Zagora so we head for the famous Timbuktu sign. It’s gone, and the wall it was on has been torn down and bricks for a new one are being laid. Doing a U-turn at the end of the street, we see a new Timbuktu sign has been erected and freshly painted! This one may be in the light but it lacks the charm of its predecessor.
