The road to Meknès was single-track, rather damaged and with little or no possibility for passing. Every time a vehicle approached, I wondered how far I, with our motor-caravan called “Gus”, should leave the road and how far would he?
  Taxis and buses absolutely refused to pull out an inch and most other vehicles preferred to leave the small strip of bitumen as less as possible. Though there was not much traffic, I got fed up after being driven on the verge for the umpteenth time and, when a small Renault 4 approached, I kept to the middle of the road. I didn’t know how fast I should leave the bitumen when the driver had no other reaction than to let loose his steering-wheel, raised his arms heavenward and invoked Allah!

From Meknès we followed the main route in the direction of Marrakech. This time it was a nice and well-kept road, with on one side a view of the snow-covered mountains of the Middle-Atlas and on the other side the vast green fields of the table-land.
  A few days ago we had met with Paul and Mary, a young couple, just like us making a round-trip of Morocco by motor-caravan. They told us enthusiastically about a small village near a beautiful waterfall, Cascades d’Ouzoud. They had been the only tourists there. Omar, the owner of the campsite, had taken them under his wings, making sure Paul and Mary had had a wonderful time. From their description it looked like just the place for us.

Paul and Mary had said we should drive on to Tamelelt, then east and back to Cascades d’Ouzoud. However Francis, my wife noticed a short-cut. According to our road-map we passed the village of Khemis-des-Oulad-Ayad and from there a small road led to the waterfalls. It was only twenty miles, instead of the hundred odd miles Paul and Mary had wanted us to drive.
  Without problems Gus climbed a pass of almost thousand meters high. The road was very steep and from the top we had a marvellous view of the surroundings.

After we had passed the little village of Aït-Attab, the bitumen road made way for loose gravel and stones. On one side of the path a steep rock-face, on the other a sheer ravine. After a few miles of rattling and rambling we arrived at a deep chasm over which a small bridge had been built. I stopped and when taking a better look at the bridge, I frightened. It resembled “The Bridge Over The River Kwai”, only worse. Gus just fitted between the railings of the bridge. Upon entering on foot I noticed several wooden cross-beams were missing, the holes filled with rocks. Francis was afraid to cross, but because it was impossible to back-up or turn around, I closed my eyes and accelerated.
  On the other side of the bridge the track seemed even worse than before. According to my map it should have been a metalled road, yet it was less than a goat’s-path, riddled with pot-holes, enormous rocks and deep ruts.
  I drove on, hoping the road would get better around the next bend. Nothing could make me cross that damned bridge again. The path slowly winded up along the side of the chasm and so we bumped on, leaping from rock to rock.

After having rambled along this goat’s-path for more than two hours, I started to wonder whether this was really the correct road to Cascades d’Ouzoud. It was almost evening and slowly the sun disappeared behind the mountaintops.
  Suddenly a small boy jumped in front of Gus. He seemed to appear out of nowhere. I brought the ‘van to a halt and asked the boy if we were still on the right road to the Cascades.
  “Oh yes,” he said, “Only one more mile. Give me a ball-point!”
  Out of joy I gave him one and that gesture had an unexpected reaction. From the dense shrub tumbled a group of at least twenty boys and girls, all screaming from the top of their lungs they too wanted ball-points!
  I tried to drive on very slowly but the kids kept running in front of Gus. Still rattling and rambling from one side of the path to the other, I became mortally afraid to hit one of them. The moment we entered the small village, the children disappeared as quickly as they had come and I started to breath again.
  Though by this time it was totally dark, it was easy to find the campsite: a walled-in courtyard with a subsoil of sand and stones. Omar stood waiting for us. He must have heard our ‘van from miles away. Omar was not only the owner of the campsite, but also the local guide, “hotelkeeper”, and “restaurateur”. He spoke fluent French and English and understood a bit of German and Dutch. That made communication easy.

During the following days Omar took us on several climbing trips through the chasm to places from where we had a magnificent view of the waterfalls.
  “See those two rainbows?” Omar asked, “They are even visible at night, by the light of a full moon. You won’t see that at the Niagara!”
  Omar was a good guide. He told us much about life in Morocco and about the many sights worth seeing in his country. One day he took us on a mile-long hiking trip to the far end of the chasm in search for monkeys, still living there in the wild. Because they destroy the olive-yards and rob the vegetable-gardens they were hunted by the villagers. Only the past few years these monkeys are protected. It took us several hours before we found them and I dare say, watching wild monkeys is really different than looking at them in the zoo!

The fifth day of our stay in Cascades, Omar invited us to visit his father’s house. I felt honoured by his invitation, though I had no idea if he had a certain meaning with this visit.
  The house of Omar’s father was in a rather large, but very isolated Berber-village. We went there in our ‘van and had to follow an unpaved road for approximately ten miles. The last mile we had to cover on foot.
  The village was a collection of small, sandstone houses, covered with layers of red-baked clay. In my eyes, only Omar’s parental house looked habitable. The rest of the village reminded me of the middle-ages. Almost no light permeated the little streets and alleys. No path was paved and everywhere l looked I saw donkey-droppings.
  Omar’s father was ninety years old, yet had two wives. In an open space, where the earthen ground was covered with carpets, we sat cross-legged, drank coffee and were offered almonds and cookies. Omar’s father spoke excellent French and wanted to know how many sons I had.
  “None,” I answered.
  “How many sheep do you have, Roger?” was his next question and again I had to confess:
  “None.”
  I got a strong impression that, from that moment on Omar’s father regarded me as a pitiful human being. In spite of my material wealth I was, in his eyes, a poor man. Still, we had a long discussion with several points of view that were completely new to me. His ideas were very different from mine, but I became aware that also the Moroccan way of life, with its many family-traditions, had its advantages. Omar’s father thought Western-Europe rich materially speaking, but lacking in religious conviction and family-life; those two beliefs were for him the pillars of richness for Morocco. He foresaw a dark future for us Europeans. We were to meet our down-fall, because of our “godless” way of life.
  By the time we walked back to Gus, night was falling. In no-time it was pitch-dark. I was glad Omar sat next to me on the way back to the Cascades, because in the dark it was almost impossible for me to see the difference between the “road” and the country-side next to it. I would have liked to present Omar with something to thank him for his and his father’s hospitality, but what?
  “Do you have any tablets against headache?” Omar asked, “Besides being the spiritual leader of his village, my father is also some kind of doctor. Mostly he uses herbs to help people. But aspirin is most welcome!”

A few days later, with much food for thought, we drove further south, into the Western-Sahara, to Goulimine, famous for its camel-market. Goulimine is to be found on the crossing of several roads leading into the Sahara and has some kind of central function. From all directions the desert-people come to this city to sell their wares, mostly knick-knacks and camels. We had heard lots of various stories about that camel-market. Some told us it was a “real” market, others said it was for tourists only and, if we were lucky, maybe we would see one, very ancient camel. I think everyone was right.
  The next morning we rose early to find the market already quite busy at seven o’clock. As far as we could see, we were the only Europeans. The market was held on a large, walled-in plot of land, just outside the city. On the sandy ground stood lots of camels, sheep, goats and even cows. Against the chill of the morning, most merchants had put up the hoods of their djellabas, the pointed caps standing out like mountain-tops.
  By nine o’clock most camels had changed hands, their place taken by souvenir-hawkers, who started to spread their wares on the ground. For us that was the sign to leave. After a few minutes on our way back north, we met the first of many touring-cars, all of them loaded with tourists heading for the camel-market. If in luck, they would find maybe one, very ancient camel to take pictures from!

From Goulimine we drove in several days to the little village of Zagora, which is the most southern point of Middle-Morocco, about as far as you can go before going into the Sahara-desert. Upon entering Zagora, we noticed an old signpost, which read:
  “Timbuktu, only 52 days”.
  The sign indicated an ancient caravan-route, by which it was possible to reach Timbuktu by camel, right through the Sahara. Of course, a Land-Rover or other four-wheel-drive will get there quicker, but with Gus this was about as far south as we dared to go. From here on all “roads” became “piste” and therefore very risky.
  Just outside of Zagora we found a nice campsite. The owner, Mohammed, was very friendly and told us he organized camel-rides into the desert. We could book for one, two or more days.
  “How many days will you go?”
  I thought two days would be more than enough. Experience was not needed. A guide would take care of everything, including meals. I thought it would be some sort of excursion like hotels organize for their guests, but no, no, Mohammed exclaimed, this was to be absolutely individual.
  After we had taken this impulsive decision, we started to get second thoughts. What, in heavens name, were we doing? After all, we left our ‘van in the middle of nowhere and went into the desert with a complete stranger and by an unknown means of transport. There was nobody we had discussed this plan with.
  By the way, what would we bring on a trip like this? We had not rented an extra camel to take any luggage and therefore decided to pack only a small backpack with, in our opinion, the bare necessities, like woollen sweaters against a cold night, a sponge bag, toilet paper, sunscreen lotion and, of course, sleeping-bags.

The next morning at nine o’clock, after a sleepless night, Mohammed woke us with the information that our camels were ready for the trip. He introduced us to a turbaned man, who stood holding two fully loaded camels and said:
  “This is Saïd, your guide. Umm..., he doesn’t speak any English or French, only Arabic. But that’s part of the experience!”
  Saïd asked, while Mohammed translated, where we would like to spend the night? With his family or near the sand-dunes?
  We chose the latter, though we had absolutely no idea why we chose that. Yesterday, Mohammed had shown us several pictures of previous trips and on those we had seen people sleeping in large, brown, nomadic-tents.
  Riding a camel proved to be a piece of cake. The first half hour I was bothered by the humping and leaping, but slowly I got used to the moving rhythm of the camel.
  The preceding evening and also at breakfast we had had little or nothing to eat. Therefore we showed our appreciation when the guide, after about a two-hour ride, brought the camels to a halt for our midday-meal near a large dade-palm.
  Saïd helped us off the camels and started to unload them. Both animals carried quite a load, because next to our backpack and sleeping-bags, they carried two big saddle-bags with provisions and cooking-utensils, four jerry cans filled with drinking-water and a large bag containing charcoal. Only when all this had been unloaded, I could see what my saddle looked like. Folded round the hump of the camel was a rolled-up blanket and on top of that were four blankets on which I sat.

When dusk approached we entered an area with beautiful sand dunes and a few scattered palm-trees. Saïd asked if we wanted to sleep here. In spite of him only speaking Arabic, we could communicate by means of gesturing. In this case Francis had not quite understood, because she hadn’t seen a tent, neither did we carry one. Yet it soon dawned upon her we would sleep on the ground, without cover. Completely clothed we crept in our sleeping-bags and it didn’t take long before sleep overtook us, in our thousand-star hotel.
  At around six Francis and I woke up together, because slowly darkness made way for dawn. We got up, went to the other side of the sand dune and watched the sun rise. Both camels lay there peacefully, ruminating, their front legs tied together. It was still rather chilly and therefore, after having put on a second sweater, we crept back in our sleeping-bags. I fell into a deep sleep and it must have been eight-thirty when I woke again, bathing in sunlight. Saïd also woke up and when he rose, I noticed he had been sleeping with his cleaver under his blanket.

By ten we had loaded the camels and drove further on, across the Hamada, the stony desert. From time to time both camels stopped to take a bite from one of the scattered bushes. They ate all kinds of everything: flowers, branches and even sharp-thorned thistles. They only ate the uppermost parts of the plants, so the roots remained undamaged. Whilst ruminating they smelled like old ensilage and I assure you, that really stinks!
  When we came to an old well, Saïd filled our jerry cans by means of the tea-kettle, which he let down into the well by tying together the harnesses of the camels. I was amazed to see with how little and with what simple means it is possible to exist. For instance the blankets, rolled around the hump, became the saddle, yet were also used as “bed”, “table”, “chair”, “sunscreen”, “windscreen”, and also as a cover for the dough, while rising.

During the day the temperature rose quite high and the sun burned on our bodies. We were dressed such that only our hands and fore-arms were left uncovered. I was glad we had bought turbans before starting on this trip, because they proved to be an ideal protection against the sun, the wind, the sand and the dust. Yet they didn’t prevent my nose from burning severely red.
  By six o’clock we returned to the campsite and by now I was extremely troubled by saddle-ache. Only a cup of tea and a shower helped to ease the pain a little. The next morning, when I took a good look at myself in the mirror, I saw there was something else besides saddle-ache: my buttocks were completely blue! I don’t think I’ll make it all the way to Timbuktu yet.