Snoopy's Morocco Adventure

snoopy

Guest
I'm back!

I'm writing it now, it'll be a while and has many pictures.
 
Nah it'll take until tomorrow to get it done - worth the wait though - especially the bit about getting stuck in snow, calling for help on the atlas mountains and sleeping with a shepard and his sheep! More tomorrow!
 
Part 1: introduction

I'm 23 and have been driving for 5 years. The GS isn't the fastest bike I've owned but its certainly the biggest. I'm continuously looking for challenge and taking a GS across to Morocco at my young age seemed to be just that.

I was intending to travel in a group though this got cut down in size to two other people named Stu and Daz and I met them for the first time at Portsmouth for the ferry to Bilbao. The ferry was delayed because of bad weather and we spent many hours watching scatty foke getting pissed in the overcrowded terminal lounge. At around 2AM we embarked, and straight away I was off to bed.

The morning was horrific. The Pride of Bilbao has stabalisers but these only help the ship from rocking, not going up, and down, then up and down. With each time the ship shook as the front crashed down on a swell. The only way I felt partially reasonable was by lying down. And so I did. All day. Later I made the mistake of mixing hunger with sea-sickness. The fry-up (delicious sausages P&O btw) only unsettled the stomach further and I was soon back in bed listening to Radio 2.

When we arrived we were all eager to get going - it was a straight run from Bilbao via the A1/E5 down to Malaga then Alcegeras - a route that typically takes 10-12 hours.

A couple hours into the route my two day old Garmin Quest parted company and liased with the spanish motorway ending in its destruction (Garmin are replacing free of charge). The mount lug failed. Bugger.

8 hours or so into the journey my rear bulb went, taking a fuse with it. Ah well.

We stopped every 150 miles or so sometimes for 30 mins or more at a time. 14 hours later and we were fairly close to Malaga as I recall. It was 2AM and we were all worn out. We dossed it in a parking site of the motorway.

At around 8AM we headed down to Alcegeras and stopped to collect some tickets for the short cross to Ceuta. This was where Stu decided that I’d been holding them up and let loose with words “piss off”. I was rather taken back by the outburst but ultimately he’d not been happy that I was along for the ride. He was also over-presumptuous in thinking I was ill prepared, and being the worlds greatest rider (having crashed a Gixxer apparently) I was only going to hold up his elite skills. This he demonstrated by posing his age and skill against how much riding and off-roading I’d done.

So they went to the near café, Daz saying they’d meet me at the port. At that time I thought for a bit on what UKGSER’s and some people over on sv650.org advised about traveling solo. I’m not ashamed to say I was not feeling uneasy. I’d come in a group because I’d never traveled outside the EU on a bike and I’m really way too young for the norm.

F u c k it. And f u c k him.

So I went shopping. At a large mall I bought a head torch (forgotten), a bike pump and picked up a Moroccan road map (didn’t have time to find one in UK and knew I could buy nearer the border).

Purposely I missed the 2PM ferry out of Alcegeras and caught the 5PM sailing instead.

The adventure had begun!
 
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A bunch of German KTM'rs off to the Sahara. Great guys doing it right, light weight travelling on batterered bikes. Shared some cake :) and met back up with them at the Morocco border.
 
Part 2: border crossing and motorway heaven/hell.

Having initially expected to go to Tanger (we'd changed when buying tickets because it was supposedly easier to get through) I arrived at Ceuta and it took me 5 mins to get to grips to understand it was still Spanish territory - there was me thinking the pass-through was a joke! Sheepishly I headed for Morocco and met again with the KTM'rs who had been there some 10 mins and were no further forward. An official assistant with the card around neck (I'd remembered Steptoe's advice) helped me with all the paperwork and 30 mins later it was on to the insurance.

Then the official passed me onto his friend. Oh no.

Insurance I was told would cost 59 euro plus 20 euro for the guy if he wanted to forget I was not travelling with an organised holiday group and 20 euros more for the new helper to get it past the official at bookin. The "tip" went up an asking of 30 euros but by then I was getting my balls back.

So I got raped on the border crossing. It took over an hour and I'd trusted an official who'd passed me on to his mate for a back-hander. It's easy to say "you silly tosser!" at this stage, but I'm 23, alone, with a GS heading into none EU territory. It was a good learning experience though and really toughened me up for the rest of Morocco. Looking back I'm glad I was stung earlier than later.

Like shit of a stick I was out of the border and travelling to Tanger, I then hit the road to Casablanca but came across a small problem - toll roads. I'd not found a shop to trade euros for dirs so far and got to Asilah at around 7ish, I think, and all the banks were shut. As I tried asking around a young guy came up and offered to take me around the corner to a dealer who was open all hours. Now initially one is wary in Morocco - everyone is trying to sell you something, but my instinct led me to trust him every so slightly - but I'd learnt a new skill - be blunt and ask how much before anyone does anything for you. When he refused payment, trust was established. A little.

It turned out the guy was on a day off and works at the Hotel Dar Al Andalous (just read from his business card). He spoke good english and after getting a very favourable exchange rate I bought him a beer and we started joking about this and that. A few of his mates came over and one had a 1200GS. I bought him a pack of cigs and later he asked me to join his family for dinner. In Morocco if you are offered this its an offering of friendship and isn't done lightly. :beer: However I declined the offer (wish I hadn't now) and said I'd be back to stay at his hotel on the return leg). With Dirhams in the pocket I hit the superb Morroco motorway to Casablanca.

Casablanca came about at 12:30AM. I was tired and looking for a hotel on the outskirts. Sadly I ventured into the heart and thought I would die in the traffic madness which was like nothing I'd ever seen before. Those strong and fast survive the roundabouts. Acceleration is key and the whole experience was hell-raising. This was London x4. Get me out of here!

Having been directed back and forth for directions for hotels I got really sick at about 2AM and floored it out the city back onto the motorway. Casablanca really is an awful city. Along the way to Settat I kept an eye out for a secluded spot, however all the land is used for agriculture and the people live where they work. I stopped many times thinking I'd found a place only to have somebody come out of a little tent in the pitch black!

At 2:30AM I drove down a rode separating two fields and no longer giving a damn, switched the engine off, rolled out the mat and sack and got my
head down (Yawn).


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Bike in the field at dawn. People were already up and walking or riding past me. I crapped myself all night!
 
Part 3: to Marrakech, and beyond!

That morning I quickly let the scene and stopped at a service station where I cleaned my teeth and had some breakfast (frostys, dried milk and water – yummy!). I’d sweated all night in the sleeping bag and was feeling a tad worn down, but soon felt revived by the warm morning sun. At Marrakech I arranged for a Shell garage to store the bike while I had ½ an hour on a camel and stocked up with water. Marrakech though a large city and heavily tourist orientated is a great place to stop in. I asked a Moroccan traffic warden for directions and two others who were driving no other than 650GS police bikes came over and we started joking for a little bit on whether I could outgun them. They were using a speed camera to monitor cars and he let me catch a car with it which they then stopped and ticketed. It was a weird situation to be in but they were so friendly it all felt, well, fine. We spent an hour over some Doctor Pepper’s at noon. My second regret was not spending the night in Marrakech or “doing” the city properly, but I did gain great respect for the superb police force the country has. I relied on them for directions many times and they were always smiling and cheerful.

I left Marra’ and via Ait Ourir took the infamous Tizi-n-Ticka route to Quazazate. This route is breathtakingly beautiful with the most stunning green livery one can imagine. The roads around the mountains swing gently and you pass through small villages. At Taddert I took a smaller road designated as a less used road. But what laid ahead?...

Below: various pictures of the journey from Marrakesh to Taddert

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Part 4: the journey to quazarate

The Michelin map said the side route was fairly easy with a little bit of 4x4 territory. It was again gorgeous and I was more than happy with the green-laning style track compared to the winding atlas mountain road. The start was pretty much just fine, and with the sun baking down I decided at around 1PM to stop and heat up some boil in the bags. It was so hot I rested under a palm tree while I aid up, then was bitten by my first mosy. I also dropped my sunglasses there.

As I rested and ate various 4x4 vehicles passed by, followed by a few cars. By the end of my eat they were all coming back, which should have set alarm bells ringing. That and the melon seller who was pointing and screaming as I shot past him.

As I continued I past through a small rambleshack village where 2 french 1200's had stopped for colas. I continued and the road/track worstened, finally turning into a road of large stones. Up on legs I thundered forward and the beast took a pounding. The track began winding around the mountains and narrowed to 1.5m max. If I hit a stone at an angle I was dead. There were no barriers just a long unpleasant drop. I continued for an hour over the path of hell. A little later I came across some French backpackers who I give water. They were suprised I'd came so far and said it got worse. We departed with them saying immortal words: good luck mon ami!

I wasn't in no-mans-land. All around were make-shift slum houses with small kids staring. Many ran after or towards the bike and I could never tell if they would stop. All of them wanted money and I just didn't have enough charity to stop all the time. I ended up waving and pressing on.

The route was so bad the map I was carrying under a cargo map departed company. At a split point I knocked at a house to ask if I was still on track - I was, and it was only another 30Km. Jesus!

As I winded around one corner with the helmet open (system 5) a huge dust storm blew straight into my face. I couldn't not close my eyes, and I couldn't remember if it was straight ahead or a corner - but I did know where was a wall to my right. So I slammed the bike into it, ripping the cylinder guard off, smashing an indicator and reconfiguring the pannier design a little. It hurt my leg but at least I hadn't gone over the bend (which it was after all :eek: )

It was no wonder the 4x4's had turned back as the route was only passable by donkey or foot. The heavy GS did me proud. It never skittled after hitting stones, it never complained or give up and this was the hardest off-roading I'd ever done. The only thing knackered was me - mentally and physically shagged. For hours I'd not known if I was going to make it. I stopped a couple mile to go and a lovely kid came over. His dad stopped by and I exhanged a few bits and bobs. I pressed on and rejoined the tizi-n-ticka route. The scenary here was amazing but where-as everything had been green here it all went rather sandy.

An hour later I was in the town of Quazarate.

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Nothing can prepare you for the first sight of poverty. We see it on the news but never had I came across it in such a transparent way. On the journey I’d drove straight past kids begging me to stop. Most of these kids had adequate food but nothing else. I don’t know if I could handle real Africa. The people that live there helping others, well I respect them more now than anyone else.

In Quazarate I stopped to fill up with fuel. I began talking with a girl a little younger than me who seemed flirtatious but who refused to get her picture took. Muslim traditions I suppose, and in respect I didn’t get a sly for your viewing pleasure. There were a ton of other lads hiding around the corner, suavely trying to get into her knickers, and I left them to it, but only after I’d downed a mint-choc corneto.

The town of Quazarate was one of my favourite places. It has the massive film studios where many westerns are made, and the town has a good atmosphere at night. It’s a well designed place that is opposed in its ways to Casablanca.

Feeling the need to indulge myself in Moroccan life I was straight past the Ritz style hotel on the left and stopped at a place a little further up the road. There the owner said I could park the bike outside or check out the hotel opposite which had a lockable front. Before I’d looked back he’d shut the door on me! I went over to the more slummy looking hotel across the road and walked in. Immediately the smell of dope hit me. The receptionist quickly opened a window and his friend tried being nonchalant. I just laughed and put down my 70dir for a room, which included a shower. That’s about a fiver sterling!

With my bike under lock and key I booked into the Hotel California and went for a shower, the facility being 20 dir and in the 70dir price. The room was nothing short of horrific. Ants crawled on the floor. Sadly my 50mm (76mm DLR) lense on the Canon D350 had trouble capturing the details of the room, but hopefully you can make out the unique style of the hotel, based on an American prison, and the luxurious shower facility, a rusting pipe.

After freshing up (turned out to be either a cold or cold shower) I ventured out for a meal and then took a walk around the square. [ Note the nighttime pictures took with fast F1.8 lense which managed to get people walking in darkness. What a lense! ]
 
What happens next? :eek: I was really enjoying that! I hope your next post hasn't been lost in the Server Outage From Doom!!
 
Good on you Snoopy. Thought we had done well last year, but your adventures make ours pale into insignificance.
Baz
 
Only got as far as part 4. before the outage :(

This is one of the best travel write ups i've read in a long time, really enjoying it Snoopy - looking forward to reading the rest :thumb

Andres
 
Part 5: Difficult times

What I wasn’t expecting in April was much neige, or snow as we brits call it. But that’s exactly what I got and conveniently the only snow the eyes could see up on the Altas mountains lay directly on the route I was passing on. Merd.

4x4 tracks lay on the snow (they might have been large quads..) and this give me all the hope required for an attempt. So I got the GS into it, and the GS sunk. The snow wasn’t so much the problem – it was the mushy sandy mud beneath. As it wasn’t going forwards or backwards I had to get all the luggage off and drag it on the cylinder head. As soon as the wheel rotated it sunk again. After 4 hours of this I had managed to get the bike facing the other way, and it was working its way down the mountain in the snow drift.

The bike was at the side of the snow facing in the right direction, but then it fell so that I would have to push it past the 180 degree boundary. Standing in snow, f*cked after hours of cylinder dragging, f*cked after days of riding – well this was going to be fun. Two hours passed and I exhausted energies I didn’t know I had trying to lift the bike upright. I have never been so utterly ‘done’ in my life. I slipped, it fell, I lifted nearly upright then couldn’t reposition. Tried using back, tried lifting handlebars, tried pushing tank. Everytime I give up I would go off on one swearing but then would try again thinking I could muster up some more energy, thinking ‘I will do this’.

Darkness fell. I’d been at it for over 6 hours. The 35Km walk didn’t look too appealing that evening and to top it off I was out of water (could’ave melted snow I guess). I put my head-torch on distress mode and began shouting for help - at the top of the Atlas mountains. I couldn’t hear a thing – no sheep, no nothing. After 5 minutes of this I give the bike another try, closed my eyes and in pure desperation (especially as I’m atheist) said a small “please god” prayer. Then I got the roll mat out and began preparing for a cold night on the mountains.

“Senior, Hallo, Sir Hallo Senior!”

I could have shit kittens! Pitch black and this voice is coming towards me and my torch isn’t picking out a darn thing! “Hallo Hallo!” I’m calling.

The 20yr old Sheppard ran over 3 miles in darkness towards my strobed light. He’d heard my distant call for help and come to the rescue! We got to work and about 30 minutes of using stones, pushing/falling and RPM’s meant the bike was finally back on the track. I loaded up all the gear (sigh) and he got on the back, directing me on a no-such-path that bypassed the snow. The terrain was rough and I tried standing but found I physically couldn’t. On a rough part my arms give and the bike went over. We (or he) picked it up, slipped some more and got on the way again. It wasn’t too far to his ranch which was close to the path I could take to Agduar (spelt wrong sorry don’t have map handy). Although my Sheppard couldn’t speak a word of English we did communicate he was asking if I’d like to sleep at his place for the night. Well I was hardly going to make it to Agduar, so I took up on the offer.

The residence in question was a mud hut with two rooms – one for the sheep – which I would come to refer to as ‘the bastards’ – and one for us. The Sheppard also had a 13yr old brother who helped out and a dog that lived outside (and had feck me style! Dracula canines!!). Our small room of about 8 foot squared had a log and branch roof. To get in you had to crawl through a small entrance. In the corner were the facilities for a small fire. Already in my sleeping bag, the Sheppard made some Moroccan bread and some potato soup. The cooking facilities (fire in room) didn’t have a chimney so the air began to fill with smoke quickly. Tiredness coupled with carbon monoxide saw to me having a long night of heavy rest, interrupted by the occasional “barahahar” upstart.

In the morning we parted. I say ‘we’ because its clear now that this was the day I managed to pick up something that is yet to be diagnosed. Could just be fleas, but I’m getting worried (see other thread).

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