Before the Trip

Once upon a time two young Australians in separate parts of England looked out their respective windows at the gray skys and thought "Sod this, lets go somewhere else". And thus began the planning, after a fashion, for a trip around Morocco.

What follows was the result.

The Tasmanian

The Teapot

Day 1 - London to Almeria

The big trip isn't off to a great start. Looking up at the departures board at Liverpool Station I notice that one train has those dreaded words - "This train has been replaced by a bus service". After making the obligatory "Glad that isn't us" remark to Tim I look back up and notice what I missed in my first glance. Go on, guess what I missed.

A (long) bus ride and airport-priced sandwich later we are in the air and heading for Almeria on a flight so memorable I can't even remember a thing about it, though while waiting for our bags in Almeria Airport I did notice that England now seems to be exporting their chavs to Spain. Four shell-suited specimens waited next to us, presumably wondering why they weren't in Ibeza.

After a circuitous late night bus trip into a largely darkened Almeria we eventually find our "centrally located" hotel. One factor in choosing Morocco as our ultimate destination was a dispiriting peek at our finances followed by a rudimentary cost-benefit analysis that rejected Eastern Europe as too cold and every where else as too expensive. Therefore it is strange to find ourselves booking into what the guide book described as a "chilly corporate hotel", booked ahead over the internet on the basis that it had 24-hour check-in and breakfast was included. I feel we lowered the tone of the establishment just by walking in with backpacks on. I get the feeling that the men in suits at reception have the same feeling. It is not that it is a bad place, it is just that it is soulless, a facsimile of hotels the world over that spring up wherever business conferences are held.

Spanish hotel artwork: classy (Photo: Faber)

Formalities over we make our way to the room via the world's smallest lift. In what may be our first language faux paux, our room turns out to be a very nice double, rather than the requested twin. I must report in advance that this isn't the last time we are mistaken as a couple; it must be the squabbling. Late night is rapidly becoming early morning so rather than attempt to explain the problem using a combination of bad Spanish and questionable mime we decide that we are secure enough to share the bed for one night.

That little quibble aside, the room itself is blessedly clean after my digs in London - the infamous and almost criminally misnamed York Mansions - right down to the mint on the pillow. However Tim does his best to make me feel at home by washing his delicates in the ensuite's sink.

Day 2 - Almeria

The decision was made to move to new accommodation this morning. Though the place we stayed in wasn't terribly expensive, it was hoped that a hostel just out of town might prove a cheaper option. Of course this was after we took full advantage of the breakfast buffet at the hotel, in the way that only budget travelers can.

Almeria might fairly be described as an outpost of the Spanish tourist scene. Nonetheless it does have a tourist information centre. I'm not sure what crime she committed to be relegated to the Almerian tourist bureau, but the single staff member on duty certainly seemed pleased to have someone to talk to, albeit for a few minutes. Freshly armed with maps we set out for the hostel. As I said, it was a little way out of town, along a less than attractive stretch of beach, but not so far that it was a hassle.

The hostel, when we found it, was a bit of a strange one. It vaguely resembles a hospital, and is almost clinically clean, which just doesn't seem right for a hostel. Other guests are occasionally heard, but sightings are rare. In the end it may have been a bit of a false economy, it was a little cheaper for me as I was under 26 but Grandpa Faber had to pay extra.

Next up on our itinerary for the day was attempting to secure ferry tickets to Morocco - the only real reason we were in Almeria to start with. This was achieved easily enough, and I am almost 100% certain that the ferry won't take us to Algeria. Unfortunately the ferry doesn't leave for a couple of days so it looks like we'll have to find a way to entertain ourselves for few days. Almeria seems like a very nice place, a good stepping off point for Morocco or Granada, but not somewhere to spend more than a day.

With the humdrum matters out of the way, we set off to explore Almeria, starting with a long walk around the winding streets of the old city. Like most of Spain Almeria was at one point ruled by the Moors, and in the coming weeks it would be interesting to contrast Almeria's old city with the old cities in Morocco, not to mention the repeated attempts to sell us hash.

Dominating Almeria is an old Moorish fort known as the Alcazaba, dating from the 10th century. Extending from the northern side of the fort is an 11th century fortified wall that descends into the valley before climbing the slopes of the hill opposite. Our wanderings took us to the top of this hill, which itself is dominated by a large statue of Christ. This gave us a good view of the city of Almeria as well as Alcazaba. Time was getting on so we decided to leave the main fortress till the next day.

We rounded off the day with some fresh seafood and sangria in an outdoor cafe down near the water. I could think of worse ways.

Day 3 - Almeria

Last full day in Almeria. We trekked up to have a look around the fortress overlooking the city. Due to a slight language mix up we got in for free. EU citizens, including the English, get free entry. We speak English, but evidently not much Spanish, as we misinterpreted the question as to where we were from, thinking instead they were asking what language we speak. Oh well, it saved us a few Euros which we may be glad of in the weeks to come.


The place was quite impressive, though as the Tim pointed out it has been restored rather than preserved, and other than the outer walls not a whole lot remains. Still worth a look if you find yourselves in Almeria though. While we were there the place was overrun with both cats and school children, half dressed as Christian knights and half as Moors (the school children, not the cats).

Spent the rest of the day having another bit of a wander around the city. Had a look at the fortified Cathedral, complete with walls and towers. Apparently it was designed to stave of pirate raids in days of yore. I certainly didn't feel like scaling the wall to have a poke around.

One thing I have noticed is that the city centre seems very clean. I don't know why, but it weirds me out a bit. Maybe it is just that I am used to the general grime of central London.

Day 4 - Almeria to Melilla

The Ferry Ride

Up early this morning to make sure we are on the ferry. After an initial false start (who'd know you'd need a boarding pass to, er, board a ship?) we are on board and heading out into the Mediterranean. Judging by the state of the ship I don't think the Almeria-Melilla run is a top priority for the ferry line. On top of this, I'm not sure where the other passengers have all gone - the boat seems deserted. It is beginning to dawn on us how out of our comfort zone we are about to come.

It is hard to decide exactly where we want to go once we arrive in Morocco, though Fez seems like a good idea. The only question is how we are going to get there. The bus/train option and the "official" coach service both leave Nador - just over the border in Morocco - at inconvenient times, and even worse both would appear to deposit us at Fez in the middle of the night - not a fantastic option in a city famed for its labyrinth-like layout. This leaves us with one of Tim's so-called "chicken buses". The guide books are a little hazy on these.

Hopefully it will all become clear when we get there.

Spanish Morocco

Well, I am officially on the African continent. To be honest I was expecting less rain. We have chosen to enter Morocco via Melilla, one of the Spanish enclaves on Morocco's Mediterranean coast. A discussion on the topic of these enclaves would be a post in of itself, at the very least. They seem to exist to house military garrisons, and they are traditionally very conservative - both Ceuta and Melilla have statues of Franco.

Though the ferry crossing takes about eight hours it isn't too late in the day, however we decide to bed down for the night in Melilla as the weather is only worsening. We are staying in a very cheap pension in the centre of town, only €10 for the two of us (though I may be corrected on this point). It is a world away from the hostel in Almeria but it in all honesty it is probably cleaner than my digs in London, and it does have "character". As long as we aren't robbed in the night I have no real complaints.

The old fortress dominating the enclave provides a brief distraction despite the downpour. We have whole sections to ourselves but for a sodden cop who must have slept with a superior's wife to get stuck with this posting.

We pick up some supplies from a nearby supermarket in anticipation of a long bus ride tomorrow and turn in for an early night. Tomorrow we head for the border.

NB - I intend on updating this post when I get back my Moroccan Lonely Planet.

Day 5 - Melilla to Fez

The Border Crossing

We are now in Morocco. As predicted it is quite the culture shock, the border itself was a bit of a nightmare. I'm not sure, but we may have inadvertently bypassed the Spanish checkpoints (though we were waved through that gap by Spanish border guards). Really, the guidebooks should be a little less PC and describe it as the muddy mess that it is, but then we may have just chose a bad day to cross - muddy water lapping at the tops of our boots as we were sucked along in a heaving mass of humanity towards the Moroccan side of the border.

To be honest once we were out of the crowd and waiting at the Moroccan passport control it didn't take long at all for our passports to get stamped. We chatted to an English bloke who lives in Melilla while we waited, apparently we were the first "English" people he'd seen using this border crossing. (We put him straight on that error, at first he was apologetic but then on consideration he decided that we should have taken it as a compliment.)

Once we were over the border it took us but a moment to pick up our first tout, though he did show us to a working ATM that would have taken us up to a full two minutes to find by ourselves. Note to Lonely Planet readers - the ATM marked on the left as you walk away from the border looked well and truly out of order when we were there, take the first left and there is an actual bank branch with ATMs. After the mess of the border crossing itself it was a bit surreal to walk off a dusty street into a bank that was cleaner and better staffed than those in London. In fact, over the next few weeks we learnt that banks could provide a welcome relief from the heat and bustle of the street.

With several thousand dirham burning a holes in our pockets we now faced the challenge of getting ourselves to Nador, the nearest Moroccan town of any size. Apparently there was a bus - usually unmarked - that did the journey. It was most likely the one disappearing up the road to Nador as we came out of the bank. Our tout had a very definite idea of how we should get to Nador, but by a stroke of luck as we stood on the corner the previously mentioned English bloke pulled up in his van. He was heading through Nador with some friends who were here on holiday and offered us a lift.

Nador and the First Mint Tea

Our new English friend deposited us on the outskirts of Nador by a hole-in-the-wall of a cafe. It was in here that we drank our very first cups of mint tea, and I have to say that it was something that I developed quite a taste for in the weeks to come. As we plotted out next move we were watched by a couple of elderly Berbers who were contentedly sucking on their kif (marijuana) pipes. I don't think this place got many foreign customers.

The Bus Trip

It was decided that we would try and find a coach heading straight for Fez. It seems that today that luck was on our side, because as we headed into what I will loosely describe as Nador's coach station (little more than a field) an almost full coach was slowly making its way out with a man walking in front yelling "Fez, Fez, Fez". It was also a real coach, a little worse for wear but no where near the "chicken buses" of Tim's SE Asian adventures.

We loaded our packs on board and were negotiating the price when the bus operator used an aggressive bargaining tactic - the coach started to pull away with our packs on board. I know we paid the same as the two Swedes we met on board, though I don't know if this was a special Westerner rate or not. Either way, the whole journey still cost less than a Zone 1-5 pass for the London Underground.

In hindsight bringing pork salami products to eat on the bus was possibly a little culturally insensitive.

(At this juncture I would just like to note that although we had only been in Morocco for little over an hour we had heard two Natalie Imbruglia songs already. You can take from that what you will.)

Fez

Finally, what the tourist books talk about. We and Swedes we met on the bus are staying in a hotel inside the Medina. Night was falling by the time we arrived so we set off for a quick explore in the narrow streets of the old city before dinner. The power even went out to add to the atmosphere. By the speed at which lanterns and candles appeared I don't think this a rare event. Unfortunately a little rain is still falling - not the dusty and dry country I imagined - but not too much makes its way down to street level.

Strawberry Seller, Fez (Photo: Faber)

When entering the Medina with a pack on my back and "clueless westerner" all but stamped on my forehead I was surprised that we were not approached by any touts. Perhaps it was because it was the low season, perhaps it was because of the weather, however once we had dumped our packs at the hotel there were no shortage of restaurant owners who wanted to make our acquaintance.

We had dinner and tea with the Swedes and a Canadian we met at the restaurant. I was adopted by the restaurant cat, who slept with its head in my lap as I ate. The food was good, though I suspect aimed squarely at the tourist market (a suspicion that would be confirmed over the coming weeks). We rounded dinner off with some more mint tea and the freshest and juiciest citrus fruit I have ever eaten.

Day 6 - Fez

This morning received an awakening blast of Islamic culture in the form of the the 4.30 am call to prayers. There are two or three mosques by our hostel, so we got a full-throated introduction. Personally I'd prefer a religion that woke me at around 10.00 am with coffee and pastries, but I suppose to each his own. To be honest though, couldn't help but to feel a little excited, despite the early hour.

View from our Hostel Window, Fez (Photo: Faber)

Today saw myself, Tim and the Swedes taking a tour of the Medina. We took a tour of the old city with an unofficial guide who was attached to our hostel. I know, naughty us, should have used an official guide and all that, but still, he took us into places that we wouldn't have found on our own (and if we did, we most probably wouldn't have been able to find our way back). Though he did have a habit of disappearing at the sight of the police (and at one stage the mayor). The tour did include (as expected) a couple of enthusiastic carpet sellers who were keen to make a sale, but that was never going to happen.

Tim and the Swedes, Fez (Photo: Mills)

The tour also took in the dye pits (with complimentary sprig of mint to keep the smell at bay) and the adjoining leather goods shop. The salesman here made me particularly feel like a resource to be exploited, which wasn't nice. I suppose when it comes down to it we are exploiting their culture for our own ends, so some give and take has to take place.

Dye Pits, Fez (Smell not included) (Photo: Mills)

Got the hard sell in a "Berber Pharmacy", with the increasingly desperate salesman resorting to trying to sell us opium, much to our guides dismay.

For lunch I tried, with some hesitation, pigeon pie. While eating it I tryed to keep the image of the disease-ridden London pigeons I was used to out of my mind. It turned out to be very nice. The pie itself was a savoury dish, but the pastry was sweetened and sprinkled with icing sugar. It shouldn't work, but it does.

Cat in Side Alley, Fez (Photo: Mills)

At our guides suggestion we talked our way into Riad Fez, one of Fez's most luxurious accommodation options, to see how rich tourists sleep (one of the Swede's was a journalist, so we let him do the talking). It turns out that the rich tourists sleep very well. The place was amazing, it is almost impossible to comprehend that it does. Outside the wall is indistinguishable from those around it, but once you are through the door it opens up into the most palatial mansion.

Me in ludicrously narrow alley, Fez (Photo: Faber)

It is not a particularly original observation to make, but the labyrinth like layout of the old city of Fez is extraordinary. The main streets are just wide enough for carts drawn by donkeys, and some of the side streets are so narrow you almost have to turn sideways to fit. This leads me into the strange sight for today - a man in traditional dress leading an overladen donkey down a medieval lane, while talking animatedly on a very modern mobile phone.

Day 7 - Fez

Went for an amble through what used to be the old Jewish quarter today - the mellah in Fez el-Jdid. It was very much away from the tourist traps of the main medina - Fes el-Bali, which we toured yesterday - and consisted largely of markets selling consumer items for the local population. That said it wasn't without its fair share of touts.

I am finally beginning to realise the true importance of hiring a guide, whether official or not. Though having someone to show you around is all fine and good, their true value is that they keep the touts at bay, though of course the guides will always lead you to certain stalls, shops and restaurants that they have an arrangement with. The restaurant touts can be particularly annoying. Its almost as bad as walking down Lygon Street.

On the subject of touts, it is amazing how accurate the guide books are. The old city seems to have more than its fair share of 'students' who 'live' in the Medina, usually 'studying English', who are very keen to show you around, only to accuse you of being 'paranoid' (or worse) when you decline their offer. Perhaps one or two of them are genuine, but I wouldn't hold my breath. I will credit the touts with having quite a network though, this morning when I went for a stroll by myself I was approached by a carpet salesman who asked me where the other Australian and Swedes were.


For lunch Tim and I took our lives, or at least intestinal well being, in our hands and ate some 10 dirham (a little over an Aussie dollar) sandwiches from a hole-in-the-wall vendor. First, you select your filling from the piles of raw meat gently glistening in the sun, then the vendor digs out some dodgy coloured meat from the bottom of the pile and puts it on a plate and then onto the grill. He then puts the salad ingredients on that same plate before putting them in the bread. The now cooked meat is put back on the plate before being stuffed into the sandwich and handed to you. You then sit on the roof top terrace of your hotel eating your sandwich, admiring the view and trying to remember the extent of the hospital coverage your travel insurance provides you.

After lunch we went for a walk along a ridge to the north of the city to some old ruins whose origins no one seems particularly sure of. The weather today is a vast improvement on yesterday and we have sweeping views of the city and surrounding mountains from the ruins, which we share with a goat herder and his charges.

View of Fez from the ruins (Photo: Mills)

We eat dinner at one of the restaurants near the gate tonight. The food is alright, though not spectacular. Of course when you are paying the equivalent of £3 for three course plus tea you can't get too picky. What really makes this a good place to eat is its terrace. While our hotel terrace and the terraces of other restaurants give great views of the city and mountains this one is lower down. It looks out over the stalls of the local produce market where the locals do their food shopping. It is a great place to watch the locals go about their lives without anyone trying to sell us a carpet.

Tonight we had a couple of beers with the Swedes in a bar attached to one of the larger hotels. It is my first taste of Moroccon beer and it isn't too shabby, all things considered.

Day 8 - Fez to Merzouga

In our continued quest for structured and carefully pre-planned travel, it was decided last night by us and the Swedes that today we would travel south across the country to the Western Sahara, or more accurately to Merzouga. To avoid what would be a hellishly circuitous bus trip we pooled our resources and hired a grande taxi to take us there.

At this point I should explain that Moroccan roads play host to two types of taxis. There is the petit taxis, for the most part small hatchbacks, that play the traditional taxi role, transporting people around the larger cities. However there are also the grande taxis, which ply the intercity routes. The grande taxi fleet is largely made up of old Mercedes sedans that Europe presumably has decided are no longer road worthy These usually carry six passengers in addition to the driver.

Roadside repairs (Photo: Faber)

Anyway, our friendly hotel guide/conman/rogue was able to acquire us the services of a grande taxi and its driver. We were to spend most of the rest of the day encased with this gentleman in his hurtling metal coffin of death. Most grande taxi drivers have well-earned reputations for driving recklessly, but I think our driver overtook several of them on our way south. The car's speedometer didn't work, though after some contemplation I decided that this was probably for the best, and seat belts weren't so much optional as non-existent.

Waiting to cross the Middle Atlas (Photo: Faber)

Concerns about a violent and bloody death aside, the trip south was amazing. The scenery was absolutely astounding, not to mention varied. We were held up for some time prior to crossing the Middle Atlas. The passes had been snowed in and we had to wait for snow ploughs to arrive before travelling in convoy through the mountains. We then descended the other side into sweeping plains, dominated on the horizon by the Atlas Mountains.

Convoy delayed in mountains (Photo: Faber)

Unfortunately the grandeur of the scenery was not matched by the soundtrack. The driver appeared to have only one 20 minute tape of Arabic music, which was on high rotation for the many hours of our journey. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with Arabic music, but listening to the same few songs for hours on end was almost enough to induce psychosis. Communication with the driver was limited, as none of us shared a language in common.

Scenery en route (Photo: Faber)

As darkness fell we arrived at Rissani, the last town before our destination. We had by this time swapped our clapped out taxi for a vehicle better suited to the coming terrain - a surprisingly new 4WD. After an unfortunate, though not entirely unexpected, detour into a carpet shop we plunged on into the desert.

After some time bouncing around through the dunes - acutely aware of how isolated we were, which is a fantastic thought this close to the Algerian border - we arrived at our auberge, a hotel built out of mud brick in the kasbah style. By this time it was nigh on impossible to tell were we were. The flickering light from the auberge did not penetrate far into the surrounding desert, but after a day spent cooped up in a taxi the hotel was a welcome sight. Tossing our bags into our room we made a bee line for the food. After several days in Morocco we finally got to eat what appeared to be a real tangine - that is to say one that had been cooked in a tangine rather than just served in one.

As we turned into bed and the generator was turned off a whole new level of darkness and quiet settled over everything.

Day 9 - Merzouga

Awoke this morning surrounded by sand dunes. Given that all we could see last night was darkness, we were all rather taken aback when we ventured outside this morning. Its not often you sit in the sun eating breakfast with a 150m sand dune next door.

Good morning Merzouga (Photo: Mills)

Spent the morning generally lazing around, enjoying the sun and the heat that it brings. Played a bit of poker before heading out with Tim F to climb the nearest dune. I don't think the auberge operators liked this course of action very much because they couldn't charge us for any of these activities.

Almost at the top (Photo: Mills)

Climbing the dune wasn't as hard as it had looked. The view from the top was of course of more dunes, but was well worth the effort. The shapes of the dunes and the changing perspectives of the ripples and undulating of the dunes was an awesome sight. It was a sight that was impossible to capture adequately on my camera, though as it turns out my camera lens and lens cover were more than adequate for capturing and trapping sand.

I know we left the hotel somewhere around here (Photo: Mills)

When we got back to the auberge a concentrated effort was made to sell us an overnight camel trek, soon due to leave. They wanted DH500 which was little more than extortion. We countered with DH300 and to no great surprise settled on DH400, though we would have to wait till the next days trip. I know that in real terms the difference is only a couple of quid but there is a principle involved. In the end I'm glad we didn't go on this particular trek, as I can see where they set up camp from the roof of our building - hardly a trek deep into the dunes.

Dinner tonight was slightly tarnished by hippy drums. You can call them traditional Berber drums, but in some contexts that are still hippy drums, especially when a large part of the audience is made up of pot-smoking hippies.

Day 10 - Somewhere amongst the dunes

Awoke to a sandstorm this morning, which added a hint of drama to the surroundings.  Also made the fresh bread at breakfast a bit crunchy.

Luckily the worst of it had cleared when it came time to take the camels.  The sky was still cloudy, however rather than grayness it was filled with low white clouds that became streaked with pink as the sun set.

Camel rides seem an amusing novelty until you have been riding one for about five minutes.  At about this time you want to get off and walk lest you lose the ability to father children.

Still, it was good to get deep into the dunes   We ate with two others that night from a communal tangine.  And finally we get to eat with ours hands, the way eating should be done.  Tim F even managed to keep his left hand out of the bowl for the most part, which was good of him.

The clouds had cleared somewhat when it came time for bed so we got a good look at the stars before turning in - interrupted briefly by the guide's attempt to sell us fossils.  The night was spent in a Berber tent and at some point the cloud cover closed back in.  I have never known such darkness.

Day 11 - Merzouga to the Todra Gorge

Got a lot of traveling done today, Morocco-style.

We were up at the God-awful time of 5 am in order to be back at the auberge for the 7 am transport out.  Trekking on camel through the dues as the sun came up was almost worth it, but I think it will be a long time before I choose to travel by camel again.

We left the hotel in what I will generously call a mini-bus.  It appeared designed to hold 11 at a squeeze, but the it had 19 crammed into it by the time it had done the rounds of the auberges.

We got out at Rissani to replenish cash supplies at a local bank branch, and then took a grande taxi with a couple of Germans to Erfoud with the intention of catching a bus heading west.  We found the bus station and spent a pleasant while sipping mint tea and eating fresh sweetened bread with the abovementioned Germans a handful of other backpackers.

As pleasant as it was, it eventually became apparent that the small bus station was somewhat lacking in buses.  Due to a delay somewhere up the line our bus now wasn't expected arrive for another four hours.

After some discussion it was decided to hire a couple of grand taxis to take us to Tenerhir, a town just south of the Todra Gorge.  So in we squeezed with one other Aussie, one Pole, two Japanese and the Germans, together with a Moroccan or two.  For our driver we had what must have been Morocco's most sedate taxi driver.  He drove as though he actually wanted his passengers to survive the journey.

On our way to Tenerhir we passed through a number of small towns, including one which was having its market day.  It was utter chaos as our taxi inched its way through the mass of humanity (and donkeys).

Eventually we arrived at our destination.  After bidding farewell to the Japanese girls we set about proving that you could fit six sizeable passengers into a sedan with bucket seats.  This taxi was to take us up into the Todra Gorge, where we were hoping to find accommodation. Fate obviously wanting to even things out, for this leg of the journey we scored a taxi driver who seemed intent on playing chicken with whatever vehicles were silly enough to be coming in the other direction.  I heard a number of horrified gasps and muttered oaths coming from the front seat passengers, but as I was busy trying not to be folded in half in the back seat, I was for the most part oblivious to our near misses.

We managed to score pretty well hotel-wise.  Business seemed a bit slow, and we scored a good rate in a reasonable hotel.  It even had warmish water in the shower.  Before dinner Tim F and I had a quick walk up a rocky slope before cutting back down to our hotel through a Berber village, which seemed like a nice place.

For dinner we had my preferred Tangine option - Kefta (meatball).  Over dinner there was a somewhat misguided attempt to explain some Aussie slang to the Germans.  Tim F told the tall and very solidly built German that he was "built like a brick shithouse", but I think something was lost in the translation.  With a crinkle in his brow he replied "I am like shit?".  "Um, no...".  "Then I am like toilet?".

Day 12 - The Todra Gorge and surrounds

Today was an active day.

We went for a long walk up and around the gorge.  The landscape was a lot like you'd see in outback Australia, but for the Berber goat herders (useful for pointing you in the right direction), Berber encampments and snow-capped mountains in the distance.  Actually, upon reflection it may not have been so much like outback Australia.

The view really were outstanding.   Our walk took us up over a number of escarpments before we eventually made our way through the back of a village, winding our way through alleyways to the main road before striking out for Tenerhir, some 15 km away.

Our wanderings took us past crops and palmeries that took advantage of streams that ran through the valleys.  It was all very pleasant but we were still glad when an outstretched thumb drew the attention of a French couple in a rented 4WD.  Thus the last few kilometres to Tenerhir were completed in style.

Tenerhir is quite a nice town compared to others of its size.  We drank mint tea in outside cafes, chatted with the locals and politely but firmly turned down offers to purchase carpets.  However the main reason we had headed back down into town was to stock up on cash.  We were about to head up into the mountains, and did not anticipate seeing an ATM, much less a bank for the next few days.  In the end we ended up with in excess of 2000 dirham secreted about ourselves, made up for the most part 20, 50 and 100 dirham notes.

We made our way back to the hotel squeezed into the back of the now familiar grande taxi.  I suspect we had the hotel to ourselves that night.  We ate in the attached restaurant - the only diners - and after hovering for a while the waiter joined us for a chat.  With his help we were able to figure out how we were going to get ourselves up into the mountains.