When my mate Louis asked whether I wanted to join for a climbing trip to Morocco in February I, despite his expectation of an immediate yes, declined. In a cold house in Sheffield working as a labourer for tree surgeons the idea of suddenly going on a climbing trip to Morocco seemed impossible. In fact the idea he and some other of my friends were going made me almost angry and I decided it was a stupid trip and imagined that the climbing would be terrible. Pointless. However, days went by and in spite of my intentions to not give it a moments thought I started to research. Flights – £30, inarguably quite cheap. Tafraoute (the climbing destination), inarguably beautiful. The wealth of 3* routes, inarguably good climbing. Fine, I had to swallow my pride and admit that I would like to go. Two of the friends; Will and Reuben had already decided to bring their bikes and cycle from the airport to the mountains. Fine, I will bring my bike...
Day 1 – Agadir
Arriving in Agadir two hours before Will and Reuben, left me time to build the bike. Much to the concern of the overly armed police. Three men with assault rifles seems a little unnecessary for one exhausted 23-year-old building a bike . To my rescue came an unlikely hero: Abdul the taxi driver, standing out mostly because of his audacious billabong down jacket in 26-degree heat. Thankfully the police calmed down. As it happened Abdul was about to go for his lunch break in the local town and he invited me to join. A beautiful salad and soup awaited, and a chat about Moroccan surf culture, before back to the airport to meet the boys. Turns out there is such thing as a free lunch.
Its an unrivalled feeling having built your bike and setting off cycling straight from the airport. We were immediately treated to amazing roads and friendly drivers, all waving and cheering at us. The first 2 hours of cycling were as flat as you could imagine, suspiciously flat, Tafraoute – our climbing destination – lies 1000 meters up, Agadir sits close to the ocean. It wasn’t long then till it got steep, really steep. Luckily it was about this time, we started to get acquainted with the Moroccan sugar obsession. Three mint teas ordered at a tiny café on the road, with a bowl of sugar so large it was ridiculous. Mint tea to put coke to shame.
Our breath was taken away by the colours of the sky as we rode well into the sunset. As beautiful as these colours were they were an unknown warning of our first error… Continuing into the darkness we scoured the map for a place that looked suitable for camp. A black 4×4 races past us and stops in front, a man in camo leaps out asking for our passports , not ideal and in the dark on our first day safe to say we were scared. They then told us to follow them, back into the last town. We arrived at a hotel and didn’t seem to have the option of declining a stay. It was a rapid interaction but it left us confused and somewhat spooked, but we felt safe in the hotel and went for dinner, setting our eyes on Tafraoute the day after.
Days 2
Will – the most psyched climber – set an alarm for 7 in the morning, and having not slept at all the day before this was pretty upsetting. A strong Arabic coffee quickly blew away the cobwebs. A discussion the day before on the prevalence of small shops and cafes led us to the decision that there was no need to keep great stocks of food with us on the bikes. However, that prevalence ceased almost immediately from leaving that nights hotel. We were supplied with 3 round breads, 6 triangles of the bizarrely global laughing cow cheese, and two tins of fish, not quite right for a 100km ride with an aimed stop to climb a 3 pitch E5.
Dehydrated we reached the first crag. E5 is way out of my climbing ability, so armed with ascenders we approached. Struggling up through the skin lacerating spiky plants to a beautiful looking line. Will and Reuben Rack up as I nervously consider the route. Watching their struggled efforts up pitch one I quickly decide “we don’t have time to get all three of us up there” code for I’m out of my depth. In my defence sun set was approaching and we were pretty apprehensive about a repeat of the night before.
On their completion of the climb we walked back to the road, as we got closer we saw a gold car and three men loitering. With valuable bikes and climbing gear we were worried, as we got closer it became apparent they were waiting for us. Will approached them and to his surprise they showed him a photograph of Reubens passport asking if he was with us. Somehow these guys were in contact with those who stopped us the day before and our location had seemingly been shared. Alarmed we again seemingly had no option but to enter the car, bikes stress inducingly thrown on top of the car, and we were off again. Whilst somewhat scared we were sure we would be getting a ride to the next hotel so were relatively relaxed. What hurt more was, after a morning of gruelling hill climbs we were being robed of a perfect mountain switch back decent!
We were deposited at another hotel, and whilst wild camping was our intention, once we laid eyes on the hotel it was hard to say no: The Kasbah guesthouse. An old castle sat in the middle of the valley, separate from any nearby town. We were left dazed and confused by our drivers and amazed at what was in front of us. We spoke to the owner who was the first person we’d met whose English was good enough for us to ask what was going on with the “kidnappings”. She explained that wild camping wasn’t safe in the anti-atlas, and mentioned bandits. From what she said it sound as though the government maybe employed these people to run weird looking tourists like ourselves to the nearest hotel to keep us safe. Armed with this information our perspective had changed, had we spoken Arabic, both these occasions would have felt more legitimate and we would have been far less spooked.
Day 3 – reaching Tafraoute
Another early morning start in the freezing cold. Hands cold to the point of pain, I reached for my gloves, discovered just one glove and chose my favourite hand. We had to get the highpoint of the road and were very aware of the assent we had in front of us. It’s not the heat, nor the cold in the Moroccan winter that makes it difficult, its the rapid change between the two. Within an hour of sunrise we were sweating and back down to just t-shirts. An elation hit us as we passed the highpoint (1100meters) and were given our first view of the valley in which we would be climbing.
What followed was without a doubt the best road descent I have ever ridden. About 30 minutes of 35mph+ hill bombing, with an open road and a wide turns. Eyes watering we regathered in the bottom of the town and made way to a hotel. Tafraoute was beautiful and we quickly got to climbing, starting on a easy but brilliant 3/4 pitch sport route. Finishing our first day with a sunset on Nelsons hat – an amazing rock structure just outside of Tafraoute.
Days 4 – 10
A great deal of guide book perusing later desired routes were being talked of, and we headed to palm tree gorge for the first day. An amazing setting with a number of brilliant routes all across the grade. Reuben dragged me up my first E3 second -scimitar , and will romped up Casino Royale E4 5c. Other notable mentions of baba mall – E2 5c and Jarrad – Vs. Louis and Osh arrived late on that day and we celebrated us all arriving with a tagine.
With rock all over we jumped in and got involved in various climbs across the granite and the quartzite, sport and trad and single and multipitch. Tafraoute really has everything you’d want for a climbing destination. I particularly fell in love with the granite. Osh, Louis and myself spent a full day doing three to four pitch sport routes as a party of three on the granite, in what could have been the best day of the trip.
Our host in our guesthouse took a certain liking to Louis, perhaps because he was the only one who spoke decent French. It was much to our amusement to watch her constantly corner Louis in the evenings offering him hash and beers we he managed to consistently, yet awkwardly refuse. There was certain smugness I think we all felt imagining our friends back home trying to get on some routes in the peak district during the horrid February weather. All the while we were basking in the sun.
A final day all together at Dragon rock cruising up a brilliant 6 pitch route along a ridge line. Once at the top and regrouped we looked over the valley. Louis and Osh were leaving the following day. We agreed to all head back to Agadir altogether. Once waved off, me Will and Reuben set off for Tagazout for some surf. On arrival we were confused. The calm and beauty we had experienced in Tafraoute was subdued by a very different holiday culture. It’s and odd feeling to recognise that you are part of a wider problem. To look at the tourists polluting and being so obnoxious, but understanding that you are, at least to the onlooker no different. You question your right to be there, and the right of the marauding 19/20 year olds to act as if they were in Benidorm.
Day 11 – Goodbyes
Whilst Reuben and Will Packed, I planned, once they were gone I intended to go up north through the mountains to Imlil, with the intention of climbing mount Toubkal. Frustrated after a failed surf (poor waves), we grabbed our final tagine together and I went with them to the airport in Agadir. They were both very much in an end of trip mood. I waved them off at the airport and set off towards Imlil. I had planned a 40Km ride to Amskroud, a large (by google maps reckoning) village at the foothills of the Atlas. Given that it was already 5:30pm and sunset around 7:30 this was tight but doable. By 6 the wind changed and a storm appeared to be brewing. I had never been in a sandstorm so I am no expert, but the strong winds, zero visibility and lacerating pain of sand on my face suggested I was in one. My panic was put to rest when I acknowledged the nonchalance of the villagers I passed. Seemingly 50mph gusts of sand in your face cant stop the all important flow of tagine and couscous. I suppose the pain was akin to a hailstorm and perhaps they would be baffled by our nonchalant approach to lumps of ice falling from the sky . Despite the growing storm winds I had approached Amskroud just as the sun was setting. I quickly learnt (again) how google maps is not to be trusted. Amskroud consisted of a mosque and a restaurant, no hotel. I asked in my poor French – l’hotel ici? Non was my reply from multiple people. As I resigned my self to wild camping (which alone perhaps felt less fun) the inevitable happened, a car approached and again I was told this route wasn’t safe. I was told I would be taken back to Agadir. It was dark by now, and its fair to say this was far less fun alone. The men drove me to the edge of Agadir, still on the motor way, saying “here is safe, hotel close”, and removed my bike and belongings from the car. Had I spoke Arabic I imagine I would have told them – no this isnt safe, its dark and you’ve put me on a three lane outer-ring road of Agadir. However, tired and English I thanked them for their apparent service and paid 50dirhams for the displeasure. Whilst Agadir was still 10km away, rattled and confused I wanted to return to Tagazout. Convinced my plan to get to Imlil this way was impossible I decided to go around the coast instead. On passing through Agadir the winds picked up even more, so much so that due to the channelling from the high-rises I was blown of my bike into the road, tearing my shirt and cutting up my shoulder and arm. Its likely I was a touch concussed, as I couldn’t really work out how to sort myself out. With Tagazout close by I managed to push on, and immediately fell asleep when I reached a hostel.
The long way round
Still set on Imlil I decided to get their I would have to go the logway round, to Essaouira then to Marrakech and then up from the North. I began this cycle from Tagazout on by far the wettest day I had seen. The rain was relentless, and the winds kept gusting hard. However, somehow as I find often happens in the worst of conditions I felt far more physced and pedalled harder. Id found a guesthouse perfectly in the middle of the Tagazout and Essaouira and was getting close to it, eager to get warm and dry. As I was within 2km I was nervous of another google maps failure and I truly was in the middle of nowhere. Luckily, and almost to my surprise the guesthouse did exist. I was informed that another cyclist was staying and he would have dinner with me. I thought it was hilarious how this was decided for me – you shall enjoy the company of the cyclist whether you like it or not. As it happened I did. Whilst I cant remember his name I dont think I will forget him. He was at least 65 perhaps as old as 75 and he had stories from all over on his bike. He told me tales of illegal border crossings and camping on beaches for months at a time. All of this was astounding enough, but it was when he showed me his bike that my mouth dropped…
The bike was mad, the saddle was suspended above the bike by ratchet straps attached to the stem. I have never seen a frame design like it, it was over 30 years old. What made it funnier was the Germans lack of amusement about how ridiculous it was, to him it was just his bike. I noticed the weird straps on the rear triangle near the axel and enquired. The frame had snapped (he claimed he’d only realised after thinking the pedalling was hard for a couple of days), to fix it he got his spare tent pegs and bound them to the steel frame.
The following day I continued my voyage to Essaouira , saying goodbye to the German he had shunned cycling in anything but sunshine. As I got back close to the coast it was obvious the surf was good and quickly rented a board and got involved. With the report looking good for a few days I made camp there and got some amazing sessions on 4-5 foot long clean waves. As with Tagazout, whilst the surf was good, I was quickly angered by the westerners obsession with finding drink. Why come to an Islamic country if all you want to do is drink? To me getting drunk in Morocco seemed disrespectful and so again I departed the surf lifestyle and headed toward Marrakech. The cycling was rather uninteresting from Essaouira to Marrakech, and so it was head down test of fitness more than sight seeing and I arrived Marrakech after two days. One nights stay and I was off to Imlil. On leaving Marrakech I found myself again held up, police this time highly questioning why and how I was getting to Imlil. Perhaps most tourists get there in organised tours and by cycling it was deemed that I wasnt paying enough money. After a great deal of confusion I had to pay 100 Dirham and was allowed to get a taxi there instead – another 350 Dirham. However, I was finally in Imlil, 3 days slower than expected and around 300Km of extra cycling!
The difference between the hustle and bustle of Marrakech and the calm of Imlil could not have been more stalk. Imlil is a Berber village and hence a whole new set of pleases and thank you’s was learnt. It was immediately apparent how much snow had fallen, and I was quickly warned about the avalanche risk on Toubkal. No guide wanted to take me, and I had no desire to push them. It was, infact illegal to go past the first checkpoint, a law put in place by the police whilst the risk remained high. I found a guide – Moustapha – who was willing to take me up a separate mountain, and further to stay in his guest house. His hospitality blew me away. A 30 minute walk from the nearest road his house was perhaps the most peaceful place I have ever visited.
Whilst I never reached the top of Toubkal I found my time in its presence inspiring, and the juxtaposition of the desert to the snow blew me away. I was now in luck. Imlil stands at 1800m, Marrakech at just 450m. 75km distance, and over a kilometre of descent. Full pelt back to Marrakech took me just over 2 hours. I spent two days being ripped off in the souk before flying home. As I left Morocco I reflected, the variety is what struck me, the intense Hussle and bustle of Marrakech to Mustapha’s family home, the desert, the snow.
Owen Brewster 
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