The Beat Of A Different Drum

Written in Tanger, Morocco, am 21.06.2010

200km through Morocco: from Mhamid on the edge of the Sahara to Tanger

Time is an invention of mankind, life is an invention of the universe. Sergio Bambaren

The boat is still shaking heavily, as I wake up after some hours of uneasy sleep on the small bench. It is dawning and I curiously take the ladder to get on deck. Captain Brice is on the steer wheel heading for the sunrise. My dazzled eyes search for the first signs of land. Appearances are deceiving, but then the coast line becomes more and more distinct. “Africa”, I shout smilingly into the wind, while my body pumps adrenalin into my blood. In front of us lies the Morrocan coast, our destination is Tarfaya. Here on the edge of the Western Sahara desert was the small air field, where the famous writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was once stationed for 18 months. Back then there existed hardly more than a tool shed, where he mostly spent his time waiting for the next postal airplane. At this lonesome spot he met with the silence of the desert, which inspired him to write many of his books.

Up to now Tarfaya with its 4000 inhabitants has conserved its desert charm. We anchor in the calm port, where we are the only sailing boat among an armada of wooden fishing boats. It is peaceful this morning, just some fishermen can be seen cleaning their nets at the pier. Soon an officer appears who unmistakably communicates with a whistle that it is time to go ashore to get the immigration done. Brice and I paddle over to the harbour wall with the dingy and climb up the old rusty steel ladder. That’s it, my first contact with Africa! The young officer welcomes us with a loud friendly “Salam Alaykoum” and a firm handshake. In his container office we wait obediently for the unhasty arriving of the authorities: Police, Royal Gendarmerie, Port Authority and Medical Inspection. I realize immediately: life beats to a different drum here. Two hours later we have all procedures done, the stamp is in my passport. I am allowed to enter.

Ready for Africa
I feel quite uneasy as I go ashore for my first exploration tour. I am a bit frightened about the unknown: a new land, a new culture, a new continent. What is going to happen here? But I know, there is only one way to find out: to get deeply involved with the new challenges.

Hot wind carries the sand from the desert into the village, some smaller streets get slowly buried by the massive dunes. The main road is the only asphalted street, where the village life takes place. I let the astonishing impressions pour on me: men in white and blue robes, who sit in the shade of the cafes and drink tea, veiled woman, who take the goods from the market home, children, who play football on dusty side streets, and roaming dogs and cats digging in the garbage, which has been deposited almost everywhere on the street. One thing becomes clear immediately: there are a lot of new things to be discovered here. The explorer spirit replaces the uneasiness quickly. I am ready now. Ready for Africa!

It is too difficult to walk alone through the Western Sahara, that is why I take the bus to M’hamid on the Algerian boarder. M’hamid is on the traditional 52 days route for camel caravans to cross the desert southbound to Timbuktu. But I will head for the north. On the last road from Zagora to M’hamid I get to know Moroccan public transport: shared taxis. Those are either “Grand taxis”, big old Mercedes limousines for six passengers plus driver (four on the back seat, two on the front seat), or “Minibuses” for 14 people.

Patient desert people
Life is busy at the taxi stand right next to the market of Zagora this afternoon. It is Sunday, and Sunday is market day. Many Grand taxis and Minibuses stand around picking up people and goods. “M'hamid, M'hamid?”, somebody shouts, and a minute later we strap my backpack on the roof of a Minibus. We negotiate the fare, then we have to wait, because we are not full yet. Patiently, the other passengers sit in the bus or in the shade, it takes more than an hour until we get ready. The driver precariously pours two bottles of water over the motor block, before we get fuel with the collected money. On the way out of the city we stop an oncoming Minibus, because we are still missing the most important thing: the MP3 player, which we borrow for the trip. Smiling I sit in the second row and let the musical thunderstorm unfold on me. Maybe I just need to get used to the local “rock” sound…

The desert landscape on the next 90 kilometres looks empty and abandoned, but everywhere people get in and out. Our driver is either a good natured or a good businessman, because we pick up almost half of the desert on the road. Just before M’hamid I count 30 people in the 14-seater, but there is no grumbling or complaining, it is just Moroccan everyday life. Hardly anybody can afford a private car in Morocco, on my hike I rarely see cars with only one person inside. Traffic jams are unknown here. Thus, a very efficient way of public transport. All you need is time and patience. There is plenty of both here.

First day, first tea
Nevertheless, if it comes to transport, my Waldviertler hiking boots continue to be my choice. The next day I start my hike into the north. Even if it is early April, the temperatures climb up into sauna regions. In addition, a medium sand storm comes out to come along with me the first hours. But still, I deeply enjoy the incredible feeling of setting off to discover this fascinating country. At the sand dunes of Erg Lihoudi I set up my tent for the first night. In close vicinity there is a camp of Berber tents for tourist groups. It looks abandoned, but suddenly somebody shows up with two dromedaries and comes over. I am afraid of having trouble, but to the contrary, I am welcomed heartily and invited for tea. The young Ali originates from a family of Tuareg nomads, recognizable on the blue colour of his “chellaba”, the typical ankle-length robe. We cower in the tent made of carpets and woollen blankets and drink sugary mint tea, the national drink of Morocco. I am glad about the first invitation for tea, on the very first hiking day. Top!

Overwhelming hospitality
Many, many invitations follow the next weeks on the way through the south of the country: I walk over dry velds to Tazzarine, then over the mountains of “Djebel Sahro” up to Tinerhir and from there through the Todrha and the Dades gorge. The heartiness and hospitality impresses me deeply. Everywhere I am welcomed with friendliness, often I get invited into the house. There is always tea, also often bread and olives, sometimes a whole menu with couscous and salad. Sometimes I am really touched, because it is the people of the poorest villages who give most.
In regions more frequented by tourists it can happen, that an invitation is extended with the object of establishing a deal. For example, in Amesker, a small village on the southern slope of the High Atlas, once a man invites me for tea and then pushes me to rent one of his mules. But he also takes it quite easy at the end, as I refuse his offer. In time, I develop a good sense for such “traps”.

Walking through the past
In the mountains of the High and the Middle Atlas I feel like jumping into another time. In many valleys there are only dirt roads, a lot of villages can be reached only on mule trails. The people work with their bare hands on the field, no tractors to be seen anywhere. Wooden plows and mules are used for plowing, sickles for harvesting. Countless sheep and goat flocks graze on the slopes, always accompanied by shepherds. Often children take care about the flocks, many never learn to read or write. Medical supply is practically inexistent, sometimes I get asked for medicaments.

Life is easy but hard for those people to make ends meet. An economic crisis seems to be far away, the more important issue is if there is enough rain this year. Although, many a families depend on the money transfers from Europe. If the emigrated son loses his – often illegal – job there because of the crisis, then good luck.

Real adventurers
One of those emigrants I meet in Khénifra. Mohammed was 21, when he took the smuggling boat to Spain. 2000 Euros, almost a year’s income, needed to be paid by his family to the “facilitator”. At the first attempt they were caught at the beach of Almeria, the second time they made it. Four years he scratched along in Spain, working in Valencia on orange farms and in construction, without insurance and a passport. Four long years he did not see his family, while he unsuccessfully tried to get a residence permit. People he didn’t want to tell me about pinched another 6000 Euros from him promising to get papers. Last year Mohammed returned disillusioned. “Back to Europe? Neither with nor without papers!”, he laughs now. He has kept his good sense of humour, even if he needs to work 15 hours a day now in Khénifra to make ends meet. „Here at least, I am my own boss and I can live for free with my family.“

By the way, it is estimated, that around 10% of the economic performance in the EU is based on illegal work by immigrants. And what is the thanks? A hypocritical criminalisation of the “illegals” from official quarters, a general public hostility as well as walls and cannon boats at the Mediterranean. So, anybody who will buy oranges from Valencia on special offer the next time, now knows who is picking them.

Arabian middle age flair in Fes
There are no orange trees in the Middle Atlas, but many little lakes and magnificent cedar woods, which provide a special vibe to the mountainous landscape. The hike is challenging, but then I arrive to the old royal town of Fes. The “Medina”, the huge old town, is said to have 10,000 streets, most of them just as wide to allow pedestrians to huddle through. Ancient oriental architecture and colourful bazaars invite me again to travel through former times. What I really like are the huge gates, which lead through the city wall into the Medina. In 300 years nothing has changed: pedestrians, horsemen or waggoners with hand or donkey trolleys squeeze themselves through the gates busily, only some mopeds have lately come into the mix.

To my delight Isabelle has arrived, a Swiss girl, who is cycling around the world. We have met on the Canary Islands. Together we hang around in the “suks”, the fantastic markets, for two days. Here you can just get everything: from a live cock to a flat screen TV. It is an experience for all senses: it smells of spices, of fish, of the delicious Moroccan omelettes “Mhsshmhn” or of urine. Here you find all kinds of handcraft: from carpenters to ceramicists, from basket makers to potters, from shoemakers to smiths. How poor and fanciless our sterile shopping centres in Europe are! Here, I can get my trousers patched, my Swiss knife sharpened and my spice battery refilled – everything around the corner. Besides that, I find here the best olives in the world – not that kid’s stuff you can get in supermarkets, but real homemade olives, just as harsh and spicy as the charm of an Ukrainian female weightlifter.

The value of people
On the way to Tanger it gets hot again, because at the beginning of June, the summer heat also arrives to the north of the country. In the “Rif” mountains, I inhale again the serene Moroccan country life, as well as the flavour of the cannabis fields where the industrial mass production for Europe is located. After more than 1200 kilometres I arrive safely to the beach of Tanger, a touching moment. Once again I feel an indescribable feeling of joy and thankfulness. I still can not believe that I made it.

“One who does not travel, does not know the value of the people”, wrote Ibn Battuta, the famous traveller of the Arabian Middle Age. He was born here in Tanger. What began in the year 1325 with a pilgrimage to Mekka, became a 29 year and 120,000 kilometres long world trip, which led the noble academic even to India and China. With ships, carriages and camels he travelled through more than 50 countries of today’s world. He got attacked and robbed, shipwrecked in the Indian Ocean, lost all of his possessions, married and divorced six times and became ambassador in Delhi. What a trip! And I am not even patient enough for two weeks to find a boat into the west. Ha ha ha!

No doubt, Morocco has left the deepest footprint in my soul so far on my hike. I have learnt about poverty, about the dignity of people, about other ways of interpersonal relationships and about the old tradition of hospitality. There is heartiness among the people, where we could learn something in Europe. The reason might be the significance of family and religion in everyday life, but the crucial point is just: people take their time for each other. There is always time for a little conversation, time to listen to the other, time for a cup of tea. I am glad, that my way has led me through this country, in order to learn about another way of living and another sense of time. An insightful experience, because one thing is certain: Morocco’s heart beats to a different drum.

Reinhold.

Some Impressions