On a Bike and a Prayer
day 22. dust and dirt
We cycled happily out of the Military camp of Igherm just after 9am and freewheeled for ten kilometres downhill to Agouim where we turned right off the bliss of the tarmac road and back onto the bone jarring of the dirt track. Sadly this stretch of road was also marked as surfaced - which boded badly for the next stretch which was marked as dirt track.
The road climbed, twisted and weaved through the
Pre-Cambrian lava flows, passing cliff side green villages cascading from
Iberian-buff crags on a deep blue sky. Sour was twenty-six kilometres away and
long in coming, particularly for Andrea who had been feeling sick all day. It
had one shop where we bought vintage cokes and squeezed ourselves into a chink
of shade to swig them. The village came out to watch, but quickly went inside
when my camera emerged.
We peddled on amidst clouds of cheeky children, half heartedly lobbing stones and sticks and kicking dust as they pointed helpfully up the only road out of town.
Souk el had lay on the plane a giants step above Sour. It was the major trade centre for the valley and although it was only marked on our 1:100,000 maps as a single small square with a cross it had a huge souk square and a clean friendly cafe where we banqueted on biscuits eggs and cheese. Andrea's colour was draining away and we laid her out on my mat near the bikes outside whilst Stephane and I picked local brains about the route.
It was after three when we set off again for a village fifteen kilometres away and pronounced as if an apple were stuck in your throat.
The road quickly deteriorated to two ruts crossing a rocky lava flow dipping gently to the north. Huge black rain clouds streaked grey towards the barren earth and threatened horrific down pours all afternoon - only managing the odd spit. The road rose and fell hike a heaving black sea climbing to tidal wave heights which left us panting and breathless.
It was 5.00pm when we rolled exhausted into Imaghoudn 52km from breakfast - Andrea bringing up the rear and looking drained and bleached. We stopped where they were building a new house and asked for the hotel. The answer came back - `another two kilometres out of town'.
We freewheeled off, feeling dejected. Just round the corner a well dressed clean shaven young man halted us in perfect French. We all pulled up to find he was the village teacher and spoke some English as well. Mhamed Hamdi had only arrived from Casablanca three hours before, to take up a two year teaching post. Despite the disarray in his cramped living quarters he welcomed us warmly insisting we stay in the class room. It was a freshly built room at the end of the block with eight shuttered windows and the obligatory portrait of the king tilted menacingly above the black board. Displays of geology and geography decorated some tables and Arabic posters described all aspects of local life.
Immediately Mhamed recruited another teacher and they set about building us a triple bed out of desks, and next to it a `salle a manger!' Clearly his wife was not pleased at the tramps he'd befriended on their first night of unpacking. We only heard their row through the walls though and she was not seen. All that the teacher could muster was bought out - some painfully spicy sardines, tomatoes, bread, some coconut cake, gallons of tea and cellou - a thick brown paste of nuts for giving strength - usually to pregnant women.
We sat and ate and drank and argued about society, politics, and his obsession with France, its history, regions, language, people, food and music. For ten years he'd strived to visit the country - foiled by bureaucracy each time. He only wanted to visit, look and leave - he had no wish to stay and work like others we'd met. This obsession with France had lead him to refuse a plumb teaching job at Rabat University and he'd even refused marriage twice. There would only ever be one love in his life.
For now though he'd settled for his sentence in this village and a Moroccan wife. France was out of sight but not out of mind.
listen to audio diary