Morocco

March 7, 2007 - Posted by Duarte

On our way…
Lipe and I were finally living our long dream to voyage to Africa. My brother Lipe has been in Morocco three times and has also visited Tunisia. I have traveled a bit myself, but never to Africa. Somehow we arranged to use of our father’s Land Rover, obtained the approval of our wary wives, did a bit of googling to learn more about kayaking and paragliding in northern Africa and took off on our big adventure.
The trip began at 4am on a Saturday morning. Only 15 minutes into the trip, we were crossing a Spanish mountain pass with snow, strong cross-winds and crazy truck drivers. With sunrise came our first challenge. We decided to pull off the road when we were a little south of Salamanca to stretch our legs and to get a breath of fresh air. We veered off the main road into a vineyard and didn’t realize that the dirt road was covered with “monheca” (a term my brother and I like to use) – red mud that is super slippery as it consists of red clay fully saturated with water and is therefore not so good for driving. It took us 20 minutes to backtrack 50 yards in the dirt road and I had to help Lipe by standing in the mud and pushing and pulling the rear of the suv to keep it from sliding into the ditch.
Driving through Spain’s expansive southern rural landscapes was a real treat, but the most impressive sight that marked the first morning of our voyage, was the sight of the Riff mountain range across the straight. It seemed impossible but we could actually see Africa from the Spanish coast. Europe and Africa… two continents so close, yet so far from each other socially, culturally, politically and economically. On the European side, there were glamorous couples in sports cars parked on the overlooks gazing upon the romantic views of the ocean and at the contour of their exotic neighboring continent. On the southern side of the strait, as we were soon to find out, there were hordes of desperate refugees from impoverished and warring African countries trying to cross to Europe at any cost, and legions of Mafiosi and government officials willing to bend the rules to make a buck – all this in addition to millions of good honest people too, of course.
We had no problem crossing the strait in the ferry and only minimal bribing was needed to pass through customs in Tangier. We stopped in Tangier just long enough to withdraw Dirhams (Moroccan currency), to get a cup of mint tea and a buy a few necessities. One hour later we were on the interstate trying to get as far away from the dangerous and uninteresting northern cities as possible. We spent our first night in a non-descript hotel beside a gas station near the interstate. We paid 20 Euros for the room and 5 Euros for a plate of french-fries and a cup of mint tea – included in the price were two baseball bat totting thugs who patrolled the parking lot to protect our flashy suv (with the two kayaks, a paraglider and a bunch of gear locked inside it).

Back in our hotel room, I fell asleep happy. I was finally in Africa, the suv was being well cared for, the border crossing was not too difficult, and best of all, Lipe and I seemed to be as good of a team as I always thought we would be.
After a good night of rest and a hot shower, we said goodbye to the more developed coast and headed East through the fertile plains between the Riff mountains and the Middle Atlas range. The population there was dense and very poor. There was a lot of agriculture but there was a noticeable absence of farm machinery. As we drove by these primitive landscapes I thought…”there is no lodging and there are no isolated areas for safe camping… I wonder where we’ll sleep tonight”. As we approached the mountains, the ground became more arid and the landscape seemed to be similar to that of California – pine forests, dry, and sunny. We stopped a couple of times to soak in the views and sounds but we quickly become self conscious of the curious looks of the villagers that were appearing all around us. Everywhere we went there were farmers, shepherds, children, and people just walking. We couldn’t figure out where they were going or for what purpose. The landscape was certainly novel and interesting, but we were still not ready to set foot outside our 4x4 metal encased, safety bubble.
That afternoon we reached our planned destination for the night – Kenifra. We had heard that this town was the hub for folks running the Er-Rbia river so we anticipated seeing a couple of hostels with European vans loaded with kayaks. When we arrived, however, what we saw was a chaotic sprawl of red buildings, dilapidated parks, trash, thousands of people walking and bicycling in the streets, and lots of vendors selling random items. I thought: “Oh my god… what have we done. This place is absolutely foreign. Everyone looks menacing, dangerous, savage and ready to do us harm. Quick, lock the doors, and never stop.” I looked at Lipe for reassurance but it was clear that despite his experience in Morocco, he was also way out of his comfort zone. “What should we do?” … It was at this point that we practiced our most advanced technique for survival in inhospitable foreign places: we parked the truck, sat in a sidewalk café and asked for a mint tea. Yes… sounds funny but this was probably the most useful technique we used in this trip. Soon, we began to see the real people behind the dark skinned faces. There were confident old ladies, daring young guys, experienced old men, and nurturing mothers – just like everywhere else in the world. The normalcy of our behavior also made us less interesting to those around us. We were no longer the newly arrived entertainment. So… we soaked in this special feeling of fitting in such an exotic space, savored our tea and studied the map.
After some thinking we decided to drive to a nearby mountain to look for camping near the river I hoped to run in my kayak the following day. After about 1 hour of driving on a rough mountain road we came upon a village named Sours Oum Er-Rbia (the springs of the Er-bia river). The first house had a sign saying “Auberge” (Hostel) – we were set. Once again we used our technique and parked next to the village café, asked for a mint tea and spent two hours watching Spanish football with 20 other men. We cheered both teams loudly and enthusiastically because we didn’t care who won – we just felt that yelling out loud for a Spanish team with a bunch of rugged Berber mountain men in Africa was one of the most unexpected, outrageous, fun, fulfilling thing anyone could ever ever ever hope for.
During the game we met a friendly man and his son who invited us to stay at his home and even offered to make us dinner – we accepted. We parked the suv next to the road and asked whether it was safe to leave the kayaks on top. They seemed offended. They said: “Berber people are nice and honest. It’s Arabs you should not trust.” A comment reflecting severe ethnic conflicts in this country as we learned in this trip. Anyway… we left the suv a little bit unsure of its fate and walked to his house through the village’s dark quiet alleys.
The man woke up his wife and lit the wood stove in the family living/bed room. He put in a DVD with Berber music and left us while he went to the kitchen. I remember hearing Lipe’s story of staying in a Berber home during his first visit to Morocco when doing his approach to the summit of Tubkal. Since then I had often fantasized with such an experience, and now… here we were. The six year-old boy was excited to have a warm fire and to my amazement, he stuck his feet inside the wood stove. The 1.5 year old daughter woke up with our noise and complained a little bit. As a father myself I noticed that she was wearing wool pajamas, a bulging diaper and her feet were bare (Jenna would never fall asleep like that).
Our generous host brought in a lamb stew called Tajin. And we drank hot, sweet mint tea. We shared the tea with the family, the bread with the kids, and ate most of the Tajin with no utensils. ! Like in most social situations in this trip we didn’t really know how to behave there. The kid wanted some of the stew but the father wouldn’t let him eat. The little daughter was even more obvious in her protests but the father kept encouraging us to keep eating. So we did. What else could we do? What would you do? We did burp at the end of the meal and moaned with pleasure because we both had learned that these behaviors indicated that we had really enjoyed the meal – the man seemed content with our noises and let us go to bed.
After breakfast we pondered how much to give our host and after realizing that all we had were 100 Dirhams, we decided to give him just that. He was happy and thankful and spent the following hour or so helping us scout the river. The most interesting portion of the river begun a mere 100 yards from its spring. It was a class IV rapid of about 400 meters, narrow and continuous. Then there was a parking lot, a bridge and another section with about 7 km relatively visible from the road. So, at about 11am I put on my gear under the close supervision of about 30 men and kids and hiked up to the spring. Lipe took photos, said farewell to our friends and ran shuttle for me. The first rapids were a bit unnerving because they were very different from anything I had paddled before, because I had an audience, and because I was boating in Africa! After half of a km, though, the kinks were gone and I was moving fast through class IV/III rapids. Interestingly, about 1/3 of the water coming from springs and salty streams, so the river attracted animals that enjoyed grazing in the weeds in the shallow sections. At times, these grazing animals actually caused me some alarm during my trip down the river. The wild horses in the middle of the current became quite nervous and aggressive when they saw me approaching. ACA does not teach paddlers how to dodge wild horses but I managed figuring I would roll upside down and wait it out if I was truly in danger. The river was a wonderful. I walked a couple Class V or VI rapids and arrived to the take out elated.
I have carried a kayak on my back more times that I can remember which is typical for accessing or exiting a river. This is often when my mind slows down and I reflect upon the river experience. In the river, there’s no time to think or reflect… I just have to act. On this day however, I had a different experience. During my hike out, it was obvious that the trail was not made for kayakers. It was used by donkeys, herds of sheep and goats, shepherds and farmers. Trails in the US are designed to minimize erosion and optimize the recreation experience. Carrying my boat up this steep trail and passing farmers who were etching a living out of these barren slopes I felt conflicted. Was I insulting their hardships? Should I have thrown away my toy and carried a load of wood fuel to the road instead? Why did I feel entitled to play amongst these hard working people? So I ran a river in Africa… so what? Does this make me a more enlightened individual? Someone better equipped to contribute to a better tomorrow?

After loading the boat, drinking water and changing clothes we headed down the mountain towards Ilmchil, the gateway to the highest and most challenging pass of the High Atlas mountains. But… that’s another story..

Ate breve, Duarte