(Problem this morning with the internet going down trying again)
With just a few Land Rover and Range Rover mentions and pictures on the way for those in Nazeing and Wareside.
So today we hire 4×4 transport to take us up into the mountains and then onwards to Asni for the weekly souk.
At 9:15 we are introduced to Abdul Karim our jovial guide and Hassan the driver of a functional but tired Mitsubishi Prado, are to take us up into the Atlas Mountains. AK, who speaks well the English but sometimes has trouble with pronunciation is able to recount many tales. He is a font of local knowledge being a Berber from along the road from the Kasbah. He tells us that the vehicle was new in 2011. On closer inspection however we notice that the roof lining seems to be stuck to the body with something resembling Unibond Kitchen Sealer. With some anxiety I also notice behind me a “Sortis de Secours” through which it may be possible to rescue a small dog, but little else. After tracking along the main road for a few kilometres we turn left and head into the National Park on an unmade but well graded gravel track. As we pass the park sign we see some Land Rovers parked on the side of the road, and a couple of people with clipboards. I joke with them that perhaps we better phone for someone with a Toyota just in case any of their vehicle convoy get stuck. They laugh, but maybe they don’t think it is that funny !
Onward and upward we go allowing a number of new model Range Rovers on the journo junket to pass us by, covering us with dust from their very expensive wheels and tyres, some of which we hear puncture and require replacement a bit further on in their journey.
We disembark at our first photo stop, and within less than a minute a man on a moped pulls alongside with a selection of genuine precious stones and ammonites, very good price. Asked him where he got his scarf and he asked me to name my price. He removed the garment from his head, and showed me the article in more detail. Alas there were two rips in the fabric, each about 8 inches long. The rest of the scarf was holding on to the sides of the tears as best it could, but I think he may be putting a new scarf on his next birthday present list.
Climbing higher we pause on the outside of a hairpin bend when a Range Rover comes up the hill, driven by a Brazilian Jeremy Clarkson.
We chat with the photographer for a few minutes, who entices the driver to reverse back down the hill and drive toward the corner at some speed with dust coming from the wheels for effect. As he reverses he gets nearer to the edge of a vertical drop. I turn away so as not to watch. He comes back up the hill, but still not to the photographers liking, so back he goes again to give another go. This time success. The driver comments that it is a lovely car, and this new model will be the first to go on sale in Brazil very shortly. He thinks it will sell well.
As he departs further models pass us by from Austria, Sweden and Denmark. The Land Rover lady we meet later on the journey tells us that they have models specified for all the markets they sell into available for testing here over a one month period. We thought there were only some 20 cars here, but now we here there are over 40. Put all that together with the support staff, and logistics to support them it becomes a bit easier to understand the high price to be paid for these vehicles.
However, back to our journey. AK stops a various points on route and tells us how easy it is to tell the difference between old Berber villages from Arabic ones. The Arabs when they first arrived in Morocco built their dwellings close to the bottom of the river valleys. For most of the time the rivers are little more than slow flowing streams, and some are ephemeral. Berbers however know that every once in a while the rivers flood, and the levels can rise 25 metres or more. Berber settlements are therefore built on a promontory of land above the rivers. He gives us a potted history of Morocco explaining the major differences between all the tribal types, what and where they traded and so on. He tells us that when we say Atlas Mountains, we are saying mountain mountains, as Atlas is a corruption of a Berber word that sounded something like atklah. The Berber people call them the difficult mountains, and after our short journey it is easy to understand why.
We reach the high point of the climb at 1,850 metres and begin the descent arriving at the commune of Sidi Fares, now a temporary Range Rover washing and wheel changing centre. The locals and their donkeys seem bemused and look on. I overhear a German journo tell the support personnel that the indicator lights keep coming on for no reason. Thought better than to earwig any more, and did not want to be tempted to repeat my Toyota comments at that time and in that company.
As we turn off the Range Rover route we are back on the black top but at a number of places on the bends the recent rain has washed the road away and replaced it with rocks and shale from the mountain. Water is still running down the gullies where the rock was before.
A couple more photo stops. At one I bump my head getting back in to the car, and at another I get the seat belt wrapped around the seat relining lever. As we approach some gendarme AK and Hassan put their seat belts on, I follow their lead, but in tugging on the belt I inadvertently activate the seat reclining lever and fall backwards. My fellow traveller is highly amused. I pretend to be just reclining to relax. Further along the road we arrive at a point to overlook the Kasbah Tamadot, a property bought by Richard Branson some years ago and now a hotel and holiday complex operated by Virgin Travel. Our viewpoint provides a stark contrast between the relative poverty of the local Berber people and the affluent visitors relaxing in their air conditioned tents in the lush gardens of the Kasbah. Makes you ponder for a while.
We arrive at Asni, disembark and walk to the souk. We walk past farmers selling winter animal fodder, little more than straw not like the sweet smelling meadow hay we are accustomed to on Gower.
Piles of grain are stacked up. Blacksmiths fettle steel in makeshift tented forges with a young lad turning a bicycle wheel powered fan to increase the temperature of the fire. We see the smith beating red hot steel into blades for wooden ploughshares laying on the ground. When asked, they are not willing to have their picture taken. On the next stall is a man selling pottery, tagines, clay ovens for bread and bread making dishes in various styles. AK shows us the Berber tagine, and explains the difference between the more common conical shape. We decide to buy one, for 40 Dirhams (less than £4.00) and AK picks what he believes the best one. He complements me on the negotiation.
The tagine seller who is short of change obtained assistance from another merchant who gave him the change, then took our tagine and ushered us over to his stall selling kaftans and scarves as well as bracelets and necklaces. They are mostly metal but some include amber, coral and other coloured rocks. My fellow traveller decides on one bracelet and after negotiation hands are shaken. The merchant then physically manhandles my companion further into his den, and begins to wrap her head in a blue scarf in the traditional Tuareg fashion. Eventually her eyes become visible after adjustment AK is in hysterics, he thinks she is being dressed up like a camel. With scarf in place the vendor then begins an assault with a kaftan rummaging around my companion in places that even the doctor has to ask permission. Her camera is wrapped up under the garment. In an effort to remove both the kaftan and the camera the merchant removes her shirt leaving here standing there in the middle of a Moroccan souk in her vest. I half expected some offers of cash to be shouted out, but none was forthcoming.
Kaftan bought he tried to get another sale with a matching top and scarf. Both were declined. As we paid and turned away AK commented bracelet good price; kaftan bad price. You win some your lose some !
Passed up the offer of a photo with a dentist. Watched as a lady was bandaged with what appeared to be a badly twisted and broken arm, being held down by a male companion. Poor lady looked in severe pain. Wandered along the rows of stalls selling potions, berries and leaves for both cooking and medicinal use. At the back of the souk were about half a dozen mud huts with drop down fronts. On the counter were a number of tagines each with their own identification. Some had the lids with a painted number or design, some had vegetables with carved markings. AK explained that on arrival at the market you give your tagine and your meat to the cook. He prepares the food, adds vegetables and spices and cooks the dish over charcoal for 5 Dirhams. You pick the cooked dish up later and either take it home or eat inside the hut.
At one such place AK stops and greets a gentleman, his cousin. AK tells us that on Saturdays the ladies have a rest; they do not have to cook. They only have to wash their clothes in the mountain stream. Pass a fruit and vegetable stall. AK advises us “my uncle”. We meet and greet a number of individuals, all of which appear to be close relatives of AK. In the end after so many handshakes I begin to feel like a US presidential candidate on campaign trail.
Just before we leave the souk we see what can best be described as a donkey car park, (30 Dirhams a day including food).
Around the donkey park farriers are replacing shoes, using a selection of primitive tools.
Here my companion attracts the attention of a wandering salesman trying to encourage her to buy more bracelets. He advises her that the bracelet just acquired is quite frankly, rubbish. His are of a far superior quality (even though they very shiny and look like they were tin plated). He was limpet like in his persistence. In the end he was disposed of by what we now call a “reverse double, souk merchant disposal” manoeuvre which involves watching the direction the merchant takes, going the other way so he sees, and then reversing in the direction you first came from and ducking at the same time. It confuses me just writing about this move, so heaven knows what it did to him. Maybe he is still wandering the souk looking for where she went. I must admit that I have been the recipient of this manoeuvre many times in the local Sainsbury’s and I had up until today believed that there was a special portal available for women to vanish at one location and appear at another undetected by man, only for them to ask “where the hell you have been”.
Back through the bab to the car park where Hassan was waiting, and off we go again. A few miles down the road we come across road works. Four diggers were busy removing part of the mountain and repairing the bridge brought down by the recent rain. Just along from there at a popular Moroccan tourist spot where the river was at its widest camels were parked up waiting for business. Tagines on the opposite side of the road were cooking, their charcoal smoke rising in the sunshine. A Berber stallion in its traditional finery, camels and a Shetland pony were hobbled and tethered to sacks of rocks. AK got us out for a picture, free of charge, “he is my cousin”.
Arrived back at the Kasbah for lunch. Tuna salad again, but very nice.