Part 4: the journey to quazarate
The Michelin map said the side route was fairly easy with a little bit of 4x4 territory. It was again gorgeous and I was more than happy with the green-laning style track compared to the winding atlas mountain road. The start was pretty much just fine, and with the sun baking down I decided at around 1PM to stop and heat up some boil in the bags. It was so hot I rested under a palm tree while I aid up, then was bitten by my first mosy. I also dropped my sunglasses there.
As I rested and ate various 4x4 vehicles passed by, followed by a few cars. By the end of my eat they were all coming back, which should have set alarm bells ringing. That and the melon seller who was pointing and screaming as I shot past him.
As I continued I past through a small rambleshack village where 2 french 1200's had stopped for colas. I continued and the road/track worstened, finally turning into a road of large stones. Up on legs I thundered forward and the beast took a pounding. The track began winding around the mountains and narrowed to 1.5m max. If I hit a stone at an angle I was dead. There were no barriers just a long unpleasant drop. I continued for an hour over the path of hell. A little later I came across some French backpackers who I give water. They were suprised I'd came so far and said it got worse. We departed with them saying immortal words: good luck mon ami!
I wasn't in no-mans-land. All around were make-shift slum houses with small kids staring. Many ran after or towards the bike and I could never tell if they would stop. All of them wanted money and I just didn't have enough charity to stop all the time. I ended up waving and pressing on.
The route was so bad the map I was carrying under a cargo map departed company. At a split point I knocked at a house to ask if I was still on track - I was, and it was only another 30Km. Jesus!
As I winded around one corner with the helmet open (system 5) a huge dust storm blew straight into my face. I couldn't not close my eyes, and I couldn't remember if it was straight ahead or a corner - but I did know where was a wall to my right. So I slammed the bike into it, ripping the cylinder guard off, smashing an indicator and reconfiguring the pannier design a little. It hurt my leg but at least I hadn't gone over the bend (which it was after all
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It was no wonder the 4x4's had turned back as the route was only passable by donkey or foot. The heavy GS did me proud. It never skittled after hitting stones, it never complained or give up and this was the hardest off-roading I'd ever done. The only thing knackered was me - mentally and physically shagged. For hours I'd not known if I was going to make it. I stopped a couple mile to go and a lovely kid came over. His dad stopped by and I exhanged a few bits and bobs. I pressed on and rejoined the tizi-n-ticka route. The scenary here was amazing but where-as everything had been green here it all went rather sandy.
An hour later I was in the town of Quazarate.
Nothing can prepare you for the first sight of poverty. We see it on the news but never had I came across it in such a transparent way. On the journey I’d drove straight past kids begging me to stop. Most of these kids had adequate food but nothing else. I don’t know if I could handle real Africa. The people that live there helping others, well I respect them more now than anyone else.
In Quazarate I stopped to fill up with fuel. I began talking with a girl a little younger than me who seemed flirtatious but who refused to get her picture took. Muslim traditions I suppose, and in respect I didn’t get a sly for your viewing pleasure. There were a ton of other lads hiding around the corner, suavely trying to get into her knickers, and I left them to it, but only after I’d downed a mint-choc corneto.
The town of Quazarate was one of my favourite places. It has the massive film studios where many westerns are made, and the town has a good atmosphere at night. It’s a well designed place that is opposed in its ways to Casablanca.
Feeling the need to indulge myself in Moroccan life I was straight past the Ritz style hotel on the left and stopped at a place a little further up the road. There the owner said I could park the bike outside or check out the hotel opposite which had a lockable front. Before I’d looked back he’d shut the door on me! I went over to the more slummy looking hotel across the road and walked in. Immediately the smell of dope hit me. The receptionist quickly opened a window and his friend tried being nonchalant. I just laughed and put down my 70dir for a room, which included a shower. That’s about a fiver sterling!
With my bike under lock and key I booked into the Hotel California and went for a shower, the facility being 20 dir and in the 70dir price. The room was nothing short of horrific. Ants crawled on the floor. Sadly my 50mm (76mm DLR) lense on the Canon D350 had trouble capturing the details of the room, but hopefully you can make out the unique style of the hotel, based on an American prison, and the luxurious shower facility, a rusting pipe.
After freshing up (turned out to be either a cold or cold shower) I ventured out for a meal and then took a walk around the square. [ Note the nighttime pictures took with fast F1.8 lense which managed to get people walking in darkness. What a lense! ]