Draa Valley to Zagora, Morocco

The next morning we were up early and headed back to Rissani for gas and food before heading west, and a bit south, to the Draa Valley and Zagora.  We were following a line of about a dozen camper vans from France, about five kilometers out of Merzouga, on a lonely stretch of desert, when suddenly they all pulled over, on both sides of the road.  They effectively blocked traffic in both directions.  As we threaded our way through them we saw that the reason they’d all stopped was not some mechanical problem that one of them was having, but that ALL of them were emptying their septic tanks right there by the side of the road.  Unfortunately this is not the first time we’ve seen French tourists behaving in such a disgraceful way.  Tabernac.

When we stopped in Rissani we were immediately accosted by someone wanting us to look in his shop and buy whatever it was he was selling (it wasn’t clear what).  We weren’t interested, and started saying ‘no thank you,’ to which he responded ‘but, but, but.’  And Doug responded with ‘no buts,’ to which the Moroccan said: ‘Do you know what ‘but’ means in Berber?  It means I want you to come and look in my shop and buy rugs!’  And we, almost hysterical now with laughter, said: ‘We know, and the answer is ‘no, shukran, no!’  So now we call the endless harassment by would-be sellers the ‘Berber but.’

Although we had read that the more southern route across ‘the plains’ from Rissani to the Draa Valley and Zagora was one that ‘could be missed,’ we decided to take it anyway as it was shorter and would be new to us.  We actually found it a more interesting route, and a more pleasant drive.  The road was smaller, less busy, in good condition, and the landscape was more interesting, with some lovely sculped rock formations and some greenish coloured hills – rock, not vegetation.  Several quiet villages without the tourist trappings that those on the more traveled routes have.  Less garbage and more friendly waves from locals as well.  For a bit of added road colour we also passed by a rally of several hundred little cars, all painted and decaled up.

Just before we came to the Draa Valley we passed through a particularly poor town with the usual ragged children waving and motioning for us to stop.  Some were putting their hands to their mouths, making it real clear they were hungry.  We had some extra bread, so we stopped to give it to a group of three kids.  The looks on their faces and their desperate clawing at the bread and bananas I offered was upsetting.  As we saw more, and bigger, kids approaching we realized we needed to get going or risk being mobbed.  Apparently there are organizations that collect and distribute food to those in need, but we saw no evidence of that here.  

The Draa Valley was not, to our way of thinking, ‘magical’, as our guide book described it.  Nice enough, but neither spectacular, like Dades Gorge, or charming, like the road from Tiznit to Tafraoute.  The Draa is a wider valley with barren red rocky slopes on either side, devoid of any vegetation.  There are palmeries scattered throughout the valley.  The towns are ugly and sprawling, and not particularly inviting.  The 'road sign' for Zagora, on the other hand, was magical, with its reference to our favourite, and as yet unreached, destination: Timbuktu - or Tombouctou, as the Moroccans know it.

Our hotel in Zagora, Chez Ali, was great and well worth the drive.  Our host Ali introduced himself to everyone and exuded the archtypical Arab warmth and welcome.  As an added bonus the rooms were clean, the beds were comfortable, the water was hot, the food was good, and the service was friendly and prompt.  Chez Ali is famous for its extensive gardens, a literal oasis in this dusty desert town.  We’d rest and retreat there, sipping tea or cold drinks, after our jaunts into town, where the shop-keepers were at least as aggressive and the ones in Marrakesh.

Chez Ali gardens

We did spend some time in a carpet shop, where the young shop-keeper told us how the Berber carpets are made, and what some of the woven designs and colours mean.  Given the time he spent with us, we felt badly that we were not interested in buying a carpet, so we gave him and his small children a few gifts.  In another small shop we did buy a silver necklace and some tie-dyed, not particularly ‘Moroccan,’ scarves.  The shop-keeper had a mouthful of rotting teeth and breath that just about made me puke.  His father, a refined looking fellow with greying hair, invited us to have tea with him.  As the de facto ‘eminence gris’ he sat outside of the negotiating circle but clearly had the last word on the prices for the necklace and scarves.

We bought this carpet in Marrakesh, not Zagora...