It had been a restless night with the rats running up and
down the pipe that served as a chimney to the stove in the kitchen below.
Stephane had got up several times to shove paper and cloth into the hole in the
pipe.
The morning twilight was a welcome sight as it slid
sideways across the ashen sky to the gobble of waking turkeys and the crooning
of cockerels. It was still chilly outside though and the wash in the animal
trough was a little half hearted. We'd ordered boiled eggs for breakfast and
munched on these with some fresh bread and sweet mint tea.
Most of the village was still dozing when we left at 7.30
and cycled out of the leafy lanes and across the long shadows. The hills
rolled around us like a ruffled duvet and cloud shadows blotched black on
them. Our first friend of the day was in charge of a large sprawling heard of
black and white sheep. We swapped some food and did animal impressions with
him. He was carrying a piece of orange plastic pipe which looked badly chewed
at one end. When we enquired after it, he put it in his mouth and played a
haunting tune, which was captured and sucked away by the wind, like an escaped
piece of paper fluttering above a bonfire.
The road was straight and climbed the hills like a gently
draped piece of rope. The descent the other side twisted and turned and
bounced us down to a basin of several little villages. Our maps seemed to
suggest a steep climb still ahead and a 3000m ridge before Imilchil. The offer
of a drink in a cafe in one village nearly halted us, but we were keen to reach
Imilchil. The climb never came and the road followed a river, cutting through
the ridge. Beside us the layers of rocks sat crunched and crumpled like tin
foil in a child's hand.
Compared to what we'd been used to for the last few days,
Imilchil was positively a sprawling metropolis, with its 15,000 people, large
market places and boundless hotels and cafes. The building we choose was
pleasant and cool and rested behind a castle of mud and dung.
There was a French photographer there who'd been capturing
the faces of the local people for over two years in timeless black and white
master pieces. The little inn was run by a couple of young boys, who were
helped out by numerous trekking guides. Their uncle owned the place, but was
in prison for disagreeing with the local mafia-style corrupt authorities.
We were strongly advised to take a guide with us. Not
only because they were there to make money out of people like us, but because it
was a long way to the next village, across raw mountain with few recognisable
tracks, little to guide us from our 1:100,000 scale maps and a lot of potential
for getting lost.
To chew over the idea, we stripped our bikes of all luggage
and climbed up to Lake Tizlit to watch the sun setting. It we were told was a
mysterious lake stooped in legend of kings, forbidden marriages and Romeo and
Julliet style tragedies. The little reservoir style puddle we discovered was
more like an East Anglian pleasure-boating lake.
The intense heat we had been hiding from all day, was now
disappearing faster than the sun. In a chilly twilight we swerved and bounced
like slalom skiers down, in the dusk towards the little burning fires of Imilchil. As we passed a herd of goats and some tiny scruffy children, I
slowed down and scooped one out of the dust. He clung speechless and grinning
as he squatted side saddle on my cross bar, his little warty hands clutching the
handle bars and occasionally grabbing at his bobble hat to push it out from his
eyes. He greeted new knots of children at the side of the road like a little
king, gabbling for them to join the rabble of chuckling, stumbling kids behind.
We ate oily omelette and bread that night, and Andrea and I
turned in early. Stephane stayed late quizzing Mathieu the photographer, and
Said one of the guides about the route.
Most of the village was still dozing when we left at 7.30
and cycled out of the leafy lanes and across the long shadows. The hills
rolled around us like a ruffled duvet and cloud shadows blotched black on
them. Our first friend of the day was in charge of a large sprawling heard of
black and white sheep. We swapped some food and did animal impressions with
him. He was carrying a piece of orange plastic pipe which looked badly chewed
at one end. When we enquired after it, he put it in his mouth and played a
haunting tune, which was captured and sucked away by the wind, like an escaped
piece of paper fluttering above a bonfire.