Throwing the Gauntlet, Meknes to Azrou

Zagan the motorhome’s sat comfortably looking out over the rolling foothills of the Middle Atlas, on one of the terraces of Emirates Euro Camping, about 2 miles from Azrou in Morocco (N33.443252, W5.190994). It’s 10:29am as I write this, and the temperature outside’s popped up from a pre-dawn -1.8ºC to 9.5ºC. Once I’m done I’m off for a sit in the sunshine with a book to elegantly waste a Monday.

The pool and entrance to Euro Camping. You can’t tell from this photo, but those beautifully reflective waters would likely be lethal if swallowed

There were about 8 motorhomes here last night, mostly French, about the same as the last time we were here in 2012

Phil and Jules have prime position in Big Ben, looking out over the site entrance and to the valley beyond. Just outside the walls are single story, ah, hovels

Guidebooks (and blogs) can only go so far in describing a place. The way you’ll perceive somewhere with your own senses will depend very much on one critical variable they can never account for – you. This is something I’m thankful for, since otherwise there would be zero point in departing the comfort of my fireside armchair back in the English Midlands. Morocco (or any ‘unfinished country’ as Ted Simon refers to the developing world) will appear very different to different people. It seems to change with the length of time we spend here, as we get used to it, as we change.

Roadside traders in Morocco

The last time we came to Morocco, we found the change from Europe hit us hard. In Europe we’re comfortable with our anonymity, our natural ability to ‘fit in’ there. We’re comfortable with our own sense of being frugal folks, of being relatively efficient with our spending. We think of ourselves as being rich, but in quite a specific way: we feel rich in time without displaying most of the Western world’s usual trappings of overt wealth (which is how we’ve gotten our grubby paws on the lifestyle we have). Here in Morocco, that’s all flipped on its head. Here we’re rich, full stop. The dog’s a serious trapping of wealth, as is the huge white luxury wagon we’re driving about, plus the very fact we’re here at all. And we’re anything but anonymous, we’re an ethnic minority. I find all of this a major challenge to my own sense of self, it makes me think.

Zerhoun Bellevue’s pool and terrace: post apocalypse

For the moment, back to more practical things. Up at our last campsite, our feckless canine companion managed to scavenge something rotten and evil, which served to ignite an explosion inside his small furry body. From both ends the detritus came. His misery was almost matched by Ju’s, who found herself with a Fes Flu-infected sneezing husband and a dog spilling pints of drool about the place, in between covering the floor and half his body in vomit and, erm, brown stuff. After a day and night’s nursing the wee beasty seemed fully up to speed, so I foolishly fed him, at which point the whole episode repeated itself. The next day we starved him and since then he’s been on bland pasta with this arthritis meds on hold, and is recovering well. Phew. If he hadn’t we’d be seeking out a vets in Morocco.

Green Africa, the road outside Camping Zerhoun Bellevue, north of Meknes

With Charlie back in the world of the living, we left the campsite and turned south, back towards Meknes, where the sub Saharan beggars are. After the last experience with one of these guys, I did some reading. The long and the short of it is this: there are tens of thousands of people here who have nothing, find it almost impossible to get work, cannot get into Europe, can’t or don’t want to go home, and are desperate. Morocco’s accepted thousands of them as temporary legal residents to try and help, but the country already has huge challenges, notably with its native levels of poverty, unemployment and illiteracy. It’s utter bullshit, and it’s reality, and we were about to have to drive back through it. The gauntlet was flung down at us.

We decided this time to play it differently. If stopped at lights or a roundabout and begged from by a migrant, I’d open the window and offer to shake hands (someone once wrote something about keeping your enemies close?). Ju would have a camera ready to record if it became necessary (in video, making it more likely we’d capture their faces and any words/sounds if it all went wrong). We’d offer them fruit, but not money. I’d ask them where they were from, and what their names were. It would be an attempt to both (a) show some respect (b) understand something about them and (c) get past them without being assaulted or threatened. In the end we only saw one group of guys at a set of traffic lights, and they were beaten to us by a small local boy selling tissues and begging for bonbons, who wasn’t interested in an orange, which grow on trees around here. I felt both relieved and (only a tiny bit, I’m not a brave man) disappointed. I wanted a repeat of the earlier encounter, only with a more positive outcome.

The road south was good. The surface held together well, and there was little traffic. Perhaps being a Sunday, there were few lorries and taxis and it was an enjoyable journey. The radio isn’t needed when driving in Morocco, there’s always something to see, something to talk about and something to think about. We stopped along the route to pick up some vegetables, milk and other bits and bobs. From the windscreen of the van various animal carcasses were hung, at least two of which were goat, identified by the hairy horned heads attached to their skinned bodies.

Good spot for a brew with a view

Butchers in Morocco. Traders here tend to group shops selling similar goods together

Arabic words announcing something unknown

We’re on the edge of the Middle Atlas mountain range here, and the view at one point across the hills was enough to have me brave the fossil sellers (who left us alone). We pulled into a lay-by, boiled up a brew on the portable gas stove we bought in Norway, and stared at it for a while, before continuing the drive here. On the outskirts of Azrou we noticed what’s becoming a familiar sight: large areas of land made ready for new housing, with roads, streetlights and electrical points, just waiting for the walls, roofs and cars. A lorry on its side also caught our attention, as it might do I guess, and we wondered how on Earth it had managed to fall over on a perfectly good road.

The stricken lorry at Azrou

This is the first site we’ve revisited on this trip from our one five years ago. It looks exactly the same, and exactly as crazy as it did before. Just north of here, in the cedar forests, are the semi-tame monkeys which ate Ju’s breakfast off in the past. We’ve taken to calling it Camping Walt Disney, in reference to the fact it’s a fairy tale castle construction, on an (for Morocco) epic scale. It is, however, utterly underused. The over-sized reception area looks like no-one but the guardian ever enters it. He showed me around, and I left it feeling like I’d just become a ghost. The swimming pool is becoming a suitable ecosystem for anything other than humans. Only motorhomes and the odd hotel room guest ever seem to come. Phil’s relayed a theory the place was built with Emirates money, but some political issues have forced it to be mothballed, awaiting future crowds.

One of the elegant reception rooms at Euro Camping in Azrou

Looking up, the ceilings were all very beautifully decorated

Ju now has the Medina Fever, and is laid up on the sofa, so we’re having a down day today. Earlier she popped a note on Facebook to say she was glad she didn’t have to face dragging herself to work or the guilt of phoning in sick, one of the things which we don’t miss.

Sunrises and sunsets are beautiful things here, the light mixed in with the sound of the muezzin calling to the faithful to pray

Cheers, Jay