Three months around Europe

Al Hoceima to Figuig

I wanted sun, peace and little drama on the next stage of my journey. What could go wrong if I took in the old Imperial cities of Taza and Oudja then headed south into the desert town of Figuig.

Al Hoceima is having serious money poured into to establish it as the next Mediterranean must go to resort. The road is being dual carriaged, shopping malls being built and perhaps even an Irish theme pub – Paddy Mohammeds.

I took the secondary road toTaza in bright, cold sunshine . It cut through the mountains and over three or four low passes. There was little traffic, only old vans and farmers on their donkeys heading for the local market.

I saw a most incongruous sight on this road. A man in neatly pressed clothes astride a donkey, two paces behind him was a women bowed double under a load of firewood. Her clothes were dowdy – but then it it hard to get the right outfit to transport firewood with. It was like a scene from the middle ages and all the talk I had heard of emancipation was disapated by that scene. I stopped and debated taking a picture but decided it was best left a mental memory

Taza was quiet, laid back. An old fortress town with crumbling fortifications,

The next morning I decided to take the 200km toll road to the border town of Oudja. It was not expensive – about 3 euros for the distance . I stopped halfway at a modern service centre. Like the motorway , it was empty and the staff served me tea with a silver service flourish.

I was getting into the desert proper now. Scrubby plants, vast flat plains and a bit of heat shimmer from the road. I kept the bike at 120kph, just enjoying the lack of traffic , the heat and the dynamics of the road.

At the toll booth, the young fellow saw my New Zealand sticker and said
“Lord of the Rings” . We talked for maybe 15 minutes and he volunteered to ring his friend who had a hotel in Oudja and get me “ special price”

I tend to avoid these arrangements , but he seemed sincere and so I went to the hotel where for Euro10 I was given an excellent room with a balcony and even a bidet. At last a chance to wash my feet.

Oudja was a university city – and a bit of tourist backwater since the border with Algeria closed in 1995,

My dinner that night was enlivened by a group of students discussing, in French, the impact social media was having on the Arab Spring movement. Top of the table was a young woman with charisma to spare. She was a born leader, with flashing black eyes, enthusiasm and a real trick of using her voice to draw her audience in.. Her colleagues, the waiter and myself were hanging on every word. At one stage she caught me watching and mentioned it to her audience. They all swivelled to look at me and I reddened ,

“ Pas de problem – Anglais “ she asked .

Non , Nouvelle Zealand, I replied .

“Ah Lord of the Rings and you beat France in the rugby world cup,”: she said in perfectly accented English.

I would follow this lady to the barricades – well at least until my bedtime.

What a contrast with the firewood lady I saw just a hours previously. Monique I will watch for your name.

The desert road to Figuig is boring , so I just opened the throttle, put on my Ipod and sang away the 400km only stopping for the four police checkpoints. This is still a sensitive military area and they like to keep tabs on subversive superannuatants.

Figuig, is an oasis town with a traveller's past. A stop on the way to Mecca but with the closed border now the end of the line. I pulled into the town square, parked and sat down outside the cafe enjoying the sight of the palm trees, jagged hills and the diversity of the inhabitants.

The ladies of Figuig have a tradition of wearing white robes with only one eye showing. Bit like a Canterbury rugby team supporter.

Ishmael , the owner of the local auberge found me and I ended up staying at his home for two nights. I slept in a room on the roof, got lost in the streets, had meals with his family and got to know more of desert tribe's outlook.

On the second night I was sitting outside my room watching the sun set when four local ladies in traditional garb joined me. They were surprisingly forthright in their approach and asked me all sorts of questions about NZ, my travels, my family and yes Lord of the Rings.

It is quite disconcerting speaking to someone whose only part you can see is one big, beautifully made up eye and a carefully shaped and surprisingly exopressive eyebrow

I asked them about their life and told them the stories in my fractured French about the contrast I saw between the firewood toting lady and Monique , the firebrand.

They looked at each other, then back at me . The oldest of the quartet – at least I think it was the oldest replied.

“ Just because our clothes are traditional , does not mean our ideas are. We Figuig woman have many ways of influencing our men. You know we would never have to carry firewood if there was a donkey about.”

I was sure I saw four eyes twinkling in unison.