Zagan the motorhome’s under a green canopy, an island in an arid landscape in a valley an hour north of Guelmim in Morocco. We’re in Camping de la Vallée, which is about 2km of piste (packed mud and rock road) away from the small village of Abaynou (N29.11414, W10.019896). The fun fund is being depleted at a rate of 70Dh a night for our pitch including electricity and hot showers, about €7. The site is, bien sûr, well populated with French motorhomes in for the winter, and we now, finally, know why so many French villages feel devoid of life from November onwards… Everyone’s down here – and who can blame ’em?
Inertia took over in Sidi Ifni, and we could have easily spent more than five nights overlooking the surfers on the pounding Atlantic, sat under a blazing sky. At all of 3mph I’d ride my bike up the hill into town, or huff and puff my way up the steps with Ju, buying fruit from the endless market or tucking into chicken and chips at a small cafe by the road. After the frenetic calls of m’shur!, m’shur! across Morocco’s cities and towns to date, Ifni refreshed me. In the end the vague disappointment of the Sunday market dislodged us. The enormous space behind the main road in town remained mainly space, and the souk was at best a fifth the size of the one in Azrou. Clutching a gas burner to go on the small stubby butane bottles here (40Dh), a demi-kilo of salt encrusted nuts (35Dh) and another half kilo of sticky dates (10Dh), we made our minds up to move.
Decamping we inspected the amount of diesel left in the tank, and I concluded there was enough to not bother filling up in Ifni, which there was, but it meant something of a detour as the only station we saw before Guelmim, was a mirage under a hot sun, it was unfinished!
There’s a Marjane supermarket in Guelmim, and although we can easily buy everything (almost) in there from the souk, Team Zagan are lazy so and so’s from time to time, and opted to nip in there and stock up on goodies before the long trek through the dry bits of Morocco. Guelmim itself is known for a weekly camel market, which we’d missed but after the animal market in Douz (Tunisia) some while back, we weren’t too gutted. We made our way through the Sunday-quiet streets, and a good kilometre or two out the other side of the town into a stony desert before laughing our way out of the van in the Marjane car park. The supermarket is in the desert, nothing but a fuel station alongside it, it just looked peculiar!
Our fridge is now airless, every available space taken up with Greek yogurt, various cheeses, half fat milk, chocolate puddings, a kilogram of mince meat, and other stuff I can’t remember. Ju was delighted with a range of moisturisers for a quid each. I was entertained by the usual brain-twisting availability of huge tellies, smartphones, American fridge-freezers and sandwich makers when outside we’d seen someone, in all normality, drive past with a donkey and cart. In the end we shelled out about £65, and have enough food in Zagan to feed the 5000.
Driving back through Guelmim we missed the turnoff for the campsite, doing a 3 point turn in the empty road and having another go. Our first ‘Warning: Camels’ sign of the trip had us both smiling.
Abaynou, a tiny little concrete-and-mud place in a plain of stones, seems known for two things: hot springs and Britta Dancy. The springs didn’t sound all that, so we happily skipped them. Britta was a Swedish lady who lived in the village for 30 years until she passed away, doing what she could to help support the villagers. Looking her name up brought Carl-David Granbäck’s blog up, and I enjoyed a while reading about his two year cycle ride from Sweden to Cape Town, an incredible story. Oh, hang on, add a third thing to Abaynou: killer speed bumps! Fortunately for us a chap on a moped indicated we should go slow, which we did, creeping over series of the mile-high things, wondering who’d sped through the wee place enough to make them install these monsters.
Onto the dirt road up for a couple of clicks, we pulled into the campsite and went through a bit of a confusing moment trying to work out what to do. Sites usually have a reception somewhere neat the gate, or someone to tell you what to do, but here we were faced with a stream of folks walking down a road in the site, and nothing else. Ju tried to find the reception and I got out to see if I could help, but before she had a chap in blue with a bandaged hand (he’d fallen off his motorbike), who’d been deep in French conversation, broke off and asked of me “c’est à toi?”. I stared back at him. “C’est à toi?” he tried again, this time pointing at the van, and I finally worked out he was asking if the van was ours. The assumption here in Morocco is that you’re either French, or you speak fluent French, and it catches us out from time to time. The manager pointed out the best remaining spaces, dry grass on orange-sand earth, and we picked one and pitched up.
Since then we’ve largely taken it easy. The clouds have half hardheartedly rolled in and the Factor 50’s gone back in the cupboard for the time being. A dry river bed, a wide ramble of stones washed clean by some previous deluge, runs alongside the site. Like a Sicilian town perched high on the edge of Etna, I imagine this lovely little site has a fixed life, but what hasn’t?
Yesterday a local family (which usually means the Mum and the kids, Dad’s are elsewhere) took a shine to Charlie. In rapid French they questioned me about his various attributes, including why he made noises like a pig, whether he would be good to eat (I think that one was a joke), and whether he was pregnant (doggie diet starts tomorrow). A chap had a good go at flogging us more Argan oil and honey (the two things which can be produced in this landscape, except for prickly pears), and we munched our way through a slow-cooked tagine.
This morning we’ve managed a 5km run down to the town and back before Ju went wild hand washing stuff, and I rode off a few miles up the valley. In the cool of a Monday morning, riding my fantastically ancient BSA bike up the dirt road, I was on top of the world. Through a delightfully alien landscape, interrupted by an utter lack of traffic, I crawled along staring at speedy sand rats, distant concrete houses, bee hives and goats, stopping from time to time to take photos and sit. Monday mornings aren’t what they used to be. On the way home I free-wheeled, waving at a local nipper, singing Highway to Hell and baring my teeth in a silly smile.
One final picture. The showers in the campsite are lovely: large space, endless water, fast-flowing. Just be careful where you point the water…
