Under the Rooftop of Morocco

My Weekend at Ait Wadjass

Or

In the Foothills of Jbel Toubkal

(This is an extract from my Diaries)

I did have apprehensions all along about my forthcoming trip to the ‘la montagne’ for several reasons. I did not know Osaobi. That is how I called him combining his name and surname. I still don’t know him well, although I do much more than I did before our time together under the rooftop of Africa.

The trip was a journey into the unknown. All I knew was what Osaobi told me and that was that I would like it and that it was safe there and we would be free to do what we please.

At first he told me to be in Taroudant by eight in the morning because of ‘le transport’. The journey from Agadir to Taroudant by grand taxi takes about an hour. At six in the morning it is still dark and I don’t even know if there are taxis going that early. When I explained this to Osaobi he agreed that I should leave between seven and seven thirty.

I was pleased that he gave me extra time and this was a confirmation that there is more than one ‘le transport’ to our destination in the mountains.

The next morning I rose at six fifteen and it was still completely dark. I was soon ready, managed to have coffee and was on my way to the Abattoir[1]; it was ten to seven. The dawn was already slowly breaking and the street lights, prematurely, went off about half way down to the Abattoir. There were already some people and very little traffic on the streets. I kept to the main roads though this was not the shortest way to the Abattoir.

At about seven fifteen I was seated in a taxi, being the last, sixth person the taxi was full and we were on our way to Taroudant almost immediately. The taxi made a stop at the petrol station to top up the fuel but we made up the time due the early hours’ lack of traffic.

The grand taxi was so crammed that I could not even get the phone out to send Osaobi a message as I promised to tell him once I was aboard a taxi so that he could himself get ready and meet me.

After several attempts I managed to get the phone out of the bag. It was a quarter to eight. I judged that we were some ten or fifteen minutes from Taroudant and I sent him a message accordingly.

After ten minutes we did arrive outside the Taroudant ramparts where taxi trip ends. This is an open dusty space outside one of the gates where taxis and buses end or begin their journeys. It is usually full of life and bustle and there is a modest café where one can wait and perhaps eat and drink. I alighted from the taxi relieved, not least for my freely flowing blood. I always swear not to go on a grand taxi journey for longer than an hour but I keep doing it. This particular journey was quite torturous. There were four people crammed on the back seat and while three of us occupied just over half of the space the fourth person was sprawled pretending to sleep occupying twice as much space as the rest of us.

First thing I did I phoned Osaobi who told me he would be arriving in no time which he did. He arrived riding his bike. I must say I was at first puzzled why was he on his bike, then I realised that there was a facility at the taxi ‘place’ for bikes to be left securely for a charge.

In addition to our communication problems there is also his reluctance to be seen in a company of a European in a place where a lot of people knew him. To be fair Osaobi speaks more French than most kids his age but it isn’t enough when combined with what is my far from perfect command of French.

The reluctance to be seen in my company is not only a possible recognition coupled with awkward questions or teases from his peers and others but also a possible problem with the police.

Being with a foreigner is permitted if one obtains a licence; a form declaring intention to spend time together. This is then properly authorised, signed and stamped by the authority, a copy of which is in the end given to the police. It takes several hours to complete the authorisation process as it involves four counters and as many queues and wills of counter officials. In the end it provides unquestionable records with the police. So however you take it the police will find out that you are mixing with Europeans and could and probably would question the nature of it. To say that he was my guide for the day would not do as for that he also needed a licence.

Most locals prefer to hand over a fifty or a hundred dirham note which normally takes care. The problem with that approach is that you may be ‘hit’ by several policemen and sometimes it seems that one tells others and usually several hand-outs are required.

Being seen by people Osaobi knew would entail a lot of explaining to all and sundry and he did not fancy that prospect either.

To avoid either of the traps he would race ahead. Before we start off he would just say, ‘mainenant suis moi’ and he would march off at such a pace that I had a job to keep up with him without arousing suspicion by sheer speed of my walk. The sweet part of it was at the end of such a ‘suis moi’ phase when Osaobi would proffer gentle excuses for leaving me to march alone. Moroccans are so well mannered.

Today the ‘suis moi’ race started just after we agreed that we had better buy some of the provisions to last us the weekend in the wilderness. As much as I could understand there was nothing at the village, well almost nothing. So we rushed off towards the souq which was at the other side of the town at the Bab Al Khamis, the Thursday Gate, where the Thursday market is held. This was the gate from which the road to the ‘la montagne’ goes.

The Thursday Gate was familiar to me from my first visit to Taroudant and also last time I was here when Osaobi took me to the river. This was some fifteen kilometres from Taroudant at a place called Tamalokte. Our journey today to le montagne passes through Tamalokte.

So half in ignorance as to what to expect and half with wrong expectations from my previous trip I followed. We reached the Gate where a quick discussion as to what to buy ensued. I just told him to buy double what he would take for himself and left the choice of food and drink to him. This was a deliberate decision on my part as I knew I would buy too much and I wanted to use the weekend to catch up on my diet target the progress of which I failed to check after the first week mainly because I was under impression that I failed to meet it; this was not for lack of trying.

In his shopping bag I noticed a couple of tins of sardines a ‘mortadela’ which has nothing to do with the Italian delicacy known as Mortadela. This is more like a spam chicken glued together with soya or something like that, sometimes garnered with olives or spiced hot. There were also four little round breads, cartons of orange juice and avocado panache (milk with fruit) and another couple of drinks. There was also a round box of processed cheese, ‘vache que rit’ containing eight small triangular portions. I explicitly asked him to buy some water as I knew this may be a problem for me. He forgot but did tell me we could get it at the taxi place at our destination. I was pleased I took a small bottle with me to last me the trip.

Not knowing what I will find at the house I brought my sleeping bag as my friend kept telling me it was rather cold in la montagne. He stressed this couple of times. I also took some extra warm clothing and underwear to last me the three planned days and a pillow case to cover whatever bedding there may or may not be there. I took two of my phones as there was no electricity and I wanted a back up. This turned out to be useless as the place where we went is one of the rare places where mobile phone signals are not available. For taking photos I brought along my digital camera and could also use one of the phones. Both of them had a five megapixel capacity which was reasonably good for making photos.

I definitely made a mistake in the choice of shoes. The light pair of driving shoes was completely inadequate and it could have been disastrous had they given way. Luckily they lasted until the end of stay surviving a slip into a brook and getting soaking wet. The choice of footwear slowed me down quite a bit and also was risky in the rugged terrain that we covered. Fortunately nothing bad happened though I had visions of broken or dislocated joints or something like that which usually happens when you take extra care. To be fair to Osaobi he kept telling me to just walk casually. Well this was difficult because I had to divide my attention between the stunning scenery and the treacherous footpaths.

The choice of footwear slowed me down quite a bit and also was a bit risky in the rugged terrain that we covered.

Thus equipped with rucksacks and additional bags, containing the food and my sleeping bag we made our way just outside the Bab El Khamis where he left me waiting while he went to check on ‘le transport’. He went and came back and went again while I was patiently waiting. I noticed at some point he was munching his breakfast which he did not have time to have before meeting me.

Finally a Daihatsu open pick-up truck pulled to the side and some people climbed onto it. Osaobi came and asked me for the bags and motioned me to follow him. At that moment I realised the ‘le transport’ was what I saw during my first visit to the river. As we walked the river I saw several of these trucks full of people totally covered in dust heading away from Taroudant. Of course I did not know how far or where they wee going. I remember thinking that they were farm workers or fruit pickers. Of course this was the main ‘le transport’ linking the surrounding villages with the town.

Osaobi who had already taken command which I had to obey for lack of choice told me to get inside the cabin while he climbed on top. He wanted to take all the bags but I held on to my rucksack as I had the valuables and the camera there and the most important my small bottle of water.

I sat there waiting for our caravan to depart and it was not before long we did. Just before we did a second passenger was placed next to me inside the cabin. He was an older man even older than I was. This made me conclude that they were, as it is traditional here, considerate towards week and old by placing them in the cabin. Later I found out that the place in the cabin costs fifty percent more than on top of the truck. So it was a bought comfort. I thanked Osaobi for being so considerate and caring for my well being. He did not realise how true this was as I have small, be it initial fear of heights. We paid fifty dirham (just over three pounds) for the two; twenty for the place on top of the pick up and thirty for the cabin seat.

The trip to the first village of Tamalokte went quickly and smoothly. The real driving started once we left Tamalokte.

The so called ‘piste’ is a dirt track generally covered with powdery dust that explodes at the slightest contact or sprinkled with rocks and rock chips making it even more hazardous. While driving normally is pedal pushing and occasionally thinking what to do, driving on the ‘piste’ really means driving without letting the attention go for a single moment.

My fear of heights, my knowledge of local driving and upkeep of their vehicles and the stunning scenery blended into one. I conquered the fear and the scenery conquered me.

The road is barely wide for one vehicle and meeting another in the opposite direction often means reversing for one or the other vehicle until there is enough room for two vehicles to pass. Luckily there is no much traffic on this road. It climbed all the way after leaving Tamalokte. The road constantly winds climbing though at times it descends only to climb even more steeply. I did not know what seemed more dangerous, the hairpin bends, the narrow passages through some of the villages or hard rock walls on one side and hundreds and often thousands of feet precipices on the other side.

Whenever we took a hairpin a cloud of dust would overtake us covering the passengers on the pick up totally and not leaving the cabin untouched. The road was so bumpy that at times I wondered how those on top kept themselves from falling out. I was concerned for Osaobi though I knew he had done this before. It was reassuring from time to time to catch his shadow on the side of the road when the position of the truck and the sun allowed me to see. I was so scared that I forgot to take my camera out, although being in the middle between the driver and the old man did not help either.

Of course the old man, Berber struck up a conversation immediately starting with a ‘Francais?’ and showing off his very good French. His stooping figure and wrinkles covered face did not match his years. The face was wrinkled by the Sun and stooping position acquired from his mountain life. It was not before long that I was presented with a piece of paper, a kind of an identity card, showing his French credentials. The movement of the truck caused by the uneven road made me just look at it and only see a picture which I suppose was his when he was young. I am fascinated by the Moroccan obsession with official papers. Their very existence seems to come from pieces of paper. When I told him I was a Yugoslav living in England he just replied, ‘Aaaaagh, Britaniya. They sing and dance.’ I could not make any comment.

He was very well mannered and when he wanted to light a cigarette he asked if I did not mind. Of course the driver gave him his permission without any problems. I just did not have heart to say it was not all right, besides I already had to put up with very strong smell of cigarettes coming from his clothes.

(For more click below on Under the Rooftop continues)

[1] An area of Agadir so called where taxi ranks are located both le petit taxi and le grand taxi.