Winter News II 2004

The famous beach camp in Tahgazoute, near Agadir, Morocco is a huge site run by the local mafia, and can hold over 200 campers. It has been running for a number of years, and during the winter months, European campers come and park up, November through to March. Facilities are beach parking, a chemical empty point, frequent deliveries of water from a local water bowser, and a whole host of sellers, that collectively equal a hyper market, who come to your doorstep offering their wares. The local mafia "guard" the camp for Euro a night. After the campers have left, the Moroccans then come and camp on the beach in tents for the summer months. The local mafia have become very rich from the proceeds of this venture, and on the whole, the camp runs smoothly. However, the characters create their own stories and I never tired of watching them. During the winter of 2005 it was said that there were over 30,000 European campers drive into Morocco.

Having made it to the camp we are making friends very easily and soaking up the sun of which there is an abundance, having left a gloomy Europe. Over the last couple of weeks, temperatures are peaking in the high 80’s making it too hot to sit outside during midday and early afternoon.

A few weeks ago a group of four German trucks arrived on the beach. They called themselves Boundaries to Bridges Tour and were travelling from Almeria, Spain to St. louis, Senegal, West Africa. The trucks were old ex-German military Mercedes, one of them being 45 yrs old. They were trying to spread the belief that boundaries should be taken down and bridges built between all the countries of the world, that borders only segregate people creating hostilities and friction. To earn some money on the road they showed films, played on a laptop and projected onto a white sheet, hung on the side of one of the big trucks. At towns they put up a large marquee, in which they displayed some energy saving devices, held music workshops and tried to educate visitors to love their neighbours. Travelling with them was an American, Dee and her son who was having a week off university in the UK. She had met the group on the internet, who agreed to let Dee and her son travel with them for a week. The problem was, they realised (when is was too late) that Dee was totally blind and her son was partially blind, almost totally deaf and although he was 7 years old, had the mental age of a two year old and was still in nappies! Dee had little control over her son who seemed to spend most of the day throwing tantrums and had to be pacified by the rest of the group. Before the week was up, Dee decided to leave the group and travel the 70 miles by local bus to Casablanca to catch an early flight home. She did this on her own, carrying her tent, her handbag, and hold-all, as well as keeping hold of her son! I thought Dee was very brave to travel without any help with such a disability, and with her disabled son, but a little irresponsible as well.

We decided to drive south and into the desert. First stop was Tiznit, which being barely 100 years old, was not much to write home about. However, the souk, held in the main square in the evening, was full of characters and as the sun set, became a hive of activity with locals coming to listen to fables of kings and maidens told in classical Arabic. Acrobats and comedy acts drew the crowds with little knowledge of their language needed to understand and enjoy the fun. There were a number of medicine men selling potions of dubious origin. One was the Ostrich Man, who sold foot of ostrich, head of ostrich, egg of ostrich and feather of ostrich. What bits of ostrich he didn’t sell, wasn’t worth having. One crowd caught our eye. They were watching a woman sitting cross-legged on a mat on which was arranged an array of strange items. It was the first woman entertainer we had seen, so had to stay to fathom what it was she was doing. We watched in fascination as she picked up a bullet shaped item, unscrewed it and started to play about with a substantial amount mercury! She then let a drop of it fall into the hollow bullet, followed by a little of each item she had in front of her. Some twig, a little sheep’s wool, some egg shell, some herbs, some seeds, a scale of lizard, a scale of snake and to finish off, another drop of mercury for good measure. It was, we were told, a good spell to ward off evil and bad luck. A talisman. It was fascinating to be immersed into a way of life, which has survived for 1,000’s of years. If I were to be transported back in time the scene would before my eyes would have changed little. The travelling medicine men, storytellers and entertainers would be selling the same medicines, telling the same stories, drawing the same large, inquisitive crowds.

From Tiznit, we visited Sidi Ifni a town with a rather strange history. Until 1969 it was held under Spanish rule and had a port, and an airstrip and was a duty free zone. It is now known for its crumbling Art Deco buildings, which seem somewhat out of place in Morocco. The campsite on the coast nestled at the bottom of a sheer rock face some 300 feet below town and cost a mere £2 per night. A visit to the souk was undertaken with our mopeds, which made light work of the steep hill up into town.

From Sidi Ifni we visited the hot springs in the oasis of Abeino, which was a welcome and relaxing break. They are a natural 38°C with men and women separated during the day, but mixed in the evenings. The hot spring water empties into a large covered swimming pool, which gives it a rather clinical feel and shatters any romantic expectations. Having said that, walking down the steps into such hot water was quite wonderful and a complete contrast to the hot and dusty drive to reach Abeino.

On to Tan Tan, home of the famous archway of kissing camels which grace the road into town. The drive to tan Tan was a barren stretch of 125kms of semi-arid desert in which large sand dunes were becoming common. We were of course venturing into the edge of the Sahara Desert. Often we would pass people sitting in the middle of nowhere on a pile of stones, waiting for what, where they had come from and where they were going, remained a mystery. We were shocked to find that the kissing camels were no longer, but were being replaced by two very realistic stone camels. One was covered in saffolding, and they were not kissing, but looking at each other in that nonchalant way that camels do. Trying to get Hansi our 609 Mercedes motorhome close enough for the photo shoot, without blocking the road and getting crowded by kids begging for ‘Une stilo, une bon bon, une dirham.’ (une clip round the ear, would have been nice) was impossible. One of the locals came to our rescue and shooed the children away. Peace at last! Tan Tan was much like any other small Moroccan town, with dusty, hot streets, crowded with cars, donkey carts and people milling about seemingly doing very little.

We carried on to Tiznit, through a high pass of 1057M. Half way down we stopped at a viewpoint for a brew and a sandwich. As we sat outside our motorhome in ore of the miles of rolling hills, we noticed a Moroccan HGV trundling up the pass in crawler gear, at walking pace up a very steep incline. As he passed us, he tooted his horn, smiled and waved and noticing that we were having a tea break, showed us his teapot! He was also having his tea break and conducting the tea pouring ceremony whilst on the move! The Moroccan tea ceremony is a rather fussy affair. Green tea is brewed in a small teapot to which is added fresh mint leaves and sugar. It is mixed and infused, not by the stirring of a spoon, but by an elaborate display of pouring into small glasses from a great height, which requires much skill, then re-cycling back into the teapot, to pour again. Eventually, after much pouring, and for the novices, much slopping outside the glasses, it is ready to drink. (what’s left of it)

Further along the P30 the road became rather narrow and hairpin bends hugged the sides of the Anti Atlas Mountains. Thankfully we were travelling north, on the mountainside. On the other side was a sheer drop with little or no protection from accidentally petering over the edge. Every now and then, a glance downwards showed a car, or truck that didn’t make quite it. This was not the road to be practicing the Moroccan tea making ceremony, whilst on the move! Concentration was vital, if we were to stay alive. As we snaked around one blind hairpin bend in third gear, we were greeted face-on by a huge long nosed Volvo truck and trailer. He was only overtaking two other trucks and was coming straight at us. Change of knickers please! Alan jumped on the breaks as “Hansi” all but kissed the huge Volvo truck, the driver of whom gave us a cheeky grin.

We did eventually make it back to Tiznit, to find the French Boules Championships still in full swing taking up most of the available space in the campsite. The French love playing boules, and when they are not playing boules, they watch satallite TV.

Moving onto Tafroaute a town set 1,200 metres up in the Anti Atlas Mountains in the stunning Ameln Valley. The area was the most beautiful we had seen to date, covered with huge sand brown granite boulders which turned deep russet red and pink during sunrise and sunset. Our visit coincided with the famed almond blossom throughout the valley. We spent an afternoon climbing the huge boulders, venturing into a land that time forgot. Quite stunning.

On the freecamp in Tafroaute, we met Darren, a New Zealander travelling in a UK registered Land Rover. Darren was making videos and photos of piste roads in Morocco and was in part sponsored by Land Rover magazine. It must have been a bit cramped for him in such a small vehicle, but he was having a good time. As night fell, Darren had made a lovely campfire outside his Land Rover. It was very cold and we remarked as such to Darren as we came to say goodnight and steal some warmth from his fire. ‘You should make a fire like I’ve done.’ He chortled. ‘But we have a gas fire inside our van.’ We replied. As we turned to walk back to “Hansi” we heard a voice mumble ‘Bastard!’ We all laughed. It was very cold that night and was to be the one and only night we turned our gas fire on for warmth. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and the stars shone alongside the milky-way in the inky dark blue sky. We even saw a shooting star as we stood arm in arm marvelling at the myriad of constellations.

Back to Tahgazoute beach where we are making more friends. One of the local beach girls, Bushara, invivted me to her house to meet her family and have some henna painted on my feet. Bushara’s family are very poor and live in a very run-down part of Agadir, in fact shanty town would be a fitting description. Situated up on a hill, the ‘houses’ are a loose arrangement of breeze blocks, with cement haphazardly thrown between them. Inside the one storey houses are two or three rooms, which have no furniture or running water, and only a precarious supply of electricity. Whilst I was there, the TV kept going off, so Bushara’s brother fiddled about with a socket hanging from the ceiling, which protested with bangs, pops and crackles. They did have a squat toilet, but it had no door, just a sheet of board as high as your chest. We all sat down to eat tarjine of lamb with prunes and vegetables. Tarjine is an earthenware plate with a conical top, and slowly cooks food over a charcoal or gas fire. It really is delicious.
Then the henna lady came. She wasted no time in mixing a very gooey green mess with her fingers, which were almost black from her trade. She then put the green goo in a syringe and made lots of gooey squiggles all over my feet. The goo took hours to dry, after which I was able to clean it off, revealing a beautiful brown pattern all over my feet. I really liked it. Bushara has been trying for many years to get a European to whisk her away to a land of milk and honey. This year is Dave's turn. Dave is from England and is totally hooked. He is unable to see that Bushara is only looking for a way out of her poverty trap. Still, he seems to be enjoying the experience! The last I heard, he was helping her apply for a UK visa.

The campsite is rich with characters. There are a lot of motorhomers with dogs, many of them irresponsible dog owners. They let their dogs roam free, to fight and interfere with other dogs. They never clear up after them, which in many European countries is a finable offence. The other day we witnessed a rather heated altercation, between a couple of Dutchmen. The first Dutchman came back to camp in his huge 911 bull nosed Mercedes and drove over some deep sand to reach his spot. In doing so he lost control of his truck and slid into another Dutchman’s camper crumpling his bumper. A lengthy and expensive insurance claim was imminent. If this wasn’t enough, his dog (which he had let out of the truck earlier) ran straight up to another Dutchman’s dog, which was tied up, and started a nasty fight. The owner of the tied up dog tried to part the fighting dogs, by throwing a camping chair between them. When this didn’t work, he then started kicking the other dog, who’s owner saw him, ran over and started shouting. Much strutting and posturing later and the two men started fighting and the crowd that had gathered to watch, all jumped in to part them. If that wasn’t enough, the wife of the Dutchman in the Mercedes truck, came up to him and started shouting at him, something about being childish and to come and level the truck! All in all, it wasn’t his day, but it provided some entertainment for us. Who needs Eastenders?

Parked a few metres from us is Morris, dubbed The Lord Mayor of Agadir. Morris thinks he knows everything about anything you care to mention. Whatever you think you know, The Lord Mayor of Agadir knows more. The Lord Mayor of Agadir encourages local mangy dogs around his van, which isn’t a problem, but when they bark all night at nothing, disrupting your sleep, it is. I formerly complained to His Lordship, about this nocturnal problem, to which he tried, unconvincingly to explain that they are necessary to keep nasty Moroccans away from the vans at night. The following night when they barked around our van I got up and threw stones at them, the only action they seem to understand. Being a terrible shot, I didn’t hit any of them and they did at least run off and leave us in peace. His Lordship hasn’t spoken to us since!

One Sunday we made friends with Ali, a Jordanian and his English wife Michelle. Ali runs four 5 star hotels in Agadir and they had come to the beach on their day off. With them were three other English people visiting, also in the hotel business. We were having a great time, eating and drinking, when one of the ladies needed a toilet. There are no toilets on the beach, so I suggested that she use ours. The other ladies soon followed and when we came to say our goodbyes, Ali insisted that we come to his hotel to use the pool as his guest. We couldn’t resist and a couple of days later having found Ali’s hotel with the help of an Iraqi gynaecologist, we were installed on sun beds beside the pool, with penguin clothed waiters hovering in the background ready to fetch us whatever we requested. We were guests of the manager and all the staff knew it. The hotel was a luxurious affair, with a beautifully tiled pool, around which resembled the hanging gardens of Babylon. Lying next to me were a couple of very white English tourists. I soon got chattering to them and asked if they had seen much of Agadir. They said they hadn’t and I suggested that they go and eat a delicious fish tarjine in the big souk. Their reply was, ‘Is it safe to eat out there!’ Their experience of Morocco was of course going to be totally different to our experiences. They would have been horrified to learn that I had gone to the home of a prostitute to meet her family and have my feet painted with henna; that we camped free on the best beach of Agadir, (Ali said it was the best) and that in their eyes, if they had got to know us, they would have probably classed us as vagrants!

The other day, there blew a terrible sand storm. Hot winds from the Sahara raged across camp, carrying with it dust, sand and rubbish. It was impossible to go outside without getting painfully sand blasted. Sand and dust found its way into your ears, nose, mouth, hair and eyes and inside your clothes. The only thing to do was sit it out inside the van, which although windows and doors were shut tight, didn’t escape a liberal covering of fine dust, which came through every tiny crack possible. Oh for a vacuum cleaner!

Next newsletter; about our trip up the highest pass in Morocco, through torrential rain, hail, a foot of snow, falling rocks and two foot deep rivulets. We got stuck in the snow, found we had a few leaks in the torrential rain, dodged falling rocks and had to be guided by a big digger truck, through a fast flowing two foot deep rivulet…and all to get to Marrakesh!