Although we have turned, there is still much to be enjoyed before our trip ends. So from desert sand we head for mountain snow and the High Atlas. We take the famous twisty, twiddly N9 towards Ouarzazate. The road takes us past huge palmeries, along the way are many stalls selling dates. We stop and buy some, the succulent fruits tasting deliciously, Christmassy. Soon the road is rising and falling as it winds it's way up and down valleys and gorges. Then into view come the snow covered peaks of the Atlas.
We stop at a view point, wanting to take some photos. No sooner had we parked, than from nowhere, a man appears trying to sell dates, almonds, wicker baskets, do we have T Shirts etc etc. not this old chestnut again? Where had he sprung from? It saddens me to say that we are much harder now and merely bid him good day. As we drink coffee, we watch him. He hides behind a rock on the opposite side of the road. When a Moroccan car pulls up, he remains put but when a foreign car arrives, up he pops again! Are we right to be cynical?
Preferring not to stay in busy towns (too much hassling,) we find a campsite just outside. A gentle man greets us, we are the only campers and he is keen to show us his new accommodation block. It is indeed very tastefully done but with the severe shortage of tourists in Morocco this season, yet to be fully used.
Sat 3rd Jan
There have been many times, since being in Morocco, that we have pondered as to the cause of excessive hassling, begging and would be scamming. Is it that the people doing it are genuinely so poor? Is it simply that tourism is to blame? To westerners the cost of living is cheap here, so a few Dirham here or there makes no difference. The locals think tourists are an easy touch, whilst the tourists themselves shrug it off as just a couple quid. The problem with this is the way in which it escalates. We have seen posters in towns showing money changing hands with a cross through it; not dissimilar to the "don't feed the ponies" signs in the New Forest! What starts as a seemingly inconsequential, benevolent act becomes a nuisance. Or is the hassling just part of the Moroccan culture? Not having a degree in Moroccan Sociology, who can say? Today, though we may have got the answer without any swotting at all!
On the road to Ouarzazate we overtook a heavy, slow moving truck. He was doing about two miles an hour. Here we hold our hands up and admit that to pass this lorry, we had to cross the very faded white line. Before we had gone too much further, we are pulled over by the police. They do not speak English but make it clear that we have committed an offence, for which there is a fine of 700 dirham! Knowing that there is no point doing anything other pay up, we scrabble around to claw together the amount asked for. Because of where we have been lately, it has been sometime since we had access to an ATM. With all the notes we possess plus some coins; it was like raiding the piggy bank, we just manage to accumulate the 700. It was to find an ATM that we heading into the town!
Richard is taken across the road to the police car and hands over the money, upon which he is given 500 of it back! "No receipt, OK" says the policeman, pocketing his 200 Dirham bunce! We had neither enough money or enough virtue to insist upon a receipt and pay the correct 700 fine. So now we too have perpetuated what, without the benefit of a degree, we have concluded to be the Moroccan culture of corruption. If even the police force are out for a fast buck, then what hope??
We leave the policeman, not sure whether to be relieved that we have got away with what amounted to less than £20 or to be angered by the principle of what had just occurred. We find an ATM in Ouarzazate and replenish our resources, then do a bit of shopping. As always, it strikes us that the cost of groceries bears no relation to the cost of eating out. Perhaps it is what we buy, or where we buy it? Eating out is definitely a cheap option, though.
The road takes us through the Valley du Dades, with views of snow covered mountains one side of us and large palmeries the other, on to the Gorge du Dades. We are surrounded by giant red rocks. I had thought that it was the colour of these rocks that lends its name to the neighbouring Rose Valley but then we start to see shop upon upon shop selling products made from Rose water, so maybe not?
Tomorrow we will continue on this twisty road, through this mountainous terrain in the knowledge that we may have to turn back. If the snow is too low, this pass will be closed and we will have to retrace our steps and take the long way round.
Having heard from family that Bill's funeral arrangements have been made and that it is to take place just a week earlier than we had intended returning home, we book our final ferry sailing. We will arrive in Portsmouth the day before Bill's formal farewell. I wasn't there when those dear to me needed a hug, this time I will be.
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