Driving 'The Beast' through Africa
Hospitality
by Isabelle Demaeght, November 18th, 2024
We arrive at the port of “Tangier Med” four hours earlier than planned, but border control takes a long time (although we ourselves are not extensively checked). Upon arrival in the city of Tangier, it is already dark - we drive right through the chaotic city to a campsite on the outskirts. Thanks to The Beast's climbing skills, we park on a terrace where hardly anyone can get in.
We spend the first morning doing leftover car chores. In the afternoon, we traverse a villa neighborhood on foot in search of a SIM card. We find a Carrefour (of all supermarkets!) in a mall. There is no store of a GSM provider. 'One' thought a Maroc Telecom store would be found at the Souk Barra (a souk is a kind of market).
The next day the search begins on foot through back streets and alleys. A pre-paid SIM card turns out (in retrospect) to be for sale in every small store and without registration in an official branch of the provider (as in the EU and the Americas).
Hungry, we stand in front of the restaurant “Zara”, where we eat very well (marinated anchovies, a tagine of shrimp and a fried fish). I ask for couscous and am subtly reminded that it is not Friday. Suddenly I understand why one of my cookbooks is called “Friday couscous day.”
The third day we walked the sea promenade to Tangier's Medina (“Medina” is the Arabic word for “city” and now usually refers to the oldest part). In Tangier, it means “tourist trap” (or so it felt). Several popular places around the world are suffering from mass tourism. In the (Islamic) Medina, we saw many scantily clad visitors taking selfies (for social media?). Yesterday's back streets felt much more authentic, without the embarrassing tourist displays.
We take refuge in a quiet Jewish cemetery with graves up to 125 years old and return to Zara. The staff goes out of their way (because we are from elsewhere?): missing avocados are fetched especially for us.
One night of transit in Tangier thus became four. It is also enough, because by now the campground is (over)full, apart from “our” unreachable spot.
When asked where we are going, we reply, “Cape Town, South Africa.” But first we go the wrong way: to the Mediterranean. We are guided by a (paper) Michelin map: attractive routes are highlighted in green. Along a unpaved connecting road we find a reservoir (Asmir), where we cook dinner. On this Friday, a group of 9 men in two cars come together to talk, grill, pray, eat, talk more and pray again. We watch it from a distance while we are served sweet Moroccan tea with mint by an operator in an old shipping container.
Through obligatory stop Chefchaouen (the blue city), we climb higher and higher into the Rif Mountains. We camp in a spot along dirt roads to some farms, where we grill sardines. We wake up to views of low clouds in the valley below.
After descending back to the Mediterranean, we find ourselves in densely populated territory. We choose a place in the kilometer-wide bed of the Nekor River, where there are no houses. But soon we are noticed. The first person says it is not safe there - whether we have yet to smell the illegal hemp plants growing concealed here and there? The next one thinks it's OK and gives his cell phone number that we should call if anyone should bother us. Everyone is friendly and/or overprotective. Just as we are about to eat, Ahmed shows up: tipped off by one of the visitors. I immediately hear a Flemish accent from the Roeselare area. Ahmed very much wants us to join him for dinner and a night's sleep. We politely refuse but are impressed by the effort made to welcome us.
After three nights of wild camping, it's time for a campsite - we find that of Abdel, a (Moroccan) retired mathematician from Germany, on the coast. The next day we want to eat at a restaurant in Saïdia: a fashionable seaside resort. Unfortunately, it proves difficult to find even a reasonable, open supermarket, as the season is over. On the souk we find an eatery (restaurant is too big a word) where I eat squid rings and Adriaan devours grilled sardines. We return to Abdel, because the open-air disco next to the campsite does seem to be open until 5:00 at night...
We have now reached the (closed) border with Algeria - time to head south and thus to the Sahara. It is also autumn here, complete with a shower here and there. We find a wild camping spot in a 10-meter-deep gorge next to a river: nice and out of the autumn wind. A shepherd returning from his herd across the river warns us that worse weather is coming, and that this river can swell very quickly. Wisely, we move 10 meters higher - just in time to see the effects of the thunderstorm: mudslides quickly erase all our tracks below.
The next day we go in search of one of those delicious thimblefuls of coffee - and end up at an attraction on the same river. The place is completely deserted - no coffee for us. We use an unlocked entrance and walk around a bit. We notice, that there is a concrete terrace with roof and all half in the river. In the trees hang loose branches, palm leaves and pieces of bushes.
Just as we are about to go back, meteorologist Abdelrahim shows up, coming to draw water from one of the natural springs. He spontaneously leads us around for two hours over fields, along the river to two more springs and back to his family's house. We are not allowed to leave without drinking tea and eating home-baked cookies. We are given the pomegranates and figs picked along the way.
After finding coffee, groceries and later a meal elsewhere, we decide to sleep at a natural lake about 40 kilometers from the tarmac. Surely we will be able to sleep peacefully there, in the middle of the desert? Adriaan has to interrupt his toilet activities because someone approaches us. It is the “chef de village,” the occupant of a Bedouin tent about a kilometer away. He speaks decent French and an animated conversation ensues. When he offers tea for the next morning, I blurt out, “In your tent or ours?”, which causes Adriaan to look extremely doubtful. (He has a story about how in the Arab world you are only allowed to accept the third invitation. Anyway, my spontaneity wins).
We get there at 9:10 and are ushered into an authentic Bedouin tent. I wear my skirt and my headscarf out of respect for our host. We take off our footwear and take our seats on thick carpets with pleasant cushions in a space separated by colorful cloths. Meanwhile, (both!) our host's wives prepare something in the room next door. We hear them, smell the wood fire and we also smell that something is baking. They serve the tea, fresh goat cheese, honey and freshly baked “bread” that looks like a pancake. The ladies disappear immediately. No cutlery is given with the bread: people eat with their (previously washed) hands. Etiquette says you eat only with your right hand. As a left-hander, that's an extra challenge.
After an hour it is time to leave and we choose Skar Isch as our destination because that oasis is in a remote corner, on the Algerian border. The shortest road starts with 50 kilometers of piste. Our host asks if we know the road. “No, we don't, but we have GPS.” The man looks doubtful, but says nothing. Before the first fork not mentioned on the GPS map, doubts become apparent: the GPS track is clearly sanded and perhaps too deep for The Beast. Where the uncharted track ends up we can only try... Fortunately, most of the trails come back together but we still have to redirect our route about five times. The Beast, meanwhile, doesn't seem to mind all that: she grinds through sand, bumps over wadis and plods through mud as if it takes no effort. It's a lonely, awesome ride through the desert.
Relations between Morocco and Algeria are tense: they are arguing over a piece of Sahara. In Isch, we are first checked by a soldier (even during Friday afternoon prayers), who promptly starts following us as we begin to walk through the oasis.
It is quite special: we have seen maybe 10 trees in over 100 kilometers, but here it is full of (date) palms, and a small river flows. An oasis 'out of the book'.
After the oasis, we still want to see the desert as everyone “knows” it: only sand dunes. We are not original: this is one of the most popular destinations. We stop 80 kilometers before the dunes in another huge oasis where we find a camping place (with a shower). The owner shows us around his plot of land in that oasis: we learn about the cultivation of date palms, but also what is grown in the shade of those trees. This ends with ... tea in his family home, where three generations live together and he raises his children with brothers, sister and in-laws, as well as all the nephews and nieces.
The sand dunes ... are for next time!
