Morocco 2

I rode through the evening light, softened to pink by a haze of Saharan dust suspended like fog in the warm Southerly wind. I was nearing Erfoud and the spiritual start of my desert adventures. From here I’d tackle the little country roads and unpaved pistes that network this area on the edge of the Sahara. I was a little apprehensive, I have to admit. Graphic images of Tuareg nomads finding my bleached skeleton, scattered by vultures, far off track, a bony hand clutching onto death an empty water bottle, kept popping into my head.

The next day I headed out to Alnif , and from there left the tarmac and on towards the Jebel Gaiz. Passing through little villages I eventually passed out into the Hamada. The higher the track got the drier the surroundings became. Soon there appeared to be little vegetation of any sort. It got hotter as I gained altitude, but the track was good quality and I made good time. Not far from the top of Tizi’n-Boujou, however, there was a diminutive oasis. A tiny palmerie secreted up here away from the valleys, the sudden green was a shock and a little reminder that life can flourish in the most bizarre places.
The top of the pass afforded fantastic views across to the Atlas and I rattled down the long descent well pleased with the days efforts. Hitting the tarmac again I roared on, jubilant, to Todra Gorge to spend a couple of days relaxing in it’s cool and pleasant depths.

The road to Nekob across Tizi-n’Tazazert was longer, rougher and no less spectacular. Again that cobalt sky soared across the arid mountains which stretched on forever, belying the palmeries and settlements in the valleys, assuring the witness that nothing grew, no rain fell and the sun beat down always.
From the pass the views were sublime, from 2200m I looked down on the desert and, like with all great vistas, felt purely insignificant.
The piste, although mainly good, had it’s tough sections. On one difficult decent, crawling down in first, I lost control. As I toppled I remember looking down, from what seemed an outrageous height, at the rocks in the ditch by the track and thinking. ‘They look hard!’ Then I hit them, and they weren’t too bad.
I was winded and the pannier with my laptop in took a hefty thump, denting the side. (I nervously started the laptop up as soon as I got to my hotel, it seems fine!) I was pretty tired by the time I reached Agdz but hugely satisfied with what I felt was a really amazing day.

South East again and along the beautiful winding road that joins Tansikht and Er-Rissani. The sun beats down and the dust cakes the bike and me, turning us the same colour as the desert. I have to stop to reattach the bash plate that has come loose from vibration and it’s a sweaty affair. Towards evening the high dunes of Erg Chebbi appear on the horizon. I spend the night in a kasbah, the moon is extraordinarily bright, and the stars, as I sit on the roof drinking warm beer (but it’s nectar!) remind me that you ain’t seen the stars till you’ve seen them from the desert.

I ride south of Erg Chebbi, towards Algeria. The trails vary from smooth, hard packed clay, through rocky boulders to soft sand. I get my first taste of real sand riding where the only way through is to power on in a straight line. It’s a bit unnerving at first. As you feel the front wheel sliding sideways the instinct is to hit the brakes, but instead you have to twist the throttle. The bike surges forward and drives the front wheel through. There’s always a bit of a sigh of relief as you hit firmer ground on the other side. It’s all damn good fun and I stop for lunch on an expansive chott (salt pan) about 20km from the border.
Later in the day I head back to Erg Chebbi to explore the dunes and hills. Its great fun exploring off the trails, just riding over the rocky, then sandy desert. Topping out on rises and looking about, seeing what lies on the other side of that outcrop or this dune.
I feel I’ve earned my couscous and Flag Speciale tonight. Tomorrow I head north, away from the Sahara and back to Europe.

Morocco 1

Wow, the last sentence of ‘Spain’ really makes me laugh. And no jolly, heartwarming chuckle either. Rather the hollow ‘Ha!’ of a man for whom the scales have fallen etc.
The ride from Ceuta to Asilah, rather than being the t-shirted cruise over the hot , green Moroccan uplands of my imagination, mentally accompanied by Muddy Waters singing ‘Got my Mojo Working…’ was in fact a tempest of wind and freezing rain accompanied by Carmina Burana at full volume.
A day off in Asilah, my first day without getting on the bike in 11 days and the first day I didn’t actually HAVE to do anything in what feels like months. (Organising a trip like this is a lot harder work than you might expect).

A couple of days of riding in disappointingly Caledonian conditions finds me, soaking wet, in Azrou. The road ahead is blocked with snow and I can go no further.
Next morning the situation is unchanged so I try to get round via Ifrane. The road is clear but for a long way at least a foot of snow lies on the ground. I spend the time between marvelling at the arctic scenery and shivering whilst grumbling about t-shirted cruising and Muddy Waters.
Soon the conditions improve though, as I lose altitude into a valley. The view is lovely as I climb out the other side and I stop for a photo. I pull out again and carry on, happy that the conditions are closer to my dreams. It’s a narrow single track road and I’m cruising along saying things like ‘This is more like it!’ and ‘Ah, that’s a view for you if you like.’ when suddenly I’m aware of a car bearing down on me containing two saucer eyed Moroccans. ‘Aaargh!’ I manage to squeeze out before taking avoiding measures with the reactions of a panther. Unfortunately they are the avoiding measures of a panther who has spent the last decade driving on the left hand side of the road. I realise my error and correct.
‘BANG’
And I’m on my side in the middle of the road.
I pick up the bike and there’s no damage, I’m also amazed to find I’m unhurt. (Although, next day my left knee stiffens up and aches. However, as this happens every time I crash a motorcycle I think it might be psychosomatic.) Saucer eyed Moroccan , however, has now become blazing eyed Moroccan . I’ve ripped some trim off the side of his car and cracked a hubcap, There’s a small scrape too, which may or may not have been me. I apologise profusely (It was my fault, no doubt), and give him some money for repairs. He calms down, is very nice about the whole thing and gives me some of my money back.

Five miles up the road on a steep hill I pull onto the gravel verge to overtake a lorry (common practice in Morocco). The gravel has turned to mud from the rains and I hit the deck at about 30mph. Again the bike is fine (I love my XT!) but my panniers are both dented. However, a few judicious bangs with the round end of an adjustable spanner makes them square again (sort of).

I’m busy cursing my stupidity when I crest a rise and the High Atlas are there in front of me. Caked in snow and cloud and surrounded by a clear blue sky. I stop in a village to buy bread where the people are dressed traditionally and arab music plays from some unknown source. The smells are of spices and sand and sun dried humanity. And my mud caked bike with it’s battered alloy boxes looks like a bike involved in an adventure. Out of the village a thin ribbon of tarmac stretches to the horizon over the Plateau de l’Arid and into the Sahara.
It feels like the adventure is beginning. Suddenly it all seems worth it.