Warmer Weather

The road brought me almost back down to sea level and I had one last big climb. Tarifa, being the windsurfing capital of Spain, lived up to its name: even the final descent was a strong push against the headwind. I met Zoe on the beach, an hour later than I predicted, and we celebrated our reunion in Zoe Roberts’ favourite way - a cup of tea!

We arrived in Marrakech in the evening, stayed overnight in a hostel nearby to the bus station, and in the morning hopped back on a nine and a half hour CTM bus heading out to Bonou, a small village close to M’hamid El Ghizlane. The coach, like the previous day, was very quiet yet almost full. Most people sat silently; occasionally someone answered the phone. A man in front watched religious chants on TikTok. Two boys about 11 years old in puffer jackets stared out of the windows to the mountains. A pocket of white people with septum piercings and colourful big seated trousers sat at the front. Women with different coloured hijabs and thick acrylic jumpers sat together staring ahead in comfortable silence.

At sunset two or three people on the coach played prayer calls on their phones. The volume was quiet enough to not be public but loud enough to not be private. They were about 5 seconds out of sync. A man in a leather jacket front was one of the players; he was slouched in his chair and held his phone out with a tired wrist.

The palette of the new landscape was terracotta, greyish greens and all colours in-between. Dust tracks appeared more clearly at twilight - their pattern seems random. Many of the structures appeared to be made from mud bricks. In the low light we saw people ambling or crouching together in circles in uninhabited areas, surrounded only by rocks, dust, and occasional shrubs.

The sky was pitch black when we arrived and we were stunned by the brightness of the stars. Our hosts, Hamza and Mounaim, waited for us to arrive and showed us the way to what would be our home for the next two weeks.

When we arrived there were nine other volunteers all helping with creating mud bricks, repairing the mud walls, and general housekeeping. The two of us mainly focussed on building an outdoor shower block by pasting together mud bricks with mud. A few people came and went, but in general we had a core group. They were like our family whilst we were there.

In Bonou it rains about three days a year. On our maps we could see blue lines indicating rivers. These are out of date because they have now all dried up. Some of the February days were scorching for us, and we had to pace ourselves when doing work out in the sun.

When the wind picked up, the dispersed dust made the impression of being in a thick fog: there were days where we avoided going outside because of these “sandstorms”. The windows of the house were square shaped holes in the walls so all our belongings and blankets would be coated with dust even inside. Going to the Hamam, the public baths felt marvelous: scrubbed clean and dust free.

Towards the end of our time at the WorkAway, we took an overnight trip to “The Real Sahara”. With Hamza's powers of persuasion, all eight volunteers came along, squeezed into standard sized pickup truck along with the driver, Abdu, and Hamza himself. The dunes at Chigaga were mesmerising. According to our guide the dunes were 300 metres high in places (6). The two of us and Seba hiked to the closest peak to us, then the next closest, then the very highest peak across the land. It was like we were soaring above a static pale orange sea under a bright blue sky. Hiking in sand is hard work - it reminded Iz of ascending Mount Toubkal in the snow, but wearing just socks rather than boots and crampons.

We both loved our time at the WorkAway, but we had gone past our sell-by-date in the days before leaving. The hosts’ account was being shut down by WorkAway due to a complaint from a volunteer just before us. Daily dramas were bizarre enough to be amusing in the first week - out of the blue ultimatums, and the afternoon of Couscous Gate - but felt tiresome by the end. We said our farewells to our global family and took the early morning CTM bus heading back North West to Ouarzazate.

Back on the Road - cycling in Morocco

We arrived at Ouarzazate at midday. Zoe posted off a big box of items she no longer needed - climbing shoes, extra layers, cleats - (7) then we headed to a campsite.

We have never been to such a friendly campsite. As we wheeled ourselves in everyone we passed greeted us warmly in their language, many wanted to know more about us, and an elderly Italian man chatting to us asked if he could have a photo of us to share on Facebook! We were the only tents in a full site of European retired campavaners.

As we searched for a camping spot we were jumped upon by an English (very English) couple. They were incredibly excited when they heard our English accents. Sean and Susan offered us many cups orange squash and tea. Nothing tasted of England more than hearing them debate over whether Tetley was good enough to offer us. We pored over their Moroccan map where they recorded their journeys in highlighter pen.

Other than the oasis, Iz wasn't sold by cycling on this first day. Uphill with a strong headwind in an unchanging Martian landscape. The few indicators we were still on planet earth were smashed emerald green glass, and Coca-Cola bottles half filled with straw coloured liquid. As we are our stove dinner (millet couscous and rehydrated soya mince) in an intrusive wind, Iz [writing in third person] was feeling especially mardy: they even questioned what the point of cycling was when there were perfectly good buses (8). Whilst eating we were asked to move by a man in a pickup truck - it was forbidden to camp in this uninhabited nomansland apparently. We packed up and carried along the road until we found a new spot. It was windfree and peaceful. Things happen for a reason. Things happen for a reason (9).

After a good night's sleep the landscape appeared more beautiful - big red striated hills, small yellow gorse like flowers by the side of the road, flurries of chipmunks. The journey was coming alive, and became filled with lovely human interactions.

Within an hour of cycling uphill it was easy to overheat. We were grateful to a motorbiker who stopped to give us a bottle of sparkling mineral water. He had come from Ireland and had been shaken the previous day from falling off his (very expensive BMW) motorbike on an off-road section. With no signal in the middle of nowhere he was grateful he had managed to get himself back to the road: it had involved lifting the bike and luggage (300kg in total) up out of the ditch it landed in.

Soon afterwards we were passing a construction site and we were called to join them for lunch - a big clay dish of couscous. The workers squated around and ate by rolling the food into a ball in their right hand. They started to peel off and we were assured by the manager that there was no one else left to eat the rest other than us. Absolutely delicious! We avoided the bits of lamb and he asked if we were vegetarian. We replied yes and he gave a big belly laugh and then a high five to each of us. I don't know what this was meant to mean!

One of our main concerns about cycling in Morocco was access to drinking water. In fact, in our first stretch of the journey it was easier than Europe to find water even in remote places. Very frequently by the roadside there is a tap against a tiled wall, sometimes with some painted pastel coloured car tyres to be used as seats by the side. The next morning as we had run out of water after breakfast this lovely well appeared within minutes of cycling.

Stopping to sort out adjustments with Zoe's saddle by a cluster of houses, a woman and her toddler gazed on at us. The woman used the toddler's hand to wave to us and we waved back. More people emerged from neighbouring doors and the toddler toddled over to them and received hugs. An elderly man across the road approached and gestured to ask if we would like tea: 🤙 then tilt the thumb backwards. We had only recently had lunch but we were very happy to accept the offer. Bread and olive oil was brought out too, along with another man who sat with us who smiled shyly with sidewards facing teeth and his gaze towards the floor. We sat in silence mostly as he could only speak Amazigh and the elderly man who spoke French had disappeared. The bread was wonderful - crispy and doughy - and the olive oil had a lovely taste.

Another 15 minutes passed when a younger man emerged, casually walking up the hill. He greeted us warmly - the son of the shepherd was sent as he could speak some French. He sat down with us and we offered him a portion of our millet couscou, soya mince, and beetroot mush and he politely accepted. He ate with us for a while, finding a small patch of common ground with French, and then signaled he had had enough of the meal. We packed the rest in a tupperware, and descended together.

Down the gravel track, crossing the tarmac road, and along a dusty lane we came to a cluster of houses. The shepherd was there (Taleeb) and welcomed us like old friends. Many children ran about and adults waved and greeted us as we arrived with our bikes. The big extended family lives together in neighbouring houses - the grandma and grandad, three (possibly four) sons, two with wives and the other son who had brought us down the hill, and about 8 grandchildren who all play together.

They had a very large garden growing olives, saffron, almonds, dates, carob pods, and more. A solar panel generates electricity to draw water up and into a small reservoir. They have chickens, a couple of cows, a small sheep, and a dejected looking donkey who resigns itself to a life nuzzling in the stones with many children jumping on his back, pulling his ears, and grabbing his bottom lip all while he stands still staring blankly ahead. The grandmother makes butter, and collects wheat and goes through grain by grain to remove bits of straw.

Eating times in Morocco remind me of the part in Lord of the Rings where Merry and Pippin describe the essential meals of the day: breakfast at anytime with amlou (any kind of sweetened nut butter, sometimes with oil added such as argan) and olive oil, a second breakfast at 12pm of exactly the same, lunch at about 3pm (such as cous cous), snacks sometime in the afternoon (almonds from the garden on that day), bread again with olive oil and melted butter and cake at about 7pm, and dinner (such as tagine) any time after 10pm and could be well later.

We stayed for two nights to give us a rest from cycling and enjoyed the company of the family. Zoe went with Hamid to explore an ancient site with houses built into the walls. Iz rested at home, recovering from being spiked with milk (10) and trying to finish off the admin for the Swedish visa appeal whilst navigating many excited children wanting to play.

The whole family came together to see us off on the rest of our travels. We hadn't even exitted off the drive when we were stopped by another family who offered to give us tea! Being well fed and teaed we politely declined, la shukran, and continued on.