Day 3: The Upper Valley - Msemrir, Morocco
Msemrir, Morocco
16 hrs, 20.4 kms
Once the whole "Superhike" concept starts kicking in, I know that if there's every a place that deserves to be superhiked it’s the Dades Valley… and and according to Google Satellite, there’s plenty more fascinating countryside both upstream and downstream. The only challenge: finding food and lodging along the way. So I decide to go against my protocol of “finding stuff to eat on the road” and stock up on some basic foodstuff in Boumalne before catching a van up the Dades Gorge once again. As for lodging… I’ll worry about that later.
I get off in Bouskour, exactly where I got off a year ago—this time to hike away from civilization instead of towards it. The place feels even more lonely and rugged than it did last time, coming straight from big city “civilization”. And coming at the end of winter will also make this a different experience. A group of children heading to school pass by, their cheeks rosey from the cold and skin prematurely wrinkled by the harsh sun. Children as young as 9 it seems have the wrinkles you’d normally see on a 45 year old. They are cheerful and polite—a couple of boys ask to hear some songs… I agree, and decide to take a video clip with the Boskour gang—although taken upside down!
One of the older fellows says he even has a facebook account where he asks that I send the pictures… I doubt he manages to check his account very often though!
I continue up the road and soon spot a village on the other side of the stream. There’s a log crossing the river, but I feel a bit chicken to cross it—carrying my camera and all, so I opt to continue up stream to look for a proper bridge… no luck… I ask an elderly farmer who tells me I’ve either got to back track to the log, or ford it on foot… I choose the latter.
Tizguin (1217, 4 hrs, 3.0 kms) is a traditional, poor mountain village—but it does have some large, stately houses like the ones down in the plains, clearly built by folks who’ve earned their money elsewhere. You’ll never be able to build a mansion living off the tiny rocky farmplots here.
Just beyond, I spot a couple of houses perched on the top of a hill on the OTHER side of the stream… OK, remember, it’s not about the destination… it’s about what you discover along the way. I notice an older woman at the top of the hill, watching me the whole time. She comes closer as I look for a way to clamber to the top. I can’t blame folks for being wary in these parts—especially when most of the men are off in the cities working, leaving behind their wives and children. I give a “salaam aleikum” and keep walking like I know exactly where I’m going, while she looks at me quite confused, trying to figure out who I am.
Just think, if I were doing this sort of hike in many parts of rural United States, I’d have a shotgun pointed in my face—not just an inquisitive look.
The couple of houses here can’t really count as a village—but I do find something very unusual: a long wall being built around an empty space, as if for a large weekly market. This just seems way to far from anywhere to be having a weekly market on top of a steep hill!
Down the hill on the far side is a “real” village Boumardal (1218, 2 hrs, 2.0 kms) with a mosque, school and young boys playing football on the road. Before I head down there, I go ahead and take a video clip of the contrast of bone dry mountains with sandwiches of rock layers… and the vivid “green snake” of farm plots along the stream way down below.
The Camping Car Tourists
Despite the isolated feel of this region, it’s not completely undiscovered: there are quite a few camper cars speeding through, mostly with Dutch license plates… older couples enjoying the stunning, untarnished landscape the easy way. And you can notice the effect of the local culture, as children shout out “un dirham! Un dirham!” or more commonly “un steelo! Un steelo!” to me as I pass. I guess it’s the new thing to give pens to children instead of money or candy, so this is what they expect whenever they see a white face.
I’m not quite sure how to interpret this. Is tourism turning all these children into beggars, instilling in them the idea “we are poor and miserable, and we must ask for free handouts from the rich white people who pass through”? Or is this just a fun thing for kids to do—you know, like trick or treating during Halloween in the USA?
I watch the women bent over, carrying mountains of brush to be used as firewood, trudging along the road, as vehicles speed past—a brutally backbreaking task (uh… donkeys anyone? There’s gotta be an easier way to do this!) But I wonder what must being going through people’s minds as they see hundreds of rich foreigners speeding through this canyon, their land, enjoying the their magnificent landscape without having to spend a dime… other than on gas, which obviously doesn’t benefit the people in any way…
Would these people be better off if they were really isolated, and could believe that this way of life is “normal”, rather than being constantly reminded of how other people in the world live a much, much easier life than they do?...
And how do they look at me? I’m not exploring their land in camper car… but it’s obvious that I have an easy life, with money, time, and energy to spare on the “luxury” of hiking these roads for fun, rather than out of necessity.
If they do feel resentment, though, they certainly don’t show it.
After yet another little village Tiloud (1219, 2 hrs, 3.0 kms), the valley narrows into a canyon once again, where I pause in the shade by the river to strum a few songs. The trees at this altitude lose their leaves in the winter, not leaving me with a lot of shade.
The Windmill
Along the way, I come across something interesting: a windmill being used to power a small pump for irrigation. Nice to see folks finding ways to save labor and energy. But it gets me thinking… why is there only one? Why don’t people use more labor saving techniques like these? Is all this backbreaking labor I see really necessary?
It reminds me of a song I wrote called “Beginning of Industry”
Two men look at a rushing stream
But they each see two different things
One sees just water to bathe and to drink
The other sees [the beginning of industry]
The second man closely observes
The water move it can make things turn
He wonders how can it make my life easier? it is a source of energy
He hates grinding grain, he imagines a wheel
The water will turn and thus grinding a mill
He gets to work, not imagining it will be the beginning of industry
(CH) Smart, lazy people looking for ways to avoid work
Smart, lazy people will take over the world
Dreaming up clever ways to get out of manual labor this will be the beginning of industry
Finally I reach what looks like a sizeable town Tundrir (1220, 4 hrs, 3.0 kms) on top of a hill. Whew… hopefully I can get some water… maybe even a snack to eat… a taste of
civilization… But the town feels completely empty, hardly a store in sight. There’s one store, but it’s closed for siesta time. I see the road winding up, up the mountain up ahead with no signs of any more towns. I look behind me and I can see patches of snow, a reminder that, yes, I’m way up in the mountains. I’m starting to wonder if this hike is really such a good idea… I’m going to be out of water pretty soon…
I decide to follow the road up, up the mountains until suddenly… there it is… ANOTHER breathtaking canyon view!
I take a little while to soak in in… Barren mountains all around me, then the river cutting deep straight though layers and layers of rock and snaking its way gracefully off in to the horizon. To the south you can still see a sliver of green of farm patches alongside the river, to the north it becames a narrow gorge that only the river can fit through. Dark clouds are forming on the horizon, giving a dark feel to this both beautiful and brutal scenery.
Adding to the surrealness of this moment, a man in a robe approaches, his face just as rugged as the surrounding landscape. He sells little rocks shaped like snails to… I don’t know… I haven’t seen a soul pass by in quite sometime. I buy a little rock from him—imagining what a tough life he must live, waiting, waiting on this desolate spot for someone to pass through.
I continue on, as the road cuts into the side of the cliff, continuing to soak in this amazing view. When the rain starts, there’s no shelter anywhere—but I do manage to stay sort of dry by leaning against a cliff that blocked me from the wind.
Finally the gorge widens once again, patches of farmland appear… the road winds its way back down to the valley… and I feel like I’ve passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death—into a new world.
End of the Day
Evening is setting in, but I don’t feel too worried. Something will work out. And when the rain clears up, houses appear and I see people out and about, I feel like I have reentered civilization after a long journey through the wilderness. There are well stocked shops—even a bread bakery! And… just as night falls, a hotel. This is Mn’semrir (1221, 4 hrs, 9.4 kms), the seat of government for this isolated region.
The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. A good way to end a difficult but very fulfilling day. I drop off my bags, and head out to stock up on supplies before the store closes. As I buy tunafish, biscuits, yoghurt, and cheese, a middle age white woman and a young white guy with dreddlocks show up—a mother and son. Who are taking the long way while travelling from Taghazoute back to Europe.
“What do you do?” I ask
“I record music” she tells me
“Is there a studio there in Taghazoute?”
“No, I’ve got my studio in the back of my van” she responds.
I wasn’t too surprised to find a hotel and a store here in Msemrir—but a professional recording studio?!
I invite them to the hotel the café in the hotel lobby to jam together for a bit. The owner asks if we want to go upstairs to the balcony—I try to explain that we’re fine here… Then he quietly explains that the young guy wants to smoke some hash—and they’d rather the locals not see… I guess smoking hash isn’t quite as acceptable here as, say up in North Morocco.
The lady plays some very interesting old English ballads—giving them a new modern twist… I play a couple of my songs. Part of me wants to ask here if she could record a quick song for me… but I decide against it.
A couple of French tourists join us. They’re also driving across the mountains. to Kasba Tadla. “We were told that the road is snowed in up ahead—so we might not be able to a make it.”
Of course, they offer me a ride, but I explained that I have to do this on foot…
And with that, I decide to call it a day.