Day 8: October 8

We often come across “our” old Renault on the roads and in villages; it turns out there are many of them here, in all sorts of colors, and a couple of times we even saw one the same gray color as ours! And all these cars are still running, even though they are already more than 30 years old. Volchiy says sadly, “And our Logan won’t even start in winter anymore.”

Twice we pass police mobile checkpoints — stop signs right in the middle of the road in rather unexpected places. We obediently stop. The policeman motions for us to pull over to the shoulder. I immediately run through my head — we don’t seem to have broken any rules.
A young policeman asks where we are from. When he learns that we are from Ukraine, he happily says, “Ah, Ukraine, that’s near Romania.” Yes, yes, that’s right — we nod. “My brother studies at a university in Bucharest,” the policeman says, glowing with pride, “well, goodbye, have a good trip!”
We conclude that sometimes the police stop people just to chat with foreigners.

Halfway there, we stop in the shade of an argan tree to eat an orange and take photos of the cracked earth. It is interesting that argan oil is considered one of the rarest oils in the world because of the very limited number of argan trees. These trees grow only here, in Morocco! We saw many little shops offering argan oil — both edible and cosmetic. For now, we are not daring to buy any.

In the afternoon we arrive at our destination, the town of Tafraout. It is surrounded on all sides by mountains with oddly shaped boulders in a pinkish hue. We check into a hotel; today our accommodation is more modest — a small double room and a shared lounge for several rooms. We have already grown used to the comforts of civilization — a refrigerator and an electric kettle — so we really miss them. We boil water in a cup using our old friend, the immersion heater. For tea, we have a mountain of dates.

We’re heading to the valley of pink boulders. It turns out there’s a circular route through the valley along a good dirt road.

Once, an artist from Belgium came here and decided to paint the cobblestones in different colors. And this is what he came up with.

I really like it in this valley among the rocks. There is such a sense of peace here. There is nobody around. By evening it became less hot. We often stop to take photos of nature’s creations. Alas, as usual, photographs are unable to convey the atmosphere and beauty of these places.

In the evening, we go for a walk around the town. There are a lot of local woodworkers here; in their garages they make doors, cabinets, and tables. The smell of wood is pleasant. At the market, they sell a lot of leather shoes; they look nice, but Wolf is sure they are for one-time wear. I don’t know why he has so little faith in Moroccan shoemakers.

We wander into a shop where Moroccan teapots are sold. We have long been thinking that we want to buy one for ourselves. There is a very nice shopkeeper here. Wolf says it’s time to buy a teapot. The teapot is not cheap. The shopkeeper bargains very reluctantly. He treats us to tea from his teapot. We spend a long time choosing between two teapots — one is cheaper, but the other is very beautiful. In the end, beauty wins.

For dinner, we buy a loaf of bread, and at a small grocery store — Moroccan-made camembert. We make tea at the hotel — in the new teapot. Tea tastes much better this way!