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.