Archive for July, 2005
July 28th, 2005
The Draa Valley follows the pathway of the Draa river as it winds down from the High Atlas mountains, through the gravel lunar scape of the Anti Atlas, and into the hammada and desert plains, where it finally seeps out into the sands of the Sahara. The stretch between Agdz and Zagora is 100km long and the richest section of the valley, home to lush palm groves, agricultural water courses, and stunning kasbahs – the ancient baked mud strongholds which were once the seats of local tribal lords.
Many of them still stand in proud splendour on the rocky hillsides, looking down over the palmeraies, home even today to local communities. Some have been renovated and converted for the tourist trade; but largely they remain working buildings, the centre of the villages lining the Draa.
Over every hill along this stretch there has been a new wonder, another dramatic sight; one can only imagine what a paradise the oasis of the Draa must have appeared to 
the camel caravans coming out of the long desert route from Mali.
I guess we’ll know how they felt in a few months.
Beautiful as it undeniably is, at this time fo year there is very little attraction in discovering the Draa on foot. Were it not for the fact that we are now only three days’ walk from M’Hamid and the end of the first stage, I think we would be cutting it short and returning at a more sensible time of year; trudging through the midday heat with the summer winds howling up from the desert is pretty close to hell on earth. We try to rest under some shade for the five or six hours when it is really bad (fifty degrees centigrade) and walk only in the morning and evening, but it can make 
for a long day – particularly if it is just too hot to sleep during the rest time, which it often is. To walk the thirty – thirty five km we need to in order to get to wells and food sources, we are drinking ten litres a day each (we only carry four, now, or it is counter productive) – and they are usually either luke warm or hot enough to make tea from. It is bliss when we get to a village well and can have a long, cool drink. So much more satisfying than hot water.
The second day out from Agdz we had a typically long, hot day, and stopped for a good rest. We walked on into the evening cool and then right into the dark, when the breeze is merely warm rather than searing and the sky is high and clear with the desert stars. It was near midnight when we decided to cat nap by the roadside; we clambered through a dried up water culvert pipe and over a gravel mound until we found a peaceful little clearing. I guess the upside about the heat is being able to sleep wherever takes your fancy; we just spread the mats out and crashed in our clothes for
a few hours until the dawn.
This is the following morning as we left. Yes, I know how unimpressed I look. So would you if you smelt that bad and had three hours sleep!
The valley is at its most beautiful in the late afternoon, when the dying sun turns the mud baked buildings into fiery tones of orange and red, and the jurassic mountains behind are thrown into softer relief, the shadows revealing the contours on their sides hacked out by centuries of water flow. They rise up over the thick palmeraies and wide riverbed, creating an immense, ethereal picture, quite a contrast to the harsh white heat of the day. It is nice to come upon a dramatic turning in the road at that time – like where this old ruin stands, about thirty km from Zagora.
Zagora itself is an old military town of the French colonial era. It is the last stop before the desert settlement of M’Hamid, which is where the road ends altogether. Everybody in Zagora has a camel for hire, and on our way into town – when, let me assure you, we were in little mood for being hustled – every would-be bedouin in the vicinity tried to sell us a tour. Neither of us had the energy to explain that the desert trek we have in mind goes rather beyond the obligatory "sunset and sand dune" day trip they would like us to pay an extortionate sum for. Not that our reticence deterred them at all; I guess it must be incredibly frustrating watching all that money just walking away from you. They certainly pursued us with astounding persistance.
We are resting again for a couple of days before the final three day march. Resting and hydrating ourselves thoroughly is the only way we can cope with the conditions; every local we meet shakes their head in amazed disbelief when they realise we are walking, and tell us it is impossible this time of year.
They say "impossible" and I just think of Karl Bushby. I put his link in again here as it doesn’t work for some reason on the last page, and this is one man who truly deserves a link and all the support he can get.
Not impossible. Just bloody hard.
See you in M’Hamid. 
July 23rd, 2005
Karl Bushby set off in 1998 to do an unsupported walk around the world. He left from Tierra del Fuego in Argentina, and has walked the entire length of the American continent, from North to South. Currently he is battling the extremes of a Northern winter as he crosses from Alaska to Russia, towing his belongings on a sled and braving temperatures far below zero.
Al Humphreys left England in 2000 to cycle alone around the world; he has just come through Asia, and is in the final 6000 km stretch back to England, after circumnavigating the globe on two wheels.
These guys have fought exhaustion, depression, loneliness, and massive physical hardship to achieve their goals. In Karl’s case, he has struggled terribly with the separation from his wife and child, and often questions his decision to carry on.
So when we have a tough day or two, I try to remind myself that others have gone before us, try to think of those guys and their stories, and keep our trials in perspective. The one enormous bonus we both have – and we are well aware how enormous a bonus – is that we have each other, have someone to share the laughs with and understand the pain at the end of the day, someone to keep the fears at bay.
Crossing the 70km stretch of the Anti-Atlas from Ouarzazate we needed every bit of that support. I am writing this from Agdz, only two days after we left – though it feels like a week. I wanted to write it down while it was fresh in my mind, because sometimes after we get somewhere, and I am comfortable and rested, the pain fades and it is easy to be blithe and dismissive about the experience. Today I can still feel the pain in every muscle in my body, my joints so sore it is hard to stand, and so I figure for once the web log can get it warts and all.
We knew the first stretch out of Ouarzazate would be tough. According to the map there was forty kilometres without any kind of settlement, and then one tiny town before the ascent up into the rugged, gravel covered peaks of the Anti-Atlas. But we are accustomed to facing long stretches and limited water, so we set the alarm for the early hours of the morning, stocked up on water, and shrugged off the worry.
Back through the crossing of the High Atlas our trolley finally gave up the fight against decay, and we left it sitting forlornly by the roadside when the wheels wore down to the metal. We had lightened our packs so much in Marrakech, posting back loads of things we can do without until after M’Hamid, that we thought we could carry whatever water we needed; after all, the most we ever had was fifteen litres between us and the trolley, and that had only been necessary on a few exceptional occasions.
But it has been a long time since I tried to carry seven litres of water, and both of us had forgotten just how tough it is to suddenly add seven kilos to the pack. However, given that the temperatures have been topping fifty degrees, and all the locals we asked said that indeed there was nothing for forty kilometres, we weren’t game to chance it.
We plodded up the road in the dark, straining with the weight and trying to guzzle as much as we could before the sun came up, both to lighten the packs and also to ensure we were well hydrated early on. We had thought the road would be fairly flat for the first day; but it began rising straight away, not a long steady pull, which is actually relatively easy to handle, but rather a series of sharp ups and downs – which is exhausting. The sun came up in a fierce blaze and the wind began to blow, the hot and hard desert wind just whipping across the hamada, so that soon we were struggling to walk into it.
We rested wherever we could find some shade – in the rectangle offered by a roadsign, the lee of a deserted mud hut – but 
there wasn’t a lot to be had.
After twenty kilometres we were really getting through the water, and ahead of us we could see some serious looking hills. Fortunately at that stage we came across a local well, used by the herders for their stock. It was the heat of the day by now, so we huddled into the shade of a small monument, filled our water bottles up again, cooked some lunch, and waited for the cool of the afternoon.
We had to wait a lot longer than usual. The heat was not unbearable – but the wind made it far hotter, and dried us out further. In the end we left at about five o’clock, and walked for another ten kilometres. By this time we were both just exhausted, which is unusual – normally we can simply push on, regardless of how tired we are, but I guess every now and then comes a day you just can’t push through. It was dark and there was no way we were going to make it to the small town up the road.
We hiked up a mountain side and spread our bed rolls out on the gravel hamada. It is utterly silent up there, just a huge big emptiness so vast it rings in your ears, and when we lay down the full moon came up in a blaze so bright we could see the mountains like day time. This is the camp the following dawn, with the moon still lightening the sky behind us.
The next morning we struggled to get moving early. We had about two litres of water each, and hoped that would see us through the last ten or twelve kilometres to the town.
The road began to seriously wind up and down, although nothing worse than any normal mountain road. We were just tired. But our spirits were rather restored by the awesome colours and surreal patterns of the landscape – it is one of the most incredible panoramas I have ever seen, full of weirdly contoured rock scapes, date palm valleys, and over it all an immense, high sky.
We got into Ait Saoun just as our water gave up. The extraordinarily kind Berber man at the local café cooked us the most sublime “Berber Omelette” we have eaten – two big pan fulls of egg, tomato, peppers, mushrooms, cheese and cumin, with great hunks of wonderful fresh bread. We guzzled the lot along with copious amounts of water, mint tea, and lemon drink, and eyed the mountains in front of us warily. Our map had a Berber trail marked through the high part, and then hopefully only fifteen kilometres to the next water stop; it was twenty five kilometres to a hotel bed in Agdz. With what we had already walked it would be a thirty seven/eight km day to Agdz – manageable, if tiring. But with full bellies and fresh water, we were restored and hopeful, and set off across the gravel up the track.
It is really hard walking up the Berber paths. Designed for shepherds and goats, not lumbering tourists with packs, they are uneven and covered in large, sharp rocks. In parts you are more or less face to face with the ground, hauling yourself upwards and hoping like hell you don’t lose balance. For the skiers amongst you: picture walking up Fanny’s Finish on Mt Buller, only covered in rock, about six times; and you have some idea what it is like.
But at the top, the landscape was utterly magnificent, and totally worth the climb. We wandered along the road for a while, marvelling at the deep gorge cut by the rocky path of the Draa river – currently completely dry – through the rough mountains. Vehicle after vehicle stopped to offer us a lift, eyeing us incredulously when we said we had to walk, but very, very kindly showering us with oranges, grapes, and sips of cold water. I think Morocco must be the only country we have walked through where we have to actually argue with people in order to walk rather than take a lift. But after the hideously long stretch of the previous day, it was very reassuring to know that if we were stuck, there were people there to help – it makes the difference between the walk being a challenge and a major danger.
We followed the road for some time, cutting down through the gorge when we got to a broken bridge rather than walking the two kilometre detour, and looking forward to the next water stop.
Unfortunately it was a real one horse village, one of the unpleasant ones where the kids accost you on entry demanding “un dirham, un stilo, un bon bon?” (money, a pen, a chocolate?) We were hot, tired, thirsty and still had ten kilometres to walk – albeit downhill into the valley of the Draa – so we were in little mood to be charming. Fortunately one of the young lads spoke French beyond demanding presents, so he ran off to fill our bottles at the well, and when he came back we pointedly gave him a packet a biscuits. His eyes lit up like Christmas and in true Moroccan fashion he immediately called all the other kids over and began doling them out equally; but we rather hope the message got through to the girl who had stood for five minutes with her hand shoved directly under my nose, demanding gifts and money, despite the fact that we were obviously out of water, and collapsed in exhaustion on the ground to boot. It is strange really, as we rarely have much trouble with the kids and begging; our rule tends to be that if asked for water or food we always give it, but if the request is for money, pens, and chocolates, we don’t give anything. I could willingly throttle whichever idiotic Westerners came through Africa handing out pens and chocolates like Santa Claus. I have actually read sites advising people to do this; note to future travellers: DON’T.
The last ten kilometres were the hardest I can remember in a long time, and for no other reason than that suddenly, we were just shattered. I guess it was a combination of clambering up Berber paths, across the mountain passes, and through the heat – not to mention with low water supplies – but we really were wrecked. It was dark when we finally staggered into Agdz, and let me tell you – I have never struggled so much to turn down lifts as we did yesterday. It is weird, but when people pull up, we are actually so accustomed to declining a ride that the words come out before I think about it. Which is good, because if I had stopped to think about it yesterday I probably would have said “yes”.
But things ended on a good note. We stumbled into the first hotel we could see, drawn by the picture of a pool on the sign. Unfortunately the guy on reception –after showing us a lovely room overlooking a luscious pool – told us it was 230 dirham, way out of our price range. We hoisted our packs on and turned to leave, not sure whether we should cop it sweet or try to find another hotel – neither of us could face walking more than three steps into bed – when the manager saw us, and, incredibly kindly, immediately halved the price, so we have a room for two nights for twenty Australian dollars a night. And believe you me – boy do we need it.
We fell face down on the bed last night and passed out without discussion. Early this morning, we went downstairs and swam in the pool; the water was bath warm, and utter balm to our poor old bodies.
We have three days walking to Zagora, but the hard part is done now, as all along the Draa valley there are small settlements with wells, so we don’t have to worry about water. The big mountain crossings and Berber tracks are finished now, too, until we hit the desert of course! But once in Zagora – where we plan to rest for a couple of days out of the heat, which is something fierce now – there are three more days to M’Hamid, and the end of the first stage. The town is actually signed on the kilometre markers now, and it seems incredibly strange to be this close, and yet also to be taking forever to get to. Like waiting for Christmas as a child.
Meanwhile we are planning to spend the rest of today either horizontal or in the pool, until it doesn’t hurt to stand up again. You would think that after walking five thousand kilometres, a thirty seven km day would be no hardship; but sometimes, every step hurts.
“Footsteps of Man” is another couple who set out to walk from Cape Town around the world. After making it through most of South Africa, they are taking an extended break to review the situation; one got sick, and the other hurt his foot and had to continue on bike, before they stopped. In one of her diary entries, Louise, the female part of the duo, wrote after a short break that she had “forgotten how unbelievably hard it is to walk even twenty kilometres”, when the sun is hot and you are carrying your gear.
I know how she feels.
But, hey – we did it. I am just glad there are guys out there like Karl and Al who are doing it too – knowing that they struggle helps us to feel better when we have a couple of tough days.
July 16th, 2005
Well, folks, that there is us about halfway up the Atlas mountains.
Now the bad news is – we thought we were actually at the top when this picture was taken. Oh, ha ha, sounds funny, doesn’t it? Yeah. Just a crack up, let me tell you.
But I am a little ahead of myself. In actual fact this tale begins back in Marrakech, where we wound up staying rather longer than anticipated – just for something new and different – and also where we witnessed one of the truly miraculous events of our walk: a Marrakshi Moroccan, a Djemaar el Fna wily trader, being merrily ripped off by a "stupid rich tourist". Oh, my friends, it was a thing of wonder; and went something like this:
We ran into a couple of blokes by the names of Joe and Roger, over in Morocco from Scotland and England respectively, who proceeded to utterly destroy our healthy living campaign by taking us to the lone bar and buying us endless beers. (Bloody 
fabulous.) After we had all sunk a few, we decided to brave the Fna for a bite to eat.
Now, Gary and I had been charged such extortionate prices and fed such ordinary food both times we had eaten there that we were a little wary; but never underestimate the combined forces of Brits and Scots to perform a good swindle.
When it was time to pay, Roger dangled his faux Louis Vuitton watch, bought in that very same Fna a week earlier for fifty dirham, in front of the eagle eyed stall manager. The manager promptly got extremely excited and his eye began to glow with that special, bargain spotting glint; he asked if the watch was Moroccan or English bought, to which the boys all of course replied "English" – and at that point he agreed to take the watch in exchange for dinner. The deal left us about fifty dirham in front – which is almost exactly what he had ripped Gary and I off for a few nights earlier.
Ah, only those who have ever been ruthlessly ripped off on a daily basis by the very special Marrakshi scammers can truly appreciate what a fabulous moment of triumph that was for all of us. We hastily adjourned to the bar to celebrate. To Roger and Joe: thankyou for a wonderful night of company and much-missed booze, and may all your plans come to fruition.
In fact, the main reason we took so long to leave Marrakech was that we kept running into travellers. And after months of our own company, or conversing in French, it really was bliss to talk to other people. So to the boys on the terrace at the Riad Assia, Steve and Rose from the States, and Jamie and Emma, THANKYOU for your company and conversation – we loved meeting you and hope you all stay in touch.
We finally dragged ourselves away, though, and headed out through the lovely lush valley toward the mountains. It was hot – really hot – and the landscape kept changing, from weird lunar scape gravel hills to date-palm filled valleys. We trudged for miles; over twenty, in fact – by which stage we were a bit shattered and wondering if perhaps we should have stayed in Marrakech – when suddenly, across the dried up river bed of the 
Oued Zat, we saw a most welcome hotel sign. When we got inside the archway and saw this, we decided resistance was futile, and paid our twenty bucks with a big, fat smile.
Heaven does not begin to describe that pool.
It took us another day to move any further, not least because we could see the vague outlines of the rather large looking Atlas mountains in the distance, and felt a little daunted and reluctant to leave cool comfort for hot heights. Eventually we compromised and did a couple of short days, fortunately finding walker’s auberges along the way. Walking is a pretty big past time around the Atlas, so in some parts there are really good cheap backpacker set ups.
The road gradually began to pull upwards, although for around fifty kilometres it wasn’t a big deal, just a steady pull. The tall peaks came closer and closer, and we kept looking up at them and wondering if it was time to get worried yet. At the end of one of those days we decided that they looked rather too close, and that it was time to find somewhere to sleep; we had done about 36km that day, and were in need of a bed rather badly. Unfortunately it was all either harsh hillscape or cultivated fields, and we couldn’t see where we could camp.
That was when Mahdi decided to adopt us.
In order to introduce Mahdi properly, I have to say a little about the Berber people of Morocco – apologies to those of you well versed in Moroccan culture.
The Berbers, for several thousand years, were the principle inhabitants of the entire Maghreb region – Tunisia, Algeria, Libya, Morocco. It has been suggested that they are distant relatives of the Celts and Basque people, and their language has ties to that of the Egyptians. Despite the Arabic colonisation of Morocco over one thousand years ago, the Berber people have retained both their language and culture, and today are fighting to have both recognised as an identity independent of the Arabic population. The Berber people live now predominantly in the mountainous regions of Morocco – and their reputation for legendary hospitality and warmth to strangers, is a renowned part of the proud heritage they carry on.
Soon after we entered the mountain country, the people we encountered were at pains to tell us that we were "in Berber country now", as they smiled and invited us in for tea or to stay. "It is tranquil here, no problems," we were told, over and over. "You can camp, rest, whatever you need – there is no danger here." On the back of these kind overtures we ran into Mahdi, in a tiny village where we stopped to eat.
"You must come home to my house – my mother will cook for you," he told us. We gratefully accepted and followed him down the steep steps cut into the hillside, to his Berber village, a peaceful settlement of baked mud houses above a lush valley. We soon became the village attraction, particularly down at the waterhole, where all the local girls were collecting drinking water. Mahdi told us the water comes from a subterranean spring, which has been running as long as anyone can remember. In the summer it runs cool; in the winter, when there is snow two feet deep here, it runs ‘warm’. It tasted wonderful.
Mahdi’s mother was indeed the cook of the century – I think it is a national trait – and we sat with the family and ate an enormous platter of cous cous with vegetables and chicken. No sooner did we attempt to cease attacking the food, than we were exhorted to carry on, by the whole family: "Ish!" they all said at once, the Berber word for ‘eat’, waving at us and insisting we consume all the choice parts of the platter. Like we need any encouragement to eat.
Later that night we sat up on the rooftop in the cool with Mahdi and his friends, who indulged in a creative bit of electrical work. They wanted to play music as well as see, so without ceremony or any regard for health and safety issues they spliced a live wire by torch light and powered up both stereo and bulb. We sat on the mud rooftop and listened to Berber music interspersed at intervals with Celine Dion. Quite a mix.
We fell asleep up there, Mahdi and his mate crashed in the bed next to us.
Here they are, hiding from the daylight under a blanket, bulb and stereo still there.
We had a lovely night in the cool breeze with the mountains overhead, 
although I have never been woken by a rooster crowing quite this close before – it was two feet from my head. Hence the following shot.
The mountains themselves were awesome from that rooftop, though, even if a little daunting.
We headed off for Taddert, the base of the big climb, where we spent the night before setting off for the mountain pass.
After about five kilometres the next day we saw the beginning of the big haul, and sat down to have a drink and contemplate it. Pity we had no whisky. Watching the trucks labouring up wasn’t too promising at all.
We started to climb, and it wasn’t really too bad; after about an hour and a half we reached the point where the opening picture was taken. There were loads of bus groups up there getting panoramic shots, so we figured we must be fairly much at the top; ha.
Another hour and we got this shot. And let me just say – we walked every piece of road you can see here.
Anyway. Enough bragging and swagger (maaaan! Did you see how huge those mountains are? No, really, look again. I insist). Actually, it was a long, tough day – we did forty kilometres over the mountain pass, some of it cross country behind a Berber bloke who showed us a short cut. It was short, but very very steep. Those guys are like mountain goats.
On the other side the landscape was stunning – weird, harsh stony mountains, cut 
through with green swathes of date palms and crops, and red mud villages. I have so many photographs of the amazing contrasts that I think I will have to make a new album – but maybe not until Zagora, as this connection is really slow.
The walking became hotter than hades and very tough, after the cool of the mountains; dramatic though it is, mid July is definitely not the time to be experiencing Southern Morocco. In the end we actually rose long before the dawn to get here – we walked a lot of the last seventy kilometres in the nighttime. Just crazy heat, and there are long stretches without water.
We had wanted to detour off into the valley of Ait Benhaddou, where many films – such as Gladiator – were shot; but unfortunately we couldn’t buy water before the turnoff, and weren’t game to chance the supply. In weather like this and with up to twenty kilometres between places to buy water, we figure safety is good. There are few farms in between the villages now – everything is clustered around the few water sources in the valley, so we can’t rely on other people for our water.
I can’t tell you how good it was to get into town here and have a SHOWER; we are planning to sloth it in air con-ned comfort for a couple of days (no pun intended, although the hotel did sting us a bit, I reckon…) before heading down to Zagora.
This stretch has been one of the most visually stunning of the walk so far – the immense scale of the landscape is difficult to convey in photographs. It has also been one of the toughest – Gary is pretty crook after dehydrating quite badly, and is currently tucked up in bed. But we are quite anxious to push on now, and knock the rest of Morocco off before the seriously mad swelter of mid August.
Thanks to everyone who has sent us messages, and if I don’t answer this time, I definitely will in Zagora. I’m off for an ICE COLD coke – well, Roger and Joe, bars are bit short down this way…
July 3rd, 2005
Sometimes we like to open a new diary update with a lovely landscape shot. Then there are the times when, really, you just need to show it how it is.
Obviously, this shot falls into the latter category.
It has been a long, adventure-packed march from Casablanca to here, full of people, interesting nights, and – of course – great food.
Leaving Casablanca was a bit of a nightmare, as big cities tend to be for us. It was a whole day marching through outer urban wasteland, being openly ogled and incessantly harangued: "hey, Ali Baba! What you need all that stuff for? Why you don’t take a taxi? I give you good price on taxi!"
Where are you going;
what are you doing;
where are you from…..
WHY ARE YOU WALKING?
The first hundred times those questions are asked, it’s not so bad. By the time they have been asked five hundred times in the course of one day, it gets a little tiring, particularly when it is over thirty degrees and there is forty kilometres to go to get out of the city.
Eventually we reached the outer village of Tit Mellil, where there was (reportedly) a hotel. You guessed it, though – none to be seen. We hoisted the packs and kept on walking, past a garage where the lovely owners fed us wonderfully and refused to be paid, until we finally reached the small town of Berrechid, also reputed to have a hotel.
But – oh, yes, you’ve already guessed – no hotel there either. By this stage we had covered the longest distance we have ever done, over fifty kilometres, and any spare patch of ground was looking good for the tent. Unfortunately there really had been nothing but industrial wasteland up until then.
Finally we spotted a lush looking nursery, full of palms and flowers. We figured a nursery must have some land, so we plodded up the driveway and asked a woman who was working in the hothouse if we could camp.
Well. She swung into action, taking one look at the sorry state of us and ordering us into chairs, returning with a huge tray of mint tea and cake, and got on the telephone to her son who, she assured us, spoke French much better than she did. Ten minutes later Khalid duly rolled up, and we all sat and drank tea and ate lovely cake, and he wound up absolutely refusing to hear of us camping and ushering us instead into the 
house. This is Khalid and his mother (who we spoke to first) and some other family members.
And Gary, of course.
We were so exhausted we barely had time for a wash before we passed out on the wonderfully comfortable salon sofas. They were beside open windows, and when I 
woke during the night it was to feel a cool breeze and see the stars right outside; the nighttime air smelt of frangipani and orange blossom.
We had planned to leave early the next morning to beat the heat, but of course, it is impossible to escape the unbelievable hospitality of Moroccans – that is, if one was stupid enough to want to do so. Khalid’s mother was up with the dawn and hurried us back into our chairs under a big old tree in the garden. She disappeared back inside and then the plates started to appear in a continual, wonderful, parade of gourmet delight: plump ripe tomatoes and sweet thinly sliced onion, preserved meat, fresh baked bread, a luscious, dripping cheese omelette, fresh cheese, 
homemade jam, honey, grapes, olives….and scads of coffee and glorious mint tea. You cannot even begin to imagine how good her mint tea was; Gary and I nearly had conniptions on the first sip. It is a whole different wonder to the cafe stuff.
Although, I’m not so sure I have mastered the art of pouring it from great heights just yet…
We left quite some time later, blessed with multiple kisses on the cheeks and promises to return. I would walk the distance all over again to come across a smile like this one. 
Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, to the family Rorchid. We will never forget you.
Eventually we made it to Settat, where there really was a hotel. We collapsed for a day there and got our breath back a little. It was bliss to be away from 
the noise, stink, and hassle of Casablanca.
We headed off from Settat knowing there was nothing in the way of hotels for at least three days. The landscape rapidly turned from coastal plains into the lunar scape of gravel covered mountains, where the farmers somehow graze sheep and grow olive trees. We walked a huge old day and it was coming into darkness when we decided we would have to approach a farm to camp for the night. It is a bit intimidating out in the hills, where most of the farmers speak Berber and Arabic but very little French, and we often struggle to make ourselves understood. But the lovely Mustafa saw us coming up the gravel path of his home from his rooftop, and welcomed us very kindly. We gave him and his wife the food we had, and a little money, and they made us a wonderful meal which we ate up on the rooftop. We slept up there too, and a more wonderful view of the stars would be
difficult to find anywhere. Every time I woke up in the night they had wheeled on a little further, and every constellation was crystal clear and brilliant.
Mustafa’s wife cooked us beautiful rghayef flaky crepes the following morning, and we drank some more of their sublime mint tea before heading off. Mustafa is building the house himself – he had a terrible fall at work on a building site some years ago and is only now beginning to recover; yet he has managed to build a two roomed home, plant a strong, healthy garden, and keep about a dozen sheep. Not to mention show two tired walkers unconditional hospitality.
We quickly launched from the sublime to the ridiculous though, that day. We trudged another very long day – we are doing consistently longer distances now, mainly because there is simply nothing in between a lot of places – and that was a forty kilometre one. As usual though, we stopped for the heat of the day. It is just lunacy to walk through the midday heat; we were fortunate that day tocome across a proper service station with a restaurant, where the owners kindly let us sit for a few hours.
On dusk we entered a small town (which had a really difficult to pronounce name, hence the lack of it here) and got a bit of a funny feeling. It might have had something to do with the three seperate offers of "something special from the mountains my friend" before we were even into the town proper; ever since Gary shaved his head again and trimmed the beard, every hustler for miles around seems convinced that we are mad kif smokers, offering us spliff at every available opportunity. A little concerned by their persistence, we turned straight into the police station and figured we would ask if they knew somewhere we could camp.
The very friendly policeman was a bit bemused by the request – I rather suspect it is the first time in living memory a traveller has stopped there for a night – but eventually his mate who ran the local Shell service station offered us a place on his floor, which 
we gratefully accepted. So, from the airy views of stars to the side of an oil trap we went.
But a safe place to sleep is never to be either underrated nor underappeciated, and we were extremely grateful for it, as we were to the kindly cafe owner next door who let us have a wash out the back and gave us a wonderful breakfast the next morning.
It was a couple more pretty long (yes, okay, and hot – I guess this is getting a little monotonous now, isn’t it?) days before we finally got to Marrakech. We had one night in a hotel which was not worthy of the name – no shower is one thing, but a squat toilet with no door and a tap which ran only a trickle of brown water, is rather taking the piss, I thought – and another rooftop camp. And then below us, we saw the palm tops of the legendary oasis – and smelt the diabolical stench of the swamp they grow in.
Last time I was in Marrakech, I loved it. Absolutely, fabulously, thought it was the most exciting place on earth.
But I am going to go out on a limb here and say that this time – it has really left us both a bit cold.
For one thing, there are more tourists here than you could shake a stick at – I have seriously never seen so many Europeans in one place since we got to Morocco. There was nowhere near as many tourists last time I was here. They are, quite literally, everywhere. Now of course, I would be a sorry traveller if that was the only thing I had a problem with; but it is the hustle that results from their (or, should I say, our) presence that is difficult to handle. After weeks of being a curiosity, but shown far more kindness than any other type of attention, suddenly we are perceived as endlessly rich idiots ripe for the plucking. It really has been fairly unpleasant, to be honest.
Last time I ate in the bustle of the Djemaar el Fna at the street stalls, they were wonderfully cheap and tasty; this time the only other people I could see eating were all European, and the prices we were charged bore very little relation to those advertised, not to mention being approximately triple what we are accustomed to paying for the same thing. And the food was really ordinary.
The two lots of mint tea we have paid for have been diabolically bad; and we cannot move without being agressively confronted by a salesman of one sort or another. Fortunately we are pretty laid back with it all, and haven’t been upset by it – particularly since we are very obviously not in the market to buy anything – but around us we have seen a lot of people getting pretty upset. I know that the tourist office has done a lot to crack down on hassle and hustling, but it just seems that there is a really unpleasant undertone to the atmosphere here now; the city is running on the tourist dollar and it is blatantly there to be exploited to the last dirham.
For us the cities in Morocco have just been an utterly other world to the smiling kindness and warmth of the rural areas. We may as well be in a different country. In some ways many travellers don’t seem to help themselves much, with many of the women roaming around in tiny bikini tops and shorts, and sitting outside cafes smoking (I sound a bit like a preaching mullah, don’t I? But it does seem to show a rather blatant disregard for local norms). Nonetheless, both of us are looking forward to ther relative peace and quiet of the Atlas mountains after this. I think it is a great pity that a country which has such an amazingly warm, generous national character, should be so badly misrepresented in it’s tourist centres.
Anyway. The Fna remains a great carnival spectacular, and we have just switched to self catering for these few days!
The heat is suprisingly bearable. We have less than five hundred kilometres now until M’Hamid – something I get butterflies in the stomach just thinking about – and we can’t wait to head into the beautiful country of the Atlas. So perhaps I shall go and indulge in an ice-cream – the one thing we can actually afford here – and rest my little feet for the tramp ahead.
Oh, stuff it, I might as well lash out and have a tagine as well… since I’m an idle rich European and all.
Marrakech the sequel
I am going to make a note to self: never post about a new place on the day I arrive. Inevitably, twenty four hours, some sleep, and a shower later, it takes on an entirely new personality.
Yes, there are still too many tourists, hustlers, and high prices; but the Fna is as amazing as ever I remember it, and the orange juice just as wonderful. I’m never going to like performing monkeys or snakes with their mouths sewn shut so they don’t bite their "charmers", but the 
mayhem and storytellers and cooking fires are as crazy and enchanting as ever.
I am also posting a sequel to say a massive THANKYOU to Hamid for his entirely unexpected comment on the site – we can’t believe you got our web address and wrote to us! Thankyou so much for your kindness – we were amazed when you backed that huge truck up two hundred metres just to give us some water. The truck drivers along the Casa-Marrakech stretch were all incredibly kind to us and didn’t blast us off the road but waved instead, and cheered us immensely with their big smiles. We really appreciate you getting in touch – please leave an email address so we can get back to you, or go to the "contact us" section.
And in a special, personal note, I have to include the photograph below and say to my Dad – 
You reckon you’re struggling to sell your boat?