Day 20: October 20

Volchiy found several spots on the internet where there are supposedly lots of fossilized shells, and we’re heading there, especially since it’s on the way. The road runs through a gray stone desert, among which rise mountains very similar to the one we were at a couple of days ago, with small patches of sand.

Those mountains that are very close to the road are occupied by vendors — there are little stalls near them selling shells, and the mountains themselves are trampled all over, so we’re unlikely to find anything here. So we keep going. After driving a little farther inland along the dirt road, we park the car. Then we head deeper into the desert on foot, toward the mountains that loom on the horizon.

On the way, there is an excellent fossil specimen lying in the sand. We dig it out. What is interesting is that both stone halves have been preserved — the shell and its mirror imprint.

A little farther on was a mountain where we found lots and lots of beautiful fossils. Volchiy just couldn’t stop. He kept bringing back handfuls of shells of all shapes and sizes, and we laid them out on an improvised table, throwing away the bad ones. We kept only the most beautiful.

And then we drove on. Along the way, we saw such strange things, resembling little volcanoes, all about the same size and located close to one another. We decided to stop and see what they were.

Some of the little volcanoes were filled in, while others led somewhere deep underground. I thought that something had been mined here. And then a young Berber came up to us. I don’t know why, but I immediately liked him for his childlike innocence. He told us that there is a channel underground that runs from the High Atlas Mountains to the desert, with a total length of 20 km. Water flows through it from the mountains to the oases in the desert. We agreed to take a tour of the channel. It turned out to be very interesting.

We go down. The channel is large, tall, and wide. It is absolutely comfortable to stand and walk there. The Berber spoke English poorly, and Volchiy suggested that the people who dug the channel threw the soil out through the little volcanoes. The Berber said that there are many such channels here and most of them are still in use, while this one was simply closed off to show tourists.

That’s how, quite by chance, we came across yet another attraction. I find myself thinking that travel is valuable precisely because of these unexpected moments. A half-ruined castle that hides a wonder hall, a dune from which I expected nothing good, but which turned out to be so beautiful, searching for shells…

Satisfied, we continue on our way. Today is Saturday, and all the towns are even emptier than usual. All the shops are closed, and there are almost no people in the streets. We stop for tea in some remote little village. They have a lovely summer terrace under the trees. We are greeted warmly.

We arrive in Tinghir in the evening, check into the hotel, and head to the town center. There are lots of people here; families are out strolling together. On the main square they sell popcorn, children are having fun, and life is in full swing.

Along the main street there are many little restaurants. We approach one to look at the menu, and then out of nowhere a Moroccan man appears from the restaurant, a grandfather of about 60. He actively invites us into the restaurant and says the tea is on him. We agree. We order chicken tagine. This old man sits with us and tells us that he has supposedly been living in the Netherlands for 25 years and has his own restaurant there. And now he has come back to his homeland with his family to visit his mother.

The tea is brought. He drinks tea with us, and we listen to his stories. He speaks English fairly well. Sometimes he asks us something. I don’t really understand why he is sitting with us and where his family actually is. I would gladly sit without this old man, but you can’t exactly drive him away. So we have to somehow keep the conversation going.

As if casually, he says that there is a very interesting place nearby (“very close, just 300 meters away”). A women’s association, and they make very beautiful things and souvenirs. And they are about to close soon, and he wants to buy some gifts there because tomorrow he is leaving back for the Netherlands.

The tagine is brought. The old man stands up and says thank you for the company. I breathe a sigh of relief, but then he says, “I’ll go check how my family is doing, and you eat for now. And then I’ll come back and go buy gifts, and if you want, you can come with me.”

The tagine turned out to be pretty good, with French fries instead of regular potatoes — apparently an adapted version for tourists.

Just as we finish eating, this old guy appears and cheerfully says, well, shall we go, I’ll show you the place. Now it all seems strange… We cross the square, which by then has become much less crowded. And I say to Wolf, “I’m cold, I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to go home.” I tell the old man that we won’t go with him, maybe we’ll come back later. But he says no, no, they’ll be closing soon, and you’ll really like it there. We walk a little farther, and then I suddenly realize that all of this is some kind of nonsense and not true. Why am I going anywhere? I tell the old man again that we’re not going anywhere with him and that I don’t believe him at all. The fact that I don’t believe him almost makes the old man furious; he says, how can that be, I don’t want anything from you, I have my own business in the Netherlands. “And I still don’t believe you. And вообще I don’t believe anyone in Morocco.” I reply. We turn around and head to our car. The old man waves goodbye and says that in Morocco all people are very friendly….

It remained a mystery whether the old man was lying or not. But for some reason I’m sure he was.