Two weeks as a local (Part III)

Grand Adventure

Day 1: I left Tinerhir, finally, and headed up through the palmeries to a set of campsites at the top. This sounded like a lovely trip except the piste I took only touched the palmeries a few times, and usually wrapped the mountains high above, and often out of site. The weather was anything but kind. It was only 9 km but it took forever. Most of the way I had a serious head wind that kicked a lot of dust in my face. I stumbled up the road with my head facing the ground, occasionally looking up to see when the next dust storm would hit. The road skirted through a couple of villages that weren't quite sure what to do with me. The other side of the palmeries had a paved road, and if that wasn't enough of a deterrent, the road I was on would eventually dead end. Most everyone stopped what they were doing to say hello, which was pleasant especially since the villages did a good job of sheltering me from the wind. One little boy was convinced I needed a tortoise and tried to sell me one. It was a cute tortoise but I really didn't need another tortoise. Eventually the road trickled off into a mule track that carved its way above an old kasbah that was still in good condition. A few Eurpoeans touring the site stared at me with a look of uncertainty, but failed to wave hello despite my brief attempts. Finally the trail dove into the end of the palmeries and the groves of trees buffered the wind that I was quite sick of. I sat down at a stream, not quite sure of where I was and waited. I took a picture and was caught being a tourist by three women burdened with bales of palm leaves that emerged from the opposite bank. They skipped over the stones in the creek and looked at the oddity that I was. When I found the paved road, 100 meters from the campsite, I ran into a local man who insisted I have tea with him. He was eager to discuss education since he himself was a teacher. It was an interesting premise but he couldn't quite grasp american schools and I failed to see what is so bad about the children knowing three languages, which was his concern. I left the house and re-entered the tourist grove at the campsite. I dined alone yet was served enough to feed the three bikers arguing over which route to take, one of which probably would've opted for no route at all, but he kept quiet.

Day 2: I was 6 km away from the Todgha Gorge, my next stop, so I was in hurry to get up, but the lack of sun in the canyon forced an early start. I don't even remember walking 1 of the 6 kilometers because it was so short. The gorge is about 100 meters long and filled with folks straining their necks to look up. The first half is filled with climbers testing out routes and making very little progress. I was planning to watch but was soon very bored. Even the groups half way up seemed to be having a picnic. The first half is also the drop off point for tour groups. The buses let them off and then hurry ahead to pick them up 100 meters later, and probably after a lunch at the posh hotels up ahead where the gorge opens briefly. I was sitting on an island of rock in the river and couldn't hear anything but the water. I happily watched everybody in silence and for the first time didn't mind the other tourists, even the super-quick package tour groups. One older woman got a memory of a lifetime and amused me also. The Moroccan's outnumber the tourists by about ten to one here; they themselves tourists vacationing for the weekend. The kids spend their time playing in the water, kicking around soccer balls, or wandering in groves singing. The latter I think they do to get a rise out of the tourists, and they certainly do. This woman nearly passed out running ahead to get the perfect shot and the kids were happy to oblige. They then swept her up into the group and surrounded her singing while she did her best impression of tribal dancing. She was pretty far away by that time but her smile could be seen for miles. My only regret is that I won't get to hear her tell her friends about that day. The rest of the day I spent at the beginning of the gorge obsessively photographing the swamp. I had not taken a picture for quite sometime, and suddenly I was overcome with the desire to take pictures of frogs. There was one of the greatest natural wonders above me and I was running through the mud sneaking up on brown toads and bright green frogs. A few people occasionally inquired what I was doing but didn't seem to understand why. I hope the pictures will do the explaining.

Day 3: Most everyone only makes it up the narrowest 100 meter stretch at the base of the gorge, but it continues on for several miles. The highlight of the 17 km trek was the bossy girl that I couldn't quite figure out. She was accompanied by two older women, and the three were accompanying three donkeys, each with a few bales of hay. At first she asked me for the usual, money, and then candy. I didn't have or didn't want to give either but I did have an orange left which I gave her. She looked at it curiously but took it after a shrug. She stopped up ahead of me and gave me a quarter of the orange and inquiried where I was going. We were both heading to Tamtatoucht so she urged me to tag along. She unwrapped a layer from the older woman which uncovered a pile of bread that had been resting above the old womans butt. Naturally I declined the offer. A bit later she asked for money again, but then reverted to a friendly encouragement to keep up. They were moving as fast as the donkeys could go, and couldn't figure out why I couldn't keep up. I wouldn't have been able to keep up without my pack. Finally she asked for water and I gave her some of mine. By the time I'd forced it from my pack and handed it to her, the donkeys were far ahead and she gave up the idea of keeping me around so she took off running with a noticeably feminine gait.

I had a horrible time after that. My shoe was appearing as though it might not hold up, and the endless curves of the canyon were too much. I happily took the first offer for a place to stay and holed up. I was interested briefly by a gang of tourists shuttled around in landrovers and took off to find a more peaceful spot. Behind the soon to be hotel and currently tent to sleep under that I was staying at was a gang of children with nothing better to do than to lurk around the grounds hoping to pick off a tourist like myself. Once I got past the demands for stuff, their natural curiosity took over and couldn't stop questioning me about what is this called in french or english. About ten kids were enthralled with learning numbers and names of animals. Occasionally they would juggle a few rocks and make me watch. My attempts to impress them with my juggling skills only encouraged more cries of 'watch me, watch me' as the crowd of mostly young girls tried to impress me. The young boys would occasionally drop by and interrupt a group conversation by standing in front of me and talking one on one, but they always had a mound of dirt that needed attending to. I finally ended the game when the oldest girl, who was a bit restless and always popped in and out, pushed the what's this called game into the region of body parts. She faked naivete when she drew a penis in the dirt and asked what's this called. I was quite shocked by a standard 10 year old's question coming from a place where the veil might be optional, but head to toe cover up wasn't. Even the littlest ones didn't show a strand of hair. I knew the word for shame in arabic, but I couldn't say it without a smile. My sudden knowledge of arabic was quite amusing for everyone. I figured it was time I left before I start corrupting children in a place where I can't predict the consequences, and my departure was preempted by the hotel manager coming into view to start the generator. He never even glanced over but his presence sent everyone running and I went back to the tent.

Day 4: This day destroyed me. The day started very early but the first two kilometers took forever. Everyone was eager to stop me and talk, and when I thought I'd cleared the village I met up with an old man who spoke no common language but managed to invite me for tea. I went to his house and was force fed tea, and bread. The bread would've been fine but I was forced to dip it in an incredibly salty sauce, and then pile on heaps of even saltier goat butter. I usually faked picking up the butter and watched in awe as the little girl there ate it like it was fudge, sometimes without any bread. By the time I left it was well into the day and I was eager to make some ground. I was again thwarted by three strange boys who couldn't figure out which way I was supposed to go, and no matter what path I chose they would yell at me and yell at each other, often throwing rocks at each other when one would contradict the other. I never figured out if they were honestly confused or playing a trick on me. There actions stradled the two. In the end I plugged my ears and went down the biggest path, which of course was the correct one.

Once I cleared the hill coming out of the valley I saw a horrible sight. The next 12 kilometers were visible in front of me. There was a short drop into the valley, and then nothing. It was flat and barren and lifeless except for the dust storms that passed through. I'm not sure why I pushed on, but I did. By the end of the valley I had seen two people. One was an old man sidesaddle on an even older mule. The other was a nomad. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but he was a true to life desert nomad, the blue people that every tourist agent imitates. He was miles from nowhere and had no discernable purpose but to wander. He had little interest in me or anything and forged his own path through the rocks. By the end of the valley I had begun to amuse myself by singing. I kept raising my volume slowly until I figured I had lost my mind and sat down for lunch. I was passed by a landrover who stopped for directions, and I could tell from their reactions that I would soon find a coveted spot in their journals. By this point I'd lost track of time and just kept pushing on, eventually reaching the village of Ait Hani, and the one auberge which consisted of a room full of blankets for the locals passing on to or from a weekly market.