Borderdash

Desert for miles and miles. Today we managed 400 in a dash towards the Mauritanian border. The police checks came more frequently once even 100 yards apart as bureaucracy dictated both jurisdictions collected the same info. Luckily we had received good advice and the 'fiche' templates we'd photocopied (name, age, birth place, reg, VIN, underpants size, no but nearly!) had the stops down to just five minutes or so. 99% of the stops were very friendly, even offering water, almost as if the poor guys posted into the wilderness were just pleased to have someone other than occasional truckers to discuss distant lands and of course football with. Just one time Robin got a guy disgruntled that he'd overshot the 'Halt' sign by five yards, for myself a nervous guy checked over the paperwork before sidling up with shifty eyes, "hey, you have any whisky?", his first and only words n English! None the less they were all very smart and proud and we usually departed with a salute!
Petrol is a carefully measured commodity now and we fill up at every opportunity, even if the Ktm is only 20% (8 litres) in to a tank, either of us could need the fuel if a couple of stations were shut or only selling diesel. Stations feel like wild west frontier posts; drivers snooze in the shade or throw water over their face, inside the spacious dark cafe silent men nod as you walk in, spurs jangling on the tiled floor and shafts of light shining through the desert air.
The desert itself changes from dunes to stones to stoney dunes and back again, occasionally we get a glimpse of the blue sea crashing below the overhanging cliffs. Red and white radio repeaters follow the road now that the power transmission towers and telephone lines have run out, each with a bank of photovoltaic cells within the small compound wall and often a nomads tent and grey Landrover sheltering in the lea.
I've noticed my waist and left arm getting sore simply from pressing the bike in to the westerly wind, it rises and falls but never really quits. It affects the fuel economy too and the tyres seem to be wearing quite fast now after the beating they took ploughing the sand and rocks in the desert, the front of the Ktm took one rock through the tread, out the wall and in to the rim, luckly just grazing the ply.
This evening we arrived in Dakhla just as it was nearly dark. The last check point told us it was 200kms to the next hotel and seemed pretty keen we turned up the 40km peninsula for the night. It means one more day in western sahara though as the border will be out of reach for the required mid day crossing time.
We watched a very dramatic AlJazira newscaster reporting from Libya as we ate camel burgers in a cafe. The news here is full of war and conflict, even the computer game intro style graphics have iconic GI images from the Vietnam war and I can't help but feel there is a focus on the glory rather than the suffering, which contradicts the general attitudes of the people we have spoken to. The bombing in Marrakech the other day also seems very contradictory to the general views of the people. BBC seem to have the wrong end of the stick as well, reporting the protests as being 'against king Mohamed', yet people frame his picture and say he is a champion of the poor. A few people say politics and business are trying to tie his hands and stop his reforms coming through, reforms that would benefit the impoverished and bring greater equality, it sounds like an old story, repeated the world over.
This morning we drink coffee by the beach and this afternoon move within reach of a midday border crossing at Diama.

Run from the sun!

Getting up with the dawn we had our supernoodle breakfast. The sun rose directly opposite where it set and we'd noticed it seemed to have been passing right over head rather than sweeping east to west during the day; navigation by sun wouldn't have been easy out here.
After breaking camp the bikes hauled their way up to the nearby communications tower from where we could again see the village of Lebourate. It looked like one of the desert villages from Starwars, only this was the original, authentic deal.
A stoney track lead down, easy riding after the miles of deep ploughed sand behind us, and lead in to a sandy square, surrounded by a mixture of single story sand coloured buildings. The only things taller were the tower of a small mosque beside us, a concrete water tower opposite and the proud red Moroccan flag flying over a walled building in front. The building turned out to be that of the local military officer who directed me in Arabic to one of the others which was a shop, opened on the arrival of a customer by a shy smiling lady in traditional clothing.
By now the local kids had turned out and were asking our names and shaking hands, 'Sa va?' flew backwards and forwards as they practiced the French they had learned in the school beside the military post. They were smiling and laughing and seemed to love having visitors, especially strange ones with goggles and a furry motorbike, when they saw the camera they all wanted to see photos of themselves. After buying water one boy about six insisted he carry the 9 litres back to the bike, he was busting a gut when I thanked him and took it back half way across the square but grinning with pride ear to ear!
One man spoke French, a welcoming chap in his 40s with a moustache and long white embroidered jelahba, he spoke a little about the route ahead, said we had plenty of water and wished us luck but as we were about to set off he suddenly pointed to an alarming drip from the KTM, it was leaking fuel again!
The heat of the day was building and we pulled the tank off once more, the same pipe was sliced through again. It was looking like the Aqualine tank was expending in the heat of the desert so much that it was cutting the line by pressing the barb of the fuel tap in to part of the frame. The tanks had never fitted very well and after the earlier pump problem collective eyebrows were being raised about them. With the help of some curious villagers we shimmed the tank up 8mm to clear the frame but could only fit three of the five mounting bolts and now the glove box lid didn't fit right; it would have to do.
Just as we were about to saddle up a kid wearing a Mr Incredible Tshirt under his tiny jelabha insisted I see his school, I waved in the door and a dozen kids from about six to ten years all grinned and waved back, they all seemed pretty happy to be in school!  
Leaving through the village we hit deep sand, the bikes squirmed and bucked and we ploughed on, it would have been embarrassing to have stacked a bike without even making it out of town but if truth be told years of Land Rovering had turned areas in to proper deep sand pits!
Things looked up as the village dropped from sight, the sand firmed up and small rocks gave better grip and feedback, right before the first of many wide strips of deep sand appeared. We dropped the tyre pressures to 20/25psi but it was going to be a compromise with the rocks about and no rim locks on the wheels. It transformed the heavier Ktm but Robin wasn't so convinced about the DR. A few drops and a bust pannier lock had taken it's toll on his sand mojo and he suddenly felt a long way from civilisation.
Sitting under the shade of a tree looking at the box I realised I hadn't texted my girlfriend Maria back home; we had agreed every three days but tomorrow would be our third in the desert and there was no way O2 was serving up any cells within 100Kms of where we were. We decided to head back the 10kms to town, make the call and at least know someone was expecting a call from Smara in 3 days on the other side of the desert, the man in the village who spoke French agreed, it was worth it to keep your woman happy!
The phone was in the shop which was now full of women wearing bright cloth. A toddler was produced who stared open mouthed at us like we had just appeared in his porridge, it made everyone in the shop laugh as he gapped wide eyed!
Robin was a bit happier too and setting out again the terrain seemed to improve. There was no road out here but we did seem to be doing a better job of finding bigger tracks to follow. What was becoming apparent however was while bikes don't mind stoney sand too much Land Rovers tend to veer towards the flatter smoother but softer sand that sucks bikes in! We opened the bikes up and in a assortment of styles growled, barked and sometimes paddled our way through the succession of small dunes, rocky rises and stoney plateaus. I felt I was finding a rhythm, so long as I could come out of the softer sand now and then to get everything back in shape the bigger challenge was becoming navigation, features and tracks were pushing us south and further off course. In the distance I spotted a track up a rocky dune, it was dusted with slabs of flat blue/green stone that shone in the sun, looked promising and the occasional plastic or tin can beside it seemed to suggest it was used a good bit, it must lead somewhere? Climbing up we reached a saddle with a sandier dune behind, crested with more rock, and were greeted with the bad news: nowhere, the track just disappeared. At this point I looked at the fuel gauge I built for the Ktm and saw we were nearly half way through our supplies, the sand was burning 50-100% more fuel, on this terrain or worse we weren't going to make it.
It felt like disaster at first, we'd ridden over 110 miles of sand and desert only to have to turn around and ride a 500 mile loop to get the last 150. We lay under a tree and talked about anything we could but sand for the next hour.
But we weren't skeletons yet! Not conquering the desert could still be turned in to a great night camping beneath the stars, miles for anyone. After burying the DR up to it's back axle getting going we picked a spot under a tree and pitched camp, dividing food and tent duties. It was beautiful to watch the sun go down behind the dunes and hear the animals in this part of the desert waking up, crickets, some small birds and an assortment of big beetles.
I jolted awake in the middle of the night. Something was in the tent porch, clawing at the bags. I could hear 'mow mow' every few seconds and all I could picture was Simon's Cat raining havoc on our camp. What wild desert beast made a noise like that out here? It went on and on but every time I looked out it ran away.
In the morning Robin thought I'd dreamt it until we saw the paw prints all over the camp. He definitely believed it when he then heard it himself! After a few minutes the beast appeared; a white house cat, right out here in the desert miles from water and people. It seemed to want to be friends but kept running away, nothing we could do to help =(
Knowing there was cold beer back at the hotel the riding seemed to get easier! We got up speed across the virgin plains and were starting to power through the soft dunes, even the hard foot deep ridges of a washboard only stopped us when bits up luggage broke free. In less time than before we were back in Lebourate and talking in French with our old friend. He explained unfortunately Zag was a military zone and we would be turned back to run out of fuel in the desert so right back to Assa was our only option.
His name was Eriche and seemed glad to see we were ok and had made the right decision. Wonderfully be invited us for mint tea in his shop across the village, a small terraced unit which was cool and dark inside, a counter was made of Coka Cola crates and some wooden shelves lined with cardboard divided off the backroom which looked like a rug filled domino den. He was a great guy and had a lot of patience for our French! The tea was made and drunk three times; a small pot brewed green tea on a pile of charcoal with chippings of sugar from a large compressed cone, each brewing was poured between five or six glasses several times to oxygenate the flavour. With each brewing a different villager joined out little group in the shop and it was easy to imagine a small group drawing lots somewhere outside! The first was an old man wrapped head to toe with one front tooth and a walking stick, he didn't seem to under stand that we could only speak two words of Arabic but he smiled as he spoke louder and slower, eventually finishing his tea and wishing us a good journey.
When it was time to depart we took photos with promises to post paper copies, swapped some more shortbread, left some painkillers for an unwell neighbour and finally had a visit from the shy soldier (with the help of a friend) who remembered he was supposed to take our passport details for the records!
The trip back went well until in a fit of confussion over a muddy puddle in the desert I missed Robin stopping for a ditch and the front wheel tucked under, stopping just before it. Both the ditch and the puddle were part of the roadworks. Luckily only minor damage to the right box and tank skid plate and it was all caught on helmetcam for later entertainment, but it did seem to be my turn now to loose the sand mojo. Robin bounced through the deep hollows while I took it more slowly and consequentially with more effort, catching up off piste. At least it wasn't long before we had stretches of dirt road and were again greeting occasional road workers and dodging the odd machine. About 3kms before the end of the dirt was a young lad heaving a sack of bread through the desert, it was nice to be able to give him a lift to the main road even if he seemed so shocked!
Donkeys, camels and goats were scattered all down the road to Assa. A gecko or two basking on the hot Tarmac waggled a beady eye before popping to it's feet and hot footing it to the bushes and occasionally stripey backed squirrels scampered into the rocks. Small grey birds swooped dangerously close to the wheels, too focused on the insects in the evening air to notice us approaching. It felt good not to be skeletons hunched over motorbikes in the desert =)
Our friends greeted us at the hotel and we managed to fill the shower tray with red sand getting ourselves back to human again, but with a dinner of kebab skewers in town we felt good. Another peaceful protest was chanting in the town square, while we ate it moved through town stopping occasionally to sit on the road, this one was lead by women. We got talking to a group of gents outside a tea shop and it turned out one had a friend running an antiques shop on South Clerk Street in Edinburgh! We swapped details and I promised to pop in and say hello for him after getting home.
Back at the hotel four older Dutch bikers had arrived on a selection of shiny dual sports bikes, we drank Moroccan beer in the lounge and talked until heads began to droop and one by one we trickled away to bed.
A lazy start and a bit of repair and service work meant we didn't get on the road until nearly three. Eusef the young manager joked that he should check us in for another night which didn't feel like a bad idea!
In Goulimine the back of the bike suddenly felt like it was back on sand; the first flat of the trip. Luckily a guy popped out a shop to direct us to a place 30yrds away but only just after Robin had chivalrously set out on his own quest. The metal jaws of the machine grabbed the inside of the soft alloy rim and I dared not look. Kids ran about and Robin chatted with some of the other garage mechanics while the Ktm dangled in the street. The chap looked like an Arabic version of Ali, ex flat mate of my good friend Grant back home, which helped me relax and in 15 mins I was refitting the wheel, a small metal pin swapped for 10 Dihrams (85p) plus a tip for his general smileyness throughout!
The touch screen on the Zumo gps was now playing up again. It seemed damaged somewhere in the middle and was detecting a constant press half the time. It meant scrolling the map wasn't possible and as we had no routing data. With all the roads the same colour I routed us out of Goulimine slightly off course to Plago Blanco. It looked like the white roads would link us back but when we got chatting with four French bikers on rented trail bikes coming the other way it sounded like a maze of military zones, sand dunes and tidal stretches of road. We helped them with a flat front tyre and decided to camp on the beach and route back to the right road in the morning.
The sound of the sea over the dunes was deafening. Pasta and sardines went down well and a few curious and hungry moggies sat with us before we got an early night. The sand here was different to the desert, the salt stuck it to everything, it made cooking and washing a pain but at least riding a lot easier.

A column of disorientated 4x4s wove there way towards us in the morning. The sun was still coming up and their headlights shone through the mist of the sea that tinted everything grey. A large yellow 'adventure' truck sat further along the beach and as we took down the tent and made breakfast a grey Landy deposited a dozen lads on the beach by a river who started playing football. As we left they all wanted photos taken with their Real Madrid flag, nice guys!
Back in Goulimine we met a couple of guys on a loud scooter, we talked in English and German as one lived in London and shipped over cars and the older chap was a truck driver that had spent 23 years in Hanover. They were great talking about the route down to Mauritania as they drove it often, offering hints and tips and even how many cigarettes could be traded for petrol! (7 packets = 40 litres it seems) And for the border, a carton was apparently a must for the border. And then the offer for black Market cigarettes. Was it a hustle? If it was it was a very friendly hustle, good value, should we hedge our bets? In the end we went for one box each, just enough for the border crossing if we needed it or plenty for petrol if we didn't. We were both unkeen on bribing anyone for all the obvious potential complications but they seemed genuine and even guided us through the back streets on the noisy scooter so we could avoid the busy centre and guarantee the right road this time!
From Goulimine to Tarfaya the road became more sandy, cliffs on our right dotted with men with fishing rods in the low sun dropped down to beach and on the left rocky desert turned to dunes and beach grass. Wide oueds crossed our path and the road went down to concrete bridges before climbing back through cuttings in to the sunlight. A tanker and cab looked sad and broken at the bottom of one oued obviously having broken through the eight inch bollards lining the edge while one cutting was home to a burnt out flatbed spilling a charred load of black melon sized spheres across the roadside. We followed three Merc vans from Germany for a while, filled with matresses and kitchen towel but missing the two dots on their "OU" registered plates, enroute to a retirement miles from home.
We were back on the marching route of the Isuzus and Mitsubishi lorries and evidence of their tireless hauling littered the sand in the form of shed retreads (excuse the pun!). Overtakes were more tricky now as each lorry had a great orange mane of sand whipping along behind, passing meant breaking through it and it licked and stung the face and goggles.



The sun was starting to set so we pulled off the road for Tarfaya when a black Merc car pulled over to pick up a friend and Ishmael introduced himself. He was a radar operator in the royal marines and helped us find a great hotel, Casamar, right by the base. Robin even secured a flat rather than a room for the same 120 Dihrams (£10) with guarded parking. The hotel had a lot of building work going on so it could be one to keep in the gps for the future. A Libyan oil company had some staff staying in the hotel and the chat was good as well as interesting, getting an inside view on Gadaffi. Fresh fish for dinner and a traditional bread and olive oil breakfast set us up for the day ahead.

Sand in the giblets

The bad stomach was catching me up today and we had a slow start. The Ktm lads left early but we ended up hanging about the hotel until after mid day while I rehydrated on electrolytes. It was a good chance to go over the route planed ahead and start to understand the seriousness of the undertaking, these were Pari-Dakar routes after all!
After getting some more water, checking we were fooded and fuelled to the maximum (44 and 30 litres) we set off towards Zag. Through town some kids jumped out and made drinking motions as they ran in front of us, asking about yesterday's experience at the hotel hadn't made things any clearer.
After 40Kms Chris Scott's route M13 turns right off the Tarmac, the sign he mentions is mostly missing but the stoney track took us between bushes and dune in the right direction. Just tens of meters from the road some kids sat under a tree with a utilitarian looking motorbike and then something down the track caught my eye, it was a camel blocking the way! Some might argue its one humpedness would make it a dromidary but either way it was a huge beast! Then two then three, then a dozen or so came in to view. They batted their eyelashes and chewed back at us and as we slowly neared lumbered off. Amazing! Further down the road it turned away from the trees and cut across country towards a gap in the hills and more camels. Stopping to check coordinates we noticed the water cube on the back of the ktm had sprung a leak, the vibes were just too much and a corner had been abraded.
As if by magic a voice came from the distance, carried on the wind. It was a little voice belonging to Sarem, about eight or nine years old wearing a tracksuit and Bedouin scarf. In the distance was his tent with nine family members, 200 sheep, 100 camels and a good old Land Rover. Robin's postcard of a highland cow seemed popular, as did our impressions of the grumpy beasts!

We decanter the water in to some spare empty bottles and said our goodbyes. Over the ridge we got a lesson in navigation with a bogus track heading west just after the first wall built during the Polisario wars, losing us 10kms of fuel. Even worse there were drips from the bottom of the Ktm's fuel tank! I turned the taps off on the pipe joining the two Aqualine tanks and it seemed to stop but how much petrol was lost?
Back on track just after an old waterstation we hit our first proper sand dune, cursing and swearing though we got through the wallowy quagmire and from the top could look down across the plain and see the piste running in to the distance. Something unexpected was the number of earth moving vehicles and a cement silo by the piste side; the waving men seemed to be in the process of upgrading the road.
Fast hard packed surface meant speed rose, 50mph seemed like 100 as the sand and wind whipped around. The bikes were leant hard to the right and the blast on the chest meant I was leant well over the front, the front mudguard wobbled and bounced ahead. It felt precarious and small dusty tornados caught us in their swirl but we wanted to make the most of the good surface while it lasted, and just as well.

After passing numerous friendly workmen stationed in tents and concrete oued crossings the good stuff ran out, Robin shouted 'fruit cocktail!', a mix of stones, sand and pebbles, it was like pudding beneath the sinking wheels. Without the confidence to get the speed up we road off piste but were still bogged occasionally by sand or when we had to pass back on to the road. Land rovers passed and we beeped and waved at each other. In the distance a hilux sped across the plain and we changed our angle to pick up his tracks. Attacking the sand with an aggressive throttle hand seemed the trick, any doubt or nerves sealed one's fate! It seemed the sand slowed the bikes causing the front to dig in and plough and weave, logically gunning it and leaning back kept the speed and floated through better but still ran the risk of building speed until things felt quite out of control, at that point stopping was usually the last option!


Terrain firmed up and began to rise as the sun started to sink, we crested a rocky dune and below us on the flat could finally see Lebouriate in the yellow evening sun.
It had been an amazing day's introductory ride and Robin pitched the tent while I got the fuel tank off the Ktm, trimmed what appeared to be just an abraded fuel hose and we sat down to dinner; Dolmio and pasta with shavings of mystery tinned giblets! The night was eerily silent except for the rustling of the tent and brushing of sand on canvas.

Piste and Stoned

During yesterday's riding we got our first bit of true off road experience and sense of tiny creatures in a huge landscape. Mobilised armies of green combines harvesters had surrendered to the Isuzus and Mitsubishi lorries and now they were being replaced with various 4x4s.
Turning south from Tagent the map and gps both marked an unsealed road across a plain and through a valley to Fask; it turned out to be a fairly loose description! A few hundred yards of dusty Tarmac lead out between the now orange earthen buildings before the vista unfolded to reveal miles of baked earth sprinkled with scrubby ankle high bushes. I'd read about how difficult following desert roads could be and it certainly wasn't easy, the tracks just disappeared in to the sandy soil! At some time it looked like an attempt had been made to irrigate the landscape with small channels and ridges, they clearly weren't in use now but did make the ride quite 'lively'. Ridges turned to channels and then to dry sand filled oueds, naïvely I tried to turn up out of one and while standing up, the front tyre washed out then dug in as it ploughed an orange bow wave, down the bike went and half over the bars went I; I don't know if anything can prepare a novice for dealing with the sense of riding along a greased tightrope that sand brings! At least there was no damage though and now both our first tumbles were out of the way. Just to rub it in Robin sailed right through sitting down!
The rocks got bigger until our way was blocked by the start of a wide canyon, splitting the valley floor, fifty meters deep with near vertical sides we rode along beside until we found ourselves on a peninsula and our way blocked again. It was getting tricky picking our way between the increasing numbers of short cacti threatening the tyres and snagging at the boots when suddenly young goats popped out from bushes all around looking even more bemused than we were! Just short of the horizon a nomad's tent was visible and we pointed the bikes towards buildings on the side of the valley ahead. The going got easier and the terrain began to rise, a drop to a dry river bed then steep climb and we emerged on a plateaux filled with ruined earth and wood buildings. There was something spooky about the wind swept and empty sun baked village so we stopped for photos and a bite of lunch and to watch a column of rain sweep across the mountainside.
The main village access had obviously been to the south and we picked it up easily, feeling like real Pari Dakar riders cutting through the wind and scrub standing tall in the bright sun, all at a rather humble 25mph!

After Fask views from the mountain pass beyond were stunning and the road became lined with red and white striped curb stones and markers. Just outside Assa we approached a grand archway guarded by ten foot plaster camels and in a small booth below two policemen. There had been check points all along the Moroccan roads and in the cities most roundabouts had a smart looking officer stationed, however this was the first time we had been pulled over. It was the famous tourist check, simply keeping track of who was where in case of emergency, reassuring actually. The guys were very friendly too as we sat in their booth and discussed Shakespeare and Hemingway! They directed us to Le Maison d'Hote, a B&B run by a Belgian couple but an old lady, wrapped up to her eyes, gestured they were in Agadir so we headed for the local sign posted hotel.
Two guys, Willy from Spain and Christian from Argentina, had also just arrived after three days blasting down the Algerian border on two Ktms from the north of Morocco, all off asphalt. (www.trailtotal.com) Today had been 400km of dune bashing, their photos and videos were amazing and we swapped stories over dinner in the town centre.
Assa wasn't like any other town we had been to so far. In the middle of the desert it was smooth Tarmac streets, cement pavements, grand buildings in iron fenced gardens, Spanish looking suburbia and rows of lamp posts backing up the red and white striped curb stones. Some kids seemed a little aggressive particularly towards our fellow riders on the loud bikes as we made our way through the smart streets, nothing for sure but a pebble did hit Robin from somewhere. It was very odd as otherwise nothing but great things could be said about Moroccan hospitality.
Tomorrow we get proper desert piste on Chris Scott's route M13 from his book Morocco Overland. Especially after the photos earlier we can't wait!

Pushing pineapples, shaking trees

On the roads to Agadir and beyond to Tiznit we've seen the landscape begin to change. For some kilometres now the earth has swapped from red to yellow and back again, areas with water or active oueds across the stoney plains stand out against the dry background with their oasis like greenness; cartoon style palm trees sprouting out of the deep cut stream beds. On the road Merc 240s are giving way to Japanese pickups, wooden backed lorries doubled in height with tightly bound bundles of rope and plastic and ever obedient Eeyores; equal in length nose to tail as they are stacked high and wide, trotting along the roadside. Every few kilometres a flock of sheep or goats are picking through the sparse verge between the Tarmac and ploughed ground, under the care of the robed shepherd sometimes with a slingshot to control the stragglers; a wave and a smile is always returned sometimes with a shout.
Where there are areas of agriculture producers are selling at the side of the road and each area seems to have it's own specialisation, men with boxes of small melons follow pyramids of potatoes stacked with short planks to form a procession of proud potato figures marching along the roadside.
We could see the dark Atlas mountains guarding the horizon on our left (the south) when suddenly the clouds opened to reveal the bluest of skies, beautiful against the orange and green landscape. It was such a powerful image we simultaneously both pulled over to take it in, like a classic Saharan postcard.
The buildings have also changed colour, they are now pink, most still single story with few windows except those facing the road. Across the landscape are many tall walled yards from 10 to 100 yards across, each with a single access point like impenetrable agricultural fortresses. Whether house or yard though every wall is crowned with characteristic pyramidic castellations.
The people are also changing, they seem slighter and the dress more traditional, the women often wearing bright materials wrapped top to toe with only the face or just eyes exposed, the men mostly in jehlabas now without hoods, and around Tiznit we start seeing our first faces wrapped up against the desert wind.

The wind has been quite something for the last few hundred miles! Always from the west we have to wrestle the bars at times as it races across the plains or roars through a village or valley. Further north the wind brought the scents of coriander, celery and marijuana and now it thankfully disperses the smell of diesel fumes on the busier roads that choked us in the Rif. It's persistent and we were just lucky to find the old road past  Khemis de Beaoidine following some trails, to drop down to the sheltered waters edge where it now disappears into the flooded reservoir. It was a beautiful night under the stars. No tents necessary we pulled the wagons around to make camp on the broken post apocalyptic Tarmac and fell asleep counting shooting stars.

Pay per blast

It could have been a sign to go back to bed when first thing the only key I had broke off in the pannier lock but the day rapidly rose up from the low point. The owner of Hotel Oudaias drove me to a locksmith who hand carved a replacement and barely let me pay for it,, we googled for any recent developments concerning our planned Assa to Smara route, met Peter who turned out to be ok and just running on Moroccan winter time, and collected our by now suitably bejewelled passports. Things were looking up so we headed out of town Casablanca-ward !
Petrol may be 2/3 of the price here but if you're going to burn it off along the autovia don't forgot to factor in the considerable toll charges, even if lucky enough to get a two bikes for one special from the grinning lass outside Bouznika! Also if planning to make rapid progress taking your gloves off and raking through your pockets for change every few 10s of probably isn't the best way to do it :/ The autovias are excellent but the constant tolls do undo some of their good work.
As usual our ride was curtailed by the sun sinking from the sky and we pulled off the road for Settat, just short of Marrakech. A group of guys behind the toll booth had the cab up and a cylinder head off an artic that had holed a piston, four hour job he said, no problem! His buddy then turned chat to finding the light of God, could have got quite involved but I told him my loved one, family and friends were my light, he seemed happy with that.
Further up the road the sides were lined with tall yellow buildings and rocky earth stained dark with years of oil spills, trucks and cars threw up dust pulling in alongside rusty skeletons of their retired predecessors as everywhere hammers were hurled at bits of metal and sparks flew from darkened doorways.
The activity built further in to town as it became a market and the streets narrowed and eventually disappeared amongst a swirling sea of people, donkeys and produce. 'Unnamed hotel/motel' the Garmin kept saying, what, in here?! Time to continue on foot, Robin was going in! What a job he did too, not only did he score a room for 100dhm on the roof terrace of a hotel but we could also leave the bikes in the lobby! After weaving through the crowds and down a street just wider then the KTM's panniers we were sorted, to top it off our stomachs were even ready to handle dinner. Ah did I mention the acrobatic stomachs Rabat had gifted us? If not less detail the better!

Protests and paperwork

Traffic lights can seem a little optional in Rabat, not only for stopping but also going, or in fact even being switched on at all. Riding through rush hour yesterday where lanes and priority lasted only as long as each individuals patience was a contrast to today's easy early morning journey back to the embassy. The sun was still yellow and shone through the dusty air over the city skyline as we paid Basha the blue coated parking watchman his 10 Dirahms per bike for the night.
The embassy already had a queue of depressed looking west Africans outside and a very efficient but rather pushy man from the office was moving people about, either with or without their consent as the pouring rain started.
First the form, then the challenge of translation. Luckily we met another biker, Peter from Slovenia, who seemed to know his way about the red tape, not that it helped when they rejected his first attempt right away for scoring out a mis-spelling on the form and then eventually issued it with the wrong date :/
Still, the man in the booth had a broad smile and seemed to enjoy our attempts at speaking French, stapling the paperwork, issuing a receipt and saying to come back tomorrow at 3pm. Once back at the hotel we found out one US American had waited 12 days for his Visa until the intervention of the US consulate.
It seemed a nice idea to hook up with Peter for dinner and talk about our journeys but unfortunately he didn't show this evening, I hope everything is ok, I suppose we'll find out tomorrow.
Riding in to Rabat originally I did spot a few signs of banners and even a couple of small protest camps outside buildings in the government area, couldn't tell if they were political or just celebrating Bab Tazza's 40th. Today we saw a small (~250 people) good natured march making it's way through the centre to the beach. The men were singing, holding a banner across the street and seemed very well organised; stopping or redirecting the suddenly very well behaved, perhaps even sympathetic traffic.

Run Rabat Run Run Run!

We thought yesterday would be a quick sprint 200kms from Fes to Rabat for the Mauritanian visas but we must be adjusting our body clocks to the Moroccan time zone! Taking the national grade road rather than motorway we knew would add time on the journey but there would be comparetivley zero opportunity for adventure blasting along at 70mph. For example a road side cafe in a tiny town enroute was a good break, a tangine stacked high with slow cooked lamb and yellow marinated potatoes and carrots washed down with nana, our now favourite sweet mint tea, great for accompanying pavement side anthropology!
Many roads in Morocco seem to take longer to ride than expected, this short 200kms took until mid afternoon. The Mauritanian consulate wasn't hard to find though with Robin on the case but asking in the queue brought bad news; applications in the morning, issuing the *following* afternoon. Two more city days =/ The countryside riding had been so good the mountains and villages beyond beckoned and we sat around the ruined and stork topped Roman settlement of Chellah resisting the inevitable hotel hunt and tout wrangling ahead.

Actually this time it was a pleasant surprise. After trying the coast road out of town for a hotel we got chatting with two guys fixing some trim on a Renault, they turned out to be the local off duty bobbies, an excellent couple of lads and an opportunity to pick up some tips for dealing with the traffic cops! They also helped us out finding a great hotel and securing the bikes, no kickbacks, just genuinely welcoming, fab, nous Gendamerie amies!

We ate in the medina; several pan fried meats in flat breads prepared by a Moroccan Brian Blessed and served by his son. Robin reckoned he was the real Bab Tazza they had named the town after.

Flying Fesesses

Fes has flown by! When we first arrived we thought we'd look round the medina and head off the next day but even before bed our plans had changed. The donkey and hand wagon filled streets and souks draw in anyone with a healthy curiosity; what's round the next corner, what is hanging in the backshop, what's the craftsman making or what is that rich smelling green spice. One elderly chap in particular had a tiny medina shop full of wooden games he had made, using hands and feet and string bow he turned a richly scented cedar spinning top in front of us. We stopped for lunch/dinner in a converted 10th century mansion house sat proudly amongst the tiny passageways, climbing to the roof terrace across the landscape of tiles and satellite dishes the call to prayer washed over the busy city. The whole place and lifestyle had the feeling of not having changed in hundreds of years.
Also accomplished in Fes was purchasing bike insurance! Waffa is one company in the Ville Nouvelle and it was easy to google for anyone facing similar problems at Ceuta.
The next morning it was an early start to make the Mauritanian embassy visa application in Rabat, I really hope to explore Fes again in the future.

Leaving Chefchauen

The blue mosquito proofing of the painted medina was even more striking the in the bright sunlight. Abdul the receptionist was a gem and over breakfast we were briefed on a potted political history of Morocco, bringing us right up to date with the current Gaddafi situation. Climbing the tower of the 17thC Kasbar lifted our view out of the medina and presented the a lush green carpet beyond the dazzling city, watched over by the cloud topped Jebel El-Kelaa. On the way back down two giggling Moroccan girls asked for a photo but things rapidly turned in to a photo shoot in one of the side rooms, had they mistaken us for Boris Becker and Lenin?


As we rode through hills and valleys further south it was a good example of what can be done with irrigation; rusted orange car engines with long flapping drive belts pumped water from the rivers to fields of yellowy green crops while round about the sun was baking the hard soil and crisp vegetation. Off the main road the surface varied from deeply potted and ribbed Tarmac to baked earth and dusty gravel, a great gentle introduction to some mixed surface riding for us two 'newbs'!

When we stopped to check directions to Beni-Ahmed some friendly lads in yet another white mercedes van were concerned the bikes wouldn't make it through the river ahead, we were very proud to demonstrate our new found skills from the previous Drumclog testing sessions back home and a great bow wave of cool water in to and scrabbling out of the river bed was accompanied by cheers from the lads and a group of kids. The mercedes then proceeded to lumber through the rocks making it look like our own efforts had been quite a song and dance by comparison! We tortoise and hared them down the road for a few tens of kms, always with big friendly smiles waves and shouts as they bounced around the roof rack of the unstoppable great beast. I'll remember the smiles from today for a long time, everyone we met, to ask directions, who popped out a field or appeared in the middle of taking a leak(!) had time for a friendly chat, to offer help and to share a joke, all without a word of a common language! All very warm, all very genuine, brilliant people.
-Olly

The heat and the concentration on the road surface made it appear like the kilometres must have been flying by but when we checked the map we were less than even a quarter of the way to fez where we had planned to spend the night! Finally the road dropped out of the mountains towards a large green lake now beginning to shimmer in the early orange stages of the sunset. Ourtzarh seemed a good option for maybe breaking the ride and to avoid riding the remaining 80kms to fez in the dark. The last thing we expected down the sandy main street was the smell of popcorn and candyfloss quickly followed by dodgems and teacups! Unfortunately no hotel or even camping promised by the road signs so we had no option but to press on. I've never been keen on riding in the dark as I've ridden on dusty potholed roads in Mongolia before with with no idea where you are really going, plus the hunger and lack of energy meant I really wasn't enjoying it. My visor breaking earlier in the day just added to the spice of the whole thing! We stopped for a short bit when the road split with no signs and I suddenly realised how I was desperately lacking energy; a tasty but small breakfast of coffee, pain au chocolat and honey was long gone and my body was starting to shut down. It was a long crawl back to the main road over the remaining rocks and potholes but the free gps map eventually guided us in towards the medina. What followed was a scooter versus motorcycle dogfight of 'hey you want hotel!' through the narrow streets. It's was great to realise the rider we rejected was touting for the hotel we had already chosen and the receptionist called him in to translate! His later request for a 'gift' confused us when he rejected the idea of a few Dihrams, 'no, no, trainers or maybe fancy watch from your country'. From his expression the Walkers shortbread I'd brought to represent the national produce of Scotland seemed to fall a little short of his expectations.
-Robin

Kasbar and the Blue Medina

The crossing was an exciting start to the day, strong winds from yesterday were still blowing and one wave in particular managed to empty the fast cat's bar of glasswear. We took five to settle my stomach and clear our nostrils of the tangy smell of a hundred breakfasts revisited before Robin got the border crossing between his teeth. And a sterling job he did too!
Like a good game of chess no one should know what you are planning while at the same time *appearing* to show your opponent every intention. Dealing with touts at the border seems to be a similar game, as soon as they can guess what you want; you've just bought it from them. Great, look knowledgeable and confident and it'll be fine, try and stay looking confident when none of the offices have signs up, when none of the police have time to help and then finding the vehicle insurance office at the border closed 6 years ago and it's Saturday so the others won't be open until Monday... Taking a leak in the bathrooms of the hotel Ibis in Fnideq three hours later was a relief on more than one level! Traffic leaving Ceuta was certainly a lot easier to deal with than Tangier two years ago when Grant and I tackled it; in no time we were climbing green hills accented with impressive cloud capped peaks. The road was punctuated with heavily over-laden trucks squeezing out 20mph whilst running on soot and crunchy gears, getting past them presented as a reward sweeping curves and beautiful vistas.
At one point we pulled over in front of a blacksmiths. The forecourt displayed the ornate iron and wood bed frames they made. I'd spotted the familiar bright blue light radiating from the doorway and a few minutes later rode way with a jumbo sized foot on the end of the KTM's sidestand, ready to deal with the soft surfaces ahead!

Our target was Chefchaouen, a great point to start exploring the Rif on some of the recommended routes and a beautiful city in it's own right with an impressive Kasbar and beautiful pale blue medina. Finding our chosen hotel proved tricky but luckily we had spotted hotel Rif earlier and the friendly concierge helped us relax after the laps of the old town and slaloms of wheeled trollies, children and fresh produce had been completed. Simple but clean accommodation with a great view and attended parking, even if the shower room was also the fuse cupboard.
We've just come back from viewing the beautiful Medina and our first Moroccan meal. The souk like streets are filled with bright coloured bags, hats and spices, fabrics and smells while 'friends' touting for business seem to border on friendly banter. The whole place reminds me of the world of Indiana Jones, I love it already!

Pump it up

After we broke camp this morning Robin and I headed to the beach. Little black birds squabbled and threw half eaten purple fruits at the Ktm as it snoozed under a tree in the midday sun. We made sandwiches and watched the stormy sea waiting on a call from the dealer about the parts.
The A7 along the sea front that joins all the towns, hotels, shops and beaches was described by regular visiting biker Tim Cullis as the most dangerous part of any Moroccan visit it's easy to see why! Chockablock lorries and scooters alike powering along a narrow two lane race track at 100+kph while camper vans pull out of driveways and the traffic reorganises its self like sardines in a tin finding space for just one more, hoping marbles in a pipeline isn't a better analogy. Good initiation perhaps!
The filter kit did arrive though just as Carlos at Ktm Marbella promised and all the gut feelings about plastic bags wrapping round the pump proved nearly true; sheets of black plastic shavings filled the tank, filter and housing! The original tank was white plastic so presumably this was from the new Aqualine Safari tanks not being cleaned inside when the previous owner fitted them :( The other random bit of plastic pipe found was less easily explained, what sunken treasure awaits finding in the other tank when we get back!
Tonight we sleep in a truck stop by the A7, clean sheets and a proper shower for the first time in a week, nice  tomorrow comes Algeciras and Africa!

Waiting in Spain

When Robin first mentioned he was thinking about a trip to central Africa my ears pricked up from the other side of the table in the Old Bell Inn in Edinburgh's south side. I was certainly interested in hearing how he got on but the next time we met we started talking about how it might be to go by bike and ideas started forming between the two of us.

 The dastardly duo outward bound Portsmouth to Bilbao. Robin was already in the south visiting family and I had just ridden down from Edinburgh that morning.

In no time at all its seems we've found ourselves where we now are, sitting on the south coast of Spain waiting on DHL with some KTM parts and making final preparations before getting the ferry to Ceuta. The plan that took form was to take a leisurely ride down to Dakar with most of our time spent in Senegal and the countryside of Morocco, exploring the back trails and taking in the amazing and contrasting scenery. We booked ourselves in for the Horizons Unlimited Mountain Madness rally in July too so after heading back up to Spain in June the idea was for Robin to join a hippy commune, sorry volunteer at an organic farm for three weeks ;) and myself to fly home for a bit to see my girlfriend and her parents when they visit from Germany. The name for this blog comes from one of the great biking films of our time and our team name for the HUMM!
 

Riding back up from camp at the lakeside

Unfortunately one of our original ideas to ride to Timbuktu seemed to be getting away from us: information from various sources seemed to be saying 'not now', or at least to wait until the Libyan situation was resolved

.

We were agreeing last night that Spain has really taken us by surprise. While we have both been here before the ride down from the port at Bilbao, then east of Madrid and then to Malaga has been fantastic. The roads, scenery and people have all exceeded our expectations and I think we are both now feeling we wished we could spend a little more time here. The kindness and friendliness has been incredible; while trying to find our first camp site last night one bar patron left his beer, peanuts and young lady to borrow a scooter and escort us through the streets, not the first time we´ve had such a privilege either.

 

The fuel starvation problems the KTM seemed to have en route to the ferry at Portsmouth have niggled now and then but luckily not left me doing 20mph at the side of any motorways lately. Back in the UK when it happened 50 miles short of the port where Robin and I were meeting things looked grim. My thanks have to go to a local lady on an XJR1300 who pulled over and rode with me as far as she could, just in case the engine stopped all together, and of course Robin who came to meet me where she left off! Speaking to the dealer here in Marbella he said the filter in the pump should have been replaced every 10,000kms, my bike having just rolled over 20K miles and having a ´patchy´ (to say the best!) service history before I got it, the filter was probably sucking itself inside out by now and going purple in the face. With luck and DHL the kit will be here tomorrow though and we´ll have a fun evening on the pavement outside the showroom unearthing the archeology at the bottom of the tank.

Changing tyres in Alhaurin el Grande

Robin testing his well travelled accordian

Rock slide and film crew north of Malaga

Other than the above though things have pretty much gone to plan, which is nice as there won´t be many more until we get back to Spain in June! Our last engagement was with Hana and David who run MotoAdvenTours near Marbella. Robin had been in touch with them a few weeks ago as he was hoping to store his accordion with them while we were in Africa. Yes the accordion had just completed 1500 miles on the back of his DR650, through the streets of London and trails and rivers of central Spain, it had even had one drop on a sand track but played ´Tetris´ beautifully as ever camped by a waterfall the next evening. Unluckily, or even luckily, there was a rock fall on the road on the way to

meet Hana and David so we arrived late and during siesta; we got to spend a couple of hours with them talking about the countries ahead and they certainly had

The DR ejecting a brake caliper it didn´t like

a lot of great information to share! Later they took us to a local bike shop which helped us change in to the TKCs we had brought all the way from Edinburgh, we were glad to have the shop owner with this tyre machine help as even getting the wheels on and off in the afternoon heat had us sweating like a cat at Crufts, how would we cope with punctures in the desert!? MotoAdvenTours were such great guys I hope we get a chance to hook up later in the month when they are in Morocco, by then we might have some stories of our own to share!

Better than a shower in the morning!

Camping in the bush, sky seemed to be producing more stars each night

A few river crossings, a welcome cool down!

People always say its a small world but things happen that sometimes really make you think that. Riding along the coast road to this internet cafe we pulled in beside a coastal resort; it just happened to be Laya Playa where I spent a summer holiday as a kid =)