I feel refreshed after yesterday's short day and set off at quarter to eight without breakfast, anxious to cover the remaining forty kilometres to Quarzazate before the slight wisp of wind picks up. In said town I join N9 going in a northwest direction and so the wind if it does rise will hit me more to the rear.

I make it to Ouarzazate before ten just as I'm needing breakfast. It is an impressive city of wide clean orderly avenues; western with non-Islamic dressed women. The café I stop at is a good choice serving me nice fresh bread which I butter and spoon on marmalade, together with a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a cup of good coffee.

The thoroughfare out goes on for close on ten kilometres pass smart offices, many excursion companies and further on at the edge of the city a film studio, indicated by a big sign like a what-do-you-call them chalkboard with the hinged part on top.

The mountains loom blue to the north above the light brown undulations of the desert. I stop to take a photo at the top of a descend and spot coming on ahead of a labouring truck on the way up, a cyclist, unlike the many cyclists I've seen in Morocco, going much faster and uphill too. When the cyclist reaches the crest where I stand he is lycra clad and riding a twenty-first century racing bike. A new for Morocco. An enthuiasic cyclist.

Heart

0

Comment

0

Link

Log in to comment or reply

Heart

0

Comment

0

Link

Log in to comment or reply

In Amerzano which I reach timely at one o'clock, I'm looking for a place to eat where the food will be good and I won't be charged more than the normal price. I come out of one café where I decide not to stay and am just about to ride on when I spot a European looking man sat outside a café opposite. Then I spot at the curb-side a touring bike. I wave and crossover and ask can I lean my bike against his, a gleaming new maroon Surly Disc Trucker with black Orblieb bags.

"It's a good calf this" he speaks with a south east English ascent "only looks like a shop" so it did. A kiosk selling water, soft drinks and crisps. He recommends I ask for omelette, which I do of the genuine looking man that brings him out a second coffee. I ask for a coffee too while I wait.

He tells me his story. He used to be a Scaffolder, but had to give up work when he'd an operation on a nerve on the right side of his neck and for some reason this means he doesn't have full use of the right lung, telling me because of this he'd to walk up much of the climb from Marrakesh.

He was getting frustrated sitting at home waiting for hospital appointments, when one day he thought, I know I'll buy a new bike and cycle the Desert Highway in southern Morocco. He had done lots of research and even bought a cycle guide book for the route, though in the book the cyclist starts in the east, cycling west. I mention there will be impossible headwind cycling westbound; something I know too well from the last few days cycling N10 a little further north; but if he starts at first light and cycles to midday when the wind usually picks up, then take cover somehow, it should be doable in that direction

The omelette is good when it comes, slowly cooked with tomatoes, onions and herbs in a targine pot; as is the coffee which I have a second cup of.

He talks enthusiastically about riding the Karakorm Highway in future, but then laments that Pakistan isn't safe. "Silly bollock fundimentalists" and adds "Huy! The visas..." I reply, what's the point; just go to Australia, or North or South America with more routes and things to see that could keep the average cyclist excited for a lifetime. Just fly there: no stupid visas necessary. He takes my point.

He describes the route that I've ahead, saying there isn't much climbing from this side but a great long descend the other side to Marrakesh; something pleasing to hear.

It is near three when we finally rise. The bill is great value at 35 Dh for what I had. We wish each other luck and set off on our separate ways.

From Amerzano the road follows a gorge, climbing and descending all the way as the afternoon becomes increasingly-rain like; and increasingly further on, apple sellers by the roadside pester me to stop. One running alongside me with a sliced pomegranit shouting five dirham, five dirham. I stop with one and the guy wants to charge me five Dirham for two apples. I insist on another making three.

The serious climbing starts about six-thirty as I think where the hell will I camp with all these aggressive apple people about. I keep climbing and climbing until there are no more apple sellers as the road clings to the mountainside. I pass a vagrant walking, saying bonsoir as I pass, but he shouts after me in a harsh tone. Certainly don't want to camp somewhere he'll reach me. Then pass a mother and daughter herding goats. They smile and return my greeting. Pleasant people for a change.

Without even knowing it I reach an old derelict restaurant on the right with long trestles at the roadside laid out with special stones from the mountains hereabout and a big cairn with a plague with altitude. Just as I'm thinking of camping in the empty restaurant, one of the stone sellers call out in friendly tone, then another. The second in a dark cloak motions with his head leaning against the back of his raised hand do I need somewhere to sleep. I ask can I camp. He readily agrees, so I wheel the bike back and set the tent up by the rusty shutters of the restaurant just as it gets dark and I'm hit by spots of rain.

Supper is three succulently ripe red apples.