Having assembled the bikes the previous evening, we were all set for the 100 odd miles from Agadir up to Essouria. We would be following the main N1 coast road, so there was little chance of making any navigational errors and, fingers crossed, we would not suffer any mechanical failures.
From the Petit Suede Hotel in Agadir, we set out to the sea front, and passed by a small shop to pick up some breakfast. Flat breads and orange juice were sufficient to give us the energy for the morning’s cycle, and we were soon on the road to Essouria. At this point, we were pleasantly surprised at the quality of the road, far better than Britain’s finest. However, our preconceptions about the roads of Morocco were soon confirmed, as the surface disintegrated, and the bumpy ride was underway. Thankfully there were no potholes to look out for, just some dangerous drivers, who were all driving blue and white coloured 1970’s Mercedes taxis.
Within 5 minutes of leaving Agadir, we had our first mechanical problem, as Martin’s bike failed to get into its low gears. Immediate concerns were how we would handle the situation given that Machine was a couple of thousand miles north of us, and between us we did not have even a small strip of gaffa tape. However, with a quick readjustment of Martin’s handlebars and tweak of the gears, we were underway again.
This part of the Moroccan coastline is spectacular, with long beaches stretching out as far as you can see, and huge waves crashing against the shore. Body surfing in these waves would certainly result in at least a broken collarbone, and so we were happy to be on the bikes instead.
Having followed an estuary inland, we reached Tamri, the first significant village about 30 miles north of Agadir. Two cyclists looked well out of place here and, as in practically every other village we would pass through up the coast, the locals gave us a few strange looks. Shortly after leaving Tamri, we got our last glance of the sea for the rest of the day, and started to head inland once again. At this point, the terrain changed as we were now cycling in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains.
There is little vegetation in this baron landscape, and the principle form of income seems to come from goat herding. In the UK, most shepherds tend to let their flocks roam around the highlands and bring them down off the mountains in bad weather. The Moroccan practice is similar, however they employ a form of ‘extreme’ goat herding, whereby the animals are encouraged to spend most of their time in trees. Baffled on-lookers such as ourselves would probably link this to some sort of strange method of protecting the flock from predators, but they would be wrong. In fact, these goats are eating the nut of the Argon tree, which is digested, and then extracted from their faeces to produce one of Morocco’s biggest rip offs – Argan Oil. (It’s supposed to be good for both cooking and cosmetics. I have my doubts!)
Having passed many goats in trees, we reached a suitable spot for lunch: Tamanar. With our limited understanding of the Moroccan language, and a similar understanding of the English language by the Moroccan ‘waiter’, there was the possibility that lunch would be hard to come by. However, the very fact that the various different animals that are used for the cooking were hanging up for everyone to see, and the main kitchen for the restaurant was actually on the side of the street, through some finger pointing, we landed up with exactly what we wanted: a lamb tajine.
This was soon taken down and we were back on the road northwards. Away from the coast, the undulations continued and we maintained a steady pace going up, while hitting 35mph on the descents. At one point, a couple of kids tried to run along side us. It wasn’t that we were going particularly slow, rather the kids were a little over optimistic with their own speed. They did however catch up with us when we stopped to check directions and it turned out they were after ‘stylo’s’, rather than money. Unfortunately we were unable to support the roaring pen trade of the Atlas Mountains, and carried on to the disappointment of the kids. Next time I go cycling round Morocco, I’ll be sure to raid the stationary cupboard at work before I leave.
We passed many tribes people selling jars of Argan Oil and hashish (an interesting combination), continued to tick off various Cols de Maroc, and gradually came out of the baron terrain of the hills. Martin picked up the pace on the final approach to Essouria, and soon we found ourselves within the walled town.
This bustling town is a tourist’s haven. Narrow streets, a few mosques, and alley after alley selling a whole heap of junk. We located our riad for the night, however the reservation Martin had made had been lost in translation and it was now full. No problem though, since the owner knew a mate in an alternative riad who could offer us accommodation for the night. Despite much inveigling on the price, he would not budge and the 600 dirhams price tag was far too much. No problem though, the owner knew a mate in an alternative riad.... and so on, we were soon sorted with a place for the night. In this country, everyone knows everyone however, unlike so many other developing countries, there seems to be very little sign of a middle man taking a cut of the profits, suggesting a significant degree of trust and ‘give and take’ within the Moroccan population.
We sussed out the port, passed by a number of hash cake vendors and alcohol pushers, checked out the fish sellers and got a good feed before going to bed and locking in a good 10 hours sleep.
The second days cycling took us up the coast to Safi. For this, we would need a good breakfast and the guesthouse came up trumps with a good spread of croissants, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. While we were at breakfast, we got speaking to a couple of Moroccan doctors. One spoke reasonable English and when we mentioned that we were from London, he began to recount his time there 20 years ago. One thing we learnt was that he would often frequent the Trafalgar Tavern, a pub that Martin was familiar with. They were also interested in the jobs that we did, and approved of our finance and parliament based careers. When we mentioned that we were on our way up to Oualidia, it transpired that one of the three had a flat up there, and that we were more than welcome to stay there once we got to the town. Clearly our two jobs with the finest reputations in the UK were key to secure accommodation, but the clincher was definitely the link with the pub!
So armed with a napkin containing strict instructions to contact Jonas (the guy who looks after the flat) 2 hours before we arrived at Oualidia, we set off for Safi. The main road towards Marrakech had just been re-laid and so provided a very good surface, however it was busy and dangerous. Thankfully we only had a small stretch on this particular road. Having cycled along this motorway for longer than the map suggested, we began to question our navigation. However a short distance further on, there was a man sitting in a hole on the side of the road, and Martin confirmed with him that the turning to Safi was a couple of miles up on the right. It’s useful to have that kind of local knowledge just when you need it.
Indeed it was, and this ‘yellow’ road (the equivalent of a ‘B’ road in the UK) had a good surface by Moroccan standards, and was empty. It was hardly surprising that the road was empty given that the first major village turned out to be some 50 miles up the road. We did not follow the coast as closely as on the first day, however whenever we got a glimpse of the sea, the characteristic huge waves and long beaches were clearly visible.
Having taken a short pit stop in a remote village along the way, the road passed through farmland and the traffic became much heavier. The definition of heavy traffic being the occasional horse and cart every 5 minutes. Shortly after crossing the Oued Tensift River, we arrived at Souira Kedima.
Here, all of the lorries travelling south from Safi would unload their goods, while all of the horse and carts would travel north with all sorts of fruit and vegetables on board. Hence at Souira Kedima there was a huge exchange of produce and lots of stalls, which resulted in a bustling market town with a plethora of activity. The smells of various kebab and tajine stalls were amazing, but it was just a little early in the day for lunch, and besides, we had planned to stop for some food at Souira about 20 kilometres further up the coast.
The horse and cart traffic had now been replaced by trucks, and we maintained good progress to Souira. We were expecting to find another bustling market town, instead however we found ourselves in a deserted seaside resort. Despite a huge amount of construction in progress, there were no signs of any holidaymakers, and little indication of anywhere to get some lunch. So onwards to Safi it was.
The Lonely Planet’s brief description of Safi gives little indication that it is the tourist trap we had discovered in Essouria, citing: “A thriving port and industrial centre, Safi is quite a pleasant town if you can ignore the giant phosphate plant that mars the view of the seafront…”
Indeed, approaching from the south, all we could see was a huge factory, shrouded in smoke and accompanied by a horrible stench. It was raining too, and not presenting the long sandy beaches we had been following for the last 2 days. Very Northern. Things looked up as we left the phosphate factory a couple of miles to the south and we then saw the first rail freight of the trip (I’m sure Leon would have made sure he found Safi’s station, and looked into the possibility of some colouring in). However our primary thoughts were on lunch. We discovered the first busy street close to the centre of Safi, home to Morocco’s finest fish fryer. The limited menu of flatbreads and fried fish made sure that we could point and get exactly what we wanted. After 80 miles on the bike, this simple Moroccan cuisine washed down with some Coke was perfect.
We checked into a fine establishment right on the seafront. Complete with hole in the ground toilet, limited hot water and a room with a balcony, it was basic but clean accommodation, and clearly popular with Moroccans. At this point, Andy continued up the coast road and locked in a few more miles on the bike, while Martin went off exploring the ‘Chateau de Mer’.
In the evening, we went for a wander around Safi and its substantial night market. A local surfer soon joined us, and he was keen to show us around the town. While my preconceptions of the Moroccan people were that if they picked you out randomly in the street, then they were after some cash from you, this was certainly was not the case in Safi (or in fact across the whole of Morocco). This particular chap just wanted us to speak English to him. We learnt about the good spots to surf, he also helped Martin pick out a CD of Morocco’s answer to N-Dubs, and he showed us a good place for dinner. Having missed out on the kebabs at lunchtime, his suggestion was perfect, and before long, the country’s most efficient waiter had brought us a large selection of cooked meats on skewers.
We by-passed the surf-dude’s offer to join him for a drink in favour of locking in another 10 hours sleep. With the two long days behind us, we now had some far more conservative days cycling ahead of us.
With only a mere 60 kilometres to Oualidia, there was little urgency to get away from Safi, and we went to find somewhere good for breakfast. All evidence of the night market had since disappeared and, given that it was about 8:30 in the morning, there was little activity at all. The first café we visited would not allow us to sit and have breakfast indoors, giving preference to mopping the floor. Thankfully the next one up the road not only had the customary selection of croissants and fresh orange juice, but also had a live stream coming straight from Mecca on the television. The general theme of the broadcast showed the worshippers doing circuits of the Kaaba, however just as we were reaching the climax, the power in the café went out. At this point, we decided it was a good time to leave and pick up some supplies for the day.
There was a set of market stalls resembling what would be a small precinct in the UK, with the spice man, veg man, fruit man and the butcher. I could see close ties between the Moroccan and UK versions of the first three shops (i.e. fruit in punnets, scales etc.), however the collection of live chickens at the back of the butchers is not so commonplace in the UK. In a similar way to Martin and I ordering food at restaurants using finger pointing, this seems to be the method of selecting lunch direct from the butcher. Simply pick your chicken, the butcher then takes a knife to its throat, and puts it in the cupboard. A minute later, and after a considerable amount of flapping, you have a fresh chicken ready to cook for Sunday lunch.
After that insight into a typical Moroccan shopping trip, we felt it was a good time to leave Safi and continue on our journey to Oualidia.
The first 20 miles of the day consisted of a huge climb out of Safi, followed by mile after mile. This was all done battling into a strong head wind as we headed out towards Cap Beddouza: a promontory, home to a lighthouse and a fine coffee shop. Here we made contact with the Moroccan guy whom we had met at breakfast the morning before, and arrangements would be made by him to make sure that Jonas had the place ready for our arrival.
It was a great relief to round this Cap and we were once again cycling with the prevailing wind. We were back up at our 20 mph cruising speed back and able to take in the fantastic scenery again. Having completely left behind the mountainous landscape of the first day, we were now surrounded by farmland. Fields stretched to the right of the road as far as you could see, and to the left they went all the way down to the ocean. Cycling through countryside like this is fantastic: you travel at a pace slow enough to appreciate the surroundings, yet fast enough to see a huge variety of different sights; you get to visit villages and places away from the tourist trail and undiscovered my most visitors, and get some exercise thrown in at the same time!
We arrived in Oualidia at lunchtime, with the very clear directions for how to find the flat: opposite the café at the crossroads and next to the pharmacy. Perfect directions and Jonas’ brother was there to greet us and show us into the flat. In the day light, the flat looked fine, with two bedrooms, lounge, TV, washing machine etc., so we felt quite smug and went off to get some food.
As we were having lunch, these two Americans approached us and asked what we were planning for the evening, given that it was New Year’s Eve. Their suggestion of finding a ‘liquor store’ and heading down to the beach sounded good, and we said that we might well see them there later on. So the plan for the afternoon was to find out what was going on in Oualidia, explore the town and locate a ‘liquor store’ (as the Americans called it). Given that there was nothing going on in Oualidia that evening, the town was very small and had no ‘liquor store’; these tasks were ticked off very quickly.
We did however go down to the huge natural lagoon. This was very impressive. The huge waves coming off the Atlantic were crashing against the rocks and producing a whole load of spray, while the lagoon remained really calm and would be perfect for swimming had it not been the middle of winter. Down at the beach, an old man tried to sell us some scallops, complete with a lime and allegedly ready to eat. We had to decline for the sake of our stomachs, and I would have liked to point out to him that his choice of selling location lacked a large proportion of through traffic. Unfortunately my limited Moroccan meant I could not pass on this suggestion, and besides, he seemed quite content to continue his trade down at the beach as he probably had been doing so for the last 25 years.
On the way back, we passed through a large collection of French camper-vanners, blocking one of the roads down by the beach, but otherwise not causing any problems.
So our mission had been mostly unsuccessful, however we were still optimistic about getting a bottle of champagne off the Frenchies, and there must be something going on for New Year, otherwise what would all these visitors be doing here? So in the early evening, we headed down to the trailer park armed with a stack of Euros and a story explaining how we had arrived in Oualidia with no booze. In fact the story was not fictional at all, just most people would think that cycling round Morocco was a little bonkers. Things were looking good for the first van we approached. After giving some chat in French about our cycling trip, Monsieur went to check whether there was a bottle of 1996 Dom Perignon in the fridge. At this point, he obviously got told by his wife to get rid of these two English scavengers and so no luck there.
Somehow we got speaking to a young lady who jabbered away in a combination of French and English to us. We could not work out whether she was a Moroccan resident of Oualidia, a French maid, or a daughter of one travellers, however one thing was for sure, that she took some sympathy on our ‘dry’ situation and obviously had a good idea of how to sort it out. Off she scuttled and 10 minutes later returned from the other direction, full of suspicion and told us to follow. On the corner of the trailer park were some Moroccan kids armed with a bottle of sparkling rose. Result, and they did not even want anything in exchange for it!
Well, at least it would not be a totally dry New Year’s Eve and we toasted MMX and hoped that it would be a successful year. We had a great dinner of kebabs and tajine, and decided to once again see whether there was much activity down in the French village. On our way there, Jonas passed by in his 4*4 and told us to jump in. It was impressive that he knew that we were the two cyclists staying in his flat, despite never having met us before. He was obviously the wheeler and dealer of the family, given that he came up revised deal on the flat. First night ‘un cadeaux’, second night 300 dirhams. (I’m sure our friends whom we had met in Essouria would know nothing about that.) After what was essentially the most expensive 5-minute taxi ride I’d ever been in, we were booted out at another empty part of the town and started to make our way back. The trailer park was dead, and so we decided that New Year’s Eve would be a non-event and, given Jonas’ latest offer, that we would get up early and head straight to El-Jadida early the next day.
By 10:30 we were in bed, however it was not long before I realised the flat was now swarming with mosquitoes. By midnight, I had a number of bites, including one on my eyelid that was now preventing me from opening my right eye. Meanwhile Martin had been on a successful mosquito-swatting mission in his room. In the morning and after an interrupted sleep, we decided to revise our plans. The coming days cycling would now involve cycling up to Casablanca, getting the train down to Marrakech, and having a day there before returning to Agadir to get the flight home.
Shortly after leaving Oualidia, we were back in farming territory and passing through miles of arable land. On this part of the route, the farming seemed far more ‘organised’ and verging on industrial. (Rather than south of Oualidia where there was the occasional donkey ploughing up a small piece of land and in no regular manner). It was very clear to work out just what was being grown by each of the farmers, with the type of vegetable being farmed on display: carrots, cauliflower, cabbage (all Leon’s favourites). Again, another of my preconceptions of Morocco was revised, since I had been under the impression that most of the country was desert. Not the case, since this land obviously received plenty of rainfall and was perfect for agriculture. Only a lack of good machinery seemed to prevent this farming from taking place on an industrial scale. Donkeys overloaded with carrots, old trucks transporting the produce to the larger cities, and digging up the vegetables with spades is not the most efficient way of getting food out the ground. Even so, I later found out that farming contributes to 15% of the Moroccan economy but at the expense of over 45% of the county’s population. Hardly surprising from what we saw.
As we approached El-Jadida, the farmland gradually gave way to industry with all manner of different factories bellowing out toxic substances. We went beneath a freight only rail line, passed the port at Douar Oulad Zid, and decided to take a left turn towards the sea for a pit-stop about 10 miles south of El-Jadida. At this point I still looked as though I had landed up in a New Year’s Eve fight, but was now also beginning to feel a bit grotty.
We decided to take the last few miles at a steady pace and arrived in El-Jadida in brilliant sunshine. Two disoriented European cyclists where a prime target for some Moroccan inveigling, and it was not long before ‘Siad’, one of those Moroccan middle men we had not really met before, was showing us around some riads. He was very proud that the meaning of his name was ‘happy’; something that he reminded us of on several occasions. He led us down a number of alleys until we got to a door. No sign of a riad here, but we went with it, up two flights of stairs, and he presented us with a two bedroom apartment complete with terrace over looking the town – result!
By this point, I was about to keel over, just like a lazy wasp on a hot day. Keen to make the most of the apartment, this was where I spent the next 20 hours, in bed, with a headache. Certainly not ideal when you are on a cycling holiday, but a great way to reinstated that 10-hour average sleep tally.
Meanwhile Martin went to explore the old town, its ramparts, and investigate the possibilities for getting to Marrakech the next day.
By 6 am the next morning, I was still feeling ropey and so we took a trip to the hospital to be sure the mozzi bite was not as serious as it appeared. It was interesting that at 6 am we were practically the only people up and about. The Morning Prayer call appears to be conveniently slept through by a large proportion of the population, including the doctor who saw me, who probably did not appreciate a call at the crack of dawn to come down to the hospital.
Anyway, his diagnosis was that I was malnourished, and that a hearty breakfast would sort me out. Indeed, after a couple more hours kip, bread, croissants and orange juice, I was ready for the short cycle to the station.
Poor town planning meant that the station was a good 5 miles from the city centre, however we were in good time for the 12:15 departure to Casablanca, to join the 14:50 connection to Marrakech. We were in for some good cranking. Martin went to investigate tickets and returned with the bad news that bikes were not permitted on the part of the journey to Casablanca. A minor blow, however we would explore the bus option instead.
We returned to the city centre bus station and purchased 2 direct tickets to Marrakech. Having bought the tickets, we were then shown our transport for the 140 mile journey. Not the finest of inter-city buses with cracked windows and ripped curtains, but on the plus side it was leaving very promptly and would take our bikes…on the roof, perfect! The bus porter reassured us that the bikes would stay put and get to Marrakech in one piece.
Before we left, a number of men and women came aboard and jabbered to the passengers before walking up and down the bus trying to sell travel stuff. At this point it became clear that the practice of selling useless items was not just restricted to tourists, but also takes place amongst Moroccan people. With a couple of these people still aboard, the driver continually honked his horn as he left the station. Having kicked the remaining sellers off the bus, we were on our way to Marrakech.
A good 4-5 hours later, we arrived in Marrakech, along with the bikes and went in search of somewhere to stay. As was the case in El-Jadida, it was not long before we had someone touting for our business and leading us down little side alleys. And these certainly were little, being only about 4 foot wide. Our ‘tout’ knocked on one old door and, looking at the surroundings, we were certainly not expecting anything special behind it. We were very pleasantly surprised as it opened out into a beautiful riad, complete with water feature and terrace.
In the evening we went to the Djemaa el Fna (main square) and took a look around the labyrinth of souqs, where there were lots of stalls selling dried fruit, rugs and spices. This is in fact more or less the extent of goods on offer; however there was alley after alley of these stands, with the vendors somehow making a living off minimal sales. This theme is continued in the main square where there is cart after cart selling fresh orange juice at 3 dirhams a cup, and kebab stall after kebab stall selling a variety of meats on sticks.
A boy of about 12 convinced us to eat at his particular stand, and he made a great effort in waiting on us. In fact, he was rushing around the whole time, ordering the food, serving out the food, collecting the money, putting the kebabs on the grill, clearing the plates etc. All this while the 3 older men on the stand, just about managed to peel the odd aubergine and open the occasional bottle of Coke. Maybe that’s where you land up once you’ve done all the grunt work.
The following morning, we were up early and out of the door to give us the most amount of time to explore Marrakech. Between us we only had one place of particular interest: the Café de Livre bookshop in the new town. So the plan was to wander though the streets towards that area of Marrakech. There weren’t many other Europeans walking around Marrakech at this time of the morning, and this made us prime targets to be ripped off. First of all there was the spice man who wanted to sell us a bag of herbs for 200 dirhams, and then the young kid who demanded a ‘petit cadeaux’ for showing us out of the network of alleys in the medina. Following some suitable inveigling, we negotiated a good price for the spices and also managed to conveniently loose the young kid without paying him a dirham (we would have given him something, just he got annoying and essentially talked himself out of a tip).
Eventually we arrived in the New Town only to find that the bookshop was closed on Sundays. Despite this set back, it was a good way to view the different parts of the city and was interesting to see that Marrakech has significant western influence to it in the New Town.
Having packed up our things, and helped the owner of the riad with his new laptop (Morocco’s version of the MacBook still has some teething problems), we headed off to the bus station. Goods sellers, touts and hundreds of travellers contributed to the utter carnage at the Marrakech bus terminal, but amongst this, we found our transport to Agadir.
The bus journey to Agadir was spectacular, passing through the Atlas Mountains. Some of the climbs were huge, and we were quite smug to have chosen to cycle the coastal route rather than heading over the hills. Unscheduled stops to sort out engine problems, and concerns about the petrol aroma that filled the bus were all par for the course. These were easily resolved with a kick and probably a strip of gaffa tape, and after a good 5 hours, we arrived at Agadir….or rather what we thought was Agadir.
Given the budget nature of the entire journey itself, it came as no surprise to find out that we were in Inezganeis, and this particular bus station was in a different town altogether and some 10 miles south of Agadir. Despite it taking a good 2-3 miles cycling to actually realise this, we soon found ourselves on the main highway back to Agadir and heading towards the massive lit up writing on the side of the hill.
And so we found ourselves back at the Petit Suede, back in the same room as we had been 6 days before, and dismantling our bikes for the return journey to London. It had been an awesome adventure, and we had been able to appreciate just a small part of this amazing country. Hopefully the miles on the bike will have been good groundwork for the coming year and it is somewhat scary to think that the next time cycling abroad it will of course be during the Ironman!
