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1 Jun 2015
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Morocco (2012)
Morocco - In the Land of the Setting Sun
April/May 2012
(solo ride)
I wake up early with the street noise. The sound of motorcycles passing. Strange. Then I realize I'm in the middle of Raid D'Amitié, motorcyclists are leaving to the Atlas Tracks. TT bikes, all equipped with armours, noisy exhausts, depart in groups. I sit in the cafe next to the Hotel to watch them go. The café ... only serves coffee, tea, cola and crepes (stiff, barred with sweet). I've already tasted and I do not like it. The owner says there is a bakery up the street. Sends someone to buy a croissant. Cool
Today I'm going to the D'Ouzoud Cascades. North. I’m not worried about the way there because I bought a map that has all the attractions referenced. I've never seen such a map, full of little stars indicating points of interest, landscapes and with all the tourist sites underlined in red, whether in tar roads or on tracks. I do not have GPS or understand anything it. But I have a map that takes me where I want to go.
The road to the waterfalls snakes by the mountain base. In the northern side of the Atlas the landscape is greener, fields of olive trees, undergrowth. The underway is slow, the curves are many. The map shows a very twisted road. But the altitude is lower. I drive slowly, the mountain is further and further away, in the background the peak with snow shines in the sun.
I stop in a small village. I'm hungry. A grocery store has a counter full of croissants flashing me the eye. I ask the price - 1 dirham – I make an astonished face. The boy repeats almost with fear - 1 dirham - as if it were too expensive. I buy two. In the city I have already given 3 dirhams for a cake. Even here, in the countryside the quality of life is better
It should be noted that one dirham are 9 cents. Only! And no, there were no flies on the top of the cakes. The fluttering animals were concentrated in the butcher’s area furiously stinging the goats hanging in the sun.
Very close to the waterfalls in a really secondary road, there is a market on the roadside. Lots of people, rusty vans, dozens of donkeys. I cannot resist and stop. I hesitate to enter. There is a small house with a man who seems to run things. It’s the market Guardien. I ask if I can go in and see. He kindly answers me Yes. But I can only take pictures away from the road to the market. People do not like to be photographed. I walk to the entrance and switch off the camera flash and hold it casually as though I was not using it. But I keep shooting stealthily. Maybe get some decent pictures. I've done it in a market in Mauritania and resulted.
I am the only Western here. I wander in the middle of fruit boxes and glossy vegetables, shoes and clothes tents, agricultural artefacts, popcorn and nuts. Occasionally I nearly stumble in a goat. The older ones wear long costumes, faces covered with hoods. Women have coloured scarves that hide their hair. Children line up to buy ice cream.
There are no streets in the market, the stalls are disordered, who arrives exposes the products in spaces there are free. They are the mountain people, arrive in donkeys and sell the products they cultivate.
Right in the middle of the market I look up road. I’m hearing motorcycle noise. They are two motorcyclists and stop. Quickly take some photos from far and leave fast. I do not understand if in a hurry or in fear. Then a few jeeps European registrations do the same. None of them visits the market.
(...)
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1 Jun 2015
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Morocco (2012)
Morocco - In the Land of the Setting Sun
April/May 2012
(solo ride)
I arrive the waterfalls near the lunch time. In the village square there is a police patrol. I ask where I can park. Indicate a park on the left. At the entrance there is an old man calling. I ask the price. There are 5 dirhams. 5 Dirhams? All day, he answers. I cannot hide a smile. Runs ahead of me to indicate where to park the bike. No time to take the helmet off and he is already offering guiding services to show me the waterfalls. I have no money, I answered. He looks at me surprised, I don’t know if it was for being woman or by saying I am in bankrupt. Scratches his head and laughs. I show you the falls for free. And he laughs. I follow him.
In between the houses there is a passage to a platform from where we have a total view of the waterfalls. There are no tourists here, just two young Moroccan who head in my direction as soon they see me. But they see my guide and walk away fast. Mohamed is the old man's name that guides me, a man already in their 60s, wrinkled, moustache remains, nonstop talking in French mixed with English. In a brisk pace of someone who knows all the steps he is leading down the promenade to the waterfalls. A walkway lined with shops that sell everything. To our passage he greets everyone and presents me. His brother, who has a necklaces, rings and bracelets store, later the uncle, who carves figures in stone. Soon after, he shows me a restaurant where his wife and the sisters prepare the best Tagine the country.
Talks and talks, quick little steps, ask me where I come from, why I'm alone, why I have no money. I tell him that I arrived in Morocco two weeks ago and now my holidays are over. Now I go to Casablanca where I have an uncle whom I will ask for money to return home. Still going today to Casa? (Casa is short name of Casablanca in Morocco). It is a long way, he says. And you have family there? Neither the questions stop neither the stairs to go down the waterfalls ahead.
The walkway has its own life. Old man serve tea to tourists (his family, of course), his niece paints hands with henna, his brother rents decorated pony’s for tourist sightseeing. Halfway he showed me an alley of old houses. It is where he lives. Beside there is its sister’s Auberge. I begin to think that my guide is the patron of the site. Definitively because there are dozens of young people who are offering guide services that do not approach. Respectfully salute Mohamed and go.
The waterfalls are magnificent, the water falls abruptly to an enormous height, the sound overrides any noise. We reached another platform, almost against the water wall, wet ground, splashing water in the air. Suddenly he points and shouts gleefully:
Regarde le rainbow!
I couldn’t disguise. I laughed loud. My luck is I speak French and English, otherwise I couldn’t understand him. He thought I'm glad to see the waterfalls. Laughs with his mouth open, brown teeth in front, the back ones have disappeared. I take some photos and sat on the wall of the sidewalk that is not over. There are still missing thousands of steps till the lagoon down there where tourists have fun rafting rubber boats. We stood there talking. It’s hot as hell, I sweat from every pore, it took us about 20 minutes to get here under a burning sun.
He says today is a weak tourist day but tomorrow will be a good day. We had information that planes of tourists will arrive to Casablanca tomorrow and the tour will begin with the waterfalls. It's good for business. He tells that has always lived here. Used to be a guide but now is retired and is the Guardien of the mosque. Says that I seem a friendly person and he decided to take care of me. Speaks fast, always laughing, very kind. I'm wondering if he is crazy or is stoned. I don’t understand half of what he says. He says he is happy with life. Ends with "I am happy in the Cascades" and laughed so loud that everyone looked at him.
He gets up and goes down the stairs. For me it was enough. Just seeing so many steps I felt tired thinking I would have to climb them all. Told him that I still have to ride a lot of miles today. We went back up. Dressed in the bike equipment, the climb was difficult. He’s bouncing around in front of me and I’m breathlessly. I have to stop from time to time and sit down. In each pause he talks and talks. I’m nodding my head and I smile as if I‘m understanding everything. On the way up he still tries to sell his niece painting hands services. Lower the price by half. I ask him how many days the ink last. Answers it will be in my hands for two weeks. Therefore, I cannot because I cannot show up in the office with painted hands. Looks at me very seriously and waves. He understands. Give up. (Cool, I’ve got rid of this).
Mohamed
We returned to the car park where the motorcycle was. Tells me that the road to the other side of the mountain is very pretty, but I must drive very carefully the next 35 km. Small road with many curves. Then I can drive faster. And he laugh a lot. Stoned is for sure. He doesn’ resist to ask me for a cadeaux. Anything, a souvenir from a Portuguese biker. I put my hand into my pocket where I have a few coins, no more than 10 dirhams. I tell him it's all the money I have. And you have nothing else? In the other pocket I have a packet with only two cigarettes. I offer him. He is very happy. Portuguese cigarettes. Smell the packet and laughs.
To get out of this labyrinth is necessary to cross road transformed in a car park. Up ahead the small village of Ouzoud and a rotten wooden bar bridge that seems will fall at any moment. Esplanades and restaurants. Hundreds of tourists, shops and cars parked chaotically.
The road that connects to the N8 is reasonable. Narrow, chopped tarmac, up the hill till Gorges de L'Ouzoud. A fantastic landscape. Along the way many children who keep herds of goats, wave and make signal asking for drink. As soon as they hear the noise of a bike, they run to the road and ask for water. Strange. There is water running down the mountain, the curves seem like rivers. I never stopped with children in sight. Later explained to me that it is a trick to make tourists stop and ask for cadeaux. Children cleverness.
After the Gorges the road goes down into the valley. In the background may be seen civilization. An immense plain, villages and towns, the fields are tilled into perfect squares. The weather is changing. The wind rises. I look back and a thick fog curtain is chasing me. I am beginning to dislike the scene. I drive fast downhill, always with the fog stuck to my back. Grey sky, I want to get out of here. The rain catches me already in the valley, on a wide road, signposted and very busy. The last 240 km that separate me from Casablanca are made under the storm, through roads flooded with water and traffic, crossing busy cities and villages. I arrived to Berrechid at nightfall. Soaked. Fortunately there were the first rains of the whole trip. I hope it's the latter.
Entering in Casablanca in the evening, at rush hour, is an exercise of courage. Driving, at nightfall, in a metropolis of 5 million inhabitants, the largest city in North Africa is not impossible, but very difficult. I stoped in a small village 30 km from Casablanca and call my friends - Come and get me please. This is chaotic. I can’t see anything at night (I sense some smiles in the other side of the line).
I'm the 1st roundabout at the entrance of Berrechid, in the only cafe in sight. It is full of men. I'm the only woman. They look at me with curiosity and continue to talk. I ask for some tea while I wait my friends to come get me. At 8 p.m. the night is very dark.
Entering into Casablanca is crazy. It seems that everyone decided to come to the street at the same time. Cars everywhere, huge avenues, intersections and roundabouts where I cannot understand the priority. Here the rule is - the largest car goes first - but I notice that at roundabouts, who is entering is who has priority. The intersections are made from the outside, because within the stopped bus block the traffic flow. All drive very fast. Hear no horn, only I honking furiously when someone is closer than to 2 mm.
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1 Jun 2015
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Morocco (2012)
Morocco - In the Land of the Setting Sun
April/May 2012
(solo ride)
Today I woke up lazy. Slept deeply until 11 am. I'm at Dalila’s house, a woman in her 50s, dynamic, with a Western mentality. She is the founder and president of "Miss Moto Maroc", the first female motorcycle club in Morocco and in the Arab world. She insisted to receive me in Casablanca and almost forced me to stay in her house. We have a common taste - bike travel - and empathy was instantaneous. We spent the rest of the morning talking. Two different cultures, different experiences, so many things in common.
In the afternoon we went sightseeing. Driving in Casablanca is like driving on a track of bumper cars. The only rule is to stop at traffic lights. Moreover, save yourself if you can. After a while, we become accustomed to different rules. Still, I feel safer than in Lisbon. I notice that no one wants to run into me. They are just in a hurry. Unlike Lisbon that cars throw themselves (sometimes) deliberately against us.
We spent the afternoon in the Hassan II Mosque. Built in the 90s, it is a white stone building, majestic, dominating the Casablanca Bay. Gigantic arcades, indoor richly worked, a huge space with capacity for 25,000 faithful.
At the entrance everyone should take off the shoes. They give us a plastic bag to keep them. Locals or tourist, everybody walks with a plastic bag in hand. It has a wooden gallery, a separate area for women. Inside reigns the gloom. My camera does not have enough flash to take pictures. It must be on purpose.
Downstairs there is a hammam (a hall bath). A giant pool, a sauna room and a lounge richly worked with Liz flowers carved in rock where water comes out to the faithful wash their feet before going to pray. It is the only mosque that allows visits from non-Muslims. But they do make us pay. Special prices for tourists (more expensive than for locals).
In the evening we went to dine out. A fashionable restaurant, "La Scala", inside an old bastion of the eighteenth century. A nice area, a menu that did not surprise me, most customers do not use cutlery. The prices are even reasonable (must have presented a menu for Moroccans. If I was not with them might pay three times more).
The marginal promenade by the see in the district of "La Corniche", is the night fashion place of Casablanca. Bars and restaurants facing the sea, a hell of a traffic until late at night. Each bar delivers music louder than the next, Arabic pop-rock. On the promenade by the sea there are lots of stands and food kiosks, crepes and snails (a snack much appreciated around here). The young people dress Western clothes, sometimes too Western. All have mobile phones in the ear. On the esplanade sipping a tea I’m enjoying the luxury cars and powerful jeeps passing by. It is the chic part of town. They say that sometimes they see the King come by, driving the car, unescorted (apparently).
(...)
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1 Jun 2015
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Morocco (2012)
Morocco - In the Land of the Setting Sun
April/May 2012
(solo ride)
Dalila has a special program for today. In the morning we go shopping, stroll in the Medina in the city centre. At the entrance, shelves of things for tourists. Scarves, colourful lamps, smoking pipes, ashtrays, all sorts of souvenirs printed with Casablanca name. The sellers don’t talk to Dalila. But I have a foreign look. Ask me where I come from, call me to see the merchandise. All of them say they offer the best price. They speak in various languages and wait to see if I answer. I pretend not to hear. Dalila answers something and they drop me out.
Deep inside the Medina, a huge labyrinth of narrow streets, small shops full with things, the products exhibited almost over our heads. Here, deep inside, where the tourist don’t come, no one bothers to call us to buy. We walk unbothered. Dalila must go to the tailor. A courtyard away of the shopping street, she knocks in a large iron door. Inside there are several small rooms in each one is a business. In one some man works in leather. A sewing machine, leather bits scattered all over, craftsmanship. In one corner a camping stove with a pressure cooker whistling. She’s ordering jacket leather for female motorcycle club ladies. Taylor shows the prototype, discuss, they observe the seams. Smells like leather.
Outside, right next door there is a tavern that only has one counter and two tables on the street. But it has a huge LCD hanging broadcasting … football.
In the afternoon the program is very special. We go to a Hammam, a public bath, almost obligatory ritual for the Moroccans. There are many and varied public bathing establishments, with separate hall for women and men. Prices vary between 50 and 170 Dirhams, according the services contracted.
We entered a huge building that besides the public bath has pools (separate for men and women, of course). At the door a sign that says: Centre de remise en form (this name sounds like a beauty SPA). Access is by a locker room where we are given a bathrobe, towel, slippers and a small box with Henna paste. I'm in my underwear and the ritual begins. I spread Henna mass in my body (Dalila says that is to open the skin pores), a viscous brown mass. Then we go for the sauna room, high temperature and steam. We stay there talking for a long time. The sauna is full of women, relaxed, talking a lot, laughing. I feel no shame or prejudice among them. It is natural to use the public bath.
Next door, a room with a row of four beds in hot stone, where four masseurs make "gomage", an exfoliation with horsehair gloves. I'm almost skinned alive. Dalila laughs, they all laugh at my admiration and discomfort. My body is full of brown skin bits, forcibly removed by the glove. She says its dead skin. Then an almost cold water shower ends the treatment. At this point Dalila has already commented with everybody about the Portuguese that is traveling by motorcycle alone.
We are in the washing room, water drips by a fountain at the corner, runs water by a wall, several basins in stone where women wash their hair or rub the soles of her feet with pumice. Most of them have very white skin and long hair. They are all Moroccan, I am the only foreigner here. All use Western underwear, known brands, elegant.
In the rest room I repeat several times some details of my trip. Each woman who arrives asks questions. Some of them have travelled for other countries. All of them have more than one child. There are entire families, grandmother, daughter and granddaughter who come together to the baths. Really nice women.
When they dress up the appearance changes. Over the clothing they dress a long robe that hides their bodies. The hair is covered by a scarf. They leave the Hammam covered up, silent women, looking down. So different from childish joy inside.
(...)
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1 Jun 2015
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Morocco (2012)
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1 Jun 2015
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Registered Users
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Join Date: Mar 2014
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Posts: 42
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Next Travel Tale will be .... Spain or Scotland ???
hummmm ..... 
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