SPRINGTIME IN MOROCCO So, here we are, in one of the driest parts of Morocco; and it’s raining. Perhaps the Welsh influence is more powerful than we realise!

We are parked up in view of the Erg Chebbi, the largest sand dune in Morocco.and only 70 K from the Algerian border. Although it was sunny and hot when we arrived yesterday, the clouds have been building all day. I was chatting to a Frenchman, who is a regular visitor to these parts, at the wash up this morning and he said that this was the first year that he had known it rain.

The welcome rain has watered large areas of Morocco by all accounts; breaking the two year drought. Patches of vivid green are appearing all along the sides of the road and across the stony sandy plains between here (Merzouga) and Boumalne; 170K East from our last campsite stop at Ouarzazate.

The Vallee du Dades was a bit of a disappointment, but we did find a good wild camping spot just off a sandy piste in the middle of a great bleak plain, with just the occasional herd of goats and sheep to be seen in the far distance. The next night we parked up just off the road near a disused quarry and, in the morning, Pete saw a Lanner falcon perched close by on one of the few scrubby bushes; and two trumpeter finches with bright pink beaks who flew around Doris, full of curiosity.

After Tinerhir we began to appreciate the palmeries, Kasbahs and Ksar that line this route. Although there were some impressive ruins perched on the rocky plateaus along the road, amongst the palms and blossoming almond trees, there were many restored buildings, still built out of ‘pise’, the mud and straw constructions that this area is famed for. Evidently they are liable to collapse after any heavy rain, unless they are quickly repaired. Nobody seems to know how old they are, but, if you didn’t know, you’d say they had been there for centuries.

Many of the villages along this route are famous for the production of eau de rose, made from the little Persian damask roses that grow along the hedges of the palmeries. One such village, that we stopped in to buy supplies, seemed to consist of shops full of vivid pink bottles of the famed water. But we couldn’t find potatoes for dinner for love nor money. And, one distinct drawback to this region was the hustling.

This is tourist land and we saw many convoys of 4 by 4s and minibuses, full of pale faced Europeans, being bussed to some tourist spot; whether to the gorges Todra and Dades, or trekking in the unspoilt wilderness of the Tafilelt. And the locals were not the friendly open natured Moroccans that we have come to know and like. All along the route from Tinerhir to here at Merzouga their main concern is ‘argent’.

As we passed slowly through the crowded villages they found every opportunity to approach Doris’s window and attempt some sort of shakedown; and even on the open road between settlements we had one or two who stood in the middle of the road, desperately trying to flag us down; to what purpose we didn’t hang around to discover.

At our quarry stop a large herd of camels stalked majestically past. I took a couple of photos, whereupon a young boy on a bike approached Doris’s door and asked for ‘argent’. His eyes were much too hard and world weary for one so young. “Porquoi” I asked. For the photo he intimated. I gave him a carton of Moroccan orange ‘juice’ instead.

So here we are, on a campsite in Merzouga. As campsites go this is ‘luxury’. For 30 dirhams a night we have a quiet sandy site, with hot showers and working ‘European’ toilets. The site is attached to one of the many hotels (La Porte du Desert) situated along the Erg Chebbi and evidently is choc a bloc during the season; which, thankfully, does not kick off until later on in March. The hotel itself is quite impressive; it’s cool interior is rich with beautiful rugs, paintings and Moroccan artifacts.

We arrived here in rather a bizarre fashion. The Rough Guide (our bible) warns of tourist touts in Rissani, the town before here, where, evidently, all signs to Merzouga have been defaced, so that unwary travellers get rooked by the many ‘guides’ offering their services. Indeed, we had trouble shaking off one persistent gentleman, while trying to find the right road out of town. We saw a French camper ahead and decided to follow it; the French usually know all the routes.

Sure enough, as we approached Merzouga, the camper avoided the village and drove up this road, where all the hotels, huge complexes with the impressive dunes as a backdrop, are situated. When it stopped, just outside the gates of La Porte du Desert, a Moroccan leapt out, of the passenger side, and came over to us. He said if we were looking for camping this was the best in Merzouga. Well, we were looking for camping, so we followed the camper through the gates and we both drew up on the small campsite to the side of the hotel.

While the Moroccan was telling us how welcome we were, the French camper drove off and away to some other stopover. We could only assume that he had been ‘caught’ in Rissani by our Moroccan hotel tout and had taken the opportunity of our appearance to make good his escape!

We will leave here tomorrow, aiming towards Ar Rachidia. We walked into Merzouga today, only to discover that it is one dusty street of, mainly, tourist outlets; most of them closed at the moment. We had a bit of difficulty getting basic supplies and find it hard to imagine it as a place that caters for flocks of tourists in season.

The money made by the hotels, on camel rides, sand skiing and sandboarding, doesn’t seem to have trickled down to the local populace. So, only another two weeks in Morocco at the most. We feel very anti climactic at the moment; torn between leaving these warmer climes for the wet (allegedly very wet at the moment) plains of Europe, and looking forward to returning to our little house in Pembrokeshire in time for bracing Spring walks along the beautiful Pembrokeshire coastal path, where cowslips, thrift and bladder campion, kidney vetch, bluebells and primroses will be colouring the cliffs. It’s a hard life!