Agdz

Karl Bushby set off in 1998 to do an unsupported walk around the world.  He left from Tierra del Fuego in Argentina, and has walked the entire length of the American continent, from North to South.  Currently he is battling the extremes of a Northern winter as he crosses from Alaska to Russia, towing his belongings on a sled and braving temperatures far below zero.

Al Humphreys left England in 2000 to cycle alone around the world; he has just come through Asia, and is in the final 6000 km stretch back to England, after circumnavigating the globe on two wheels.

These guys have fought exhaustion, depression, loneliness, and massive physical hardship to achieve their goals.  In Karl’s case, he has struggled terribly with the separation from his wife and child, and often questions his decision to carry on. 

So when we have a tough day or two, I try to remind myself that others have gone before us, try to think of those guys and their stories, and keep our trials in perspective.  The one enormous bonus we both have – and we are well aware how enormous a bonus – is that we have each other, have someone to share the laughs with and understand the pain at the end of the day, someone to keep the fears at bay.

Crossing the 70km stretch of the Anti-Atlas from Ouarzazate we needed every bit of that support.  I am writing this from Agdz, only two days after we left – though it feels like a week.  I wanted to write it down while it was fresh in my mind, because sometimes after we get somewhere, and I am comfortable and rested, the pain fades and it is easy to be blithe and dismissive about the experience.  Today I can still feel the pain in every muscle in my body, my joints so sore it is hard to stand, and so I figure for once the web log can get it warts and all.

We knew the first stretch out of Ouarzazate would be tough.  According to the map there was forty kilometres without any kind of settlement, and then one tiny town before the ascent up into the rugged, gravel covered peaks of the Anti-Atlas.  But we are accustomed to facing long stretches and limited water, so we set the alarm for the early hours of the morning, stocked up on water, and shrugged off the worry.

Back through the crossing of the High Atlas our trolley finally gave up the fight against decay, and we left it sitting forlornly by the roadside when the wheels wore down to the metal.  We had lightened our packs so much in Marrakech, posting back loads of things we can do without until after M’Hamid, that we thought we could carry whatever water we needed; after all, the most we ever had was fifteen litres between us and the trolley, and that had only been necessary on a few exceptional occasions.

But it has been a long time since I tried to carry seven litres of water, and both of us had forgotten just how tough it is to suddenly add seven kilos to the pack.  However, given that the temperatures have been topping  fifty degrees, and all the locals we asked said that indeed there was nothing for forty kilometres, we weren’t game to chance it.

We plodded up the road in the dark, straining with the weight and trying to guzzle as much as we could before the sun came up, both to lighten the packs and also to ensure we were well hydrated early on.  We had thought the road would be fairly flat for the first day; but it began rising straight away, not a long steady pull, which is actually relatively easy to handle, but rather a series of sharp ups and downs – which is exhausting.  The sun came up in a fierce blaze and the wind began to blow, the hot and hard desert wind just whipping across the hamada, so that soon we were struggling to walk into it.

We rested wherever we could find some shade – in the rectangle offered by a roadsign, the lee of a deserted mud hut – but there wasn’t a lot to be had.

After twenty kilometres we were really getting through the water, and ahead of us we could see some serious looking hills.  Fortunately at that stage we came across a local well, used by the herders for their stock.  It was the heat of the day by now, so we huddled into the shade of a small monument, filled our water bottles up again, cooked some lunch, and waited for the cool of the afternoon.

We had to wait a lot longer than usual.  The heat was not unbearable – but the wind made it far hotter, and dried us out further.  In the end we left at about five o’clock, and walked for another ten kilometres.  By this time we were both just exhausted, which is unusual – normally we can simply push on, regardless of how tired we are, but I guess every now and then comes a day you just can’t push through.  It was dark and there was no way we were going to make it to the small town up the road.

We hiked up a mountain side and spread our bed rolls out on the gravel hamada.  It is utterly silent up there, just a huge big emptiness so vast it rings in your ears, and when we lay down the full moon came up in a blaze so bright we could see the mountains like day time.  This is the camp the following dawn, with the moon still lightening the sky behind us.

The next morning we struggled to get moving early.  We had about two litres of water each, and hoped that would see us through the last ten or twelve kilometres to the town. 

The road began to seriously wind up and down, although nothing worse than any normal mountain road.  We were just tired.  But our spirits were rather restored by the awesome colours and surreal patterns of the landscape – it is one of the most incredible panoramas I have ever seen, full of weirdly contoured rock scapes, date palm valleys, and over it all an immense, high sky.

We got into Ait Saoun just as our water gave up.  The extraordinarily kind Berber man at the local café cooked us the most sublime “Berber Omelette” we have eaten – two big pan fulls of egg, tomato, peppers, mushrooms, cheese and cumin, with great hunks of wonderful fresh bread.  We guzzled the lot along with copious amounts of water, mint tea, and lemon drink, and eyed the mountains in front of us warily.  Our map had a Berber trail marked through the high part, and then hopefully only fifteen kilometres to the next water stop; it was twenty five kilometres to a hotel bed in Agdz.  With what we had already walked it would be a thirty seven/eight km day to Agdz – manageable, if tiring.  But with full bellies and fresh water, we were restored and hopeful, and set off across the gravel up the track.

It is really hard walking up the Berber paths.  Designed for shepherds and goats, not lumbering tourists with packs, they are uneven and covered in large, sharp rocks.  In parts you are more or less face to face with the ground, hauling yourself upwards and hoping like hell you don’t lose balance.  For the skiers amongst you: picture walking up Fanny’s Finish on Mt Buller, only covered in rock, about six times; and you have some idea what it is like.

But at the top, the landscape was utterly magnificent, and totally worth the climb.  We wandered along the road for a while, marvelling at the deep gorge cut by the rocky path of the Draa river – currently completely dry – through the rough mountains.   Vehicle after vehicle stopped to offer us a lift, eyeing us incredulously when we said we had to walk, but very, very kindly showering us with oranges, grapes, and sips of cold water.  I think Morocco must be the only country we have walked through where we have to actually argue with people in order to walk rather than take a lift.  But after the hideously long stretch of the previous day, it was very reassuring to know that if we were stuck, there were people there to help – it makes the difference between the walk being a challenge and a major danger.

We followed the road for some time, cutting down through the gorge when we got to a broken bridge rather than walking the two kilometre detour, and looking forward to the next water stop.

Unfortunately it was a real one horse village, one of the unpleasant ones where the kids accost you on entry demanding “un dirham, un stilo, un bon bon?”  (money, a pen, a chocolate?)  We were hot, tired, thirsty and still had ten kilometres to walk – albeit downhill into the valley of the Draa – so we were in little mood to be charming.  Fortunately one of the young lads spoke French beyond demanding presents, so he ran off to fill our bottles at the well, and when he came back we pointedly gave him a packet a biscuits.  His eyes lit up like Christmas and in true Moroccan fashion he immediately called all the other kids over and began doling them out equally; but we rather hope the message got through to the girl who had stood for five minutes with her hand shoved directly under my nose, demanding gifts and money, despite the fact that we were obviously out of water, and collapsed in exhaustion on the ground to boot.  It is strange really, as we rarely have much trouble with the kids and begging; our rule tends to be that if asked for water or food we always give it, but if the request is for money, pens, and chocolates, we don’t give anything.  I could willingly throttle whichever idiotic Westerners came through Africa handing out pens and chocolates like Santa Claus.  I have actually read sites advising people to do this; note to future travellers: DON’T.

The last ten kilometres were the hardest I can remember in a long time, and for no other reason than that suddenly, we were just shattered.  I guess it was a combination of clambering up Berber paths, across the mountain passes, and through the heat – not to mention with low water supplies – but we really were wrecked.  It was dark when we finally staggered into Agdz, and let me tell you – I have never struggled so much to turn down lifts as we did yesterday.  It is weird, but when people pull up, we are actually so accustomed to declining a ride that the words come out before I think about it.  Which is good, because if I had stopped to think about it yesterday I probably would have said “yes”.

But things ended on a good note.  We stumbled into the first hotel we could see, drawn by the picture of a pool on the sign.  Unfortunately the guy on reception –after showing us a lovely room overlooking a luscious pool – told us it was 230 dirham, way out of our price range.  We hoisted our packs on and turned to leave, not sure whether we should cop it sweet or try to find another hotel – neither of us could face walking more than three steps into bed – when the manager saw us, and, incredibly kindly, immediately halved the price, so we have a room for two nights for twenty Australian dollars a night.  And believe you me – boy do we need it.

We fell face down on the bed last night and passed out without discussion.  Early this morning, we went downstairs and swam in the pool; the water was bath warm, and utter balm to our poor old bodies. 

We have three days walking to Zagora, but the hard part is done now, as all along the Draa valley there are small settlements with wells, so we don’t have to worry about water.  The big mountain crossings and Berber tracks are finished now, too, until we hit the desert of course!  But once in Zagora – where we plan to rest for a couple of days out of the heat, which is something fierce now – there are three more days to M’Hamid, and the end of the first stage.  The town is actually signed on the kilometre markers now, and it seems incredibly strange to be this close, and yet also to be taking forever to get to.  Like waiting for Christmas as a child.

Meanwhile we are planning to spend the rest of today either horizontal or in the pool, until it doesn’t hurt to stand up again.  You would think that after walking five thousand kilometres, a thirty seven km day would be no hardship; but sometimes, every step hurts.

“Footsteps of Man” is another couple who set out to walk from Cape Town around the world.  After making it through most of South Africa, they are taking an extended break to review the situation; one got sick, and the other hurt his foot and had to continue on bike, before they stopped.  In one of her diary entries, Louise, the female part of the duo, wrote after a short break that she had “forgotten how unbelievably hard it is to walk even twenty kilometres”, when the sun is hot and you are carrying your gear. 

I know how she feels.

But, hey – we did it.  I am just glad there are guys out there like Karl and Al who are doing it too – knowing that they struggle helps us to feel better when we have a couple of tough days.

Comments

[atteniZiday]

"I am convinced that the manufacturers of carpet odor removing powder
have included encapsulated time released cat urine in their products.
This technology must be what prevented its distribution during my mom's
reign. My carpet smells like piss, and I don't have a cat. Better go
buy some more."
-- timw@zeb.USWest.COM

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[Ann M]

Hi

well done. Your recent journey is incredible. I would have been very worried with the gaps in the water supply. I nearly ran out of water once. It was a very hot day and my water by now was luke warm and not terribly pleasant to drink!

I have a tiny tiny inkling of your acheivement - towards the end of the France part of my journey my feet would still hurt on some days. I kept thinking my feet should be used to this by now after 7 weeks carrying 32 lbs backpack. I started worrying that I was doing permanent damage to my feet and would not be able to do the final part of my pilgrimage the following year when I was supposed to walk the north coast of Spain. Needless to say my feet recovered and I made it to Spain.

Its amazing how the body can recover after even a days rest, clean cool sheets and shower!

Thanks also for the references to the other guys - truely inspirational. Also you may know of Joe Patterson who planned to walk to Rome from Canterbury and was prevented in the first instance by having heart problems including major surgery. But he recovered, rebuilt his fitness and did the walk. That takes real guts just as you have in your challenge