Quazazate to Zagora to Kelâa M'Gouna - The Valley of 1000 Kasbahs
This is a great guest house we are staying in. We were up late last night, just relaxing and enjoying the balmy evening, this morning it is breezy, almost cool. The call to prayer was at 4:15, and since then the rooster has been crowing and the mule braying. Gail sleeps through it all, but for me they are sounds I love. Except the call to prayer. I hope once, just once, we get a “singer” instead of a “grunter.”
It was nice, when the first staff guy showed up at 5:00 he made me a cup of good, strong coffee, even though breakfast isn’t until 8:00. We are very relaxed in this Riad, which is actually one-third of a small Kasbah, rebuilt. We were talking last night, and I think it is because it is not “typical” Moroccan, but it is more modern; restrain, simple and open. Very refined, restful on the eyes. They have a pretty cool collection of art in the downstairs lobby area, and only the second TV of the trip. We saw a little soccer last night, then it was turned off and covered up. I get it now, in my two experiences with Moroccan TV: there is soccer, and there is cover-it-up.
Once again last night, for the fifth night in a row, Gail and I were the only people eating dinner. It is true that the Moroccan people don’t go out to eat, just to drink tea. More than that, it is eerie… where are the other travelers?
And our guesthouse? There is one other couple here, so for four nights we have been the only ones, and last night almost so.
We realized another thing about this trip, and it became evident as we talked about My Friend, and the bribe. We have subtly taken to “hiding out” as much as possible to cope with the constant pressure to give, buy, give, buy. We look for little hideaway places to have a quiet drink and read in the heat of the day. We mostly quit walking the souks and hot “tourist” zones. We have been eating, maybe unintentionally, in more “sheltered” places instead of out in the front table of a sidewalk café.
Today we are taking a drive down the Valley of the Drâa, then back up and over through the Valley of Dades, called the Valley of 1000 Kasbahs. Not that we’ll see 1000 of them, but there are hundreds tucked into these valleys. We are staying the night in Kelaâ M’Gouna, where the Valley of the Roses meets the Dades.
I brought one pair of shoes only on this trip, a pair of Chaco sandals. So far it is working, and I spend a lot of time barefoot, which is nice. At first they kind of rubbed in a couple places, but it is just so hot there is really no need to wear shoes, and the Chacos can handle hiking and water. It’s been a good move so far.
Today’s police checkpoint score:
Me: 4 Them: 0
New trick today: coming up to an intersection, clearly marked. Speed limit is 60KMH. I go around the blind corner and there, next to the road is a plastic temporary sign “20 KMH” and then 10 yards on STOP.
Oooohhh, good one.
Good thing I have great reaction speed.
I skidded to a stop. The policeman looked at me sideways, grinned and waved me on. The next guy along didn’t make it. It is a curve from both directions, so they had a great time I’m sure, especially with the locals since there is no stop sign there normally.
Boy, is this just corrupt or what?
The next three: Stop signs sideways. Teeny Tiny stop sign. No stop signs; The guy is waving me through, but I stopped early and waited until they frantically waved me through, looking at me wondering why I had stopped.
I’m sure.
I wanted to yell out the window: RESPECT THE HALT!
We intended to set out by 9:00 at the latest because of the heat, but somehow in the confusion we left at 10:00. I don’t get it. I swear the computer said it was 9. Whatever, it is hot when we set out.
Later that night we found out that they had a time change, like daylight savings, last night.
Who knew?
We start running north-east to Quarzazate (Wah za zate) which is the main city around here. They housed the film crews from Hollywood, and even built a film studio and movie support system for the many movies filmed around here.
I think Quarzazate is almost the perfect name: it has a Q and two Zs in it. Add an X and you have a real winner.
At Quarzazate we hang a right and head out the Drâa Valley. It is about 150KM to Zagora, the end of the road for us, and for centuries the last oasis town for the camel caravans across the Sahara. Nothing but sand until you get to Timbuktu, in Mali. We are heading to Zagora.
We speed through town after town of mud houses, mud fortresses, mud everything. Walls of brown blur by us on the one side, and a solid wall of green on the other. There is an irrigated belt of palm trees, running the entire distance. In places it is only two trees wide, enough to offer thin shade in this parched brown land. Other places there is actual water, and the palms turn into a real oasis, just like you would imagine in a movie. We pass kasbah after kasbah, most just ruins but some in pretty good shape. As we head further into the valley, the rock turns to blowing sand, the temperature rises to 50°C (that is 122°F) and the houses and conditions are more harsh. We go up, up and over a pass, twisting back and forth on the narrow road, then plunge down down through the bare, black and brown rock canyon.
It is so interesting seeing the kasbahs, but overwhelming. After a while I quit trying to photograph, and just drive. We have to actually get there at some point in time.
Some quick impressions:
The people are darker skinned here, and wear less of the full robes and more skirt like clothes.
There is a river that flows most of the way through the valley. All along it, people are swimming.
On the river side of the road there is a belt of green. Sometimes it is wide, sometimes narrow. On the other side of the car it is stark barren brown.
The palms seem to be date palms, but the dates are not ripe.
Lots of bamboo like reeds gathered and dry in bundles. Fences, shade mats, baskets, hats; lots of things are made from the “bamboo.”
It is Sunday, and it is Ramadan. Not many people outside, as they can’t drink until sundown.
We drive on and on, listening to the car radio. There is some American rock and roll, some European stuff, some African music all mixed in. But there is a lot of talk. I wonder if it is like the wack-job right wing talk radio in the US? Maybe here the Islamic fundamentalists are discussing the “War on Ramadan.” Keep the Rama in Ramadan. Dan is the reason for the season. Impeach Mohammed VI because he has no birth certificate!
And so we drive and listen, the miles roll away.
We tag up at Zagora, get a refill on water, look across the closest sand towards Mali, then head back. The wind is howling now, and sand blows across the road almost constantly. Back at Quarzazate we hang a right and head up the Dades Valley.
This valley is not very exciting, so we make great time heading to Kelâat M’Gouna. This town is located at the mouth of the Valley of the Roses, an area where they grow roses to make rose water, rose oils, and so on. The rose valley area is lush and green, and mud homes and kasbahs dot the hillsides and run alongside the road. We wind up the valley until we come around a hairpin curve that puts us high on a cliff, and here we are at our stop for the night, a restored fortress, the Kasbah Itran.
This is an old, old place that has been restored, and it is like a little maze of terraces and seating areas and little rooms tucked here and there. For €54 (about $65 USD) we have a huge, three room room with terrace overlooking the valley, and we get breakfast and dinner. The room is romantic, old, dark but for the windows which let in a lot of light; with an old, low beamed ceiling and rugs spread everywhere on the floor. In fact, there are rugs all over the patio, so it is nice to walk barefoot.
I think the obvious question would be, “So, how is the food?”
Well, we started with some chicken noodle soup, sort of. It was good. Then a mixed salad of dice tomatoes, peppers, onions, eggplant, potato, carrots and something like rice. That was rest. For the main course we had tagine.
Now, I am already tired of tagine, so when they brought it in I was thinking like, “Oh crap.”
But this tagine was different. No citrus, and it had potato slices. But the real difference was that in the center was a hollowed out tomato, stuffed with a meat and spice mix. Then there was a hollowed out eggplant, and an eggplant, and two hollowed out cactus fruits, all of them stuffed with the spiced beef mix.
It. Was. Deee. Licious.
And beautiful to see.
We are sitting up on our terrace after dinner, overlooking the main courtyard. Our host is a nice guy, and when the call to prayer sounds, he unrolls a blanket onto the floor of the courtyard, and aims it towards Mecca. Then he sings this song, very nice, simple, about a minute per chorus, and bows three times. He goes through this routine five times. It is very sincere, and touching, though I do not know a single word he is saying.
While he is doing this, life goes on around him, like nothing is going on.
So, we are out on the terrace, drinking wine as we look for shooting stars. The frogs croak way below us in the river bottom, and the storks over on the next, ruined kasbah are clattering their beaks. The breeze blows cool on this hot night in the desert.