barneydinosaur
Registered user
Day 7
Day 7 Petrol and mint tea
We had crepes for breakfast which were a welcome change from the usual bread and jam. Coffee I never get tired of.
I felt much, much better than the previous day: it helps not waking up feeling sticky and it wasn't that long before we were back on the road with the intention of spending it on piste. As we checked out I was half tempted, however, to book another night here at the Kasbah Baha Baha just to ensure we came back but that didn’t fit with today’s plans.
Our morning fuel stop was conveniently located at the point where our day's piste met the main road on the edge of town and so we were soon back on the unmade roads. This time we were heading north over the rocky range of the Jebel Sarhro. The guidebook said that this piste involved stone steps which we would be attempting to climb and so I was a little bit wary but the early stages of the trail were relatively unchallenging as we crossed the wide, shallow but rather bleak valley between N'kob and the rising ground of Jebel Sarhro.
A modest amount of climbing later and we were trundling along a low ridge when we passed a man stood by his moped frantically pointing at the fuel tank filler cap. Next to him were a couple of lads on mountain bikes. I guessed he was out of fuel and took pity on him and stopped, not envying the long, tedious push up the other side of the valley along the path we'd just come. He was, indeed out of fuel and so out came the multi tool and I decanted a half litre from the nearly full tank of my bike into a recently emptied water bottle. As soon as the fuel was in his tank he gave a wave and shot off along the piste in the direction of N'kob leaving us with the two lads on the mountain bikes. It seemed that these were probably his sons who, after a couple of refusals on our part for form, eventually invited us back to their house for tea.
Phil was wondering quietly how their dad would get on given that our bikes were four stroke using neat petrol where as the mopeds that we had seen so far all seemed to be a very definite and often very smoky two stroke and thus likely to need oil to be added to the petrol. We never found out. We followed the lads along the ridge and down into the next valley to pull-up outside a small compound of three or four low blocky houses rendered in mud and straw just above the road with some rather half heartedly cultivated small fields filled with something that looked like broccoli on the other side of the road. The inside of the building that we were invited into was a rather plain, low rectangular room with a large brightly coloured rug covering some of the concrete floor. Lounging on the floor against the wall at one end was, I assume, was the sister of the two lads. We kicked off, or in Phil’s case wrestled off, our dirty boots and sat on the floor propped on bolsters while mum, a slight, rather wrinkly woman in a head scarf got a brew on using a gas burner screwed directly into and eight inch high gas cylinder with the kettle supported on a brightly coloured ceramic pot stand sitting on the shoulder of the gas cylinder.
The teapot was washed in an elaborate fashion and stuffed with mint sprigs followed by what looked like pounds of sugar hacked from a single large lump with a screwdriver-like tool. Flat bread was produced. While we were waiting our hands were washed by pouring water over them from another teapot-like vessel and into a battered aluminium bowl below, for which I was really quite grateful as my hands still smelt of petrol. With stocky glasses of scalding tea in hand we made as much conversation as our mutual second language French would allow, of which a major topic, rather predictably was our travels and the bikes.
Another member of the family was weaving something in the courtyard outside under the shelter of a bamboo awning. It turned out that this was the manufacture of a traditional hooded robe from local wool. One of our hosts produced one to show us and I did, rather uncharitably, wonder for a minute whether he was about to make a sales pitch but, to his credit, he didn't. Once we'd just about exhausted all sensible avenues of conversation we Phil and I made our excuses, distributed a round of thank yous and were escorted back to the bikes by the lads who were obviously deeply interested in them. One hopped on mine and asked if he could have a go and, being someone who finds it hard to say no to a politely put request I nodded and swallowed hard.
I had assumed that since the family transport was a two-wheeler the lads would be expert at bikes but this guy clearly wasn't used to gears. Come to think of it these 250s were pretty much the biggest domestically registered bikes we'd seen so far and it dawned on me that the mopeds were probably automatics to boot. He got it going and bounced off down the piste the way we had just come. I was worried now, thinking mainly of the glass-fragile clutch lever and all the other bits that stick out from a bike and could snap off or bend. He was out of sight for a short while before we heard the engine revving loudly and then silence. I was even more worried. Phil hopped on his bike and set off. I was hiding my worry so, helmet in hand, the other brother and I strolled along the piste towards the corner hiding my bike from view. A short while later a relieved looking Phil puttered back: 'It's OK. He was just having problems with the clutch and gears'. I exhaled. Phil continued: 'and then he dropped it'. The bike came round the corner and the brothers changed over with the second taking the bike back to the house where I re-took possession.
I was very relieved to be moving again although a half a mile later a toddler erupted from the bushes with an only slightly older sister giving chase behind heading doggedly for my front wheel. There was no real drama but I reflected that no amount of good petrol karma would make up for mowing down the local infants.
We got to the rock steps which were nowhere near as bad as I had imagined and I quite enjoyed the slightly challenging nature of this piste as we climbed steadily into the light rain that was now falling. A couple of rather crinkled men on mopeds came bouncing down the piste, engines off to save fuel and grinning toothlessly and we passed an equally crinkled woman selling Berber knives opposite a forlorn café
The piste suddenly levelled off and the countryside changed from a craggy desert rock to a smoother , rounder landscape and we began to descend slightly. Passing through a small hamlet of a three or four houses, whose occupants had emerged to attempt to sell us brass banded tankards made from a fragrant wood, I spotted a couple of large capacity BMW GS dual sport bikes with touring luggage parked outside one of the houses. A quick look at the registration plates confirmed that they were UK bikes and so we stopped. There was a reasonable chance that I knew these guys from UKGSer as we were in Morocco at the same time as a forum organised open invite trip which I had very nearly joined (I had even bought knobbly tyres for my own BMW 800GS in anticipation).
As I slithered from my seat we were hailed in English. 'Hi, are you the two guys from the BMW club who are flying and renting?' We were. 'C'mon in then'. Ewan and Steve were, indeed, with the trip that I had thought they might be although the larger group had temporarily split in order to each achieve their own goals. These two were being entertained in one of the rooms off a courtyard by several village women, a few of the local lads and a whole host of children. As we entered, everyone squeezed-up and we sat down on the floor. More mint tea was pressed into our hands and almonds, biscuits and bread were offered round. We had a very pleasant hour of chatting, comparing notes with the other motorcyclists and trying to make small talk with the locals. Steve threw in a magic trick or two and a bit of low key business was done with Phil ending up buying a small copper bracelet for his niece.
Eventually the party broke up and we headed back to the bikes meeting the man of the house en route. We chatted at the bikes with the usual round of bike related questions and it turned out that the head of the family heartily approved of our choice of transport, 'good, very good machines', but was deeply dismissive of Steve and Ewan's larger capacity machines:' no good, too big'. We all parted in good spirits with Steve and Ewan heading off in the direction that we'd just come. In a very few minutes we reached tarmac, took a left turn and rolled down across a shallow valley into the town of Boumaine des Dades.
We selected another auberge from the guide book and after a quick look around booked in. Following a quick trip into town for supplies the bikes booked in too, spending the night in the lobby underneath a mural of the Anti and High Atlas.
Day 7 Petrol and mint tea
We had crepes for breakfast which were a welcome change from the usual bread and jam. Coffee I never get tired of.
I felt much, much better than the previous day: it helps not waking up feeling sticky and it wasn't that long before we were back on the road with the intention of spending it on piste. As we checked out I was half tempted, however, to book another night here at the Kasbah Baha Baha just to ensure we came back but that didn’t fit with today’s plans.
Our morning fuel stop was conveniently located at the point where our day's piste met the main road on the edge of town and so we were soon back on the unmade roads. This time we were heading north over the rocky range of the Jebel Sarhro. The guidebook said that this piste involved stone steps which we would be attempting to climb and so I was a little bit wary but the early stages of the trail were relatively unchallenging as we crossed the wide, shallow but rather bleak valley between N'kob and the rising ground of Jebel Sarhro.
A modest amount of climbing later and we were trundling along a low ridge when we passed a man stood by his moped frantically pointing at the fuel tank filler cap. Next to him were a couple of lads on mountain bikes. I guessed he was out of fuel and took pity on him and stopped, not envying the long, tedious push up the other side of the valley along the path we'd just come. He was, indeed out of fuel and so out came the multi tool and I decanted a half litre from the nearly full tank of my bike into a recently emptied water bottle. As soon as the fuel was in his tank he gave a wave and shot off along the piste in the direction of N'kob leaving us with the two lads on the mountain bikes. It seemed that these were probably his sons who, after a couple of refusals on our part for form, eventually invited us back to their house for tea.
Phil was wondering quietly how their dad would get on given that our bikes were four stroke using neat petrol where as the mopeds that we had seen so far all seemed to be a very definite and often very smoky two stroke and thus likely to need oil to be added to the petrol. We never found out. We followed the lads along the ridge and down into the next valley to pull-up outside a small compound of three or four low blocky houses rendered in mud and straw just above the road with some rather half heartedly cultivated small fields filled with something that looked like broccoli on the other side of the road. The inside of the building that we were invited into was a rather plain, low rectangular room with a large brightly coloured rug covering some of the concrete floor. Lounging on the floor against the wall at one end was, I assume, was the sister of the two lads. We kicked off, or in Phil’s case wrestled off, our dirty boots and sat on the floor propped on bolsters while mum, a slight, rather wrinkly woman in a head scarf got a brew on using a gas burner screwed directly into and eight inch high gas cylinder with the kettle supported on a brightly coloured ceramic pot stand sitting on the shoulder of the gas cylinder.
The teapot was washed in an elaborate fashion and stuffed with mint sprigs followed by what looked like pounds of sugar hacked from a single large lump with a screwdriver-like tool. Flat bread was produced. While we were waiting our hands were washed by pouring water over them from another teapot-like vessel and into a battered aluminium bowl below, for which I was really quite grateful as my hands still smelt of petrol. With stocky glasses of scalding tea in hand we made as much conversation as our mutual second language French would allow, of which a major topic, rather predictably was our travels and the bikes.
Another member of the family was weaving something in the courtyard outside under the shelter of a bamboo awning. It turned out that this was the manufacture of a traditional hooded robe from local wool. One of our hosts produced one to show us and I did, rather uncharitably, wonder for a minute whether he was about to make a sales pitch but, to his credit, he didn't. Once we'd just about exhausted all sensible avenues of conversation we Phil and I made our excuses, distributed a round of thank yous and were escorted back to the bikes by the lads who were obviously deeply interested in them. One hopped on mine and asked if he could have a go and, being someone who finds it hard to say no to a politely put request I nodded and swallowed hard.
I had assumed that since the family transport was a two-wheeler the lads would be expert at bikes but this guy clearly wasn't used to gears. Come to think of it these 250s were pretty much the biggest domestically registered bikes we'd seen so far and it dawned on me that the mopeds were probably automatics to boot. He got it going and bounced off down the piste the way we had just come. I was worried now, thinking mainly of the glass-fragile clutch lever and all the other bits that stick out from a bike and could snap off or bend. He was out of sight for a short while before we heard the engine revving loudly and then silence. I was even more worried. Phil hopped on his bike and set off. I was hiding my worry so, helmet in hand, the other brother and I strolled along the piste towards the corner hiding my bike from view. A short while later a relieved looking Phil puttered back: 'It's OK. He was just having problems with the clutch and gears'. I exhaled. Phil continued: 'and then he dropped it'. The bike came round the corner and the brothers changed over with the second taking the bike back to the house where I re-took possession.
I was very relieved to be moving again although a half a mile later a toddler erupted from the bushes with an only slightly older sister giving chase behind heading doggedly for my front wheel. There was no real drama but I reflected that no amount of good petrol karma would make up for mowing down the local infants.
We got to the rock steps which were nowhere near as bad as I had imagined and I quite enjoyed the slightly challenging nature of this piste as we climbed steadily into the light rain that was now falling. A couple of rather crinkled men on mopeds came bouncing down the piste, engines off to save fuel and grinning toothlessly and we passed an equally crinkled woman selling Berber knives opposite a forlorn café
The piste suddenly levelled off and the countryside changed from a craggy desert rock to a smoother , rounder landscape and we began to descend slightly. Passing through a small hamlet of a three or four houses, whose occupants had emerged to attempt to sell us brass banded tankards made from a fragrant wood, I spotted a couple of large capacity BMW GS dual sport bikes with touring luggage parked outside one of the houses. A quick look at the registration plates confirmed that they were UK bikes and so we stopped. There was a reasonable chance that I knew these guys from UKGSer as we were in Morocco at the same time as a forum organised open invite trip which I had very nearly joined (I had even bought knobbly tyres for my own BMW 800GS in anticipation).
As I slithered from my seat we were hailed in English. 'Hi, are you the two guys from the BMW club who are flying and renting?' We were. 'C'mon in then'. Ewan and Steve were, indeed, with the trip that I had thought they might be although the larger group had temporarily split in order to each achieve their own goals. These two were being entertained in one of the rooms off a courtyard by several village women, a few of the local lads and a whole host of children. As we entered, everyone squeezed-up and we sat down on the floor. More mint tea was pressed into our hands and almonds, biscuits and bread were offered round. We had a very pleasant hour of chatting, comparing notes with the other motorcyclists and trying to make small talk with the locals. Steve threw in a magic trick or two and a bit of low key business was done with Phil ending up buying a small copper bracelet for his niece.
Eventually the party broke up and we headed back to the bikes meeting the man of the house en route. We chatted at the bikes with the usual round of bike related questions and it turned out that the head of the family heartily approved of our choice of transport, 'good, very good machines', but was deeply dismissive of Steve and Ewan's larger capacity machines:' no good, too big'. We all parted in good spirits with Steve and Ewan heading off in the direction that we'd just come. In a very few minutes we reached tarmac, took a left turn and rolled down across a shallow valley into the town of Boumaine des Dades.
We selected another auberge from the guide book and after a quick look around booked in. Following a quick trip into town for supplies the bikes booked in too, spending the night in the lobby underneath a mural of the Anti and High Atlas.
