Still in Algeria

leaving djanet

When planning to visit Algeria we had always hoped to hook up with other overlanders; a safety in numbers thing, perhaps mitigating the dangers of isolated mechanical failure or the extremely slim chance of being unfortunate enough to run into some active terrorism.  Having managed to get as far south as Djanet without guides or police escorts, we now wanted to reach the N1 Trans-Saharan Highway - the first stage of our route out of the country – which meant having to cross 600km of desert running parallel to the Niger border, an invisible line over which we had repeatedly been told to be wary of.  Unfortunately, we hadn't seen any independent travellers since arriving in Algeria and our request for an escort from the national guard had been refused and so we continued, with some trepidation, alone.  Given the amount of attention our arrival in Djanet had generated from both the police and national guard, this sudden lack of concern regarding our safety was odd.  We were now in what we considered to be the most potentially problematic part of the country, and the claustrophobic presence of the military that we had witnessed until now had suddenly disappeared. 

overnight halfway between djanet and tamanrasset

Initially the tarmac was good and after 150km we arrived at Bordj El Haouas where we joined a long queue of cars lining up at the petrol station.  Spotting us immediately, the guys manning the pumps pulled us out of the line and instructed us to push to the front of the queue.  A bit embarrassing until we got to the pump only to find there was no fuel there anyway.  I’ve no idea how long the rest of the vehicles were planning to wait in the hope that a fuel truck would appear on the horizon, but we thanked everyone for their efforts and continued on our way.  We hadn’t gone very far when the tarmac finished, and we were on the sand.  Mostly, it was easy enough to navigate as we were able to stay adjacent to the new road that was being built, but every so often the ground was so churned up that we were forced to make big detours and it was alarming how quickly our sense of direction abandoned us. 

A distance of 600km doesn’t sound much but wary of straying off course, or falling into an unexpected hole, our progress was slow and we were a long way short of our destination when the sun started to set.  Setting up camp under a solitary acacia tree we watched uneasily as a number of pick-up trucks full of veiled Tuarag sped past.  It was a relief when darkness finally fell and we felt a lot less like a couple of sore thumbs. 

The following day we reached Idles, another opportunity to fill the fuel tanks but once again the pumps were dry.  It was late afternoon when we reached the tarmac and T-junction of the N1.  Tamanrasset was 120km to the south and the road we ultimately wanted to the north.  With fuel tanks now low we had no choice but to turn left in order to fill up before turning around and continuing in a northerly direction.  It was just as well we did as; after leaving Tamanrasset we didn’t come across another opportunity to buy diesel until In Salah, 700km away. 

detour back onto the sand

The drive up to In Salah would have been extremely boring had it not been for the regularly disappearing tarmac, an abrupt interruption usually pre-empted by a sharp and nasty road bump, a wooden barricade wrapped in barbed wire or a line of heavy-duty machinery blocking the way.  There was also the issue of swirling sandstorms that raged around us for more than 350km.  The sand was being driven so hard against the passenger side of the car that by the time we drove out the other side Ian was covered in orange dust – LR Defender, a vehicle like no other!! 

As we approached In Salah, thinking that things were about to get a lot easier, we were surprised to get pulled over once again and our passports confiscated.  Told to wait for the police protection unit to arrive, we hung around for over 3 hours.  Eventually, at 9.30pm, two police vehicles arrived ready to escort us.  Refusing to move due to the late hour, they eventually left us to it and the following morning our passports were handed back and, once again, we were allowed to continue on our own. 

350km of sandstorms

You might be wondering why we didn’t make things easy for ourselves and just enter Algeria through the normal channels of a tour operator who would have taken care of our whole trip.  The reason is that had we arranged for a guide to collect us at one of the borders from Tunisia we would have had no option other than to be returned to that border no more than 15 days later, these being the current VOA rules.  As our plan all along had been to try and cross Algeria, entering from Tunisia in the east and exiting to Mauritania in the west, it was vital that we had a 30-day standard visa issued by the Consulate.

Had we been making this trip prior to 2013 we would have had considerably more options open to us in exiting Algeria and getting to the west coast of Africa.  From the southern Algerian town of Tamanrasset, routes through both Niger and Mali would have been viable  providing a reasonably direct passage into Mauritania.  Unfortunately, the persistent and increasing strength of uprisings in this area resulted in Algeria closing its borders with Niger and Mali leaving the only exit route for foreigners via the relatively new Algeria/Mauritania border crossing just outside Tindouf.  This is a very indirect route, first north away from the along the Trans-Saharan Highway for over 1,500km before picking up the N50 National Highway south for another 750km.

Having spent most of our time in Algeria within the Sahara, it was with the Tuareg people acting as desert guides that we had mainly interacted with.  We felt privileged to have been introduced to their traditions and a way of life necessary to exist in the Sahara, but we were also becoming increasingly aware of their involvement in a variety of unethical activities and, although not so evident in the deep south, the presence and force of the Algerian military, one of the strongest in Africa.

1,600km of police escort

In Salah is an oasis town in central Algeria.  Situated within the Sahara, at the crossing of ancient trans-Saharan caravan routes, it was once an important trade link between northern and central Africa but today it is mostly visited by nomadic Tuareg and is dependent upon its exportation of dates.  It is commonly accepted that if a line were drawn from East to west across Algeria running through In Salah that this would be a reasonably accurate demarcation between the north where independent travel is allowed and the south where it is not.  Imagine then, our confusion, when on entering the town we were once again flagged down by the national guard.  We were informed that the area was very dangerous and we were to be escorted to the next Wilaya (province) some 60km away.   From what we could ascertain, each Wilaya is different depending upon the views of the captain in charge and despite being told that we would be able to continue freely once we reached the bordering Wilaya of Adrar this turned out not to be the case. 

We were instead handed over to a different escort and this pattern continued every 70-80km.  Our journey through Algeria then progressed behind a range of vehicles, from G-Wagen Mercedes to Sprinter vans, all sporting the same green and while colour scheme, flashing lights and sirens.  At the end of each day we were dropped off either at a hotel or made to park and sleep outside the police station, a novelty for the locals almost as exciting as if the circus had come to town.  For the most part, the gendarmes were very friendly and good natured but there was little opportunity for us to do anything other than spend hour after hour, day after day, driving along mostly empty roads with just the occasional small desert town as distraction.

As things turned out, we were under escort for a staggering 1,600km.  Eventually we arrived at the large town of Tindouf where we were handed over to the Police who in turn took us to a hotel where it was made quite clear that we were to remain until the morning when an escort would arrive to take us to the border, 80 km away.  Just to be sure we did what we were told, a gendarme was stationed in the lobby for the duration.

Unable to wander around Tindouf, I can’t tell you anything about it other than there was a lot of construction going on, mostly in relation to the new 950km railway that is currently being laid all the way to Bechar.  The project is a collaboration between Algeria and China, the objective being to transport iron ore from Gara Djebilet, one of the world’s largest ore mines where reserves of 3.5 billion tonnes will no doubt satisfy China’s steel production. 

As promised, our final escort arrived to deliver us to the border and didn’t seem to mind too much helping us to source food supplies to sustain us for the few days it would take us to cross the Mauritanian Sahara.  Much as we had enjoyed Algeria, the vast wilderness and its people - certainly the friendliest we had encountered so far - our restricted freedom was wearing a bit thin and we were ready to leave.  The border post, where we were intending to enter Mauritania, opened in February 2024 as part of an agreement between the two countries to boost business ties and development.  Initially opened only for commercial transport, it was made available to all a few months later and although we only had limited information the fact that we were now going to be escorted there was boding well for us being able to cross.    

Arriving at the new and impressive border facility we were directed into a huge but empty parking area.  A uniformed guard ushered us into a cavernous hall with marble underfoot and a triple height ceiling complete with glass chandelier where we were invited to take a seat whilst our papers were processed.  This didn’t take long and after a thorough (but unsuccessful) search of Bob, we were stamped out and pointed towards the Mauritanian side of things.  This building was almost a replica of the first (although the chandelier was a bit smaller), but unlike the efficient, uniformed officials of Algeria the two Mauritanians overseeing things were taking a more casual, tracksuit wearing approach.  It was just as well that we were the only people wanting to enter the country that day as the process was tediously slow and it was hard not to laugh when despite no one knowing how to switch the finger-printing device on we went through the process twice anyway.  It was a stroke of luck that we happened to be aware of Mauritania’s new EVisa procedure and had procured ours in advance as there was no way this would have been issued on arrival.  The fact that Ian had apparently applied for, and been granted, two created a bit of a situation causing even more delay.  Eventually, we were given a green light and after assuring the guard on duty that we were more than equipped to cope with the 750km of desert piste separating us from the remote mining town of Zouerate, we drove around the back of the building straight into the Mauritanian Sahara.   

Mauritania is 90% desert.  The climate is predictably hot and arid and we felt the rise in temperature immediately.  Its economy is largely dependent on natural resources of gold, copper, fish and particularly iron ore; it is one of Africa’s largest iron ore producers.  Despite these resources, it remains one of the poorest countries in the world due to desertification, drought, poor governance, corruption, political instability and external debt.  It has been influenced by Berber, Arab and West African cultures with independence from the French gained in 1960.  It was the last country in the world to officially abolish slavery (1981) although modern slavery and forced labour still creates widespread inequality.  Lack of roads, electricity and access to water in rural areas further limits future growth.  Following the new border arrangement with Algeria, work has now started on a new 840km road from the remote mining town of Zouerate to the Algerian border.  This highly anticipated road is being built and funded by Algeria and will provide a route to the Atlantic that has long been denied to Algeria due to its borders with Morocco having been closed since 1994. 

refuelling station

Perhaps lacking the Chinese impetus that we had seen employed on the railway construction, the only evidence of this new road were random piles of gravel dotted about.  After a bit of an awkward moment when we hoped no-one was watching as we deliberated over which direction to go in, a truck appeared bouncing towards us over the rocky terrain.  That was all the help we needed and feeling particularly liberated off we went.

Having been advised to avoid crossing Western Sahara’s invisible border we did our best to keep left as we drove over the rock-strewn landscape.  On reaching the point at which we were to turn right, heading directly towards the coast, we stopped for the night and luxuriated in a glorious African sunset and the return of our freedom.  Apart from the occasional passing truck there was no sign of life, alone within a big yawning silence.  Along with our change in direction from south to west came a change in terrain.  The rocks dissolved into sand and over the next couple of days we drove through a landscape with no relief, navigating from one antenna to the next courtesy of some GPS coordinates that swissrider872 had recently posted to horizonsunlimited.com.  Antenna aside, we passed a couple of re-fuelling stations (which we didn’t need), the occasional tented settlement and helped a group of locals push their dilapidated car out of some deep sand.  Despite being a bit on the heavy side, Bob  refused to get stuck and if not for the fact that he strayed off course less than 20km from Zouerate and ended up in the middle of an ore excavation, his performance would have been exemplary.

Algeria

We flew back into Tunisia with a battered suitcase that had managed to mislay two of its wheels on the three-hour flight from London.  Weighing in at 25kg, it had obviously raised a red flag as, rather than appearing on the conveyor belt with all the other luggage, it appeared 30 minutes later being pulled along rather lopsidedly by a uniformed airport official.  Closely behind was another official carrying a long carefully wrapped package which turned out to be a replacement boat anchor belonging to a French couple.  By now the airport was completely empty apart from us four passengers and four customs officials who did well to hide their surprise and delight when on managing to get the zips on our case to work the contents spilled out.  A brand new Land Rover radiator, various replacement filters, transmission shaft (just in case) and basic larder items lay sprawled across the floor and the long and laborious process of identifying anything that could be taxed began.  It took nearly two hours for a list to be produced with the various tax rates applied.  These ranged from 2% - 40% which did seem a bit suspect but, concerned about missing the evening buffet at the hotel, we paid without complaint. 

It was one thing having all the bits we needed, now we had to find someone to fit them.  Our observations of the numerous garages dotted about Tunisia were not terribly optimistic. Tiny, scruffy workshops surrounded by a motley selection of rusting cars raised up on blocks.  We had seen the occasional hydraulic lift and as such had fingers crossed that replacing the radiator would not require some enthusiastic mechanic to give it a go.  But, hey, this is one of the reasons we chose Bob, a bush mechanics dream, and having talked the talk it was now time to take a leap of faith and hand him over to The Big Truck Garage. 

Collecting Bob the following day, we were delighted to find him not only intact but with a clean bill of health and we left the garage in high spirits.  40 minutes later, having gone just 7km, Bob died at the side of Tunis’s main throughfare. His temperature needle was pointing up to the heavens and he was emitting a distinct burning smell.  Fortunately, the garage was still open and after an agitated WhatsApp exchange the mechanic arrived on his motorbike.  After about half an hour of poking around and head scratching it occurred to all of us at the same time that there was probably an air bubble in the coolant – a quick blow cleared the problem and we were once again on our way.     

Originally our intention had been to exit Tunisia at the Nefta/Taleb Larbi border crossing which would have seen us 500km along on our proposed trip of 2,300km to the south of Algeria and deep into the Sahara Desert.   We had been quite close to this border whilst camping at Douz but after making several enquiries about crossing here had been told that this border was not allowing foreigners through (even with a visa) unless they were part of a tour group or with a guide.  There were also reports that if permission was denied a big red ‘rejection’ was being stamped into passports which might possibly cause problems when trying to cross at one of the other borders.  Given the main border between Tunisia and Algeria meant retracing our steps 500km back north, we had been deliberating over whether or not to attempt a crossing.  The matter was eventually decided for us when Bob started leaking; we had no other option than to head back north towards Tunis, get a flight to the UK and return with a replacement radiator. 

Hadada border

The Hadada border between El Kala/Oum Taboul is the main crossing between Tunisia and Algeria and we reached it after a day’s drive along Tunisian’s north coast.  It was difficult to believe that this was the main border as, on approach, we were routed off the road onto a dirt track by lines of bollards and channeled into a tiny parking area where we had to execute a multi-point turn in order to then travel back the way we had come on the other side of the bollards before reaching a grey portacabin where we were promptly sent back to the parking area on foot,  Obviously we had to enter the building marked in large red letters as ‘Duty Free’ where, instead of giant blocks of Toblerone, we found a collection of counters each one surrounded by a disorganised crowd of people waiting to receive their exit stamps.  With our own exit stamps eventually acquired we returned to Bob and rejoined the crawling line of traffic which proceeded in a snake-like fashion to a booth on the Algerian side.  Having been handed arrival cards as we inched passed a couple of guards, we were feeling quite organised on reaching the booth and more than a little smug when our photoshopped car registration certificate didn’t even raise an eyebrow.  As the Algerian rubber stamp came down onto our passports and we were waved through, I would be lying if I told you that we weren’t feeling pretty pleased with ourselves.  We were definitely getting the hang of this.  Unfortunately, our self congratulations were a little premature as accelerating towards the exit road that we could see just in front of us, an official jumped out and asked for Bob’s TIP (temporary import permit).  Apparently, there was another booth behind the one we had just left where we should have collected this annoying but essential document.  45 minutes later we were on the move again with no more than 50m between us and freedom before being stopped yet again and asked for car insurance.  This we did have and produced it with a flourish and big smiles.  Unfortunately, despite our efforts to translate the policy document into Arabic using Google Lens , the official wasn’t satisfied and Ian was whisked away to purchase local insurance at the cost of €18/month.  All things considered, the crossing was relatively straightforward and had we been a bit more on the case we would have saved ourselves a lot of time.  Our inefficiencies were soon forgotten though as we drove away from the border with our drone, binoculars and satellite phone securely hidden within the cubby holes inside Bob’s front seats - we had made it into Algeria!

algerian embassy

Algeria is the largest country in Africa and the 10th largest in the world.  Over 80% is part of the Sahara with sweeping sand dunes, plateaus and oases.  It was colonised by the French for over 130 years before gaining independence following a brutal war in 1962.  It is a major exporter of oil and natural gas, commodities that have dominated the national economy leaving little or no focus on the development of any tourist industry.  The lack of infrastructure towards tourism is evident immediately on application for a visa.  Compared to most other countries the process is bureaucratic and time consuming and without an easy Visa on Arrival or Evisa we had to make a personal application through the Algerian Consulate in London.  It wasn’t a difficult process per se just a tedious one – 2x photocopies of every single page in our passports, proof of funds, hotel bookings for the duration of our stay, along with the usual photos and application form.  We did feel a bit guilty submitting false hotel reservations within the permitted northern part of the country knowing full well that as soon as our visa had been received these would be cancelled and we would be heading south to the restricted area of the Sahara. 

Following a period in the 90’s marked by the “Black Decade” - a civil war between the government and extreme rebel groups - much of Algeria has experienced political stability.  However, the struggle for independence from France, the Sand War with Morocco over the Western Sahara and on-going terroristic threats have seen Algeria continuously improve its own security forces.  A large part of this security are the many road checkpoints which have been making it difficult for overlanders to explore without either police escorts or accredited guides. 

algerian checkpoint

As we started our epic journey to Algeria’s desert oasis of Djanet, the wind and rain were so bad that it wasn’t possible to see much more than a few grubby towns containing a lot of derelict or partly constructed buildings, the occasional BBQ grill pumping out thick grey smoke and roadside stalls displaying the same high quality fruit and vegetables that we had been enjoying in Tunisia.  Given the wild weather, the first few checkpoints we passed through were unmanned and we covered about 200km before being pulled over for the first time.  As we were still within the “safe” northern region of the country, we had no problem proceeding once our papers had been checked and approved.  Another 580km under our belt and we arrived at Hassi Messouad, a south-eastern town surrounded by sand that processes nearly 50% of the country's oil. We had passed through numerous checkpoints en-route but been fortunate enough to arrive when the guards already had their heads poked through someone else’s window thereby enabling us to nip through. In fact, we didn’t get pulled over again until 100km south of Hassi Messouad where after a long discourse with the guard in charge and subsequent swapping of telephone numbers we were eventually permitted to continue. 

near bjord omar driss, held at checkpoint

The ribbon of road (RN3) we were taking south was in reasonable condition.  There were a few broken sections that forced us to slow to second gear but there were also long stretches of new tarmac then allowed us to make good progress for another 250km.  There wasn’t too much to observe – some impressive golden dunes in the distance, some camels, the occasional oil refinery and a few abandoned upturned cars.  A ubiquitous sight was that of the blown-out tyres scattered on either side of us; Ian, delighted to have something other than Tunisian number plates to occupy his mind, commented that there were roughly 32 tyres every km.    

Just after the road started curving to the left, heading towards the Libyan border, we were stopped again.  This time it wasn’t just the national guard that was the issue – a sandstorm was approaching and visibility further down the road had all but disappeared.  After more than an hour of indecision by the guard, it was decided that we would spend the night across the road from the barracks.  With passports confiscated, presumably so that we didn’t make a run for it during the night, we were just thinking what a long evening it was going to be when a Swiss guy and his daughter arrived accompanied by a Tuareg guide and a cook in a second vehicle.  They were also stopping for the night due to the sandstorm and invited us to join them for dinner.  With access to a metal hut, gained by one of the guards smashing the padlock with the butt of an axe, we settled down to a traditional Tuarag meal of Chourba Bouktouf (vegetable soup), Lham lahlou (lamb stew) and fresh bread cooked in a small frying pan.  The meal ended with traditional strong and sweet Maghrebi tea.  Who would have thought, there we were in the middle of a sandstorm somewhere in the Sahara Desert. A bucket-list item well and truly ticked. 

road south to djanet and the sahara

The following morning our dinner companions had already left when our passports were returned, and, to our surprise, we were once again allowed to continue.  When planning to visit Algeria, there had been a huge question mark as to how far south we would be able to travel unescorted.  Online reports from other travellers seemed to indicate that we had passed the point at which many had been turned back and, as it turned out, the remaining 1,100 km to Djanet turned out to be extremely straightforward. In fact, all of the checkpoints seemed to be expecting us and we were promptly waved through.

tuareg ‘blue men of the desert’

It was a big milestone for us to eventually arrive in Djanet, a small but bustling town that is the key gateway to the Tassili n’Ajjer National Park.  The Park is a mountain range containing what is considered to be one of the most beautiful deserts in the world, the Tadrart Rouge (Red Mountain); It is also home to the Tassili Plateau, an area that holds one of the most important groupings of prehistoric cave art.  A few weeks previously we had been in touch with Abdellah, a local Tuareg guide, who had agreed to arrange a trip to both of these places should we manage to get ourselves to Djanet.  We met him the following morning in our hotel; he was easily recognisable in his Picasso blue robe and cheche (a 6 meter long cotton scarf) wrapped around his head. Apart from a pair of large dark brown eyes, his facial features were completely covered. As we chatted, the realisation of just how tightly the government was controlling Saharan tourism began to sink in. We already knew that we were the only foreigners in town that hadn’t flown in and been met at the airport by a guide and police escorts and we only knew there were other foreigners in the area because we had briefly seen them being bundled between the various guesthouses and the Tuareg guides 4x4s.  They certainly weren’t being allowed to stroll along the dusty streets in search of a coffee or join the locals at one of the many eateries that were all serving up the same food, namely bbq chicken, rice and chips. What we didn’t know is that Abdellah would need to apply for permits in order to be able to take us further into the desert; a request that was initially refused but subsequently granted.

tadrart rouge

We set off the following day.  Us in Bob, and Abdellah in his old but typically capable Toyota Land Cruiser.  Making the most of this unusually intimate grouping, Abdellah had invited along his Arab girlfriend, a rather large young lady with an endless supply of different outfits and obsessed with taking selfies. When she wasn't asleep on a bed matress laid out on the sand she was making every effort to maintain or possibly increase her weight. Since arriving in Africa the enormous bulk of many Arab women had been hard to miss and watching Abdellah chuckling as he repeatedly cut up potatoes to make yet more chips we concluded we were amongst a culture that had a high regard for the more voluptuous female believing them to healthier and more fertile. For the next few days we toured the Tadrart with its deep red-coloured sand dunes, dramatic rock formations and wide sandy canyons.  Despite being a bit heavy himself and not a soft sand lover, Bob chugged along quite happily although we were a bit miffed that Abdellah kept telling us to stop driving with the handbrake on.  At night we camped amongst giant dunes, staring at huge star-studded skies, the likes of which we hadn’t seen since leaving Australia.   

We returned to Djanet with just half a day to prepare for our next trip, a 5-day trek up to the Tassili Plateau with donkeys.  Abdellah was unable to accompany us but had organised our company which felt a bit overdone as we set off with a guide, a translator, a cook, 2 donkey handlers and 8 donkeys.  Climbing up to the top of the extensive Tassili sandstone plateau (72,000 km²) we entered a surreal environment consisting of thousands of natural rock arches, canyons and other bizarre land formations all shaped by wind and water over millions of years.  This UNESCO world heritage site contains over 15,000 examples of ancient rock-art dating back as far as 12,000 BC.  Some of the paintings suggest the Sahara was once a lush green savannah and depict early human life, animals such as giraffes, elephants, cattle and antelope as well as spiritual practices.  We were fortunate not only to have the place to ourselves but also that there had been the rare occurrence of rainfall a few days prior which meant that we got to see water in the natural rock pools and the flush of small flowers and shrubs.  As well as the rock art our guide showed us the smugglers tracks to and from neighbouring Libya. A smuggler once himself, he had used donkeys to carry all manner of goods across the border, on one occasion even a European washing machine. Despite the risks involved, he was proud to share that this had been an extremely lucrative period. We explored our surroundings by day and gathered around the campfire at night. Our Tuareg companions relaxed with their shisha pipes and performed the long drawn out ritual of tea making, where the strong, sweet liquid was repeatedly poured from a height between teapot and glass until sufficiently aerated as to form an impressive froth. The end result looked like mini beers with excellent head. With the coals now warm enough to make bread, charcoal was spread on the ground and a simple dough shaped into a flat disc placed on the top and covered over with sand and charcoal. It didn’t take long for the bread to cook, the hard crust proving quite resistant to any grains of sand. Once cool enough to handle, the bread was broken into small pieces and added to whatever soup or stew was on offer.

Around 75% of Algerians are Arabs. The Berber minority make up most of the rest of the population and are divided into many groups with a long and complex tribal/clan history. Following the Muslim conquest of the Mahgreb at the end of the 7th century, many Berbers converted to Islam but chose to keep their identity, languages, customs and traditions intact. The Tuareg people, often referred to as the ‘blue men of the desert’ represent a Saharan offshoot of the Berbers and amount to somewhere between 1.5-3 million people spread around the desert regions of Algeria, Niger, Mali, Libya and Burkina Faso. Typically nomadic and with an unsurpassed knowledge of the desert, they once dominated the caravan trade routes across the Sahara transporting gold, slaves, salt, ivory and textiles. Caravan trading inevitably ended and the introduction of country borders along with the challenges of survival amid increasing desertification dramatically changed a lifestyle that had been in place for thousands of years. Whilst some Tuarag have been able to take advantage of opportunities within the tourist industry acting as desert guides, many are deriving a living by more nefarious means. The smuggling of immigrants, gold, drugs and weapons across the borders of Nigeria and Mali is one way to make money as is the kidnapping of foreigners for ransom. Talking to Abdellah and our other Tuareg guides, we were left in no doubt that many of the issues currently going on in the Sahara involved the Tuareg. Heavily armed with weapons and artillery looted from Colonel Quadaffi’s extensive arsenal they were a common site racing across the desert sands in their vehicles of choice - the Toyota pick-up.

The next stage of our journey was a 600km drive west parallel to the Niger border, a trip that Google was showing as taking over 16 hours. Having asked around we knew that the route was partly tarmac but that there were large sections of desert piste. Abdellah warned of the very real danger of car- jacking and also that despite there being a couple of fuel stations en-route it was probable that they would have no fuel - something to do with not wanting it to be transported and re-sold in Niger. Having seen first-hand how quickly the light-weight Toyota’s were able to fly across the sand we figured Bob wasn’t likely to be too much of a target and with an extra fuel tank giving us a total of 110 liters we weren’t too worried about that aspect either Of more concern, was the recent kidnapping of a Spanish tourist in Tamanrasset, our next destination and that we were travelling with quite a bit of cash. Having been unable to get any of our cards to work in the country’s ATM’s and nearly everyone dealing in cash, we had returned from the UK with a large stack of Euros that had turned into an enormous stack once we exchanged it into Algerian Dinar. Taking all this into account we decided to ask Abdellah to act as our guide and were totally gob smacked when he got back to us saying that the national guard had refused his request and we were to continue on our own.  Our presence in Djanet was of course no secret.  On one occasion we had been woken by the police at 1.30am in order to have our passports checked and every time we went out for coffee no sooner had we sat down than the police would arrive asking us numerous questions before curb-crawling behind us until we returned to the hotel.  So we were more than a little surprised and definitely a bit put out by their apparent turn-around in regard to our safety. Well, no way where we going to go back the way we had come and, weighing up the odds, we figured that kidnapping a couple of bickering retirees in the most unsuitable vehicle for any kind of stealth work would be a terrible investment for any would-be captor.

Tunisia

Tunisia is Africa’s northernmost country and is about two-thirds the size of the UK.  The closest European land mass is Sicily, just 500km away across the Mediterranean and ferries cross from here as well as from many other European ports.  We departed from Palermo, Sicily, ordinarily chaotic, but even more so in our case as the first vehicle off the incoming ferry was a car transporter with 9 new cars onboard that got stuck on the ramp whilst disembarking.  The surrounding Italian officials, delighted to be having a drama, spent a good 45 minutes with raised voices and arm gesticulations before someone thought to get a tow truck enabling matters to proceed.   

BOB MADE IT INTO TUNISIA

The journey time to Tunis was just 11 hours with an expected arrival time of 12.30am, what a great time to arrive on African soil!  We must have had a strong tail wind as despite the delays on the boarding side of things we arrived into Tunis on time.   

Most of the vehicles being channelled through passport control with us had Italian plates and were so weighed down with ‘stuff’ - everything from washing machines to king size matresses - that their chassis were almost dragging along the floor.   Not surprisingly, there was no English spoken and once through passport control we had no idea what we were supposed to do next.  We were now in a massive garage with vehicles randomly parked all over the place with uniformed officials just wandering around.  Observing others around us who appeared to know what was going on we registered that the first thing to do was get the blue fische stamped by one of the roving officers.  Obviously, we were the only people without a blue fische so the first task was to find one, a relatively easy challenge that involved running around shouting “bleu fische”, “bleu fische”.  Once this had been procured, we then had to fill it in with Bob’s details, another straightforward task were it not for the fact that it was all in French with tiny writing.  Fumbling about with reading glasses, Google lens and a torch we completed most of the form, grabbed one of the passing officers and received the required stamp.  Now what?  Our attempt to drive out with completed and stamped bleu fische was thwarted by a group of officers who jumped in front of Bob barring our way.  Accurately surmising that there were more tasks to complete we were given a clue by one of the uniformed men who was making a walking action with this index and middle fingers whilst pointing to the other end of the garage where people were lined up in front of a couple of white booths.  We scurried over and joined the queue.  Eventually it was our turn and we handed over the bleu fische, passports and photocopied car registration form.  Given recent events, it didn’t come as a great shock when the customs officer inside the booth shook his head and pointed to another set of booths on the other side of the garage.  Off we trotted – this was obviously the area where problems were dealt with and we waited our turn whilst observing some extremely animated problem solving.  Eventually we were able to hand passports, bleu fische and car registration form over and were asked in halting English for the original registration papers.  Our response of “online”, “online” worked rather better than expected and after a lot of paper shuffling we received an additional passport stamp with Land Rover Defender clearly written across the top – GO BOB!  Again, we tried to leave, this time making it almost to the garage exit, before being asked for the green fische????  Apparently, we now had to go back to the original white booth and represent our documents along with the additional passport stamp.  Sure enough, this did the job and a green fische was handed over.  Making our way back to Bob who was rather splendidly blocking one of two lanes out of the garage we handed our green fische over to the solitary officer standing between us and freedom and with smiles all round we were allowed entry to Tunisia with a 90-day visa. 

SIDI BOU SAID

Tunisia has a population of 11.5 million that relies heavily on mineral exports, a growing manufacturing sector and agricultural products.   Until recently it derived significant income from the tourist industry as one of the most visited countries in Africa, a magnet for holiday makers looking for sunny beaches on a budget.  I know this because I was one!  On honeymoon with my first husband way back in the early 90's, naïve to the lure of a “too good to be true” package deal, we arrived in the rainy season and were woken up on our second morning by storm water gently lapping over the sides of the bed.  Definitely memorable but probably for the wrong reasons and we applied for a divorce just 14 months later. 

medina

Tunisia as a popular destination didn’t fare much better as in 2010 Tunisia made world headlines when a young man who had been supporting his family by selling fruit from a cart set himself on fire.  Fed up with local officials repeatedly demanding bribes and confiscating his merchandise, and unable to get support from other authorities, Mohamed Bouazizi doused himself in gasoline and set himself alight.  His actions proved to be the catalyst for many others suffering poverty and political repression and thousands took to the streets throughout the country in protest against the Ben Ali regime, a movement that became known as the Arab Spring.  With the lucrative tourist industry severely damaged a series of terrorist attacks perpetrated by ISIS in 2015 put an end to it completely leaving many Tunisians without work in a struggling economy.   

Wanting to get a feel for the people and their customs we stayed for a few days just outside Sidi Bou Said, Santorini’s pretty little sister.  This gave us plenty of opportunity to explore the sprawling capital of Tunis with its old medina and numerous ancient buildings rubbing along with the chic restaurants and hotels in the modern quarters.  Perhaps due to the time of the year, there were hardly any foreigners around, the tourists were primarily from other Arabic nations, nearly all of them sporting traditional garb.  The hard-sell we had experienced in Morocco was noticeably lacking and it was refreshing to wander through the souk amongst all the spices, perfumes, rugs and babouches without trying to escape the attentions of the over zealous stall holders.      

The ruins of Carthage, once one of the most influential cities of the ancient world, are just outside Tunis.  This strategically located Mediterranean hub connecting Africa and Europe was fiercely fought over by the Romans and Carthaginians in a series of conflicts known as the Punic Wars (264-146 BC).  Ultimately, Rome defeated Carthage thereby securing dominance in the western Mediterranean, but not wanting to risk a Carthaginian resurgence the city was then besieged and razed – the things you must do to build an empire! 

 Despite there being plenty to see and do, we were a bit distracted due to our ongoing issues regarding the lack of an original vehicle registration certificate.  The time had come to resolve this once and for all.  A grovelling email to a friend in Adelaide resulted in a scanned copy of their own vehicle registration being forwarded by return whereupon we were able to edit the original information – don’t you just love apps – resulting in a double-sided colour copy of this meddlesome document.  The only minor fly in the ointment is the rather inferior paper it’s printed on but it’s hard to imagine that conversation taking place without a common language! 

Traffic in Tunis is as you would expect in a capital city but with a slight twist.  Our drive south started on a wide road which had at one time been marked as having four lanes but the paint was now so faded that it was barely visible.  Without any guiding white lines it was more akin to driving down a runway with cars sometimes up to eight abreast all travelling at different speeds often in a diagonal direction.  It wasn’t aggressive nor defensive but did require 100% attention as you never quite knew who was going where.  Making progress, I could see that, unusually, Ian was also fully focussed on the road ahead – he had clocked the local plates which were a sequence of 7 numbers XXX XXXX, the higher the number the more recent the vehicle.  Looking for the most recent car on the road kept him occupied throughout Tunisia and for anyone similarly minded 248 5XXX would appear to be the newest vehicle on the road!   

hammermet hills

Our route south was initially inland and we made the most of the hills around Hammermet to get some walking done. It was a bit unfortunate that our arrival coincided with a couple of days of heavy rain making some of the dirt roads leading to the various trailheads hard work. Mind you, it was good to get a bit of 4x4 practice in as it had been a while…. Hoping for some warmer weather we continued south along the coast passing through the seaside resorts of Hammamet, Sousse and Sfax; the large number of huge abandoned hotel complexes a stark reminder of Tunisia’s recent difficulties.       

The historic city of Kairouan is often referred to as the spiritual capital of Tunisia and is a major Islamic center in North Africa.  Estimated to have over 100 mosques, it is also where one of the oldest mosques in the world can be found; The Great Mosque of Kairouan 670 AD.  A masterpiece of early Islamic architecture and an enduring symbol of Tunisia’s Islamic heritage it covers a huge area of 2.2 acres making it one of the largest religious structures around.  If you are unable to manage a Hajj (annual pilgrimage) to Mecca, seven visits to the Great Mosque will apparently do instead.

 El Djem is the largest Roman amphitheater in Africa and the third-largest in the world after the Colosseum, Rome and the Capua, Calabria.  It was built in the 3rd century AD, erected entirely out of stone and in a remarkable engineering feat has no foundations.  It was used much the same as the Colosseum, hosting gladiatorial games, chariot races and public spectacles and was able to accommodate 35,000 spectators.  Despite centuries of use and wear, much of the structure remains intact (including underground passages used to house gladiators and animals) and every summer the International Festival of Symphonic Music takes place.   

Travelling into the centre of Tunisia, the fertile plains and green rolling hills of the north were replaced by steppe terrain and dry plateaus and continuing south the landscape changed again into the dramatic desert environment of the Sahara and former stomping grounds of Luke Skywalker.  Today the country is mostly Foreign Office-advised safe, the exception being cross-border terrorist activity in the mountainous regions shared with Algeria and a military controlled zone that starts 75km away from the entire Libyan border.  However, “security forces remain on a high state of alert in Tunis and other places and you may be at higher risk in and around festivals”.

douz campsite

We drove into the campsite at Douz (gateway to the Sahara) the same day that the 4-day Douz Desert Festival started.  The campsite was packed with 4x4 vehicles preparing for desert raids, the choice of vehicle consistent with our observations whilst on the road; Germans in huge MAN trucks, Dutch in a variety of Land Rovers, Cruisers and vans, Italians and Austrians in campers.  The majority were travelling in multi-car convoys waiting to be collected by desert guides.  With no plans to tackle the sand dunes we were more interested in the festival.  The normally sleepy desert town of Douz was wide awake with an estimated 300,000 influx of people mainly from Libya and Algeria. 

The festival is a celebration of the desert and a way for the people of Douz and the surrounding areas to honour their heritage, customs, and resilience of the Saharan way of life which has thrived for centuries despite the harsh environment.  Several tribes and ethnic groups participate; the Bedouins showcase expertise in camel herding and horse riding; the Touareg in their distinctive blue clothing and intricate silver jewellery contribute their music, dance and desert survival practices; the Berbers (typically mountain dwellers) showcase textiles, pottery, music and dance.

This was our first desert festival and we weren’t disappointed.  Set amongst dusty sand dunes, goat and camel hair tents surrounded the flat central area where a glimpse of desert life played out.  Camel racing, horse racing, sand hockey, hare chasing, musical performances and warfare on horseback were all on offer.  The only item on the agenda we were not looking forward to was the proposed camel fight and so were delighted when the two camels refused to be provoked by their excitable handlers and ran off!!

ksar ouled soltane

matmata

Leaving Douz we headed back to the coast, a journey that took us through Tatouine providing an opportunity to get an idea of life as a Berber (Amazigh).  The area is known for its ksour (plural of ksar), which are ancient fortified granaries used to protect grain supplies from raiders.  There are estimated to be around 150 ksars in this region, the best preserved being those of Ksar Ouled Soltane and Ksar Hadada.  These ksour are architectural marvels made of stone, mud, and palm wood and they blend seamlessly into the desert landscape.  Matmata was also interesting, an area of barren, rocky terrain where hundreds of troglodyte homes have been dug into the earth.  These cave dwellings are typically in the form of large circular pits about 7-10 meters deep, the walls of which contain rooms and living spaces connected by tunnels.  Wandering around, we couldn’t help but compare the lifestyle to that of Coober Pedy.  Both are examples of how humans adapt to extreme environments with just a few subtle differences; Mint tea vs beer; Living in harmony with nature vs mining for opals; Star Wars vs Mad Max; Tradition vs Wifi.  Both unique destinations.   

Djerba is a large island connected to the mainland by a Roman-built 7km causeway and also a 20-minute ferry trip costing less than €1 for both of us and Bob.  A paradise that once attracted celebrities such as Rhianna, Leonardo DiCaprio and Christiano Ronaldo, it is now a sorry shell of its former self; palatial resorts suffering a lack of tourism with many standing abandoned and falling apart.  The hotels still operating were busy though, again mostly visitors from neighbouring countries as well as a smattering of French reluctant to let go of their colonial glory despite their rule ending in 1956. 

Leaving Djerba, our intention was to head back inland to the town of Netfa where, despite showing as an orange “advise against all but essential travel” we were hoping to be able to cross the border into Algeria.  However, a slight problem has arisen presenting us with a bit of a dilemma.  We are about to embark on the desert adventure of a lifetime – crossing the Sahara from Tunisia across Algeria and into Mauritania, a journey of around 5,000km provided we don’t take a wrong turn somewhere.  Our vehicle of choice is, of course, a 2014, 110 Puma Defender aka Bob who, whilst sightseeing around Tunisia, has sprung a radiator leak.  There is no possibility of finding LR parts in Tunisia and whilst we have added radiator seal do we trust that this will enable us to complete the journey??  There would also be the question of when and where would a replacement radiator present itself to us – what would you do????

Morocco - Part III

erg chebbi

Morocco issued us a 90-day visa on arrival and as we are now more than two-thirds through our stay it is surely time for at least one of us to climb on board a camel.  Of course, there have been many opportunities in the past to mount one of these hairy mammals, particularly in Australia which is home to many of these hump-backed creatures, but how would such an experience have compared to riding through the Saharan dunes in the company of a brown-eyed, tagelmust wearing, desert Amazigh?  Our limited experience of the Sahara so far has been sadly lacking in sand, just endless barren plains of rock, rock and more rock, but Morocco does have two notable dune areas, Erg Chigaga and Erg Chebbi.  Each of these ergs contains more than 125 km² of wind-blown sand which would undoubtedly provide the desert landscape that we have been looking for.

dry bed of lake iriki

Erg Chigaga is the largest and wildest erg of Morocco and as it is accessible only by 4x4 is a lot less visited than Erg Chebbi.  Despite being advised against attempting the off-road journey alone/without a guide we put all our faith in Bob and Chris Scott’s book Morocco Overland and left the tarmac at Foum Zguid where we joined Chris’s MS7/77 route towards Erg Chigaga.  The track was easy to follow but lived up to its reputation of being somewhat stony.  Bob’s suspension was well and truly tested as we rattled our way across the unforgiving hamada, completely alone except for one oncoming vehicle that was towing another, rather sorry looking vehicle, back out the way we had come.  The track continued to throw us around until we dropped down onto the MS8, a former Dakar Rally route, that we followed onto the smooth, quiet, mud flats of Lake Iriki.  Our camp that night, on the massive dry river bed, was magical and there were no holds barred as our Bose speaker shared Andrea Bocelli’s mellow tones with our only companions, the Scarab beetles. 

camp al koutban, erg chebbi

We woke the following morning feeling pretty pumped to be on course and looking forward to reaching our tented desert camp later in the day.  It was therefore a bit of a shock to fire Bob up and see his instrument panel lit up like a Christmas tree.  As we sat waiting for some divine intervention, each warning light slowly went out with the exception of one. A quick look in the manual showed this to be the ‘something wrong with engine’ indicator and with lack of a better idea we continued on our way doing our best to ignore the persistent amber lit icon.  Now that we were deep into the desert the stony tracks had disappeared, a relief that was short lived as route finding and sand driving offered its own set of challenges.  As we approached the dunes of Erg Chigaga it was reassuring to see a few vehicles dotted about, until we were flagged down by one extremely irate individual who alternated between shouting at us in a foreign language and holding his head in his hands.  After much confusion on our side we eventually understood him to be telling us that one of our bikes had bounced out of the rack and was being dragged along behind Bob by the cable lock.  The bike didn’t seem to be too much the worse for wear and much to everyone’s relief was returned and secured to the rack.  Keen to put some distance between us and the shouty man we started up Bob and were delighted to see that the faulty engine indicator light had gone out – result!

We didn’t have to meander through the dunes too long before we located Camp Al Koutban, a small collection of just 12 tents nestled beneath Erg Chigaga’s tallest dune.  The camp was run by Sahrawi “blue men” so called because of their indigo-coloured clothing.  Traditionally nomads who controlled the caravan trade between Morocco and Niger, many of them are now settled at the edge of the desert offering experiences that, for us, included dinner by candlelight, traditional drum playing round the campfire and a much anticipated camel ride. 

desert isolation

Leaving the following morning, two hours of sand driving took us to the small oasis town of M’hamid.  As one of a few gateways to the Sahara, the town is the last oasis in the Draa Valley and with the desert slowly increasing and arable land decreasing, recent years has seen the economic activity of the population transformed towards tourism.   With just one long dusty high street it would have been impossible to enter the town without being noticed and with trade still not back to pre-covid levels, the locals were extremely keen to guide us through the area.  It took us a couple of hours to get out of town as one particular local took some time to convince that we could manage without his services and already missing the isolation of the desert we opted to take the MS6 two-day off-road track rather than the tarmac alternative all the way through to Erg Chebbi.  The desert landscape varied between the rough and rocky hairpin traverse of the Tafenna basin, hard sand, soft sand, small dunes, the Maider chott and many kilometres of hamada.  Our research had shown this to be a relatively popular route but once again other vehicles were scarce until we set up camp inside a military zone and were escorted out of the demarcated area by a couple of soldiers in an open top camo Landy.  They were keen to point out that the area was under observation for illegal movement of weapons, drugs and human trafficking but we were guessing that there was not too much going on in this particular stretch next to the Algerian border as they spent some time with us, even asking us to blow up their tyres which were already over 60 psi (perhaps every 4x4 with a compressor was getting similar requests). 

The Algerian-Morocco border is 1,427 km long extending from the Mediterranean Sea to the Western Sahara, a border that has been a source of tension for both countries since independence in 1963.  Disputes over Morocco’s claim to territory in Algeria, Algeria’s support of the Polisario Front’s campaign for Western Sahara’s independence from Morocco, terrorist activity and drug running have all played their part in the current state of affairs which has seen the border closed since 1994. 

tafenna basin, ms6

Military intervention aside, the most memorable part of this route was the challenging 5km crossing of the Oued Rheris, a series of sandy hummocks and fine powdery sand where it would have been all too easy to run aground.  Fortunately, learning from past experience, Bob refused to lose momentum and get stuck on top of a sand hill and we progressed steadily, eventually arriving at Erg Chebbi.  We were amazed by just how busy this place was, a mix of 4x4 convoys and quad bikes testing their skill sets in the high dunes which were surrounded by large, commercial looking desert camps lined up next to one another.  Yes, the dunes were bigger than Chigaga and no doubt did look beautiful under a setting sun (we weren’t there long enough to see for ourselves) but with the Sahara one side and a tarmac road on the other side of the dunes the experience was lacking in authenticity and seemed to be more of a desert playground than anything else.

Six days of off-road desert driving had satisfied our Saharan wanderlust and it was time for us to start making our way back north via the Atlas Mountains.  Our route through Zagora and Ouzarzate followed part of the “Salt Road”, one of the world’s greatest and most dangerous trade routes in history.  Caravans ranging in size from 1,000 to 12,000 camels, guided by desert berbers, transported gold, salt and slaves from the legendary sub-saharan trading city of Timbuktu in Mali all the way to Marrakesh.  An impressive distance of 3,000 km that typically took around 70 days.. 

set built by hermes for watch ad

Ouazarzate, a city 200 km south of Marrakesh, sits in the middle of a bare plateau and despite its rather unappealing demeaner was one of the few places we visited in the south that was thriving.  With an ever increasing population boosted by relocating desert communities, Ouazarzate is able to offer much needed employment due to its flourishing Atlas film studio and nearby solar station, the world’s largest concentrated solar power plant.  Atlas studios, when measured by acreage is also the largest in the world with most of the sets permanently residing in the nearby desert and mountains.  We poked around sets previously used in the Jewel of the Nile, Living Daylights, The Mummy, Gladiator, Cleopatra and Tutankhamen and were pretty impressed to learn how Hermes turned a basic set into https://youtu.be/UvMZrJDHBYM. 

ksar ait-ben-haddou

All along the caravan route are ancient fortified villages known as ksars, built to protect the precious commodities that were being traded at the time.  Perhaps the most iconic of these is the Ksar of Ait-Ben-Haddou, a site that has undergone significant restoration in recent times and is one you might recognise from the third series of Game of Thrones.

Away from the main roads, travel through Morocco is notoriously slow.  Getting stuck behind an hgv struggling up narrow mountain roads or waiting for one man and his tractor to clear a recent rockfall is par for the course, throw in the occasional horse tied to one side of the road whilst grazing on the other and you soon resign yourselves to concentrating instead on the ever-present, raw and spectacular scenery.  Lush valleys, lakes, forests, snow-capped mountains and deep canyons cut into the ochre rock accompanied us all the way to the small mountain settlement of Imlil, the main base for ascending Mount Toubkal, the tallest mountain in North Africa (4,167m) and also the starting point of the multi day hike of the Toubkal Circuit.

ibrahim and his donkey

Following the grisly murder of two Scandinavian female backpackers, whose decapitated bodies were found in the Atlas Mountains in December 2018, the Moroccan government issued a mandatory guide rule for anyone hiking in the area.  On arrival into Imlil we were informed that there was still some snow up on the mountains that are part of the Circuit which meant that official guiding had not yet started for the season.  This was good news for us as we didn’t really want a guide, preferring instead to purchase a map and compass, hire some crampons and head off.  Imlil is at an altitude of 1,800 metres and over the course of the next few days we knew we would be making a climb to over 3,000 on more than one occasion.  Not having been at altitude for more than 10 years we were possibly over-reaching, but worse-case scenario we could always turn around and go back the way we had come.  The first climb out of Imlil was a good indicator that we were in for a testing time and, as if bending over clutching at our knees whilst catching our breath wasn’t enough for us to be dealing with, we also had to contend with the local wannaby guides who, savvy to recent policies, were keen to get in on any unofficial guiding action and incredibly difficult to get away from.  After a night spent in the mountain auberge at Tachdirt, we set off the following morning in the company of a couple of locals and their herd of goats.  We were now far enough away from Imlil and its enterprising locals to enjoy the solitude and majesty of the area and clearly able to see our path zig-zagging its way up to the Tizi n’Likemt pass.  We had barely started our ascent when a quick count showed that our numbers had swelled and we were now being accompanied by a little old man on his donkey.  With a big smile on his wizened face and one good eye focussed on us while the other took in a more panoramic view of our surroundings, he introduced himself as Ibrahim and despite our protestations insisted on leading us up the mountain.  Powerless to do anything other than follow in his wake, we plodded uphill for most of the day, eventually summiting in a light flurry of snow.  This was as far as Ibrahim wanted to go and where he proved himself to be a master negotiator using every trick in the book to extract as much money as possible for unwanted services rendered.  How could we possibly refuse a cross-eyed octogenarian who had persuaded his donkey to a height of over 3,500 m and was now faced with going all the way back down again??? 

taking a break

Despite parting with enough money to keep Ibrihim's donkey fed for the rest of his life, we were a bit sad to see him set off down the mountain, even more so when we couldn’t locate the shepherd huts that we were hoping to sleep in, instead bedding down for the night in a three-sided mule shelter.  Up until this point we had been discussing whether or not to replace our stolen tent but as we lay in the dark on at least six months of mule manure with the rain blowing in through the open front, a new tent did seem like a really good idea. 

We returned to Imlil five days later just in time to celebrate the end of Ramadan, a period of fasting and, hopefully, spiritual growth.  It is based on the lunar calendar and takes place 10 days earlier every year, lasts for an entire month and ends when the new moon is sighted.  Unfortunately for Morocco, this year’s anticipated end of abstinence was delayed an additional 24 hours due to a cloudy night and therefore no moon, a decision which is made by the Ministry of Islamic Affairs.

With just a few days of our visa remaining, it was time for us to get back to Ceuta where we would catch the ferry back to Spain.  An uneventful trip but for a rather hectic last day in the bustling city of Tangier.  It was huge relief that Leroy's titre test had come back showing the correct levels of rabies anti-bodies to be allowed back into Europe but  we needed to re-visit the vet in order to get his EU passport updated accordingly.  We weren’t sure whether he also needed an animal health certificate and just to be on the safe side, we went through the tedious procedure of acquiring the 5 bureaucratic pages that all needed to be stamped by the Dept of Agriculture, a messy little office on the other side of Tangier.  Fortunately, this being Morocco, the fee was only €12 as opposed to the £200+ fee we had paid to get him from the UK into France but we needn’t have bothered as this wasn't even looked at by customs.  Ian, in the meantime, was trying to get his ipad back which the police had managed to recover following the break-in.  Despite spending 2 hours finding and then waiting in the appropriate government office, he came away empty handed as the tablet had been sent to the Court of Appeal where it was being fingerprinted prior to being used in court.  I don't suppose we will ever hear the outcome, but we did see a post on the Park4Night app just two days after we had posted our own unfortunate experience.  Apparently, a couple of masked men had tried to access another overland vehicle camped in the same spot but, perhaps forewarned, the occupants had been more vigilant and avoided a fate similar to ours.

Morocco has certainly provided us with some adventures and we have loved exploring this tolerant country with its blend of cultures and generous hospitality.  We are also better informed.

-          Traditionally, tagines rarely contain fruit.  They are a simple dish of meat, potatoes and whatever veg might be available; very occasionally you might find a date.

-          Couscous is only cooked on a Friday.  It is made from scratch, a process of steaming and seasoning the tiny grains of semolina in huge metal pans which can take up to 2 hours. 

-          Our concerns about travelling through a primarily Muslim country with a dog proved to be unfounded.

-          When we handed over our drone to customs we received a receipt so that we could retrieve it on our departure.  What we weren’t told was that we had to collect it within 45 days otherwise it becomes the property of the Moroccan government.  Our visa was for 90 days so how does this work?????

a common sight

-          If your visa is running out, just nip across the land border into Ceuta, turn around and cross straight back into Morocco for another 90 days.

-          If you don’t have Arabic language skills then it’s worth practising your French.

- Dont stress if you have slightly over-packed!

Morocco - Part II

Marrakesh has long been one of the places on my ‘to visit’ list.  Just the name conjures up a far-away world of elaborate Islamic architecture, exotic scents and vibrant colours, all moving to the beat of African drums.  Romantic I know and probably impossible to live up to but that didn’t stop our arrival into Marrakesh being a big deal.  Our approach to the city was through a red dusty plain dotted with the occasional, sorry-looking palm tree, the sudden increase in traffic and infrastructure heralding our arrival to the new town or Ville Nouvelle as it is known.  Not unlike most cosmopolitan centres we observed the 5* hotels, large private houses, restaurants and cafes and rather disappointingly Zara, H&M and Starbucks.  However, the traffic kept moving and it wasn’t long before we reached the mayhem of the old town where any form of road etiquette disappeared, and it was every man, scooter and donkey for themselves. 

It is at times like this that we are delighted to be overlanding in a Land Rover and able to take part in the hustle and bustle of a place.  The huge trucks, that we have seen so many of since arriving in Morocco, being forced by common sense to park in one of the busy campsites outside the city.  Booked to stay in a Riad on the edge of the medina, we wound our way through the labyrinth of narrow alleyways, often having to perform a series of forward-reverse manoeuvres to get Bob round the tight corners, whilst at the same time resisting the many offers of direction from the all too willing locals.  We eventually located our accommodation which was right at the dead-end of an alleyway which meant Bob was parked right outside the front door under the watchful eye of the Riad’s security cameras – Result!

Marrakesh, we had arrived. 

As an added bonus, we were meeting up with some friends for the duration of our week's stay and were looking forward to an input of new energy with which to explore our surroundings.  Our accommodations on opposite sides of the Medina proved perfect to meet up and wander through the busy souks, soaking up the sights, sounds and fragrances whilst enjoying an occasional cocktail on one of the many roof-top terraces.  We sampled the street food, haggled with the local vendors, visited a hammam, watched the snake-charmers and purchased fresh fruit and warm nuts from the stalls set up in Djemaa el-Fna central square.  A 3-hour bike tour confirmed that the atmosphere within the old city’s red clay ramparts was a chaotic world away from the modern, somewhat characterless outskirts, but there is no denying that Marrakesh can cater to every type of traveller.  The week finished with a half-day cooking class with a couple of local women who shared their knowledge of preparing Moroccan food and insight into the use of the local spices. 

You see the multi-coloured open sacks of spices everywhere and what better way to feel like a local than to head over with your own spice jars for a refill.  Nice idea, but after seeing a rather cute kitty doing their business in one our enthusiasm rather lost its momentum!

Marrakesh was everything we hoped it would be and more and we loved every minute of it….

….. well, nearly every minute.  As you might expect in the middle of the desert there isn’t much grass around, even the parks are beautifully laid out and planted in red desert earth.  Unfortunately, Leroy is a bit fussy about where he does his business and 2-3 times a day it was necessary to take him on a 4km round trip to a tiny area of sparse greenery where he was somewhat reluctantly prepared to go.  Whilst the exercise was good, the journey itself was not too far removed from entry into the Temple of Doom – a test of will required to navigate an anti-social 50 kg Rotti through congested cars, scooters, bicycles, screaming children, donkeys, stray dogs and hundreds of cats.  Good job Ian was grey on arrival as he certainly would have been by the time we left having done more than his fair share of running this particular gauntlet.

essaouria

It would have been so easy to stay longer and we were sorry to leave, but after parting company with our fellow discoverers, we were keen to see more of this fascinating country and so set off for the coast.  One thing that you can’t fail to notice in Morocco are the excellent road networks.  Over the past 20 years, the government has built approximately 1,100 miles of modern roads, connecting most major cities via toll expressways.  So, it didn’t take us long to reach Essaouria, an ex hippy haunt proud to proclaim its associated with Jimi Hendrix who stayed for 11 days back in the 60’s.  Apart from its grand coastal fortifications, this laid-back town has the only pre-planned medina layout in Morocco which makes the streets of the old town unusually spacious and medina browsing an altogether more relaxing experience.  There was quite a bit of development going on, not unlike many of Morocco’s larger towns, but hopefully the town will stay true to its name which literally means “the beautifully designed”.

mirleft

We are now nearly half-way down Morocco’s 2,000 km Atlantic coast and the further south we go, the less developed the area becomes.  The coastline is beautiful, kilometres upon kilometres of curved sandy coves that are mostly deserted despite the area being renowned for wind powered water sports.  We have seen the occasional kite surfer battling with the large Atlantic waves and some locals play football on the beach on a Sunday but other than that we more or less have the place to ourselves.  The landscape is expansive, mostly dry rocky desert, occasionally broken up by a lush green valley. 

Life on the road is fantastic but can also be quite tiring.  Just co-ordinating routes, picking up groceries, filling up with fuel and water, exercising, driving and finding somewhere to sleep can often take all day.  The idea of remaining static for a while, somewhere warm and where there would be a chance to just laze around, had been on our minds for a while.  The sleepy little fishing village of Mirleft was where the pin dropped.  Two hours south of Agadir, positioned on the cliffs between the coast and the desert, the location was perfect for chilling out before we proceeded further south and into the Sahara.

desert life

Just as we had no forewarning of our misfortune on arrival into Morocco, the same was true of our good fortune on arriving in Mirleft.  Our Airbnb interim home belonged to a French couple and a few days after arriving we found ourselves temporarily back on the road being given a whistle-stop tour of southern Morocco.  We visited luxury desert camps, picnicked under the shade of Acacia trees amid sand swept dunes and visited other ex-pats who had made a life for themselves in the area.  Poor Bob was pushed towards his limits as he raced across rocky desert tracks trying to keep up with our hosts, an ex proto-type driver for Renault and his lovely wife, who set the pace in their surprisingly nippy Duster.  The picnics consisted of oysters and gravlax, washed down with 12-year-old champagne which was unbelievably produced from their own fourth generation vineyards situated in the Grand Cru region of France.  You just couldn’t make this stuff up!

Exhilarated but exhausted, we arrived back into Mirleft where we had a chance to unpack Bob and were dismayed to find that rather more of our stuff had been stolen than we first thought.  A decision was made for one of us to make an impromptu trip back to the UK to replace some necessary items and by the time we were reunited in Mirleft it was almost time to hit the road again

overlanding community

One of the items collected in the UK was Chris Scott’s exhaustive book of off-road routes – Morocco Overland.  Rather than taking the N1 Desert Highway south we opted instead to follow one of his routes which would take us all the way down to Tan-Tan, a route which comprised nearly 40km of beach driving and 60km of rocky desert, with alarmingly indistinct tracks.  It had been a while since we’d been tested off the tarmac but we were delighted to be on a track that had previously been part of the Dakar Rally.  Unfortunately, our recent lack of off-road driving was all too evident as it took us less than 10 km to get stuck in the soft sand.  Yes, we would have been able to dig ourselves out but fortunately, not more than a minute later, two vehicles approached and after some brief introductions Bob was pulled out backwards by a capably driven truck.  A bit embarrassing but always good to meet fellow travellers; these two young German couples were intending to drive all the way to South Africa in a 4x4 lightweight truck and a 2WD white van.  They had an interesting dynamic, the truck would test any dodgy looking terrain, give a thumbs up to the van which would then attempt to follow but invariably get stuck, at which point the truck would then go back and tow the van to more stable ground.  They had been employing this technique throughout Morocco and it would be hard to argue that it wasn’t working for them as they were making steady progress and were obviously managing rather better than some of us.  Once the beach ran out they diverted back onto the N1 and we continued into the desert trying to get a handle on Chris’s navigational hints which were few and far between but then we were in the desert and there is a limit to how many times you can turn right at a palm tree? 

ksar tafnidilt, tan-tan

After a long, dusty day we arrived at what at first appeared to be some kind of mirage, a rather impressive but lonely fort (Ksar Tafnidilt).  Despite looking as if it had been stood for centuries, commencement of the building only started in 2000.  It was the result of a vision of an ex rally-driving Frenchman who seemingly fell in love with this remote part of Morocco, a remoteness which enabled him to have a wife on-site as well as a wife back in France.  Apart from the owner and one of his wives, we were the only people in residence which seemingly didn’t necessitate the generator being activated but the solar showers were hot, the stars were out and the all-pervasive peacefulness was magical. 

This was as far south as we planned to go (on this particular trip) just a short distance from the border of the former Spanish province of Western Sahara, a country that has been the subject of a long-running territorial dispute between Morocco and the indigenous Sahrawi people, led by the Polisario Front.  There is a buffer strip of land that runs the length of the country, separating the Moroccan-administered western portion from the Polisario controlled eastern area.  A strip of land dotted with fortifications and landmines, evidence of the 16-year on-going conflict over this second most sparsely populated country in the world with its rich phosphate reserves and as yet untapped offshore oil deposits.  Despite all this activity, a route through Western Sahara is the choice of many overlanders heading for Mauritania and Africa at large, a route that presumably never strays too far from the coast. 

Turning around we took the N1 north towards the Anti Atlas mountains, passing through the dusty town of Guelmim whose only point of interest would have to be its weekly camel market.  Little more than a diversion these days but had you been intending to make the minimum 1,000 km crossing of the Sahara by desert caravan, Guelmim would have been a good opportunity to purchase your camels.

ait mansour gorge, tafraoute

The Anti Atlas range runs parallel to and southward of the central Atlas Mountains, extending around 300 km east from the nearby Atlantic Coast and providing an important barrier against the Sahara which lies to the south.  The area receives less than 20 cm of rain per annum and is one of the least-visited parts of Morocco.  The dry landscape is a dramatic contrast of pink and black granite rock forms that create a distinctive backdrop to deeply carved fertile fissures that are lush with date palms, pomegranate, olive and fig trees.  We saw plenty of abandoned villages of traditional mud brick structures clinging to the granite mountainside and many that looked to be abandoned only to find Berber communities living amongst the dilapidated buildings.  It is a very beautiful and striking area enhanced by a feeling of absolute remoteness and absence of tourists which is surprising given that it is just a three-hour drive from Agadir.  The small town of Tafraoute, a secluded oasis nestled in the Almen valley, was the perfect base from which to trek to Les Roches Bleues.  The Belgian artist Jean Verame has created an intriguing sight of enormous boulders covered in not just blue but pink, black, red, yellow and orange paint.  Originally painted in 1984 with the help of the local fire brigade and their hoses and 18 tonnes of paint, this tribute to Verame’s late wife could be viewed as art or vandalism but either way was most unusual.

les roches bleues

Tafraoute is the largest producer of almonds in Morocco.  The almonds are produced by small scale farmers and when we tasted them side by side with their sweeter, chemically processed cousins from California, they were notably better.  We have seen whole almonds for sale throughout Morocco, but by far the preferred use for them is as one of the ingredients that go into amlou, a thick brown paste with a texture similar to peanut butter made up of ground roast almonds, honey and argan oil.  A common sight in the souks is that of the local women overseeing spinning metal vats that churn out the thick gloopy mixture which seems to serve as a handy alternative to Nutella.  The second ingredient of raw unprocessed honey can be found in a mind-boggling range of flavours including saffron, orange, thyme, lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus, and honeydew, with varying colours from a light gold to almost black, each jar containing large pieces of chewy honeycomb.  And finally, argan oil which is one of Morocco’s most famous products and offered for sale in varying quality at every souk and from make-shift stalls dotted along the roadsides.  The oil is produced from the kernels of the relatively rare argan trees which are indigenous to southwestern Morocco and extracted by a labour-intensive process usually undertaken by the many women co-operatives that have been formed across the country.  The oil is used widely in cosmetics but more interestingly is the most expensive edible oil in the world.   

It is always an interesting observation to compare the value of a product where the supply and demand is notably different based on location.  We saw how small a value was attributed to the excess of hash in Chefchaouen insomuch that it was handed over for free and similarly, as we have travelled through the country, we have seen herds of goats feasting on the precious argan trees.  Unfortunately, it is the same the world over and there is always someone with a money-making idea and goats in trees (yes, they’re real!) would have to be one of the more bizarre. 

Morocco - Part I

northern morocco

It’s not always easy to know where to start when writing a new blog, but Morocco so far has provided a non-stop catalogue of events that, in the space of a few days, has made us feel as if we have been here a short lifetime.

Morocco is part of the Maghreb, a region also known as the Arab Maghreb that includes Algeria, Libya, Mauritania and Tunisia.  It is a country with a diverse and lively history that has seen a long succession of different ruling people including the Berbers, Arabs, Spanish and French.  The Berbers, or Amazigh as they prefer to be called, were the first inhabitants of Morocco and are considered its indigenous people making up nearly 40% of Morocco’s population.  The larger Arab population is a result of the inflow of Arab tribes from the Arabian Peninsula following the Muslim conquest of the Maghreb in the late 7th century and accounts for the extensive ethnic, genetic, cultural and linguistic Arabization of Morocco today.   Spain has held portions of northwest Africa since the 1500s and occupied northern Morocco in 1860 until the signing of the Treaty of Fez in 1912 when France established a protectorate over the entire country, a colonial period that came to an end in 1956 after a long struggle for independence. 

sheep farming

Arab culture is predominant across much of the country.  You cannot fail to notice the Mosques – there are over 41,000 of them – nor ignore the five times a day call to prayer.   Many women, both young and old, wear the hijab and the djellaba is often favoured by men in both rural and urban areas.  Spanish influence in easily noticeable in the north, with the language spoken in and around Tangier and Tetouan, which is not too surprising given the tiny Mediterranean coastal enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla are still part of Spain.  The French colonial rule of more than 40 years has resulted in highly developed systems of infrastructure, French-based laws and an extensive use of the language, although English is now being taught in the schools and there is an undeniable popularity and enthusiasm for English to become Morocco’s first foreign language.

Located in the far north-western corner of Africa with a northern coastline on the Mediterranean and a western coast on the Atlantic, Morocco is more than 75% desert, the rest largely mountainous with slopes that gradually transition into plateaus and valleys.  The Atlas mountains dominate the central part of the country while the Rif Mountains run along the northern edge parallel to the Mediterranean coast.

There are a number of crossings from mainland Spain over the Strait of Gibraltar, the most popular going from Tarifa to Tangier a distance of just 39km.  Whilst this was our intended route, at the last minute we decided to head over from Algeciras to Ceuta.  The 1-hour crossing was rough, but on arrival customs out of Spanish Ceuta was relatively quick and easy, although we were asked repeatedly about a rabies titre test for Leroy.  As we didn’t know what we were being asked for and, therefore, obviously didn’t have one, we just kept shaking our heads from side to side with repeated NO’s which seemed to suffice and we were waved through into no-man’s land.  It was whilst we were waiting to go through customs into Morocco that the penny dropped – we weren’t going to be able to get Leroy back into the EU without proof of rabies antibodies ie. the titre test, regardless of whether he had been vaccinated or not – which, like us, he has been.  A bit of quick research confirmed our fears and also informed us that the titre test had to be done 90 days prior to any travel.  Great, so although we were planning to stay for 90 days we needed to get his bloods taken asap in order to get a positive test certificate back from an EU lab so that we would all be able to leave Morocco. 

First though, we had to navigate Moroccan customs which meant having Bob thoroughly searched and answering various questions about our belongings, particularly whether or not we had a drone.   Importing or using drones in Morocco has been prohibited by law since 2015 and in a country with a high level of security, drones are one of the main objects that officials are looking for alongside guns and drugs.  We reluctantly handed over our drone which we were told would be returned to us on departure provided we leave from Ceuta and three hours after driving off the ferry we were finally on Moroccan soil. 

Initially, we drove east to Techouan, a large, wide-avenued city, where we thought we would be able to find a vet.  No chance, the local vet showing up on Google was closed and the next nearest vet was 60km away in Tangier, the direction we had just come from.  Turning around we headed to Tangier, a port city that we had wanted to avoid hence our arrival into the smaller city of Ceuta.  Albeit only a short visit, Tangier gave the impression of a confident, cosmopolitan city sat overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar, very aware of its important strategic location as Europe’s main gateway into Africa.  It’s melting pot of different nationalities and cultures was evident as we joined the chaotic traffic, doing our best to avoid the donkeys, rickshaw drivers and professional jay-walkers, whilst not giving too much ground to the pushy, brand new, Range Rovers and other prestige cars.  Of course the vets was right over the other site of the City and by the time we eventually arrived they were just about to close.  Fortunately, Dr Imad spoke good English and once the treats came out Leroy reluctantly gave up some blood- job done!  The vets – similar to many businesses in Morocco - operated on a cash only basis and it was fortunate that we had taken out some Dirhams in Techouan, but rather unfortunate that we had to hand every last bit of it over to settle the bill.

Making our way back out of Tangier in the dark, whilst trying to find an ATM that would accept our cards, was an exhausting end to a busy day and too tired to go much further we parked for the night just outside the town of Ghedir Eddefla.  20km from Tangier, the Park4Night spot we decided on was overlooking a large lake about 3 km down a relatively quiet access road and after struggling to unload our gear off Bob’s roof in a gale force wind, we popped the roof and went to bed.

I awoke at 3pm in the morning when Leroy let out a massive bark.  Looking out of the side mesh I could immediately see that our bikes had gone.  Waking Ian, we got up to find that our large bag full of camping gear along with a small backpack full of Ian’s clothes and an ipad had also gone and the thieves had not only been through the glove box but, would you believe, the fridge - all whilst we were sleeping in the car!!

Packing up what was left of our belongings, we drove up and down the access road to the lake and did manage to find 4 pairs of Ian’s socks which obviously weren’t the right size for their new owners (Ian has rather large feet!!), but other than that there was no sign of our stuff.  You can surely imagine our relief to find our passports and credit cards hadn’t been taken, just some Euros missing from Ian’s wallet and whilst Leroy hadn’t made his presence known as they were taking our chocolate out of the fridge he had definitely disrupted proceedings before the thieves had chance to help themselves to the rest of our electrical devices and possibly even more of our gear.    

police convoy back to crime scene

Whilst we were driving around looking for more socks, we came upon the police at one of their ubiquitous checkpoints and notified them as to what had happened.  We expected to file a report and then leave but the police were keen that we followed them to the station and then hung around whilst they took exhaustive notes, copies of documents, dusted Bob down for fingerprints and then asked us to return to the scene of the crime accompanied by four squad cars supposedly looking for evidence.  15 hours later we were still in the area, now parked at a local gas station where the police had asked us to wait, albeit with an open tab for any food or drink that we cared to order.  Over the course of the day the police had managed to find camera footage of a vehicle that had parked just downwind of our camping site and also lifted a couple of fingerprints off Bob that belonged to the culprits.  Unfortunately, the camera footage was too blurry to show much and I’m guessing that the trail had gone cold by the time the police finally allowed us to leave the following day.  What a crazy start to a new country.

There is no doubt that we have had it too good for too long and our attitude towards security has been lacking to say the least.  This was a huge wake-up call for both of us and we were lucky that none of our stuff that was taken really impacted on us too much.  Although useful to have, we hadn’t used the camping gear since hiking in the UK and despite there being nothing wrong with it most of the gear was at least 10 years old.  Having the bikes taken was an inconvenience and it was a bit galling to purchase a couple of cheap bikes that will probably fall apart before we leave Morocco.  The worst aspect of the experience was the feeling of having our personal space invaded and the sheer injustice of someone helping themselves to our things, particularly when it is difficult to imagine what they could possibly be wanting with Ozzie standard charging plugs, yoga props and a bikini.

After an experience such as this, there is a bit of mind stuff that goes on and a choice to be made as to how long do you dwell on what has happened, what lessons are there to be learnt and how do you rationalise it so that you are able to move forward without it impacting on future experiences.  Obviously, we do need to be more security conscious and it is perhaps a little unfortunate that the nights have been so cold that Leroy has been sleeping inside the car and not outside on guard – a topic that is currently under review.  However, prior to embarking on this adventure of a lifetime, a driving factor was the desire for adventure and to be as present as possible within said adventure.  There is nothing more guaranteed to focus the mind than an incident such as this.  Accepting that we won’t always get to choose what comes our way is a large aspect of our new lifestyle and after some disgruntled moaning we continued on our way determined not to dwell on our misfortune but to focus on the upside – Bob is now running significantly lighter which will hopefully result in a few more km to the gallon!

rif mountains

Our plan had always been to explore parts of northern Morocco, particularly the small blue city of Chefchaouen nestled at the base of the Rif mountains and once the police were happy for us to leave we drove east parallel to the Mediterranean coast before heading inland.  Like many places, I suspect that Chefchaouen would have been a delight to visit about 20 years ago, before the coach loads of tourists from Tangier were dropped into the main square prior to heading into the Medina for those all-important instagrammable shots.  But, the charming medina with its steep, narrow alleys and the brilliant shades of blue displayed on the houses, doors, stairs and passages justify the nickname of the Blue Pearl of Morocco.  There are different theories as to why the city is blue, the one most touted by the local guides is the strong belief of the early settling Jews in the area that the colour blue represents the sky, which in turn reminds people of Heaven and God.  There are not many Jews left in Morocco nowadays but the residents of Chefchaouen seem more than happy to keep their city blue as they pocket €1 for each picture taken.

The charm of the city is not the only allure for visitors to this region though.  The Rif area is home to probably the largest growing area of cannabis in the world and is estimated to be the source of nearly half of all global hashish production.  Traditionally populated by notoriously tough and resistant Berber tribes and one of the poorest areas in the country, illegal drug trafficking has provided an essential economic base for the people that live in the area.  Despite an entrenched tolerance by the Arab-led central government, cannabis cultivation is not legal in Morocco although recent laws have been passed regulating the plant’s production for medical, cosmetic and industrial purposes.  But, given the high capital costs required to produce pharmaceutical grade product and the lack of trust between farmers in this historically marginalised region and the government, one can’t imagine that change will come quickly.  In the meantime, aside from huge illegal exports there is a constant influx of travellers looking for what is supposed to be the best hashish in the world. 

Leaving Bob under the watchful eye of three parking attendants, it took less than a minute for us to be approached by a local seller.  Under the guise of acting as an unofficial tour guide, it was clear that his objective was to sell as much product as possible.  We were happy enough to follow him around Chefchaouen for an hour or so as he filled us in on some of the history but despite his best efforts to sell to every single ‘foreigner’ we came across, there were no sales to be made, perhaps an indication of  enormous supply in relation to local demand, a theory backed up as we parted company and he handed me a small cube of Morocco’s finest ‘on the house’.

mr lakraa, talassemtane np

bab taza

Wanting to explore the Rif region a bit more, we left Chefchaouen and went first to Akchour, the starting point for the Grand Cascades waterfall hike and then into Talassemtane National Park.    Once away from Chefchaouen the tourists disappeared and as we drove further into the mountains the lack of people and infrastructure was in huge contrast to what we had seen since arriving in Morocco.  We followed narrow, winding, mountain roads through a rugged and untamed landscape of gorges and cedar forests, the only sign of life seen when passing through the occasional Berber village.  Ecotourism to the area is a relatively new income stream and whilst we didn’t have any issues finding an auberge just outside Akchour where we could park and camp for the night, the region did feel remote and just a little ‘off’.  Our uneasiness increased as we entered the National Park, particularly when the bitumen finished and we found ourselves on Route de Tisemlale, a washed-out gravel and rock track climbing high up towards Mount Lakraa.  Considering the appalling state of the road and the fact that we hadn’t seen too many vehicles (the people we had seen were mostly on the back of donkeys), we were more than a little surprised when a number of white Land Rovers started to appear.  They were all heading in the opposite direction which necessitated a bit of manoeuvring for us to squeeze past and although they hesitantly returned our waves it was obvious that they were not familiar with the rules of the universal Land Rover club which demands an ecstatic reaction from all parties should you be fortunate enough to cross paths.  All in all, it was odd - not the choice of vehicle as there was no doubt that the road demanded a 4x4 – but rather that these were the first road-worthy vehicles that we had seen in some time and they were all white Landy’s.  By the time we reached our trailhead, we were way up into the mountains, deep into the forest and back in the snow.  We found an old abandoned building where we left Bob before heading up towards the top of Mount Lakraa.  It could have been as a result of our recent run-in with the twokers or the appearance of all the Landy’s, which we had now decided belonged to the local cartel, but an hour into our hike we just felt too unsettled to continue and so turned back, collected Bob and low diff-locked it down to Bab Taza, which would have to be a strong contender for one of the most congested towns in the world.

meknes countryside

Not before time, we eventually managed to extract ourselves from Bab Taza and continued south taking an inland route along the M13.  Our journey was relatively quiet until we reached the outskirts of Meknes, a former capital of Morocco thereby making it one of four Imperial cities along with Fez, Marrakesh and Rabat.  Meknes is quite a laid-back city despite its bustling commercial centre for the surrounding agricultural plateau region.  Close to the Middle Atlas Mountains, it would have been easy to mistake the surrounding green countryside for England with its vast plantings of vegetable crops and fruit trees and as we drove up to Ifrane, which boasts two of Morocco’s ski resorts, the scenery continued to surprise.  Ifran National Park is home to the largest cedar forest in the world, mountain lakes, volcanic plateaus and is one of only a few places where you might see the endangered Barbary macaques.  These apes are the only surviving primate in Africa north of the Sahara desert and their numbers are limited in isolated areas in Algeria and Morocco.  Logic would suggest that the chance of seeing an endangered species in their natural habitat might prove to be a wild goose chase, but not so with the macaques.  Bob had been parked for less than a minute before a curious couple climbed aboard and we watched in dismay as half a dozen others started to make their way over.  Recalling childhood trips to Knowsley Safari Park when the monkeys would compete to acquire an aerial or windscreen wiper we were relieved to note that these guys were much better mannered and just wanted to sit up top.  They were so chilled that you could walk right up to them and there were even a few wandering around with some of the local dogs.  Forest degradation and illegal trading have been the main causes for the decreasing populations of the macaques but the Born to be Wild project initiated in 2017 has not only stopped the decline in numbers within Ifran but recent surveys have shown an increase in population size.  The project is currently looking for volunteers for a period of at least 2 months, for more info https://en.aap.eu/born-to-be-wild/

enjoying the view

Within just a few days Morocco had revealed itself to us as a most diverse country with unique landscapes, a variety of climates and a rich cultural identity.  The divide between the wealthy and the poor is strikingly apparent, never more so than when driving through what could easily be described as post-apocalyptic shanty towns only to turn a corner and be faced with a luxury mall surrounded by brand new Merc’s and Range Rovers all patrolled by uniformed security guards.  We have seen a strong police presence, mostly at the entrance and exit of towns, where cars are constantly being stopped and drivers asked to produce documents.  On average we have been through at least a dozen of these check-points a day but so far we have been waved through with friendly acknowledgement.  

Our misfortune on arrival has been quickly erased by the hospitality and friendliness that has been extended to us as we continue to explore this fascinating country.