Day 4
Day 4. Desert Piste.
This was to be a long and probably tiring piste which was not well used by other traffic and didn't seem, from the route guide that we had, to go all that near to civilisation. It was really hot out there and pretty much any problem with the bike beyond a simple puncture or something minor that could be fixed with a multi-tool might see us struggling.
The other thing that worried us was that the last portion of the route as laid out in the guide was on sand which has a reputation for being immensely difficult and hard work.
We decided to try anyway as our new Portuguese friends seemed to think it not too bad and that there was second strip of piste towards Tagounite that looped around to the north, increased the distance travelled but remained stony. As an added incentive one of the lads got out his laptop and showed us helmet cam images of the Portuguese gliding smoothly across the dunes a bit further north at Erg Chebbi.
Fully fuelled and with our Ortlieb water bladders filled short of bursting (we'd thought of that one) and every other water container we had also filled we left Foum Zguid to the south.
There was a real feeling of heading out into the unknown as we passed through the southern town gate and headed out into the boiling plain. Almost immediately we arrived at the start of our piste which was pointed out by a large standard traffic sign aimed down a pair of wheel tracks only slightly smoother than the stony desert from which they'd been hammered. Tagounite 164km, Lake Iriki, 56km. We boldly goed.
The piste was rocky but not too bad and we alternated between sitting in the bike's seat for the smoother bits and standing on the foot pegs on the rougher portions. It didn't take long to confirm that this was going to be a long, long day. We also realised that the piste was not as straight forward as it at first seemed. Whilst the main piste was surprisingly well marked and in places bordered in a rather quaint way by a neat line of stones to each side and sometimes by lines of cairns there were sub-pistes and tracks branching off from the main piste and rejoining later. We soon fell into the habit of following the single track motorbike mini-pistes as these were often much smoother than the rocky menace of the main piste. We ran on for a couple of hours with very little change on the ground.
The distance view had a series of jagged saw tooth hills towards the southern horizon, slightly hazed by distance and closer flat topped hills. To the north there was the low ridge of hills that we'd essentially track throughout our transit.
Eventually we came to a minor summit and stopped for the dubious relief of a swig or two of sun warmed orange flavoured sports drink. It was just a different kind of horrible to the warm water in the rest of our various bottles and bladders.
We were, though, within sight of Lake Iriki which was to be a bit of a highlight of the trip. The Lake, which is effectively and inland delta of the Oued Draa, is as bit part time and is often dry or only slightly soggy. I was sure from this distance I could see some water in the south but it was hard to tell and although the angle was a bit high there was a chance of mirage.
We pressed on and the piste softened slightly as it descended and turned progressively lighter on colour from its standard red-beige-brown to a light white sand. The surrounding desert began to look a bit more beach like with tufts of long grass appearing here and there and a pink fort on a hill came into view.
Beneath the fort at about 500m away was a checkpoint on the piste. I assume it was army or police as we were pretty close to the Algerian border and so we slowed on the approach the single raised red and white barrier pole with a stop sign in the middle and pretty much nothing to either side. The barrier was unmanned but the fort wasn't. A figure emerged and ran to our end of its wall. 'Here we go' I muttered into my helmet, imagining at the very least having to make small talk with bored Moroccan Army soldiers for hours, or worse, getting turned over for any valuables that we might have. Neither happened. Much to our delight the distant figure made carry-on motions with an arm and so we shot though the checkpoint and on to Lake Iriki.
The piste, which had previously been pretty definite, suddenly virtually disappeared as vehicle tracks fanned out as we entered the mudflats where the way markers turned out to be a series of widely spaced pairs cairns marching into the shimmering distance. We fanned out too and picked up speed over the pale brown baked mud. We were running at about 80kph abreast of each other and about 200m apart and it felt a most peculiar way to ride with all this space and only the odd tuft of grass whipping past. It was clear that the mud was as hard as tarmac in this heat and was probably smoother than most of the rest of the roads in Morocco to boot. This was where we really felt the loss of the GoPro camera: this would have made a good movie.
After a while though it had to end and we began to close on the mountains again with the piste aiming firmly towards a red and white communications mast and a blocky Moroccan style mosque minaret. This, I think, was the only village marked on our map: Zouia Sidi Abt en Nebt. We were met at the entrance to the village by a local who asked us our business here and then invited us to tea. We declined with as much grace as we could manage as there was a long way to go still and pressed on.
The village was very well spread out as, I guess, there was no reason not to given that there was heaps of space and not much else around. There were now multiple tracks and so we resorted to directions from a few local kids to put us on the right one back into the stony desert again. Another hour of riding saw us on the worst stretch yet: large rocks making up the piste with, say one in twenty sticking proud.
There was no way to avoid these and they sounded awful when the bike hit them so the only option was to slow and stand on the pegs. This went on for some time but abruptly stopped when we climbed a sudden rise onto a clearly different rock stratum.
More and more piste went by, more rocks, a camel or two and the odd sign here and there for an 'Ecole Nomade'. I don't know whether these schools taught normal subjects to nomads or taught nomadism itself but that the signs were there reminded us that people had been living out here for generations.
The land flattened again to nearly flat with multitudinous rocks and the riding became rather dull. In all of this nothing we came across our junction and the decision point: short and very hard through the sand to the east or long and slightly less hard to the north. We chickened out and went north.
As if to reward us for or cowardice the piste began to corrugate. This is an awful surface composed of a series of parallel ridges about a foot to eighteen inches apart and running perpendicular to the direction of the piste across our direction of travel. It's not that different to riding a pneumatic drill and deeply unpleasant and so we ensured that we made best use of any bypass bits of piste.
It was by now quite late in the day and we were both rather tired and to our relief he piste changed back to rocky again as it made another turn north, now heading directly for the hills. I was getting a bit concerned as I hadn't noticed the hills on the map and was wondering whether we'd made a wrong turn somewhere and was starting to imagine running out of fuel although in reality we still had a load left in the tanks.
Suddenly, it seemed as I found it hard to judge distances, we passed through the low hills and stopped at a T junction. Signposts indicated where we could by 'produites artisanale' but didn't give any help to the non-arty traveller. We turned right, crested a rise and the piste changed to a flowing dusty dry clay. Our speed increased and all of a sudden the riding was enjoyable again as we stood on the pegs to absorb the series smooth depressions across our path, the trick being to let the bike fall away into a dip and bend at the knees as it came swooping up the other side. We could also see the water towers and minarets of Tagounite and were not destined to die in the desert after all – well, not today anyway.
The run into town was pretty grotty across a mars-like field of grapefruit rocks and the area was obviously a bit of a rubbish dump. The piste corrugated again. Tagounite lookes a pretty miserable place with nothing to recommend it and no redeeming features as far as I could see. I don't know whether it was tiredness but my impression was that the locals looked hostile. We left town to the south on tarmac with a view to finding somewhere to stop for the night.
The proprietor of the Kasbah Ouled Driss Auberge and Camping nearly put us off visiting with his overenthusiastic sales pitch. We'd stopped at the sign to confer and he raced out on blue robes and headdress and was obviously keen that we should go in. We did, more to get rid of him by riding somewhere than because of his efforts, not realising who he was at the time.
The rooms were very simple mud rendered affairs built as a series of terraced chalets, each opening into the courtyard and the facilities were more camping than hotel but we were tired and it was cheap. I threw my kit into my room (cheap enough for a room each but too cheap for air con), took a shower and did my laundry. By the time I met Phil in the restaurant hut he was glugging his second coke and looking shattered. The food was surprisingly good given the down at heel surroundings and the portly bevested handyman doing the cooking.
That night, in an attempt to catch a few whisps of breeze in the heat, I couldn't bring myself to close the door to the hut-room so it was on with the insect repellent which smelled of petrol and then to bed above the covers. There was no sign yet of these fabled freezing desert nights and the lack of air con didn't help.
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