The Mgoun show

07-06-13 - 09-06-13

Women's work

Rare indeed.

The Ultra, Ighil Mgoun/Amsoud/ Oumsoud 4070m P1904, the second highest mountain in the High Atlas, took me three goes before I bagged it. In hindsight, what I should have done is taken a bivvybag and sleeping bag and stayed up overnight. I know I could have possibly stayed with one of the Berber families in their summer settlements, however I was not sure how I could guarantee that I would not end up forced to eat mouflon/wild sheep or some other meat. Having been a vegetarian for over forty years it is a case of one obsession, i.e. hill-bagging, being trounced by another one.

I knew that my first attempt would probably not get me there as I needed to acclimatise. Previous experience had told me that I get symptoms of altitude sickness above 3000m. Ironic considering my choice of hobby – bit like a keen sailor getting sea-sick, an avid nature lover getting hay-fever or even an arachnaphobe who collects deadly spiders.

My first attempt was from the remote village Tighouzzirin N31.39316 W6.43141 (2340m)  Almost from the beginning I lost the route and used a lot of time and energy struggling up the wrong slopes. Eventually I found – and then lost – the main path near a hamlet.

Beyond there I found another path that unnecessarily took me down into a small valley that would have been avoided by the main path. Below me there was a shepherd shouting at me and gesticulating to join him. I decided I did not want to lose more height and sat down to eat an orange. Within moments he reached me despite only wearing pointed toed slippers on a slope of scree and crumbly rocks. I gave him half my orange and he produced a large bread from a hessian sack. Saying hello and thanks for the piece of bread used up my full knowledge of Moroccan Arabic and he spoke no French. However, he still managed to explain to me how to get to Oumsoud and his equally non-French speaking grandson (clearly compulsory education does not get all the children into school), who appeared from nowhere, lead me up to the well used and maintained path. I followed the path for a while until reaching a height of about 3100m when the maladie d’altitude and the still long distance to go to get to the summit made me give up for the day. The annoying thing about the malady is that as soon as you start descending the symptoms subside and then disappear; this made me feel a bit of a wuzz and a softie for not struggling on.

Overnight near the village of Tighouzzirin.

Oops

How to get to Tighouzzirin – take the Toundout road from Skoura and just keep going for many kilometres until you come to an upside down speed sign. Shortly afterwards the tarmac stops in an unnamed village. Just beyond the village, unbelievably, there is a signpost N31.38251 W6.42414 (2082m). Turn left at the sign and it is up a steep rough windy track to the first village of Tighouzzirin where there is space to park. However, as this is also the area where the villagers gather in the evening to chat, I parked in a narrow re-entrant further down the road at N31.39129 W6.42569 (2202m).

The proper route to the point where I gave up is:

From Tighouzzirin follow the ‘main road’ to N31.39322 W6.43346, turn right between the houses up towards a water tank at 31.39478 W6.43520. There is a choice of paths that seem to head for the same oued/valley to the left. Cross the stream and then at N31.41063 W6.43561 (2680m) keep right. This takes you to the right of a small but well watered hamlet. At N31.41717 W6.43478 bear left from the stream and head for a hidden entrance at N31.42134 W6.43968 (2890m). The track traverses above a valley to a col at N31.42750 W6.43477 (2884m). This is where the young Arab boy took me. And the path now is quite obvious as it traverses around in a wide semi circle to N31.44550 W6.43642 (3090m) and onwards to N31.45560 W6.43293 (3116m). From there the route dropped to a broad col at N31.46042 W6.43045 (3041m). My headache and short breathing told me that I did not really fancy going much further and I was not really in the mood for trying to figure where the route went next. Whatever, it does it looks like it involves more descent before the final rise. Also, I realised that even if I had another go at the same route another day it would be a rather long day.

As it happens the next day turned into a rest day at the Ryad Igrane in a small village near Toundout. I ended up helping the owner, Azzedine, create a blog about his restaurant whilst he and his father plied me with mint tea, couscous and a tajine of vegetables. I was given a guided tour of the valley which included a visit to a museum reportedly containing a very large dinosaur skeleton – typically the museum is not signposted and access was difficult and unfortunately it was also closed.

Les enfants terrible

For the next two attempts, I drove to Assaka and parked up by the river at N31.41539 W6.48880 (1215m). As I walked through the village (for the first time of four) I was greeted by a small group of children who  good-naturedly called out ‘Bonjour Monsieur’ dozens of times – by the fourth time I walked through the village I had over forty children doing the same and rhythmically banging plastic bottles with sticks despite being remonstrated at by village elders. What was interesting was that at each end of the village there was a definite but unmarked boundary line that they did not cross. I might have been the Pied Piper but I would not have been able to lead them away from their homes.

No palm trees - but several satellite dishes

The main street

Beyond Assaka there is a rough drivable track. However, to get to that involves driving up the stream – more about that later. This track and the electricity supply runs out at the next village complete with satellite dishes on many of the roofs. The track becomes a mule track to the next village and ends at the foot of a steep narrow gorge that I got to know – but not love – quite well. 

Happy Valley

At the top of the gorge there are various small temporary and more permanent settlements with a number of families tending their mouflons and goats as well as growing a few crops. To them the gorge is just part of their way to work. I picked up a  mule track that went to the right and then up a wide stone filled valley. Somehow I missed a right turn and ended up meeting a path that looks like it goes from Tighouzzirin to the west of Mgoun to the source of the Oued Tessawt. Because, once again I was getting the symptoms of altitude sickness I wasn’t paying full attention until I realised from my GPS that I was no nearer to the summit than I had been an hour or so earlier. Somehow I had drifted too far west, was over 3600m high with a headache and still 4km away from the summit. I returned to face the les enfants terrible of Assaka and a night by the river.

Crumbly rock

On the way

Mgoun surface

Moon surface

Next day I had another go. At least this time I knew the area, I knew the way, and I left early enough for most of the children not to be up and about. And thankfully, I was getting acclimatised, the symptoms were still there, but bearable. It was a long haul and I was exhausted by time I got back to the top of the gorge. Thankfully as I was walking down a few kilometres from Assaka a minibus with a badly cracked windscreen came by and without a word spoken the driver opened the door and almost dragged me inside the vehicle which then lurched down the track and into the stream to the centre of the village. In many areas there are quite well established tracks following the river beds which are  dry except after heavy rain and in spring when the snow melts. This stream isn’t one of those wide beds – it was bouldery and narrow – the minibus felt like it was going to go over on its side more than once as we bounced along. And, the children were there, in abundance.

A view south

Old disused cave

All over Morocco you can buy a round loaf of bread for 1 dirham (about 8p) and very nice it is too. At the bus terminal (he says grandly) there is a little shop, little more than a booth. I asked if they had ‘du pain’ – they didn’t, but the shopkeeper sent one of the children off to one of the houses and he came back with two loaves that were still warm. They were ‘free’, presumably  because of the amount of entertainment that I had provided for the children.

And it was a second night sleeping by the river at Assaka, with the accompaniment of croaking frogs.

In the morning at first light I found four men squatting on the ground very close by, hoping for a lift into Morocco’s ‘Hollywood’ town Ouarzazate – there are a number of film studios around the town. Quite frequently as you drive around Morocco the gendarmerie set up roadblocks so that they can check people’s papers and that seatbelts are being worn – and to collect baksheesh. As cars come the other way driver’s flash a warning and it is only at that point do any of my hitchhikers bother to fasten their seatbelts to avoid the 400Dh fine. As a tourist I just get a wave through without any hesitation – although this is a relief it is also embarrassing as I dislike preferential treatment. Anyway somewhere on the road between Skoura and Ouarzazate a pack of dogs ran across the road and I could not avoid hitting one of them. Unfortunately for the poor dog it was killed; unfortunately for me it knocked my front number plate off. The four men in the back were telling me to just continue but I had to search around for the number plate. There was no way I was going to drive around Morocco and several European countries without it. And, sure enough just a couple of kilometres down the road there was a gendarmerie roadblock – they did not seem to mind though that the plate was on the dashboard rather than fixed to the front. I asked the four men if they could direct me to a ‘mekanik’ to fix the number plate back on and after a convoluted drive around Ouarzazate up very dusty back roads we came to where there were three ‘mekanik’ workshops in a row**. Being still quite early in the morning none of them were open for business – however, one of my lift takers scouted around and found a mekanik sleeping in his car at the side of the premises.

**In Morocco, and many of the southern European countries, you never seem to get just one of anything. Not just one person selling melons, rock minerals, ferry tickets or ceramics but seven in a row. As a business model it sucks. Imagine going to the bank manager for a loan and saying I want to set up a new business – I want to sell x – it must be profitable as there are already six people selling exactly the same thing within a few hundred metres. Even when they form co-operatives – such as the Argan olive oil women’s co-operatives they seem to set up rival outlets quite close to each other.  In Marrakesh you get entire souks where everyone is selling the same things. ‘Look inside my shop’ they say. ‘Why, I have looked inside the neighbouring one and there is no difference’.

Overnight in the Le Relais campsite of Marrakesh.

Cycling through the Marrakesh Medina is an experience to remember. In many action films you often get a car chase through a market, souk, narrow-streeted medieval town or whatever – the usual clichés being a fruit stall knocked over, cyclists and scooter riders scattered, at least one of the chasing vehicles turning over on its side, vehicles bursting out of a side alley straight across a busy road, bystanders having to jump into doorways etc. Maybe I was not travelling as fast as Bond, Bourne or Indiana Jones but it was action packed. Thankfully, outside the Medina, most of the route to and from the campsite could be taken through the palmerie where the main hazards were the caravans of pale tourists on camels.

I'll take the High Atlas Road

04-06-2013 - 06-06-2013

Before I could start tackling the big mountains of the High or Haut Atlas I had to get there and this involved a long drive through the middle part of Morocco and into the (semi) deserts of the south.

Whilst driving from north to south, it was interesting to see the differences in farming methods between the plains of middle Morocco and those in the more mountainous and (semi) desert conditions of the south. It was harvest time for wheat, barley and fodder in both areas. In the more northerly temperate and less mountainous areas some of the harvesting was being done by hand and was very (mainly female) labour intensive, however, there were also men using combine harvesters. Many of them were wearing conical straw hats – bit like a sombrero with a narrower brim.

In the southerly more desert areas the work was all by hand and nearly all by women who carried the hay, straw, fodder in large baskets on their backs. On several occasions these women asked me for suncream to put on the backs of their hands, presumably because this was the only part of their bodies exposed to sunlight as they laboured. I realise that it is not a good idea to comment on another culture – I believe the trendy phrase these days is ‘consider your privileges before speaking’ – however it was notable that the women of all ages were working from dawn to dusk whilst the men were often sat in the shade for hours on end, admittedly some of them watching over herds of sheep or goats. However, much of the herding seemed to be done by children, sometimes quite young.  

There were many men commuting long distances from remote villages to the larger towns – I lost count of the number of people to whom I gave a lift. There were very few parts of my journey when I did not have at least one hitchhiker with me – one time I stopped somewhere on the Tizi-n-Tichka pass road to pick up what looked like two women and seven not small women crammed themselves in.  Sometimes the conversations were limited to me just understanding ‘selaam/bonjour’ and ‘shukran/merci’ and them eventually understanding that I was ‘anglais’. Other times with a mixture of my poor French and their better English the conversations were fuller – one teacher even quoted Samuel Johnson about tiring of that London is tiring of life. I turned down all the offers of hashish, money etc. - but occasionally accepted  thé à la menthe.

Enroute to the High/Haut Atlas I broke off the journey several times.

Diana and the bathing nymphs

Tangier Gate - Volubilis

I visited Volubilis on the Zerhoun Massif – a Roman site occupied from about 300 Before Common Era. The site was surrounded by olive groves and wheatfields and that gives a clue as to why the Romans settled there.

Triumphal Arch Volubilis - spot the wheat and olive trees

The Macaque family

Later I stopped in the cedar forest south of Azrou and came across a group of semi-wild macaque monkeys that were clearly used to being fed by tourists. Wherever, you stop in Morocco even if it seems quite remote, within minutes there is someone trying to sell you something or just simply saying ‘donnez-moi Dirham’. Naturally enough the traders here were trying to sell me items made from cedar wood. After Midelt and the border between the Middle Atlas and the High Atlas the trade is mineral stones and fossilised trilobites and ammonites. 

Middle Atlas

Tizi n’Talghaunt/Tizi-n-Tairhent pass 

Semi-desert

By time I reached the Tizi n’Talghaunt/Tizi-n-Tairhent pass (1907m) over the High Atlas the trees were mainly gone and it was semi-desert. Down through the Ziz gorge and to the oasis town of Er-Rachidia (the spelling differed from one signpost to another) where I turned right on a desert road westwards. I was tempted to go further east/south to experience true desert conditions, however that is not where the mountains are.

High Atlas - eastern end

Desert

I read somewhere that in Morocco the size of a town is measured by the number of palm trees rather than its population. After much thought I decided the UK equivalent could possibly be the number of CCTV cameras. My overnight stop was at Tinerhir – which judging by the size of the palm grove is a major town – in the Auberge Atlas camping site on the road to the Todra gorge. I was parked next to the Oued Todra and surrounded by palm trees.

View from motorhome at Auberge Atlas

Todra gorge

Bonne route

The following morning I cycled about 40km (return) through the gorge with its 300m high vertical walls and onwards to the small village of Tamtattouchte on a, thankfully, nearly traffic free road. On my return there were a number of rock climbers on the clearly marked routes on the sheerest walls. I wonder how well it would go down if similar markings were made at Tremadog or the north face of Ben Nevis. There were also coachloads of tourists being accosted by the traders selling pashminas, carpets, mineral stones and ceramics.

Dades gorge

Later in the day I drove from the oasis of Boumalne du Dades up the Dades gorge past weird rock formations and many villages to a high point in the mountains before returning to Boumalne and the main road. I stayed overnight at a camping site in Skoura – Camping Amrhidil. At most campsites I was the only resident – at this one I suspect I was the first resident this year (and possibly longer) – and the amenities are quite Spartan, if there is toilet paper and the shower is hot it is a **** site.

Gorgeous Dad

Dades above

Weird rocks - Dades gorge

However, I was now ready to get to the high High Atlas at last.

My favourite roadsign - beats boring old 'ford' anyday - of course, there was never any water

Shepherd's camel

 

Mouflon sheep and the two headed camel

Well

Pillars of Hercules

01-06-2013 - 3-6-2013

Gibraltar from Monte Hacho

You’d think, wouldn't you, that when the Romans came up with the idea of the Pillars of Hercules that they would be clear about which hills they meant? I understand that it was the furthest west that Hercules got when doing his twelve labours - although I think they were named after a pub in Soho, in that London. Anyway, the least the Romans could have done is give the precise longitude and latitude for the summits of the two pillars. It is generally recognised that the pillar on the northern side of the Straits of Gibraltar was the Rock of Gibraltar. However, there is less certainty about which one on the Libyan (as it was then known) southern side it is – the two contenders are Mount Hacho, which is in the Spanish enclave of Ceuta and Jabal Moussa, which is just over the border in Morocco. As an obsessive hillbagger I decided that I would try to visit the summit of all three – not something that many people, if any, bother to do.

The messy top area of the Rock.

Obviously lots of people get to near the top of the Rock of Gibraltar – there is a cable car, special taxis and several walk ways. Hardly any get to the actual top because of walls, barbed wire, steep rocks, difficult vegetation and the apes ( although I found the seagulls, behaving like bonxies, more menacing as they flew straight at me and did not swerve until the very last moment). I started at sea level and walked around the town looking for a haircut  – and found a traditional barber still using cut throat razors and scissors. Then feeling a lot more light-headed I walked up the long traversing road to the Pillars of Hercules sculpture, paid my 50p entrance fee (it is £12 if you drive up there) and got to the point where the path goes down the other side on the Mediterranean steps. 

Mediterranean steps

From there it was pretty easy to clamber over a wall to avoid the barbed wire and on to the rock by O’Hara’s battery. Most people don’t go to all this bother and they are probably right not to. There is another summit to the north that looks as high, but the barbed wire has been reinforced all round that one – I know, because I tried to get round it from both the north and south, despite the gulls.

I walked the rest of the ridge as far as the cable car and then felt I had done enough and followed  the steep steps that go straight down into the town with its cafes offering ‘real fish and chips’ and ‘all day breakfasts’ for the people on the cruisers who are already feeling homesick.

I decided against setting up a hedge fund to take advantage of the lax tax regime in Gibraltar.

11.59km, 781m ascent

Gibraltar from Spain

Overnight in a carpark by West Quay, Gibraltar

Monte Hacho from the ferry 

Next day I caught the Acciona Trasmediterranea Ferry from Algeciras to Ceuta – a ferry ride that was a tad quicker than the Portsmouth – Santander one i.e. one hour rather than 24. The days objective was to get to the top of Mount Hacho 203m P   which has a fort built on top. Not having a proper map it took a bit of driving around until I finally decided to park in the Mirador de San Antonio (117m) -with great views across the Med - N35.89975 W 5.29456 on the northern side of the peninsula.


 From there I found a dirt road that lead across the west side of the fort – just before the road came to an end I found, by chance, a narrow track that lead uphill to the walls of the fort. Forcing my way through the overgrown vegetation accompanied by the calls of a peacock I came out on a road that came up from the town – when I looked later, I could not find the beginning of that road though. This took me up to a locked and closed wooden door – close by was the highest accessible natural rock I could find, N35.89372 W5.29261 – although it was obvious there was higher ground inside the high walls. I followed the walls around for a while and then found an alternative way back down to the carpark.

Highest accessible point at back

The pretty but closed back door

The main door to the Forteleza de Hacho

Later, I discovered another dirt track that went up to the east side of the fort and here there was a gate guarded by a sentry. N35.89543 W5.28794. I did ask, but he politely refused to let me inside. 

Overnight in a car park in Ceuta.

Jabal Moussa from Monte Hacho

Jabal Moussa from the ferry

On the third day, would you believe it, there were clouds and, in particular, there were clouds obscuring Jabal Moussa 839m (prominence unknown, by me). I nearly let this put me off – I didn’t have a map, I suspected that there would be no signposts/waymarks or any other form of encouragement and it was going to be stumbling around in the mist. However, I decided I would at least have a look.

Moussa from east end of Ben Younech

Crossing the border into Morocco was fun – I am sure the authorities have tried to make it as difficult as possible. Interestingly the Spanish make the crossing to and from Gibraltar more difficult than the Schengen agreement intended. However, at least they don’t have the numerous forms, the booths with their windows away from the vehicles so that you have to get out and all the time there are several people, pretending to be official ‘helpers’ in the hope of a tip. And does everyone get the interrogation about whether they are carrying guns in their vehicle?
It was almost by chance that I ended up driving down a road to the village of Ben Younech which hugs the coast at the foot of Jabal Moussa. This road crossed the mountain at quite a height but there seemed no obvious way from it and when I stopped to have a proper look I was waved at by a soldier across the road to move on. It took me a while to figure out a possible route from the village. In the end I drove through to the other end of the village and parked by a little house (61m) N35.91111 W5.40246 – it wasn’t until I got back I realised that it was a cafe and that it was called the Populare Jabal Moussa - see the sign. 

The cafe sign - told you it was called the Jabal Moussa

The col is on the left of the prominent rock

From there I followed a goat/goatherd track that lead into a dry oued/stream This track then goes up to a few houses which could be reached by a road, but there was nowhere to park, I passed by a few chickens and then into the scrub. I eventually hit upon a mule track that lead in sweeping traverses all the way up to a col at 593m N35.90183 W5.41508.

The final mule track traverse turns back to the col

Then it was back to goat tracks and the occasional small cairn. I picked my way through the limestone rocks, loose stones, endless flowers, goat droppings and messy scree on a broad ridge to a second col from where the summit came into view. The summit was marked by a goatherd’s shelter and what could have been the rusty remains of a beacon - 828m N35.89808 W5.41133.

Just some of the goats - can you spot the Rock of Gibraltar and, I think, Torrecilla?

Moussa summit

Promise you this is natural - not someone's rock garden

The cloud swirled around – so that sometimes I was in mist, sometimes above the cloud with views over the Straits of Gibraltar and along the coast to the Port of Tangier. All around me were dozens of goats and an abundance of bright coloured flowers.

The village mosque

Going down I decided to follow the mule track more diligently than I had on ascent – mainly out of curiosity as to where it would come out. Eventually I got fed up with it, as it wasn’t really that much easier walking than the ascent route I had chosen. I came out in the village by a mosque N35.90849 W5.39984 –  just as the overwound cassette tape of a prayer was played loud and tinnily and set off the village dogs barking in unison.




I reckon if I had followed the mule track all the way I would have come out near the taxi rank N35.90731 W5.39286 where there is a small carpark.

So, there you go. My first African mountain (if you count the Canaries as European) – Jabal Moussa, Jbel Mussa, Jebel Sidi Moussa. And it gets my vote as the other Pillar of Hercules because at least you can get to the top, even though it is a bit of a ‘labour’.

9.08km 1640m ascent

Jabal Moussa from the south

Overnight in Motel Rif Aire de Repos, Route de Fes, Bni Kola, Ouezzane