constanttrek

No wrong turns

June 9th, 2005

I had been planning to post the following a few days ago – but stuff got in the way, as I guess will become apparant.  So I shall post it now, and at the end of it, let you know what happened afterwards…

I was planning that the next update would be from the impressive distance of

Rabat

,

180 kilometres

from Larache.  You know, then I could be all sort of nonchalant – like, “oh sure, just knocked off the 200 clicks to

Rabat

this week, walk in the park really” type thing.  Kind of like those real long distance walkers, who actually manage fifty kilometres every day (it took me months of walking to be convinced that this is actually possible.  I still think it’s insane.)

But, hey, what do you do; constanttrek is rather more dawdle than dash, and all too inclined to get easily sidetracked by good food and a nice view.  So our stop in Larache stretched to a few days.  It was an easy place to dally in, and awesome for people watching.  Every night, around five o’clock, the entire town turned into a carnival, with the central place absolutely thrumming with hundreds of people out for their evening promenade.  All the men sat outside the cafes drinking mint tea, whilst the women congregated in the central part to sit and swap gossip.  Music played, children ran about, and hawkers did their thing.  It was endlessly fascinating.

But finally yesterday morning we reluctantly shifted our lazy bones and set off.  Gary’s heel was still fairly nasty – new boots are really no joy at all – so we were planning on no more than twenty kilometres, which would take us half the way to Moulay Bousselhem, where there is a nice campsite.

But it wasn’t to be. 

Despite our good old map saying that there was a secondary road which ran next to the Motorway, the turn off being indicated about four kilometres past the Motorway exit – we plodded for about five before we realised it simply didn’t exist.  By this stage we were actually ten kilometres past Larache, and the sun was climbing.  We were walking on a

National Route

road; those things seriously suck, as there is no wide shoulder like there is on a motorway, but still a heinous amount of traffic.  And in Morocco that means trucks piled up to twice their height with mattresses, tables, and people perched on top, flying past you at one hundred miles an hour, with a couple of Grand taxis trying to overtake for good measure.  Being a main route it also means endless stalls hawking everything from tajine pots to watermelons and bags of nuts.  There are so many poor, hungry, and thirsty people along these roadsides that our excess supplies were eaten into very smartly as we filled empty bottles and gave away our packet cookies.

By lunchtime we were feeling pretty dejected about our wrong turn.  The road we were on had no alternative to rejoin our intended route, but carrying on would mean adding around

30 kilometres

, or a day, to our journey to Rabat.  And that along a major road, which we avoid like hell when possible.  Even worse there was little in the way of towns or forest marked until Ksar el Kebir, which was

36 kilometres

down the road, and then an additional 6 off the highway and out of our way.  Having planned a short day, we didn’t start walking really early, so the heat was getting worse and we still had a good twenty kilometres in front of us just to make it to the turn-off. 

At times like this, we have one universal solution: sit down and eat.

We came across a roadside settlement of run down shantys.  They all looked pretty grim, tumble down tin sheds with solemn men drinking tea out the front; but we shunted our packs and trolley inside and sat down amidst the sawdust and flies for a cold Coke.  We are becoming addicted to Coke – and I know that

Morocco

is the last country we’ll be getting it cold for some time, so we plan to make the most of it!

The smiling proprietor came over to us and we struck up a bit of a conversation; like most Moroccons, he spoke French, Arabic, Berber, Spanish, and a fair bit of English.  Just enough to give one a minor inferiority complex.  He offered to make us some lunch, for which we were eternally grateful; and out came just amazing platters of fried fish chermoula, stuffed with herbs and aromatic paste, harissa sauce, fresh salad, olives and bread.  Oh Lord, it was marvellous; spicy and hot and so fresh, the fish must have turned up that morning.  (

Gary

is working on recipes to put on the recipe page so you can make it yourself – hopefully up very soon.)

Bellies content, water topped up, and wallet barely touched – the whole lot cost 50 dirham, under ten bucks Australian – we set off back into the burning heat, waving good bye to our lovely host.  The solemn blokes even waved back and smiled at us.

We trudged and trudged, and, to be honest, despite the good lunch we were starting to feel pretty down. 

Gary

’s feet were really in a rough way and for the first time since leaving

London

, I got chafe so bad there were raw wounds.  There was nowhere to camp – every available place had people already laid out on it – and as this is an agricultural area, the rest of the ground was all cultivated field.  It looked like we would have to cop the forty odd kilometre march.

Finally, just on dusk, we got to where the road turned off to Ksar el Kebir.  To our enormous excitement, there was another café – this one a proper truck stop, complete with waiter and pretty surroundings.  We hauled our stinking carcasses in and collapsed heavily onto chairs, worried that we would be a bit unwelcome in our putrid state.

But you know – the hospitality in this country is beyond words or description, and it comes straight from the heart, every time.

Seeing us coming, the host had poured an enormous jug of ice cold water.  As soon as we sat down he came out and put it down in front of us.  In French he told us to just rest, be tranquil, take as long as we need – we didn’t have to order anything.  I can’t tell you how much a gesture like that means when you are hot, tired, and thirsty.

We ordered some Coke and got chatting, and he asked us all about our walk.  As we told him he relayed it all to the other robed and fez-zed guys inside, who shouted out questions and nodded in response to our answers, and all cried “bonne chance!” to us.  We asked if there was a hotel nearby, as we weren’t looking forward to walking the unnecessary six kilometres into a large town and trying to find one, particularly on sunset.

Kerim, our host, immediately swung into action.  Half an hour later, shaken warmly by the hand by the whole staff, we were piled into a friend’s van and driven straight to a lovely hotel in the centre of town, where the hostess welcomed us with another huge smile and gave us a cut-rate price on a lovely room overlooking the town square.  We had barely gotten over our shock at being suddenly clean and with a roof over our heads – given that we had been anticipating a dodgy night by the roadside – when we were directed over the road to a little restaurant, where we subsequently got fed incredibly good paella, salad, and fresh orange juice – again for next to nothing.  And everyone – absolutely everyone – shook us by the hand and welcomed us, and smiled, and were just beautifully, wonderfully, kind. 

There is not a hint of avarice in the people here.  Sure, there are some very poor people, and a lot of those are trying to sell something or begging.  But if ever it is overwhelming – and it hasn’t been – we look around at the other Moroccon people and watch the tolerance and patience they display towards those who are struggling, always putting a few dirham in the plate, or politely declining the offers to buy something.  There is no crude dismissal, no looking away and pretending they don’t exist, just a sympathetic hand and a prayer to God that they will have good fortune.

Last night after we ate we sat out on the little balcony and watched the plaza below.  Just as in Larache, the carnival was in full swing, as it seemed the entire town milled about swapping greetings and chatting.  The street kids dashed in and out of the snack bars and cafes where the waiters surreptitiously slipped them a glass of water or a little something to eat, the other customers smiling indulgently and offering things of their own.

Yesterday when we had lunch in that shanty town, the host talked to us about Islam.  It is hard, he said, because everyone associates Islam with terrorism in the wake of September 11^th.  But, he said, this is not Islam.  Those men are not Muslims.  Islam, he told us, is about “being good in your heart, being happy with God and the world.”  In

Morocco

, he said, this is what is important.

I sat up there last night and watched the world in front of me and I thought:  and what on earth could be more important than that?

So, it was a long day.  And we’re not going anywhere (again) today; the chafe and the blisters are taking a break.  But we don’t care about the extra distance, anymore.  There was nothing wrong about this turn, and there is everything right about this town.   

SUBSEQUENTLY…..

We had a lovely rest day.  But late that night, I began to feel a bit flu-ey.  By the next morning, both of us were well and truly in the grip of an all out attck of gastro, barely managing to stagger from our room to the bathroom.

Fortunately for us the people running the hotel have been kind and solicitous beyond belief, bringing us cups of chamomile tea, going with me to the pharmacy to help translate, and finally getting the local doctor up to see us.  I cannot reiterate how grateful we are to have been shown such kindness – everyone knows how gross it is to be sick and far away, and we feel very lucky to have been treated with such consideration. 

I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere for another day or so – Gary is still flat on his back and there is no way we can face a busy highway in past thirty degree temperatures just yet.  In actual fact this week was an enormous test for us – in the midst of the illness, the temtptation to jump a train down to Rabat and air conditioned, sterile surroundings, was pretty huge.  But I guess we both knew that if we did that, we would never come back and walk the hundred kilometres between here and there.  And if we fell at the first hurdle, we may as well give up now and just start bussing it down.  We have had to think that it doesn’t matter if we take a week to recover, just as long as when we do move, it is by foot power.   We are going to face things a hell of a lot tougher than the odd bout of gastro in time to come, we tell ourselves.  Better get used to it.

And when all is said and done, it’s no major drama.  We’ll rest in the hotel until we can hoist the packs, and then just take it easy on the way down.  It might be a while before I post that one from Rabat, though….

PS/  ANDREAS!  please, please send us an email address so we can contact you. Great to hear from you!

Entry Filed under: trekking