March 4, 2012
Beni Mellal (by bus) and up the R302
sleeping with Berbers
Not wanting a repeat of the nasty diarrhea attack on the near five-hour bus journey to Beni Mellal, my breakfast is more straightforward than the first. No prune-sausage-omelet-yogurt-olive combo: just a couple of bowls of chocy cereal and a few croissants. I do, however, stuff my pockets with those dinky cartons of jam and honey that you only seem to find in hotels: emergency rations for the road ahead.
There's a Sunday feel about the Casablanca's city centre, with little sign of life as I pedal the couple of blocks to the CTM station. The bus ticket is 79Dr for me, plus another 80 for the bike and two bags (total cost around 16 euros).
Against my expectations, it's all very orderly: the ticket allocates my seat; the bus is a new Volvo; my bike and main bag are carefully loaded in the hold by a porter; once we set off - on time - the music is kept low; the TV turned off and the driver drives sensibly. It seems it could have been a journey anywhere in Europe or North America, except my 10 fellow passengers are all Moroccan.
We soon turn off the N11 and head in the direction of Khouribga, with the route turning from a multi-lane highway crossing a pancake-flat landscape to a two-lane road which undulates up and down climbs lasting a kilometer or so, across what my Michelin map says is the Plateau des Phosphates.
The shoulder on the R312 has disintegrated and there are vehicles constantly whizzing up and down. It is, as one cyclist wrote in his journal, a road to avoid cycling along. I'm glad to be on this bus.
By noon, the snowy tops of the Atlas are in view, giving me a bit of a buzz, and once the bus pulls in to Beni Mellal at 1:40, I'm ready to rock and roll.
The small road I want to take is southeast, but I can't find it and after a few people tell to ride along the N8 for a short while to Oulad-M'Bareko, that's what I do. Not, however, before having a yummy lunch of lentils, rice salad, five kebabs and a saucer of peppered tomato juice in which to dip the bread - all for just 20Dr.
More or less flat, the N8's wide shoulder makes it relatively safe. I stop along the way at a petrol station to use a pneumatic house, as my tyres feel a bit squishy. Once they're pumped up to 5 bar, pedalling seems a lot easier.
The R302 towards Ouaouizarht is very quiet. Flat a first, it gradually starts to get steeper until, at around the 5 km mark, I'm rounding S-bends. My original goal, dreamed up at home, had been to get to the town of Tilougguite on Day 1, but as it gets nearer 5:00 PM I realize that isn't going to happen, so I start to look out for a camping spot. There's little around, however, what with the steepness of the terrain.
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At one hairpin a man was stands taking in the view of the vast plain and he seems to have time on his hands. He also looks local and might have some answers. Luckily, Mohammad can speak some English and reckons it's another 12km to go to the next town - Ouaouizarht - where there's a bed and when I ask about camping - pointing down the rocky path that disappears off the bend we're standing at - he says I can ask at the village it leads to, which is hard to believe. It isn't something any vehicle could drive down: its condition was that bad.
We walk along a couple of hundred metres and it becomes clear the village he mentioned is in reality just three or four houses, which are dotted below us on the hillside. Squat and rectangular, with rock walls and flat roofs that seem to be made of mud, they are certainly off the beaten rack.
Mohammed calls out to someone and a young guy comes striding up to meet us. Mohammad explains to the 20-something guy that I want to camp - something that I could see is clearly no problem. Abdellah, who speaks some French, then takes me back down to his family home, with the bike bouncing over the rocks that forms the path.
The sun is about down as I put up my tent beside the home, the temperature descending with it.
Inside the house is that unmistakable whiff of smoke and in the darkness of the windowless room, Abdellah introduces me to his mother and father who are sat against a wall on low stools. I'm given a similar foot-high one to sit on next to the warmth of wood fire, which burns on the earthen floor. The only other light is from a dim bulb powered from a propane bottle.
A steel tripod supports a blackened kettle and soon tea is served, a sweet concoction drank from shot-sized glasses. My kindhearted hosts also give me bread and a bowl of olive oil in which to dip it, along with a couple of boiled eggs - proof of the famed Berber hospitality.
Abdellah and I later sit outside, on flat lumps of rock with our backs resting against the rustic house, looking at the starry sky. I try using my computer, but the dongle isn't picking up a signal - it turns out I'll be unable to use it for a week - and maybe that is just as well, as even though it's just 7:30 PM, I'm really ready for bed.
Today's ride: 18 km (11 miles)
Total: 18 km (11 miles)
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