On a Bike and a Prayer
day 18. saunas in the mountains
We were woken by the gobble of purple plastic billed guinea fowl the other side of the reed wall. Cockerels crowed in Sidi Hallal and donkeys brayed as they streamed along the already crowded Marrakesh highway to town.
We breakfasted on bread and jam and set off for Ait Ourir in the direction of Marrakesh. The road penetrated far into the horizon like some surreal painting. We panted in a line, each taking a turn at the front - Stephane motoring along to Pink Floyd like some un-tiring unstoppable machine running on mint tea! He seemed able to find a rhythm in any gear and stuck religiously to it.
In 40 minutes we'd reached the junction to turn south, and in one hour we were sitting in a cafe sipping coffees and teas and munching on pea-nut biscuits and slurping yogurt. Stephane bought a paper, and joined us on the edge of town to start the slog up what looked on our Michelin map like a convoluted red intestine, running south over the High Atlas from Marrakesh to the old French Foreign Legion town of Ouarzazate in the south.
As we peddled I taught Stephane a short Pam Ayres poem.
I am a bunny rabbit sitting in me hutch
I like to sit up this end,
I don't care for that end much.
I'm glad tomorrows Thursday,
Cause with a bit of luck,
As far as I remember,
That's the day they pass the buck.
He recited it rhythmically over and over again until the west country accent was perfect, (with slight French overtones). In exchange, I learnt the words to `Au Clair de la Luna'. We both gabbled these rhymes as we peddled; passers by starring more strangely than usual.
Touama was where we had hoped to reach by night - but we
were there for lunch. It had little to offer and with only one friendly shop
keeper we were pleased not to have to spend the night there. The restaurant
had only bread and cheese - so we went off to buy our own food. We dozed and
slurped tea amidst the stares and whiled away the hottest part of the day.
When we finally stepped out into the furnace in the middle of the afternoon there was still a big climb ahead. Feeling bloated with water, tea, melon and bread the going was slow at first. With a bit of help from Stephane's music and plugged into my tape recorder, I found new energy to climb the first peak. With shinning legs and soaked shoulders I reached the summit with only two stops and paused at the gift shop to await the others. The summit was however deceptive and around the bend was a further brief climb - on past a wood cutters cottage resting amidst the fur trees and on up the col to Touflin.
We had three maps at different scales covering this area, and none had this town marked, or the next (Tadzila) where we had been told we could find accommodation. We pressed on anyway - suddenly shooting down nine kilometres of steep twisting descent like down hill skies, elbows and knees and head tucked in behind handlebar bags.
Tadzila was at first glance like the other `one horse' towns - a tiny truck stop in the mountains for the monster phosphate trucks crawling in from the south. It was a twenty-four hour affair with swinging insect-Mecca light bulbs above musty fruit stalls. Pipistrelle bats dive bombed the pedestrians and the rank of butchers wafted through the chilly night air. Carved up carcases hung in most doorways and heads, feet and entrails littered the ground around.
Smoke from barbecuing cutlets hung like mist around the street stoves and people stood aimlessly hands in pockets, awaiting the departure of buses to and from Marrakesh. We tracked down the cafe that had been recommended and bargained a garage for the bikes and a balcony for ourselves. The room on the first floor was an open plan affair of dark corners, mildew covered walls and a stench of stale urine. Dozing figures like down and outs lay slumped against stained walls. At the far end was a broken stained window which lead out onto the balcony. It was a little more airy and from here we could spy on street life undetected.
During our initial bargaining we had been offered a `hot water' wash. After a snack of lamb cutlets - barbecued with tomato and onion we were eager to wash the two days of grime from our bodies. Stephane intrepidly went off to investigate first and came back with tails of cockroach ridden caverns and Turkish style masseurs. Andrea and I followed gingerly.
The bath house lay outside town across the bridge and was at first sight from the outside like a little brothel. Once inside you passed a desk and entered a second chamber. A small door made of flattened tin cans was swung ajar and we were lead into a steamy cupboard sized room. The walls, floor and ceiling were like a crumbling Victorian sewer. Huge Hollywood style cobwebs draped with dust and perspiration swung hammock like in the draft and vast cockroaches scuttled seedily from crack to crevasse. We were thankfully left to bath alone and Stephane's masseurs having demonstrated the water system left us in piece. The sauna room was another door away and only slightly bigger. A small black boiler with a tap sat in the corner and a wooden trap door sat fixed to the floor. We squatted in the humid damp darkness and splashed welcomed warm water over our dusty skin.
The clean feeling was unfamiliar - it was a deep all over clean that we hadn't felt since leaving London.
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