Moto Maroc Sept 2010 - Salaam and thanks for all the fish

[Riz Sauvage]

Hi all..

It's been a week since returning from our testing 4208 mile trip to Morocco.
I'm running a blog at salaamandthanksforallthefish.blogspot.com, but plan to update here as well.

We've got some great tales to tell, well above the average visitor stories, so please stay tuned, and bear with me while I search for the best words to describe this journey.....

Salaam and thanks for all the fish.

<span style="font-weight:bold;">The beginning.</span>

Somewhere back last year, someone started a "trip to morocco" thread, which attracted a bit of interest, with several souls saying that they'd go. Thing is, back then, it was a raggedy group of individuals with no real game plan that met up one afternoon, and shortly after the first "meeting", the original poster of the thread dissapeared into mists of time, no longer interested in setting sail for the Sahara, and the thread disolved into sporadic, undefined posts, that were neither organised, or disorganised.
They were merely that, post. But, they prompted me to get on with it, and plan my own trip, I was going, with, or without company..

I had always planned to go this year anyhow, as a tribute to a late friend of mine Mick Dewhurst, with whom I was initially going to do the trip.
Back tracking a bit, one good thing did come from the initial meet up back then, that was in the form of Shad Williams, we seemed to hit it off from the start, similar age, similar interestes etc... You get the picture?

Shad and myself kept regular contact, talking over ideas and discussing possible spots to visit, so I set about planning a route, one that would cover places we both wanted to see.
Over the coming months, gear was assembled, routes were planned, offroad riding was slotted in where possible, and of course, one eye was always on the forum, looking for one or two others we may gel with.

Long story short, (so I can get on with the actual trip)
Darren, was someone we'd met on that first meeting back then, and he seemed like a good sort, albeit quiet. He'd kept in touch with Shad, and it appeared he was still eager to go. In the meantime, I'd been contacted by Allan, a diver out in Nigeria at that time, who'd seen the thread, and was interested in joining us. He would be on an "Unproven" Tenere 660, and a case of fly in from Nigeria, get on this bike, and ride back to Africa.

A similar, chance email came from London based engineer Jason, looking to hook up with us for the trip.

Blah blah blah, plan some more, blah blah and more blah .... that's it, 5 of us, enough for me, we sail from Portsmouth on September 8th, lets all meet there, and see what happens.

<p> <p>
<span style="font-weight:bold;">Portsmouth - 7th September.</span>
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Shad and Myself had decided to leave a day early, and set up camp at Baker Barracks, on Thorney Island, spitting distance from the ferry terminal, it would give us chance to double check we have everything we need, before we get an an early breakfast, (at what has to be the most expensive burger van I've ever seen), and a short ride to the ferry tomorrow.

London and the M25... 4 hours to traverse 160 miles, all due to roadworks, and congestion on the sodding M25. No filtering either, especially not with a wide rear like the "Grand Wazoo" had... I could picture the panniers collecting paint samples before too long.

Getting down to the island, we set up tents on just off the disused runway, incidentally, the same runway where Shad had previously broken his leg, flipping his KTM. It wasn't long before we were joined by Darren, and Alan was due down at some point too. Jason was meeting us on the ferry, and Alan's arival time was unknown, so the three of us headed off into town, for fish & chips.

We returned to camp around 9(ish), and the coleman surfaced for a brew of South African Rooibos tea (This was to see Darren convert on his return to England)

Alan then sent a text, to say he's run out of fuel up nr Birmingham, and that his bike has issues, ie: 90 miles to a 22 liter tank, plus two primus bottles, oh, and that it's running rough too. He''ll either see us after midnight, or take lodgings elsewhere. "Never mind", I retort, "ride safe, and we'll see you when we do"

Secretly, I wondered what the hell he was letting himself, and us in for, a 660, running rough, on what was to be a 4200 mile trip, and we haven't even left home yet.

Teeth brushing, & face-washing ensued, along with a cigarette, and a last cup of tea for me. We retired to our snug sleeping bags & thermarests at 23:00.....

Sadly, I was awakened at 04:00 by heavy rain, and the need to pee

 

[Riz Sauvage]

<span style="font-weight:bold;">September 8th - The leaving of England, and the "Fair weather brewer"</span>

The alarm had been set for 6am, but of course the day didn't start then, no, it started at 4am. Remember I told you about the heavy rain, and the need to pee?

Well, peering out of the tent, it's wet, and only getting wetter...
Answering natures call, sees me in nothing but a pair of white boxers, and my Alpinestars, crossing the runway in the rain to relieve myself, much to the interest of some horses in a paddock in front of me.

During the night, I'd missed a text from Alan, letting me know that he'd finally made Portsmouth, and had found digs, and would see me on the ferry. So, now slightly damp from natures call, (the rain, I didn't pee on myself) I headed back to the tent to contemplate the day.

Darren was up at 6:30, followed by Shad at 7:30. In the meantime, I had been packing down the wet tent, and re-loading the bike with even wetter gear, now for the "fair weather brewer" bit

Darren, noticing no coleman burning away, with a morning offering atop it, started bemoaning the fact that yours truly was a "fair weather brewer", never mind the fact that everything was soaking wet, and such trivialities as tea was low down on the priority list. (wait until we're stuck on the high Atlas in a thunderstorm, I'd give him "Fair weather brewer"

We left the base at 8:00, and took the road to the ferry terminal, stopping off only at Asda, for some bits and bobs, and at this burger van Shad had been telling us about.

Well, lavish wasn't the word, it was like a tourbus for the rich and famous, gleaming white, decked out in stainless steel, and with what looked like it could have been sleeping quarters attached as well!

To say that the burgers were huge, is an understatement, they were 10" in circumference, and were served stuffed with not only breakfast, but lunch and supper too.
We ate in the rain, and made haste to meet the boat.
Boarding went without a hitch, and we were soon strapped down in the hold, and making our way to the upper decks, to rendezvous with Alan and Jason.

I must appologise for the lack of ferry pictures, but we were wet, the gear was wet, and we were more intent on drying out, and getting some grog inside to warm the proverbial cockles.

The 24 hours aboard Brittany's finest dragged, and the time was passed drinking beer and coke, eating dodgy ship food, and chatting to several passengers, who found us an either interesting, or bedraggled spectacle, not least of all, was "Harry the hatchet", an ageing bloke, off to Santander with his wife, to "scare the shit out of some people in the dark"... (his words)
Apparently he was from the Isle of Wight, and collects debt, as well as racing his Fazer around the globe.. likely, or unlikely, who knows?

The morning passed to afternoon, and then to evening, with us listening to the ragged ships entertainers, and later, nodding off in the seats. Alan, Jason, and Darren had cabins, all whom offered to share with us, but me an Shad took the manly route, roughing it on the floor, and recliners..

I nipped out on deck at around 11pm for a last cigarette, only to be accosted by a large Yorkshire lass whom I guess was somewhere in her middle to late 50's, who asked if I was alone.... (ooeerr)
When I replied that I was with some friends, she said that she knew I was with some "roughty, toughty bikers" but was I really alone... (this sounded scary, so I withdrew a little, as I didn't fancy the thought of having to excuse my way out of another cabin invite)

She proceeded to try and engage me with stories of her dead son, and John Gotti, whom she'd met in the States, and while describing a meeting with Gotti, recounted how he'd stroked her chin, obviously feeling obliged to stroke mine, to lend emphasis to the tale..

Strange, first Harry the Hatchet, Now the Black Widow..

I retired at this point to the relative safety of the recliner section, and sought out some much needed sleep..
I remember dozing off, with my boots off, listening to Crash Test Dummies, and seem to remember some dude sleeping next to me on the floor, with his face against my feet..

Fair play I thought, they'd been in my boots for around 15 hours though..

 

[David Lee]

Off to a good start

 

[Riz Sauvage]

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<span style="font-weight: bold;">Arriving in Santander, summer at last!</span>

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Santander, looking out of the Portside windows as we approach Spain, we see the weather looks great, a clear blue sky, summer all over again.

We unload the bikes, peel off the boat, and out of the terminal gates, freedom, and Morocco lie beyond.

At this point, It's probably a good idea to clue you in as to who rides what.

Myself, I'm on The Grand Wazoo, a modified 1100/1150, the oldest of the lot, and just over 80 000 miles on the clock, home made panniers, and probably in contention with Jason for being most overloaded.... Fingers crossed

Shad, a new 800GS, with only several hundred on the clock, no panniers, 2 ortliebs on the back, and a couple of Kreiga 10's on the front, well balanced and definitely no worries there.

Alan, a ropey looking Tenere 660 that he's not long had, and already a recent dyno jetting episode has left it thirsty, and not able to go much faster than about 70mph. Soft luggage, and ortlieb on the back, seems sturdy enough, he has every faith...

Jason, the newest bike of the bunch, a sparkley 1200GS, and in definite competition with me as to the amount of gear that can be plastered to it, these include a Cosco bag, plastic bowls, a huge tripod, and wait for it, an inflatable bed.. Not a thermarest, but 8 inches of full blown comfort. So, Huge ortlieb, Cosco bag, tank bag, and ally luggage.. we'll see how long it all stays for.

Darren, Nicest bike of the bunch, (writers opinion only, and does not reflect the views of the group), a 1200GSA, that later was to spend more time on its side, than upright, ally luggage, and a small ortlieb. Definitely the least amount of luggage.

So that's us, a bunch of guys who, aside from Shad & Myself, have never set eyes on each other before...
After Me and Shad managing to lose the other three in Santander, we wait at a fuel station till the other three find us, and make a beeline out of town.


We make great progress, the sun's out, by 1pm we've hit the outskirts of Santander, and we're burning a path down to Algeciras.
The motorways are great, nice and wide, and with minimal traffic, and the scenery is pretty damn good too, poles apart from our grey industrialized roads back home.
We make 300 miles easilly before we start thinking about a place to camp.
Now, wild camping in Spain isn't kosher, but that's not to say we weren't going to do our damndest to try, after all, we'd agreed, no easy ride till our sleep-over at Ouarzarzate.

EX205, that's where we find ourselves, and near a little town caled Hervas. We ride through the villiage like a squadron of lancaster bombers, reverberating off the walls of the houses, even Shads 800 sounds like a boxer!

After exiting the other end of the village without seeing anything that floats our boat, we continue up a narrow winding road into the mountain. We stop while Alan, whose Tenere is now refusing to idle, goes up a gravel road to check for a suitable blend for the night.

A local family walk past, and stop to chat! Urgh.. who's got the bloody phrasebook?
Between our pidgin Spanish, and their broken English, they warm to us, but reinforce what we already know, and that being the fact that wild camping is a No-No, however, they say the police never come here, and tell us that a few miles up the road is a nice flat place to camp.

So, Alan back with us again, we head on up the road, however, round the next bend, I look down to the left, and see a small field in the valley, accessed through some rusty gates, and down a winding dirt track. We all head down one by one, and decide that taking over the field for the night is a great plan, We kill the engines, and begin to decamp.

Everything is still wet from the dirty Portsmouth weather we were sent off with, so the panniers are emptied, tents are erected, and the Grand Wazoo serves as a clothes horse, in an attempt to dry some of the gear and clothes.

Alan tucks right into stripping down the Tenere, as it's now sounding like it's running on half a cylinder, and a full tank is only returning 100 miles. Fairing, plastics, seat, tank, lock stock the lot,everything comes off. Carbs are examined, wiring is looked at, some things are prodded, whilst others are poked, all this is now being done by torchlight, as we finally lost the sun 30 mins ater making camp. So there we all are, our first camp together, one bike in pieces, 2 toolkits spread out on the ground, various stoves boiling and cooking...

Dinner is bread, olives & chorizo, and Rooibos tea... and as Alan beavers away, the silence is only broken by the sound of cowbells down in the valley.

(and Darrens snoring)

 

[Shadwell]

Im happy to chip in with some photos any time si.

I have the admin explosion that was your bike on the first night in spain if you want it posted?

Reds really good so far mate

 

[Riz Sauvage]

Great stuff, I have very little with me in it if there's anyway you can get some to me, that would be great.. Funny about the admin explosion, I was looking for that pic last night, then realised that it was you that had taken it

 

[Riz Sauvage]

Hervas to Ubrique

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<span style="font-weight:bold;">The angry Farmer</span>



The alarm sounds at 6am, and the first job is to get the coleman fired up.
Looking through the food rations, I decide to save the "boil in a bag" food for the desert, and fall back on a suspect tin of spanish beans and bacon instead. I dent in the sides of the tin, smugly satisfied that when ready, the sides will pop out, letting me know.
5 minutes pass, and the can remains dented... ready or not, they're being eaten, so the unexploded device is removed from the boiling water, and the ring-pull given a sound yank... whereupon the apparently inert can of food then explodes, covering not only me, but the drybags, and the gear drying on the Grand Wazoo, in an oily orange mess.

Well, the beans were awfull, like giant faber beans, and the picture on the tin, offering the promise of juicy bacon chunks, delivered nothing more than lumps of a white fatty substance. After two forkfulls, the tin and contents were discarded, and the gear was cleaned of the offending orange matter.

Surveying the campsite in the light, I noticed a vegetable patch, complete with newish looking rotorvator, hmm, someone obviously tends this regularly, not good for us, so we make haste, and pack up.
By 8am, Shad and Alan wind their way up the dirt track to the road above. Shad is set to take some pictures of everyone rumbling past, when from the bottom, I see a 4wd decending the track... Ooops, no doubt the owner.
Intent on getting the bike away, I pay no attention to the commotion above, and continue to strap the remaining ortliebs to the panniers. Jason & Darren are about to peel past me, when the pickup arrives at the bottom. Out jumps a very irate Spanish man, and I recon he was swearing, as his arms were waving about as he ran between the truck and his veggies shouting loudly. I did try appologising, but he was having none of it, out came a book and pen, as he tried to take our registration numbers down, that was then followed by the mobile phone, and as if to add weight to this arsenal of weaponry, he let his dog loose as well.
Lucky for us, it was a Jack Russell sized thing, and its bark was no match for my Remus, so we left, loudly, and in haste I should add.

Regrouping at the road above, we assumed he'd phoned the local Police, so we decided to hit the road to Algeciras, and put a few miles between us and the field.

08:30, and we're back on the A66, heading towards Sevilla. We shift through Plasencia, Cáceres and Merida, making good progress in the mid-morning sun. Temperatures are mid 30's, the sky is blue, and with the roads quiet and wide, life couldn't be better.
We hit a little town just of the A66 called El Ronquillo, and decide to hole up there for an hour or so, it's about lunchtime, and we could do with some food, and a leg-stretch.

We rumble into the sleepy little town like astronauts on two wheels, and find somewhere to pull up... conveniently that just happens to be opposite a bar.
As we park, Jason notices a rather large bolt on the floor, and asks if anyone's lost one.. As it turns out, it was his, and none other than a frame to engine bolt.. ooeerr, how handy was that, a few meters further, and it would have been lost forever.
Shad goes off in search of a bit of food, while we decamp, and break out tools to re-unite the bolt with Jasons engine.

Shad's done a quick recce of the three closest cantinas, and settles on "Bar Los Plácids", which not only has a marked lack of food, but no-one speaks a tad of english either. Oh well, sign language it is again.
The barman's great, and understanding the fact that we're hungry, he offers to make Shad a sandwich... Super, I go and order 4 more, the barman asks what I want on it, and he keeps repeating something that sounded like "Hammos", oh well, go with that then, to which I smile and give a thumbs up.
He smiles in return, and lifts up a blackened foreleg of some or other recently departed beast, and still with hoof attached, proceeds to shave slices off it, onto a hunk of fresh bread.. Welcome to El Ronquillo.

We all eat, although the barman has run out of bread for Alans' sandwich, so Alan supplies his own bread, and still gets charged full price.

After resting up, and re-stocking the water supplies we head back out of town, and on to Sevilla.
To be fair, the traffic jam at Sevilla, was the only one we'd come across, and it didn't last very long either, onwards to Jerez then, when suddenly we come across our first toll.

Ok, Alan's in front on this one, with me behind him. Now I'm watching to see how this whole toll system works, and whether it's free for bikes, like back in Blighty.
I see Alan fumbling with his tank bag, and then see an assistant emerge from the booth, open a panel on the gate, do something, and then see the boom arm raised.
Fantastic, free for bikes I think, and as Alan goes through, I rev the Grand Wazoo into life, and with a surge of Remus induced power, take off after him, Only to meet the boom arm on its journey downwards.

<span style="font-weight:bold;">Boom arm VS the Grand Wazoo...</span>
The arm hit the old girl squarely across the eyes, but with the throttle still open, myself and the big bird managed to bend the arm outward at a magnificent 45 degrees before sheepishly stopping.
So there I was, sirens going, attendants rushing out, and me and the bike wedged under a bent barrier, you had to laugh really.
The attendants were great, and I guess the British flag on the mudguard explained it all. I paid the required 1.50, and was released to continue my trip...

After everyone had composed themselves, we decided to abandon the motorway, in favour of taking the A371 across country to Ubrique, and try and blend a campsite there for the night.
The ride was not to be dissapointing, with some great straight roads surrounded only by fields, and some superb mountain passes. We hit Ubrique at around 5pm, and decide to exit the town, looking for a quite place to hole up on the Algeciras side.
We split off onto the A373 and a few miles outside Ubrique, we stumble upon an overgrown campsite. There, sitting pretty on the side of the valley, is an abandoned stone lodge, leading down to BBQ areas, and tables... what a beautifull site.
it was in a decrepit state, and little overgrown, but we honestly couldn't have asked for a better place to set up camp.

We rode the bikes up onto the pavillion, where as if by some pre-ordered request, there were five spaces to park, one for each bike.
We de-camped, and set about once more drying gear that still hadn't properly dried out since Portsmouth, Shad, Alan, and Darren rode back into Ubrique for some supplies, leaving me and Jason to recce the area and relax.
We had decided to sleep beneath the stars next to the bikes, as the weather was too warm for tents, and the pavillion was dry and relatively sheltered. We cooked, ate and drank, and did some maintainance on the bikes, all somewhat alert after Jasons' bolt incident.

After a dinner of noodles, more olives, chorizo, and pears, we finally retired at around 11pm, drifting off to the sound of barking dogs from across the valley, and of course, Darrens trumpeting from the far end of the pavillion.

 

[Ash]

Enjoying this.

 

[Riz Sauvage]

Algeceiras, and swallowing your own tongue.

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The campsite we've found, seems to be a bit of a "Lovers lane". Throughout the course of the early part of last night, various cars had crunched onto the gravel, seen us, and departed, sadly, plans of any frivolities thwarted by five burly, and by now scruffy, looking bikers.

The time is 3:30 and I wake, firstly, by the ongoing cacophony of barking from across the valley, the stillness of the night air giving the impression we were being besieged by more than one of the Baskerville hounds, but more importantly, I was aware of a car pulling up just on the other side of the stone wall we lay behind, still snugly in our bags.

I rolled a cigarette, furtively lit it, and in the dark, with glowing embers shielded, peered over the wall. It was no more than an amorous couple in a small hatchback, who had no idea that they had us as neighbours. by this time, several of the others were stirring, I put that down to the dogs, but let them know we had company anyway.
With that, several of our head torches lit up the pavilion as we made no bones about having commandeered it for ourselves, and with much flailing of limbs and crashing about, the couple in the small hatchback beat a hasty retreat. We had once again beaten back the Spanish Armada.

Right-ho, back-tracking a bit to when we all dozed off last night..
As I struggled to fall asleep, I lay chuckling to myself as Darren's snoring echoed up from the end of the line, tickled that the unsuspecting Alan had chosen to bunk next to him. However, just as I started nodding off, I heard what appeared to be a splutter of sorts, from Jason, who was bedded down on the other side of the Grand Wazoo, I thought no more of it, and drifted off.

4am, and by this time, everyone is awake, and the heinous sounds, akin to that of a rocket taking off are coming from the direction of Alan's MSR Jet boil thermo-nuclear type stove... What a racket.
We cook breakfast, a motley assortment of hot dogs, noodles and rations, followed by Rooibos tea, and while this is going on, Jason recounts to me that while he was drifting off last night, his tongue slipped down the back of his throat, causing him to swallow it, waking him with a choking fit. That explains the noise then, hah hah hah.

Alans bike is still not right, and while returning slightly better mpg, he decides to leave the group early, and head into Algeciras, looking for a plug spanner that will fit, and some spare plugs. After going over the map with him, he picks a route, and promises to meet us at the port.

The rest of us get our gear together, and tidy the site, bagging up our rubbish, and finishing proceedings with washing and teeth brushing. 7:30, and we're heading out of camp, although not before Jason dumps some Levis, a plastic plate and bowl, and a few other odds and sods. I, leave the second tin of unopened beans and bacon for the next unwitting traveller to stumble upon.

We continue out on the A373 for a short distance, until it hits the A369, and A405, which were to provide us with 30 or so miles of beautiful twisting roads, running alongside the Alcornocales natural park. The roads were narrow in places, with sheer drops. I narrowly missed being pushed off a bridge on a blind bend, after a pick-up rounded the bend on my side, Shad told me afterwards that he was sure the panniers had made contact. The twisting mountain roads were lined with groves of cork trees, goats were everywhere, and traffic was minimal. The sun was just rising, and the views are amongst some that will stay with me for a long time.

After about an hour, we hit the A7 just outside Algeciras, where our splendid scenery changed to a sprawling grubby city, vastly different, and quite a disappointment after two days of gorgeous roads.
I will say though, that as we came down from the mountains, and entered more urban areas, I was struck by the storks, and their giant nests atop the pylons. They were everywhere, just peering down on us as we rode by, a sight I haven't seen since South Africa.

We find the ferry terminal easily enough, and being an hour and a half ahead of schedule, we decamp in front of the kiosk and relax.
45 minutes later, and still no sign of Alan, however, behind us is a Dutch guy on a bicycle. He introduces himself as Martin, and tells us that he's travelling to Mali, by bicycle!! That humbled me, and put our little jaunt into perspective, here we were with our massive laden bikes, and this little lad in shorts, a t-shirt, and some small soft panniers was doing this all under his own steam.

The customs booth opens, and we breeze through, as this is happening Alan appears on the wrong side of the fence, riding on the docks, we wave him round, and he joins us with minutes to spare. I think it's safe to say that we were all pleased he'd made it.

We get the bikes strapped down in the hold without fuss. No luxury foam pads across the seats like our French counterparts at Brittany, rather just some screwed up newspaper instead. We go topside to kill the next 90 minutes and recharge our batteries after the early getaway.

Whilst getting a baguette from the bar, I get engaged in conversation by the barman, a Spanish bloke in his 30's who very clearly is wearing a wig, and an ill-fitting one at that. Music, in this case being common ground, he proceeds to repeat, and rather excitedly, "Pink Froyd", "Dark shy of moon", and "Wish you here".
I humour him, but can clearly see that he's a Roger Waters fanatic, where as I prefer Gilmour myself. I hail "Division Bell" as my favourite, and beat a hasty retreat to the sofas, and the safety of my travelling companions. Jason is asleep on the couch, Darren seems cheerful, Shad, Me, and Allan just seem knackered.

Ceuta, it's bigger than I imagined, and after unloading the bikes, and nipping out onto more Spanish soil, we head for the border at Fnideq, and get promptly lost. After about 7 miles, and still with the ocean on our right, we decide it's best to turn about, find some fuel, and stop playing silly buggers.
At the gas station, I see a lizard clinging to Darren's motocross shirt, clearly it's hitched a ride from somewhere... but from where? It does look suspiciously like one I saw at camp last night... surely not?

We find the border at Fnideq, and gear ourselves up for a lengthy hassle with border police and touts.
To the contrary, things couldn't have gone smoother, we had our vehicle import form pre filled in before we left. As we disembarked, a guy wearing a name badge gave us all a personal immigration form to fill in and told us to take it to that window, where it was stamped, and we were then sent to a second cabin with our vehicle forms, which were checked and stamped, and we were off. A final passport check as we left the frontier, but in all, 30 minutes tops I'd say, contrary to belief, an easy experience.

We assembled in the car park outside, now on Moroccan soil, had a smoke, did the tourist thing and took a picture of us all lined up, like some visiting troupe of Americans.
We now needed cash, so we made a beeline for Tetouan, and once there, went in search of an ATM.
We found one in a narrow, yet busy back street, my Remus setting off car alarms left right and center. Getting the Moolah, we hit the road again, taking the N2 to Chefchaouen.

The first things to strike me about Morocco so far, are the smooth shiny roads in and around Cueta and Tetouan (must be a bugger in the wet), and the stench of rotting garbage everywhere. The country looks impoverished, plastic bottles and bags litter the sides of the road. It was nothing like what I had expected, however, the people were clean, and neatly dressed, what a contrast.

The temperature is now in the upper 30's, and we pull over near Souk-el-Arba to have a conflab about where to blend a campsite for the night.
We decide that in, or around Chefchaouen is probably the best, given the time, so we move out again, this time, riding jackets are ditched, in favour of vests, and Shads Helly Hansen... It's just far too hot for armoured jackets.

We hit Chefchaouen after taking a detour to recce a lake at Ichtal. (that proved to be too windswept and barren).
Halfway up the mountain into Chef, we meet the Moroccan "Stig". We're over on the hard shoulder, looking at a piece of wasteland, when this guy on a Honda 400 Chopper comes bowling towards us. Wearing a black bandanna over his face, and a black Roof Boxer helmet, he doesn't speak, he merely greets us all excitedly, shaking our hands in turn. He whips a camera out of his pocket, and gives it to Jason to take a picture of him with us. So there we were, with the "Stig", hanging off me and Darren like we were long lost brothers, and as quick as a flash, he's back on his bike, roaring off down the mountain.

We press on into town, vowing to come back to this little piece of wasteland when it's cooler, if we fail to find digs elsewhere.
We find ourselves in town center, and next to a sign saying CAMPING. We decide to stop right there, and grab a few cokes. We sit outside a small cafe, and order 5 cokes, only to be brought 5 mint teas.... Ok we'll have coke and mint tea then. Bloody marvellous though, it was the first time I'd had the drink, and I loved it.
After an hour in town, we followed the sign up a steep rock-strewn road to a great campsite. On the way up the rocky road, both Jason and myself had been clobbered by over-enthusiastic kids with water pistols. However, now at the campsite, we could relax.
We negotiated for 5 pitches and 5 hot showers, and set up camp.
Once more Alans' bike gets the campsite strip-down treatment. He's failed to find any tools in Algeciras, and the bike is still running rough. Luck is on our side though, in the form of French Yamaha mechanic Tivo. He's just pitched his tent next to Jason, after riding from Barcelona on his 2 stroke Yamaha DT125. He promises to look at Alan's bike first thing in the morning, now, he's going to sleep. Fair enough, looks like fortune smiles on us again, we cook dinner, drink tea, shower, and wash clothes.

It's our first day in the country, and we've made good progress, spirits are high, bellies are full.
Jason's managed to burn three fingers picking up a hot stove, and we've met some interesting people, including an Italian couple at the campsite, en-route to Cape Town, who have just rolled their Land cruiser, and another German couple, also en-route to Mali.

Darren pitches his tent next to mine, and we have a final cuppa before calling time out, I have diary duty, and a final smoke before bed.

Welcome to Morocco.

 

[Riz Sauvage]

September 12th - The road to Fés

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Morning breaks over the campsite, and for once, we're not raring to get away early, as our French mecanic Tivo, who has promised to took at Alans' bike, is still safely ensconced in his tent.

We set about cooking breakfast, packing gear, and washing ourselves.
Now remember Jason nearly losing the engine bolt back in Spain? Well, I carry a supply of spares for the Grand Wazoo, amongst them, a bag of bolts. Jason goes off to hit the latrine, and a bolt from my bag mysteriously finds itself under his bike, covered with a layer of oil and water, and I go off to wash up, brush teeth, and watch the proceedings from a distance.

Shad, Darren, and Allan are in on the joke, and are intently watching as Jason calls me over on my return from the "Bloc Sanitaire". He seems genuinely worried and perplexed as to the origin of the newly found bolt, and the oil. After leaving him sweating for a few minutes, the origin of the bolt is revealed, resulting in a relieved Jason, who seems more than willing to part with a few expletives aimed in my general direction.

With Tivo up, and the carbs of Alans' Tenere being looked at, we enjoy relaxing in the morning sun, and I nip off with Shad, down to the camp cantina, where I manage to convey to the two ladies in the kitchen that I would love an "Omelettas Espanól", and was that "Por Favor" or "si vous plait", I can't remember, it's been strange jumping about between the little Arabic, Spanish, and French I know, along with chatting to some happy German campers, (in German obviously), so much so, that I'm never quite sure what's going to come out of my mouth when I open it. I think I'm having an identity crisis of sorts.

With Alans' bike re-assembled, the rest of team Moto Maroc hit the cantina for the same grub, which incidentally, was the best omelette I've had in ages. I head back to the Grand Wazoo, to prep her for imminent departure.

We're headed for Fez, over the Rif mountains, and into Ketema, "Banditsville".
A lot of travellers avoid Ketama, possibly due to the nature of its location, (being in the main cannabis growing region of Morocco), possibly because of the lawless reputation it has gained, in any case, we wanted to see what the fuss was about, so that was the plan.
Tivo, our newly acquired French mechanic, on his DT125, was headed to Fez too, but not via Ketama, as he considered it too dangerous, however, when hearing that we were going, he asked if he could ride with us, that way getting to see Ketama in the relative safety of a group. Hmmm, The Grand Wazoo vs Yamaha DT125, what the hell I thought, why not.
So Tivo joined us, and we rolled out of camp around mid morning, with the sun in a clear blue sky, and temperatures at 34 degrees already.

We're off to a good start, Shad goes missing in Chefchaouen, and Tivo drops his 125 on a bend, thankfully only scuffing his tent bag, and the bikes plastics. I go back into town to look for Shad, and get filmed by a pillion on a German GS, but Shad's nowhere to be seen. We press on, down the mountain to the N2, where we pick up Shad, who after getting lost, had left Chefchaouen by the back door, and come the long way round to meet us at the front. Glad to see he hadn't been abducted by the locals, we press on down the N2 to Bab Taza, and on to Bab Beret.

The mountain passes are spectacular, and make for great riding. The roads aren't in too bad a condition, however, oncoming drivers are unpredictable, so we learn to hug the mountainside on the right hand bends.

The smell of cannabis hangs heavy in the air over the Rif, the villages we rumble through are impoverished, semi-completed, squalid clusters of buildings, the ever present smell of rotting garbage and raw sewage fills our helmets at every turn.

There are very few women present, plenty of men, not apparently doing anything aside from smoking splifs and gathering at street side food stalls. We pass through the villages untroubled, by and large, the people appear friendly, or at worse, nonplussed by our presence.

We stop at a mountainside "restaurant", just past Bab Beret, a fairly nice building with brochettes being cooked outside, and plenty of locals occupying the tables out front. Once again, people seem friendly, we opt for cokes, mint teas, and kofte brochettes for all 6 of us. Plenty of food and drink, and a accompanying bill of 195 Dirhams, about £15.

Looking over the balcony surrounding the restaurant, the fields of cannabis are plain to see, stretching out in all directions, and so prolific, it's akin to driving past wheat fields back home, so much in abundance, and so openly grown, no wonder the air is so thick with the smell.

We finish our lunch and push on to Ketama.
The ride through to Ketama, and on to Taounate was superb, perfect weather, beautiful mountain passes, and minimal traffic, you couldn't help but feel a sense of extreme freedom and exhilaration as you constantly rode the bike through the plentifull left and right bends that took us up, over, and through the Rif mountains.

From Taounate and on to Fez, we lost our mountain passes, exchanged now for more sedate, but no less interesting plateau riding, down past Tissa, Ain Kansera, and on to our final stop for the day, Fez.

Coming out of the mountains, and down onto the plateau, I wasn't wearing a jacket, merely a light T-shirt. Naturally, I had gloves, trousers and boots on, as I felt that driving naked through cannabis country might not go down too well. However, the lack of arm protection saw be being stung on my throttle wrist by a drug fuelled wasp, no doubt employed by the locals to guard the seemingly unprotected crops.
It hurt like a bugger, and would for the next day, but that aside, it did make for some interesting throttle control as it happened.

Just outside of Fez, I came across Shad's 800 on its side in the road, with him resting against the armco barrier next to it. Thankfully nothing serious had happened, it had been more a case of a dismounting error which saw him and "Sam" part company.
I will add, that thus far, Tivo had been fantastic, his little 125 although lagging behind in some places, had managed to keep pace with us on the bigger bikes, and after 166 hard miles through the mountains, had reached the outskirts of Fez with us.

It was now 7pm, and we had lost daylight. Furthermore, we had no idea of where we were going to camp either. We hit Fez in the dark, and it was mayhem.
Traffic was gridlocked, lanes had absolutely no meaning to anyone, we were surrounded by swarms of moped riders zipping in and out between us, and we all became separated in heavy traffic. Tivo was off and filtering with Shad, oblivious to the fact that with our panniers it wasn't so easy to filter. Me, Jason, and Daz, were in eyesight of each other, but still separated by maniacal Moroccan drivers, It was bad.

Street names were undecipherable in the dark, traffic was everywhere, Alan came past me with no helmet on, and his rear numberplate hanging on by one bolt, after being rear ended by a car further back. Touts on scooters were everywhere, offering above the hubbub of the traffic to take us to hotels, whorehouses, drug dens, or any other place we wanted.

Myself, Jason, and Darren regrouping, we made sure all lights were on, and dominated the road, making sure the Remus, and Darren's HID's let everyone know we were about, as there seemed to be no structure at all to the driving system in Fez.
Up ahead, the cause of the mayhem became apparent, one of the million Mercedes taxis we'd encountered had demolished the central reservation, and along with it, a palm tree. Police were at every intersection, trying to regain some modicum of control. This time, we pushed past even them, trying to ride our way out of the madness.

Up ahead, I caught sight of some hazard lights, Shad, waiting for us on the central reservation at a junction, he pointed down the road to Tivo, engaged in conversation with a tout on a scooter. We pulled to the side, and it was agreed that the scooter tout, who smelled strongly of booze, would take us to a campsite...
We gave in, Fez in the dark had beaten us, and we were glad of the assistance, so away he wobbled, leading a pack of laden BMW's, and of course one small Yamaha, to the "International camping site" just off the R503, on the outskirts of Fez.

Fez, was probably our worse experience of Morocco, partly down to a bad judgement call of attempting it at night, but also down to the miserable tout we'd encountered.
We were annoyed that we'd found ourselves at the mercy of some unscrupulous money grabbing hustlers, and vowed not to fall into that trap again. Here's how the rest of the evening unfolded.

We arrived at what was actually a pleasant campsite, though marred by the fact that they had us by the balls, and they knew it. Unsuccessful haggling saw us coughing up 450 Dirhams for the 6 of us for tent pitching privilleges.
Somehow, in the fracas, a taxi had been arranged to take us into town later for a meal as well, another 350 Dirhams... whew.

After pitching tents, which saw Darren break 3 titanium pegs, we washed up, changed, and met the taxi.
Aboard, was none other than our scooter tout, who apparently was now our self appointed guide to Fez. He offered to take us to his brothers restaurant in the old Medina... yeah, you guessed it, another sting coming.
All we wanted was some bright lights, and street food, what we got, was a deserted Medina, and a restaurant, (an ornate one at that), with meals priced at a minimum of 300 Dirhams per head.
We revolted, and refused to eat there, as if by magic, cheaper menus were proffered, but we'd had enough, and demanded to leave. The restaurant manager came over and asked why we didn't want to eat there, and appeared annoyed, we made feeble excuses about wanting a different type of experience, and left.
Alan told our tout that we wanted to eat where the working man eats, and we were then taken back to the taxi, and driven to a bombed out looking area of town, most definitely not where the tourists go.

Perfect, the streets were alive with bustling, smokey food stalls, and street traders, this was were we wanted to be, we ordered the taxi to stop, and clambered out.
Our tout was intent on ordering food for us, but we had had enough of being mugged off, and took matters into our own hands, and found a stall in the middle of all the chaos and took up residency there.

Several mint teas, even more cokes, and rounds of brochettes later, and we were satisfied, and ready to leave.
All the time, not only was our tout making a pest of himself, but I spotted the campsite owner lurking in the background too... Were they concerned for our safety, or did they see us as the proverbial golden geese? who knows, but we were taking no more advice or recommendations, and having eaten and drank our fill, headed back to "camping a-la-internationale".

Our self appointed tout wanted a fee for his services, but we knew that we'd been mugged off, so gave him 30 Dirhams, (about £2.50), and told him not to spend it all at once.

We retired to our pitches, and almost simultaneously, hit the sack.
No campfire brew-up, no chit-chat... Everyone retires in silence, either Moto Maroc team morale is at a low, after being so foolishly taken advantage of, or the days hard riding has taken its toll

 

[Riz Sauvage]

September 13th - The road to Erg Chebbi

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None of us were particularly objective of leaving Fés without exploring further. To be honest, last nights experience had left a slightly bitter after taste, and with the dunes at Merzouga calling, we decided to hit the bitumen, and make haste for the desert.

Now the upside of our overpriced accommodation, was the convenience of it lying alongside the R503, the road that would take us to Sefrou, then to Boulemane, and onwards to Midelt.

We lit out of camp at around 7:30, refuelled and took on water at a nearby Afriqué station, and hit the road. The weather was superb, and spirits were high. I put some miles between myself and the others, as I needed some "me time".
I had enjoyed our time riding together so far, but wanted to ride without checking my mirrors for a while, and needed to feel as if I was the only soul on the road.

I made good ground through some great scenery, and pulled up just short of Sefrou, to take some pictures, and enjoy my quiet surroundings.
Soon enough, the rest of Team Moto Maroc came shooting past, leaving me once more to roll yet another cigarette, and take some more pictures, the stillness of the morning broken only by a local truck rumbling out of the fields next to me.
As it rolled slowly past, I was greeted by waving hands, and a warm smile. It made me wonder if I would do the same if the roles were reversed, and thought probably not.
How humbling, clearly many of the people here lived in poverty, and yet showed no bitterness at seeing travellers like us, obviously better off.
I was to take a few similar lessons home with me.

Cigarette smoked, and the obligatory posed picture of me and the Grand Wazoo taken, I had the wheels turning towards Sefrou once more.
I thought I'd let sufficient time lapse between myself and the rest of the bunch to be assured of another solitary ride, but it wasn't long before I came across Shad and Alan at the roadside, Shad examining his destroyed camera, which he'd dropped whilst filming as he rode.
We pushed on with the ride, finding some beautiful mountain passes, (Massif du Kandar), on the way to Boulemane.
South side of Boulemane, the road between Aít Kermouss and the N13 at Boulojoul is nearly as straight as an arrow. It was beautifull, We'd unwittingly passed Shad and Alan outside Boulemane while they were photo-shooting next to a lake, and seeing this straight road disappearing into nothingness, reminded me of the Karroo roads found back in South Africa, so I cracked the throttle a wee bit, and distanced myself from Jason and Darren, eager to feel alone in this wilderness.

The road was wide enough for a large vehicle only, sand blown and straight as an arrow, I took a chance and blew down the center at 120 kilometers per hour, the sun scorching down on me I now felt like I was in the "real" Morocco, there was no-one in sight, no traffic, no buildings, nothing, it was exhilarating.
I reckon it was a good 50 miles of straight road, broken only by a little town called Taouerda, about halfway down. Before Taouerda, I stopped to capture the isolation on film, and was joined not long afterwards, and a little further down the road, by the others.
We all decided on a smoke break and further photo shoot. Shad abandoned his helmet for a camera shot over a washed out section of road.
It was a great place to stop, beautiful scenery, broken only now by the rumble of a rather large coach bus approaching us from behind...
Bugger, a scramble for the bikes to getaway ahead of it, as the road was too narrow for overtaking.

Shad, Alan, and Darren make it. Jason and Me, halfway through smoking admit defeat, and wait for the coach to pass, finishing cigs, and hoping for a passing place further ahead.
We easily catch the coach, but alas, no passing place. The coach maintains speed, I guess it must have been around 35 mph, the driver waves for me to overtake... on the gravel? oh well nothing ventured...
The gravel turns to mud before I draw level with the coach, and at that speed, the old girl is violently snaking about, the weight of the panniers accenting the rumba the Grand Wazoo is now performing alongside the coach, nothing for it but to grit teeth, and open the throttle even more. It works, and the big bird and me sail past the coach, shaking our tail feathers as we shoot past.
Jason makes it as well, although I cannot testify as to with what degree of finesse, as I was too preoccupied at the time to take notice. Further up the road we find Darren, who'd dropped the GSA in the mud, helped to right it, the locals soon muck in, and he's underway again, with no damage bar dented pride.

Up ahead, Jason and Myself through Taouerde slowly, as there is a seriously flooded section of road ahead, and the road is not in such great condition either.
In the middle of the flood, sits a boy on a bicycle, Jason is ahead of me, seeing the boy point to the right of him, Jason goes to the left, only for me to see his bike disappear into a pothole, he manages to stay upright, I however, take the kids direction, and riding the pegs, pass to the left of him... no potholes.

<span style="font-weight:bold;">Midelt, and the scruffy hawkers.</span>

We join Alan and Shad at the N13, and all five of us breeze into Midelt 20 minutes later, It's hot, we're hungry, and the bikes need fuel.
We fuel up, and discuss a lunch break here. Alan has seen a spares shop of sorts, and needs to find an HT lead, and that elusive plug spanner. We agree to meet at a cafe around the corner, as Shad had spotted someone selling grilled chickens, and wanted a whole one. He wanted a beer too, but that wasn't going to happen.

As it turned out, by the time we had got our arses into gear, there were no more chickens left, Daz had been sidetracked at the petrol station by locals selling fossils, and had bought several, I was having none of it, and the wallet and myself remained together, firmly.
Anyway, chickens, yes, sold out....
We headed further down the road, settling on a place at the end of the street next to an Axa insurance branch, where Jason did the honest thing and sorted out his Moroccan travel insurance, some of us were however not as morally scrupulous, and decided to wing it instead, hoping we didn't end up knocking some local over somewhere.

Lunch was awful, the worst brochettes we'd had so far, covered in flies, and just unappealing. Alan's bike was being seen to by a local mechanic, so we had time to hang around for a while.
Of all the places I visited in Morocco, Midelt was the worse for street hawkers. They were pests, and clearly didn't recognise the words "No".
I wouldn't have minded if they were selling anything nice, but they were grubby, and the stuff they were selling was cheap tat, and boy, did they try the hard sell, so much so, that when that didn't work, one tried sending me on a guilt trip by telling me that I had a "rich wallet, but a poor heart".
At that point, I could have said something about his grubby look, and cheap wares, or even biffed him on the nose, however, I bit my tongue, and went back to sleep on the road, next to the Grand Wazoo.

Hooray, Alan gets a custom made plug spanner, and a couple of HT leads, and we get underway. All for the princely sum of 40 dirhams, plus whatever we thought the mechanics labour was worth. Alan gave him 340 dirhams, as the guy was clearly one of the more genuine locals, and he had spent two hours labouring over the bike, and offered his advice on piste rides along the route.
We were soon beating a path closer to the desert.

After losing several hours in Midelt, we reckoned on riding for another couple of hours before looking for a campsite, thereby avoiding the mess that was Fes last night. We headed for Er-Rachidia, and a chance stop at the side of the road, just before hitting the Gorge Du Ziz, saw us sitting next to the Jurassic Campsite, and non other than the owner was outside, as if expecting us.
He seemed friendly enough, and claimed to be the cheapest in Morocco, we played the "old hand at Morocco" card, and secured the site for a measly 150 dirhams for all of us, a far cry from our 450 mugging last night in Fes.
We pulled in, and set up camp, ordering a in house meal for 8pm that night.

<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Grand Wazoo goes down.</span>

It was nice to set up early for a change, especially while it was still light.
By this time, the side stand of my bike was peeling away from the frame at an alarming angle, so it was center stand only, or several large rocks under the side.
The old girl was on the center stand while she was being unloaded, and as I relieved her of some of the gear, and turned my back on her, and came crashing down behind me, as if in protest it would seem.

Shad, seizing any opportunity to get behind the camera lens, clambered on her as she lay resting, and posed in his indomitable style. Bless the guys though, I'd hurt my back yesterday, and trapped a nerve, so they got the big bird back on her legs again for me, whilst I played the wounded soldier.

We had plenty of time to relax before the evening meal, which would be one of the best I would have whilst in Morocco. We brewed tea, showered, smoked, washed clothes, and relaxed before heading up to the restaurant. The place was amazing, it was more like a traditional home environment, several tajines of meat, chicken, and vegetables were served, along with plenty of unleavened bread, finished with melon and yogurt, a truly sumptuous feast, washed down with plenty of coke as always.

Jason and myself shared a brew and a smoke together before calling time for the night.
As it stands, we're in range of Merzouga, and should hit the dunes by at least lunch tomorrow, we'll see...

Pink Floyd's' division bell plays as I drift off... A good day for all of us.

 

[Riz Sauvage]

September 14th - Erg Chebbi

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<span style="font-weight:bold;">Bike on fire, desert crashes and camels.</span>

We were up at our usual time of 6am, squeezing in the redbush brew-up, before bidding Jurassic camp, complete with man eating ants goodbye, riding the Gorge Du Ziz on to Errachidia, and then onwards to Erfoud.
By now, Morocco was how I'd imagined it to be, happily less "westernised" than the bigger towns we'd passed through initially.

I lagged behind after riding through Errachidia, it was still fairly early, and I once again needed to feel some sort of solitude, and time to reflect on where I was.
It wasn't long though before I came across the rest of the team at the side of the road, bustling yet again around Alan's Tenere.
I must give both Alan, and the trusty Yamaha credit, that despite the odds stacked against the bike, and the number of campsite repairs thus far, Alan's patience, and the Tenere had been doggedly forging ahead without complaining, however, this time, things had taken a slightly worse turn.

Alan had been carrying a plastic jerrycan of fuel on the rear rack, to slake the thirst of the hungry Yamaha, and somehow, this had become dislodged, and had forged a bond with the exhaust, resulting in the can melting, fuel catching light, and the rear numberplate meting before anyone spotted the disintegrating can jettisoning it's hazardous load off the back.
The drama was over by the time I'd caught them up, all that remained was a charred numberplate holding on by one bolt, and a melted can lying off the road.
What's next we wondered, as we set off again.

Erfoud was bustling, it was a tourist destination I guess, but without the "Touristy" vibe to it, which I found pleasing. We stopped for fuel, and a quick conflab. Jason, Shad, and Alan set off, while Myself and Darren chose to have a coke break and a 5 minute leg stretch.
We turned off the N13 in the town, and instead, took the R702 across to Dar Kaoua, where we promptly ran out of tar road, It was there one minute, and the next, sandy, corrugated tyre tracks, not even pointing anywhere in particular, in fact, there were several, heading in all different directions.
We had the bikes for the job, so in unison, we rose on our pegs, and rode into the desert like the captains of two ships, standing at their respective helms.

For 18 miles we rode the pegs over the corrugations, rocks, and soft sand, stopping every now and then for some photo taking, and checking that we were still on track.
We reached Merzouga without incident, but concerned that the others would be worried, as I'd guessed they'd taken the N13 down, and were wondering why we'd taken so long.
As we rumbled between the small houses in the village, entering town via a more unorthodox route, we caught sight of Alan and Shad approaching us from the left, joined not long afterwards by Jason.

As it transpired, that despite leaving Erfoud before us, they'd doubled back into town, and taken the same route out as us, coming up behind us.
Alan and Shad had raced across the corrugations, leaving Jason to fend for himself, so when a patch of loose stuff had his GS over, he found himself alone with his downed bike, with no choice but to roll a cigarette, and wait until the guys noticed he was missing. Alan and his Tenere had in the meantime had yet another drama to contend with. One of his panniers had burst, and it took a while to notice, but by this time, the desert was littered with a trail of food, socks, underpants and other assorted items.

Nevertheless, here we all were, Merzouga, final destination for the day, and only 12pm Midday, and with a temperature on 45 degrees, we sought shade on the veranda of a cafe and rested.
Now, there were touts here too, but thankfully not as pesky as elsewhere. Darren bought yet more fossils to take back, including a slab so wide, it barely fit the panniers. I bought some silver jewellery, while Shad negotiated with a guy called Yusuf for a campsite, complete with swimming pool.
As it transpired, "Palais des dunes" was a fairly good find. The swimming pool was perfect, and Jason & Myself wasted no time in getting wet. Darren hadn't brought shorts, and no amount of coaxing would convince him to get in with his Y-fronts.
Shad & Alan had decided to spend the afternoon riding in the dunes, (not adjusting tyre pressures to suit)

Two hours later, and they returned, looking severely the worse for wear, not only had Shad been violently thrown over his bars hitting the sand, but it would seem they had spent the last two hours digging both bikes out, and moving them 100 meters. All this while we were languishing by the poolside.

Not to be defeated, they had elected to try again in the evening. (The tyre pressures still hadn't been talked about). Jason, Daz, and Myself had elected to take a camel trek into the desert, and camp out in the bedouin tents instead, returning to base in the morning.
Before we left, it was discussed that Shad and Alan were going to leave camp early, and head for Tinerhir, and the Dades and Todra gorges, we would meet up in 2 days in Ouarzazate.

The camel trek was an experience, aside from the three of us, we were joined by a Spanish and French couple too.
90 minutes by camel left me feeling like John Wayne, and camels constantly crap, well, Jason's one in front of me did anyhow.
The food at the campsite was rank, and old, the bread, whilst aesthetically good, was stale, and I ate very little.
in fact, we waited so long for it, that the three of us contemplated walking back to camp, and hitting the road. We didn't though. There was a bit of a sing-song going on at the table next to us, and several of us joined together in a bit of hand percussion. We slept under blankets, underneath the stars...

Tomorrow, we too leave for Tinerhir.

 

[Riz Sauvage]

September 15th - Tinerhir and disaster in the Atlas

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Roll call at 6am as usual, and the frustrating thing was that we were at the mercy of the two young Berber camel herders who had brought us out into the desert, so with them apparently still tucked up under their blankets, I went off to capture some early morning shots.... yes, more camels, and more sand.

We eventually made it back to our bikes at the hotel/auberge/campsite to find everything as we left it, bar Darren's motocross shirt, that had disappeared off the bike, and was never to be seen again. Breakfast had been laid on for us, but seeing everything laid out in the morning sun, which incidentally was approaching 30 degrees, we decided to stick to a cold coke, bar Darren, who had a glass of juice from a cooler that would later bring our ride to a painful halt.

Having taken the hard road in yesterday, we turned our wheels along the glorious tarmac of the N13 back towards Erfoud to pick up cash and supplies, and pick up the R702 to Tinerhir. We reached Erfoud in no time at all, but by the time we'd killed the engines, Daz was doubled up in pain, with severe stomach cramps that I can only attribute to the juice he'd had a little while ago...
He'd broken rule 15, only drink from sealed containers.

Jason dug out some kaolin and morphine from our collectively overstocked medical kit, and laid hands on the now grimacing Darren.
I knew the poor bugger was in real pain, as he'd had a great disposition until now. For the time being, we'll hole up here for a while, and see how things progress.

After about 40 minutes, we took to the tar again, with Darren's bellyache subsiding.
We made Tinerhir by midday, and started up through the Todra Gorge.
It was beautiful, the weather was with us, the scenery was breathtaking, and as we reached the mouth of the gorge, we rumbled past the hotels and the tour buses parked outside that were disgorging the sightseers, who stared open-mouthed as we thundered past them, in to the river, and out the other side, shaking off water like wet dogs.
We rode for another mile or so, until we found a secluded spot to pull over, and take a lunch break. We ditched our boots, fired up the stoves and had a hearty roadside feast, and vowed to laze at least an hour away, confident that we could make the road up to Agoudal, and back down the Dades Gorge by nightfall....

How wrong were we to be.

I'll start this off by saying that I don't believe you can make a wrong decision, I'm not even sure if you can make a bad decision, well, not intentionally anyway, it's just something you choose at the time, merely a decision, how that choice turns out though, is an entirely different kettle of fish.

Our assorted bellies full with compo rations of main course, deserts, and tea, we set off for Tamtattouchte, and Áit Hani, where we could either continue up the Todra, or cut across to Msemrir. We passed Tamtattouchte, and at Áit Hani, we were instantly beset by kids and grown-ups alike, trying to sell us everything, including a box of burned sweetcorn. On a serious note though, we couldn't get a word in edge ways between ourselves, and instead of mulling over the graded track to our left that headed of to Msemrir, we made a snap decision to press on up to Agoudal. (that in itself was not a bad choice, but it would have its consequences.)

The further we pushed towards the top, the colder, and more overcast it was becoming, but progress thus far had been good, and we were in good spirits, we were riding the pegs through washouts, we had hall this glorious scenery to ourselves, we couldn't really have been in better spirits, then we hit Tizi-Tinherhouzine, and the road surface changed.

It was clear that the Moroccans were trying to improve the roads, so they were in the process of turning everything to asphalt. The only problem was that thus far, they had graded the road, laid a base coat of tar, and covered everything in chippings. This was to continue all the way to Agoudal, and on average was 2 inches deep across most of the road, so bad that it felt as if we were riding with flat tires, our three laden bikes slithering all over the road, bringing a definite halt to any hope of a speedy accent.

Nearing Agoudal, we stopped to take some pictures at the apex of the two gorges, and met a pair of Welsh guys who had flown out to Marrakesh, and were on two hire bikes of some small scrambler pedigree, who cocked a serious eyebrow at us prepared to tackle the Dades on our heavy bikes, telling us that they had taken the whole day to traverse the Dades. But then and again, they also said that they'd flown over and hired bikes, rather than ride over, because they didn't see the point of "Hacking" through Spain just to get here. So we took the advice lightly, after all, hadn't we just done the Todra? How hard could going back down the other side be?

With Jason and Daz out front as we rode through Agoudal, I found myself patiently waiting at the roadside, with an old man and two kids for company, while the other two took 10 minutes to figure out they were still headed North to Imilchil. None of us could understand each other, as my French and Arabic was minimal, and their English was non-existent. I rolled the old guy a smoke, and we chatted with smiles and hand gestures until Jason and Darren returned, and we headed off down the Dades to Tilmi.... current time 5pm

Initially the going was excellent, the terrain was rough, and rutted, but fairly easy to ride. Having done a fair bit of off roading in the past, I positioned myself out front, the self proclaimed point-man, if you will, this would in a short while prove to have not been one of my better judgement calls.

I saw some flat ground up ahead, looking at the instruments, I saw we'd covered about 6 miles, and it was now nearly 6pm, I asked Jason and Darren if they wanted to set up camp, or push on further. So far, the going had been ok, they seemed confident, and suggested we push on. In hindsight, I should have made the judgement call to camp, but no, we forged ahead, into what looked like a sky brewing for a storm.

Almost as soon as we set off, the route got a lot tougher, the ruts had become severe, reducing the ride able surface to little more than goat tracks.
Constantly reminding myself to look ahead, and not at the menacing 6 inch deep ruts I was balancing on, I hadn't noticed the gap between us all increasing. This was partly to not having the use of the mirrors, and partly to the concentration needed to get through what was now becoming difficult terrain, loose stone, deep ruts, and mud.

It had started to rain, and along with the rain, came lightning, and a loss of light.

I couldn't tell you when the light went out, I think the thunderclouds helped snuff the dying embers of the day, regardless, I remember flicking the spotlights on, and squinting out into the rain filled gloom, and thinking that this had all gone bad pretty quickly.
We had been on an uphill climb for the last mile, and stopping was not an option, as the track was too narrow, and any traction would be immediately lost, I just felt that if I pushed on for another few meters, I'd find a level place.

It was by now pitch black, up ahead, the road, which had now become a river, levelled out, and I was sure I could see a dry bit just ahead.
Riding a muddy, rutted, submerged road at night, and in the rain, was the most interesting decision I'd made thus far, and and with thoughts of being hit by a lightning bolt in the front of my mind, I gunned the throttle to reach dry land...

The rear wheel overtook the front, bouncing into a submerged rut, and slewing the Grand Wazoo instantly 180 degrees to the right, launching itself and me, who at this point was still on the pegs, into the bank, bringing me down hard on the front screen, cracking two ribs, and spitting me off into the mud.

Dragging myself to my knees, I killed the engine and the lights, and looked around... complete darkness, no headlights anywhere.

I'm not a pessimist, and not easily fazed, but I was cursing my judgement, and knew we were all in serious trouble if we didn't sort things out.
The right side pannier had broken free, and was wedged against the frame, I was soaking wet, and the bike was nose up a bank, great. Nothing for it but to unload the big bird in the mud, get some tools out, and get the damaged pannier off, and the bike upright. I ditched my helmet, in favour of a beanie. I knew it would suffer in the rain, but wanted to minimise heat loss.
I got the Wazoo unloaded, and upright, balanced on the bent pannier, and surveyed the river that was the mountainside around me.
Another few blasts on the horn, and I hear a faint reply, fantastic, some one's alive.
I start up the muddy river, leaving the big bird illuminated with glow sticks, and it's not long before I hear the familiar sound of Darren's GSA. He'd gone down as well, and had to unload/reload the bike to get it upright and moving. However, he was bogged down in the mud, so with the two of us muddied and wet, we managed to push his bike through the mire to get it to mine.

It took a few attempts, but we managed to manhandle both bikes up and onto the bank, out of the muddy road, and get a basha strung up between them for some shelter.
We sit huddled on two panniers underneath the shelter, as a river flows down the mountain, and carves a path right between our bikes. It's 8pm, we're cold and wet, and shin deep in water, great.

30 minutes later and it's all over, the rain has stopped. We emerge from our shelter cold and shivering, and strip to the waist on the cold Atlas mountainside.
Drying our upper bodies, and putting on layers of warm clothes, we gulp down a handful of glucose sweets each, and we go in search of Jason.
A mile and a quarter later, we find his abandoned GS, upright, but sans Jay, and his gear.
We shout, we search, but to no avail. There's little we can do, none of our phones have any signal, we can't see or hear him, we leave a glow stick on his bike, so if he returns, he'll know we're about. We walk back down the track to our own bikes.

By this time, my chest feels like it's been sat on by the big bird herself, and I'm wheezing like a steamship, it's too wet, muddy, and uneven to sit anywhere bar on the panniers, so we get the trusty coleman out, and Darren supplies 4 portions of Chicken casserole, if nothing else, we're going to keep our energy up.
We eat, and drink the by now infamous redbush tea, and I hope that by now, I've dispelled any rumours as to being a "fair weather" brewer only.

Time check: 22:48 bugger... hours till daylight.

We pace back and forth, go off exploring the track, drink more tea, I smoke what feels like my hundredth cigarette.

Time check: 00:21.

Eventually, we were just so desperate to lay down somewhere in this rocky terrain, that after much deliberation, we agreed to get my tent out, as I had the larger 2 man version of Darren's Terra Nova, and it's agreed that we share the tent, just lying on the thermarests.
I say we deliberated, as this was almost surely going to be "tent/thermarest suicide", as the ground was littered with sharp stones, not to mention extremely wet and muddy.

Time check: 03:21

We erect the tent, take off our boots, and crawl inside. I'm finding it difficult to get comfortable, my chest hurts like hell...

Darren falls asleep quickly.

 

[Shadwell]

Im loving this Si,
i take it that by the time of your post, it took a long time to get all the details into it.

Im amazed you have not had more reaction to this RR.

keep going mate ill owe you a few beers when you have finished because i could never write this well and you have a brilliamt memory for what happened.

 

[Riz Sauvage]

Thanks Amigo, yes, I started that page around 1am this morning, a lot to remember.
I wouldn't bother about the lack of feedback, I'm writing this for those of us that went, it's a personal thing..
Of the several hundred views, at least there have been no negative comments
(maybe my narrative is too long, and I should have used more pictures and less words

Look after yourself man, hopefully we'll hook up soon, it's too quiet without your ugga-mug round these parts, and besides.

We need to get planning underfoot for the next chapter.

 

[Riz Sauvage]

Shad, Alan, and "Sam" the Androgynous GS 800

As Darren and myself climb weary and muddied into my Terra Nova on the Atlas mountainside, I shall leave the saga there for the night, or the remainder of it at least, and fill you in on the persuits of the two Team Moto Maroc escapees.

 

[Riz Sauvage]

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Taking a break from our current predicament in the Atlas, I'll leave myself and Darren in the tent, and Jason, who is missing in action, and fill you in on the progress of our escapees...

Merzouga, September 14, and Shad and Alan stick to camp rules, getting up at 6am.
Shad, regimental as always eats breakfast, while Alan does his usual "I'll wait till lunch" routine. So with Alan discarding the burst pannier, and some of its contents in the parking area of the "Palais des dunes", they headed out back towards Erfoud, and on to Tinerhir.

They made good progress, being only 2, they were able to up the speed to a glorious 80mph, blazing their way down the R702 and N10, making Tinerhir by lunchtime.
Stopping at Cafe/Restuarant Perla, in Tinerhir, it would seem that traditional Morrocan food was pooh pooh'ed in favour of a more westernised offering of egg & chips, with all the squeezy bottle comforts of back home... (no colemans out in the gorge then lads?)

Shad and I had agreed that the piste between the Todra and Dades gorge was a must-ride, but since he'd ditched me and the Grand Wazoo back in Merzouga, in favour of the "Diva" on the Teneré, he would miss out on our superb impromptu campsite in the rain that night in favour of double beds in an Auberge...

The two of them set off up the Todra, looking to take the piste between Tamtattouche and Msemrir. Turning left too early though saw them run out of road, and stuck on a 4 foot wide rocky track with nowhere to go.
20 minutes later, and assisted by 10 six year old local kids who had appeared from the hillside, the intrepid duo were making their way back down the goat trail, and off in search of the correct left turn, not of course before Shad dumped "Sam" ingloriously on the ground, much to the amusement of the kids.

During the course of our trip, there had been much deliberation as to the sexuality of Shads GS, and as of yet still undecided, he had settled on naming it "Sam" androgynous though, for now... Androgynous Sam.
Finally back on track, they begin the crossing to Msemrir.

<span style="font-weight:bold;">In Shads own words...</span>
"<span style="font-style:italic;">Having found the right road, we started to make good progress up the piste, and the views were amazing. After about 2 hours of avoiding the local junk sellers and taking in the views, we got to the river bed which is the centre of the piste and the going got a lot tougher.
There were massive rocks, small rocks, sand, gravel etc. and I was on the limit of my riding capabilities. I almost made the whole riverbed without falling off but a tight S-bend turn caught me out and I dumped Sam on the ground again. One advantage of travelling light was the fact I could lift the bike on my own, something which was impossible for the guys with the bigger bikes.
Once we had got out of the river bed it was a simple case of riding down to Msemrir, or so I thought. We had started picking up speed and I thought I would open Sam up through some soft looking fields. I was doing alright and enjoying being back in third gear when a wall appeared in front of me. I bottled it, hit the back brake, and hit the dirt again. Third crash of the day, but the difference with this one was I dented my exhaust, bummer.
With out a doubt, it was the best day I have had on a bike, ever.</span>"

By this time, the duo were running low on fuel, so upon reaching the Dades side of the piste, they rode up to Tilmi. Unbeknown to them, Myself, Darren and Jason were Heading for Tilmi from Agoudal, but the thunderstorm that Shad and Alan had just hit, was to keep the 5 of us seperated for another night.

On reaching Tilmi, they were served by a 10 year old kid, selling fuel in water bottles, out of his shed.
20 liters later, and the little tyke wanted 5200 dirhams!!
They wouldn't say how many dirhams they parted with, but by now, soaking wet, they headed back down the Dades gorge to find dry accomodation for the night.
So, while their companions are in the mud on the mountainside, these two softies take double beds at Auberge Etoile Des Gorge.

I can't mock them too much, I think that in our state, if someone had offered us a dry room, I would have said yes as well.
So the two deserters dried themselves and their gear, and spent the remainder of the evening eating, drinking, and swapping stories with a French couple and their daughter who had hitch-hiked there from Marrakech. Their plan for the morning was to do some localised exploring of the Dades gorge, and meet us that evening at Bikershome in Ouarzazate....

That is of course if Myself, Darren, and Jason survive the night.

 

[Dazza2]

All those late night diary entries really paid Mr Sausage,great reading
mate.
But.....to be left with us bloody cold and wet in a two man tent?
What happens next?Do they make down the gorge?Do they get washed away?Do they get rogered by shepards?Every ones in suspense!
we want to know,come on tell us!
What`s needed now is the drum beat to eastenders!!

 

[Riz Sauvage]

Hah hah.. Yes, remember how bloody tired we were on that mountainside.. timecheck 3:21?

Bloody marvellous mate, do you and me make it out alive then next morning?
I hope you're taking back the "Fair weather brewer" bit

Oh, and you know what's coming next.....
The panoramic dump

 

[Womble]

Keep it up - this is a great read