Where has every one gone?

This was to be our final blog post from the Morocco trip, but as other evens took over it sat in the draft folder. I've finally decided to release it. especially as I am still encountering the same Islamophobic comments from people who mix it up with Algeria and Tunisia.

There are three seasons for tourists in Morocco. 

The first two are January to May and September to November. When Moroccans also head to the coast.  These are the cooler times,  with the latter ensuring winter road damage has had a chance of repair.  

The third season is when north Europeans have their holidays in July and August, and moan about the heat.

For much of our time there  we were often the only people on campsites or guests in an hotel. When we spoke to Liminh, the Auberge owner in the Dades gorge,  and his friend Francois about it they said it had been dead all year. Too many people have associated Morocco with Tunisia and cancelled or changed their plans.

Before we set out many people asked us if we thought it would be safe, or they told us to be careful there. We never had any doubts it would be anything other than safe. Morocco is a country that looks to Europe for its future and abhors radical Islam. 

They have a very small history of any form of terrorism, unlike the UK.

Riding with tears in our eyes

Shortly after arriving back in Spain, at Algecias, we received the news that my mother had died.

We hit the motorways and dashed for home.

My mother had always encouraged my urge and desire to travel.

I'll miss her. Lots.

The slaughter of the lambs

The day of the festival meant every one goes to the  mosque. Outside the hotel the street was filled with men, boys and women carrying their prayer mats and wearing their best jhellbahs. This of course meant every where was shut.

The receptionist opened the cafe to sort breakfast for us and assured us that petrol stations would be open (he was partly right, a lot were shut though) . We headed across country back to the southern base of the High Atlas mountains, on freshly built single track that did not match roads listed on any of our maps. In many villages there were processions of people, seemingly moving between mosques.

The roads were empty, every village and large town like a ghost town. In the larger places the air was filled with the aroma of singed hair as boys and teenagers sat at the kerb side, burning the flesh from the severed heads of goats.

When we arrived at our target campsite the gates were locked,  but as I turned to leave a small door opened and a man beckoned us in. The site was empty, just his family there for the festival. But we could stay and join in.

While we erected our tent the goat and the lamb were slaughtered, skinned and gutted. Then they were hung and the butchering began.

During the next few hours we were fed various cuts of meat on skewers and plates. The, very, fresh ribs were excellent. By 2100 we were stuffed and went to bed.

At 2230 we were awoken and presented with a fresh tray of skewered meat, our dinner. Jean was too tired but like a trooper I got dressed, ate it and thanked them once more before retiring again.

Like lambs to the slaughter

Before coming to Morocco we checked for festivals that may be of interest, apart from the Berber one where the women get to choose their husband, non were apparent. We should have cross checked with Muslim ones.

When we arrived at the (open all year) campsite on the outskirts of Essaouria we were confronted by a barrier. A man appeared from the site pushing a bike and announced to us that the site was shut for four days. He answered our quizzical looks as he jumped on the bike and rode away "for the festival, the festival of meat, it will be lovely ".

Ah. The feast of Eid al-Adha, at the end of the annual pilgrimage to Mecca. The slaughter of sheep and  goats to honour Abraham and the near sacrifice of his son at God's command.

Every where we looked there were sheep or goats being delivered in small trucks trikes and taxis. One taxi pulled up on a roundabout outside our hotel, the passengers got out and then a live sheep  was dragged out of the boot.

At night, interspersed with the usual chirping of crickets and cicadas was the bleating of the sheep and goats.

Apart from that a nice stopover in a small city with a UNESCO world heritage site for a Medina.

Moroccan rules of the road.

It took a while but we finally understand what the white lines on single carriageways mean.

The standard broken white lines means " Please attempt to stay on your side". And as a rule people do.

However the solid unbroken white line we associate with "do not cross " and "no overtaking " actually means "place your steering wheel firmly over this line and follow it resolutely with part of your car in the next carriageway ".

This rule is adapted slightly in left hand bends.  Here it now reads "At all times while on a left hand bend, you must have at least two thirds of your car in the opposite carriageway. When an on coming vehicle flashes its lights and makes gesticulations, look all offended and suggest you were in the right. "

A sub paragraph of the rule states " When negotiating a right hand bend, and a vehicle is on your side of the road , flash your lights and gesticulate in a manner indicating you have never seen such crazy behaviour ".

Apart from that it is pretty normal for a hot country.

Ah, no, then there are roundabouts, the same rule as the UK applies "give way to the vehicle on the roundabout " except they have added "unless you don't feel like it, or in this town you do things your way "

Shifting gear

We visited the obligatory big sand dune, Erg Chebbi , which stretches for miles in all directions and dipped our toes in the Sahara. It is as if there was an invisible barrier where the flat parched ground ends and the red sands rise up.

We left the area in a very poor mood, our final night on the best campsite so far in Morocco (clean toilets, good showers and decent food) was spoilt by the owner and his family setting up a music session, with an amp, turned up to 11, and microphone, at 23.30 for four people. By 02.30 and with very interrupted sleep enough was  enough, we dressed, clambered out of the tent and told him how rude and un-business like he was being. He had taken our money that evening, had not warned us and, even worse, had not invited us.

Even Chilean campers are quieter.

As we entered the Dades gorge my gear change lever became loose and I was missing gears. It was time for lunch and as a cafe magically appeared we stopped. While Jean ordered food I set about fixing it, the spline grooves had worn on the lever so I used the spare one, we carry a lot of small spares for all those little things that can ruin a trip.

After eating, as soon as I  moved my bike there was a scraping noise, something was not right. Obviously this was going to take a bit longer. The cafe was also an auberge, fate was playing games so we decided to stay the night and have a bed for the first time in Morocco.

The next day, my bike having been fixed by removing the offending small sprocket guard which had warped, we rode up into the gorge. Our plan to ride the dirt track linking it to the next one, the Todra, was beaten by the police telling us the road had been washed away in the previous weeks rain and was not passable.

The auberge owner, Liminh, was also a hiking guide so we took the next day off the bikes and headed out into a deserted valley with him. The area is at the point where the geographic split occurs between Europe and North Africa. The rocks on either side were significantly different. To the right it looked deep red,  like Colorado, to the left multi coloured and s!other.

The valley was not really deserted, Berber nomads lived in caves and tended their herds. Most had moved on before the winter but a few still remained.

As we passed one cave we were invited in for mint tea. It was all very organised and homely, it was much cooler than outside . The smoke from a small fire kept any buzzing insects out.

And no one tried to sell us a carpet! Even though one was being woven.

No, I don't want to buy your carpet

A very wise Berber trader once said "you should never refuse an invitation for mint tea with a Berber ".

And like fools we don't.

Each time we are led to some chairs with a small table, then have  a nice chat with road and route advice. Someone appears with glasses and a tea pot, the ritual multi pouring of the mint tea and some small talk about the country. Then comes the line "I live in the mountains, where the people make things by hand. Can I show you some of them? "

We can now recite the mantra of "this is silk, of the cactus. This is camel wool, this is sheep wool. These are the tattoos of the married women and this is for good  luck ".

So far it has only cost us £50. Yes we now have a carpet stashed on the bikes.