We left the metropolis on a chilly, crisp morning where you
could see your breath. We peddled out towards Anergui, three hours after Said
left. It was still only 8.45am as we passed him plodding infront of the mule.
We peddled on up the little donkey paths that climb out of
the Imilchil basin, keeping well ahead of the mule to avoid scarring the beast,
which unfortunately seemed to have a phobia about bikes. The poor animal was
loaded with two straw weaved panniers which bulged with packs, sleeping bags and
mats. It swayed from side to side like some lolloping camel. As the track
climbed our front wheels bounced uncontrollable and our rear wheels span
uselessly, forcing us to dismount and shoulder the things. With buckling,
bowing and stumbling legs we thanked our insight and lack of pride for renting a
guide and mule for the bags.
The rubble piled up as we climbed and found that riding the
bikes became more and more sporadic. Different styles of off-roading became
evident. Stephane was excellent at blasting up the steep terrains, able to
control his bouncing front wheel enough to steer. I still had a heavy
handlebar bag full of cameras, and couldn't keep the front wheel where I wanted
it. As a result I ended up carrying the bike more than I wanted to. Andrea
preferred to push hers up the steeper parts.
The summit of the pass or Tizi bought no relief, as the
ground dropped more steeply than it had risen. There was no mule track. The
route consisted of a steep rock strewn river bed - freshly sprinkled with giant
sized debris. The mule and Said disappeared like free-fallers from a plane,
leaving us to trail blaze alone.
Having carried my bike up, I was damned if was going to
carry it down again, like some awkward piece of luggage. By leaning back
behind and below the saddle it was possible to bounce over anything and
everything - although by the end of the day this approach was to coast me five
broken teeth on my chainset and a broken spoke in my front wheel. Andrea and
Stephane preferred a more cautious descent - trying to preserve their bikes.
They seemed more conscious of the fact that their wasn't a bike shop in a
million miles of where we were; and there were still over 800km left.
Andrea took a tumble onto a cactus bush as we forced a
route into the next canyon. Her punctured hand was however the only puncture
we got on this stretch.
The bottom of the descent bought us to the river, winding
its muddy way through the Atlas. We followed its summer starved trickle up
stream and round it's golf green banks nestling in the red dry rocks like a vein
of life. Stopping on these banks for a lunch of bread and sardines, we
scrounged some tea off a shepherd boy.
As we finished our yogurts the rain started to spit down on
us. Said immediately started to fluster and fuss explaining that the river
would flood very quickly. We donned our waterproof gear and peddled through
the brook upstream a bit further and then across the muddy fields of crops
lining the growing river. Other shepherds materialized, their large, unwieldy
herds spilling over the cliffs and crags like spilt treacle.
Little stone dwellings - like Cornish tin-cutters cottages
sat below the heavy sky and shell shocked awe-struck people peering from the
doorways at us three mad-men on bikes in the storm. The rain grew stronger and
turned to hail which hammered on my felt hat and pinged off my handlebars and
frame. Stephane and I fought on, heads bowed to shelter from the sting of the
storm. Andrea was flagging behind, her asthma holding her back as she fought
to force the bike through the quagmire of ground squirming beneath the tyres.
The storm passed and the sky lightened briefly. We
stopped to let Said catch us up. He arrived and shook his head to dry his
hair, like some big shaggy Afghan hound. The land ahead rolled gently upwards
in vast open short-cropped grassy slopes walled in by steep red crags -
darkening in a blackening sky ahead. We were aiming for a large crag at the
far end of the valley, where we were to pitch the tent. As we passed through
the valley nomads swarmed down from the crags above, neglecting their flocks to
come and investigate our convoy.
Said set to the task of erecting the tent immediately, like
a man possessed. As he worked we lazed around in the short cropped heather.
A large crowd of several unwieldy families had arrived to watch as the ground
sheet was laid. We tried to tell them jokes that required strange contorted
facial expressions. They particularly loved one about a `loud mouthed frog'.
One young rosy checked boy had such an outrageous laugh that the whole family
would end up sniggering hands over mouths in embarrassed smirks.
With the inner-tent up, a trench was dug around it and a
transparent plastic sheet was draped over the pyramid to replace Said's lost
weather sheet. Behind the crags, a
previously steel grey sky had blackened
beyond recognition of day. The blackness laid a path for a monstrous
electric-storm which swept in like an evil spirit released from the Ark of
the Covenant - with earth-shaking thunder claps and photographic flashes of
sheet lightening. We watched like rabbits, hypnotised by the lights
of a car. The light show was followed by layers of hail - the size
of birds eggs. It grew steadily heavier and harder, until the noise
on the tent was to loud to shout above, and the ground was white and icy.
Said was curled up in a corner, and mumbling prayers. The
zip was fastened firmly and we could only guess at the havoc outside as the hail
lashed at the plastic and the thunder and lightening alternated like some
Wagnerian operatic crescendo. The Berber nomads, could still be heard to
scream and squawk outside as they assembled their flocks beneath the mighty rock
shelter.
When we finally unzipped the tent, a white out blizzard
scene met our eyes - the golf-green valley covered in a foot of hail, and a red
torrenting Nile-like flow of uncontrollable water gushing down the centre.
Drenched donkeys and soaked sheep hobbled past with numbed hooves as if towards
a promised Ark.
The downpour continued for over an hour and left a bitterly
cold chill in the valley. I went out for a wander whilst Said made us a Tajine
on a Calor gas stove. The Berbers were still busy amassing their livestock.
Little boys in dripping coats, scampered after young goats and elderly looking
people stood around with toothless grins, in sodden blankets and karky woollen
hats. The scene was like some post-holocaust film set.
The Tajine was hot and spiced with chillies swimming in
tomatoes and carrots. We all sat in our polythene shelter dunking bread in the
warming sauce and remembering the storm. The tent was cramped for four and we
lay like tinned fish curled around each others sleeping bags for the next seven
hours - waking each time one of us turned and when animals passed in the night.
Having carried my bike up, I was damned if was going to
carry it down again, like some awkward piece of luggage. By leaning back
behind and below the saddle it was possible to bounce over anything and
everything - although by the end of the day this approach was to coast me five
broken teeth on my chainset and a broken spoke in my front wheel. Andrea and
Stephane preferred a more cautious descent - trying to preserve their bikes.
They seemed more conscious of the fact that their wasn't a bike shop in a
million miles of where we were; and there were still over 800km left.
Said set to the task of erecting the tent immediately, like
a man possessed. As he worked we lazed around in the short cropped heather.
A large crowd of several unwieldy families had arrived to watch as the ground
sheet was laid. We tried to tell them jokes that required strange contorted
facial expressions. They particularly loved one about a `loud mouthed frog'.
One young rosy checked boy had such an outrageous laugh that the whole family
would end up sniggering hands over mouths in embarrassed smirks.
previously steel grey sky had blackened
beyond recognition of day. The blackness laid a path for a monstrous
electric-storm which swept in like an evil spirit released from the Ark of
the Covenant - with earth-shaking thunder claps and photographic flashes of
sheet lightening. We watched like rabbits, hypnotised by the lights
of a car. The light show was followed by layers of hail - the size
of birds eggs. It grew steadily heavier and harder, until the noise
on the tent was to loud to shout above, and the ground was white and icy.