The trail we followed lead through a valley to the east before it opened up on to a wide plain of firm sand sprinkled with small stones. In the distance mountains and a couple of kasbars shimmered already on the horizon and a small dust cloud coming the other way gradually turned in to a white pick up truck which we then exchanged waves with. We got up to a good speed on the firm stuff with only a couple of soft wallows to negotiate before we were greeted by a high speed 2CV followed by a desertised truck, both Pari-Dakaring across the plain. The kasbars looking like Foreign Legion forts amongst the dunes turned out to be camping grounds, the high walls giving protection from the sand and wind and there were more than two once we got going, each announced it's location in the dunes or rocks with a battered hand scrawled sign displaying coordinates. People inside ran out to welcome possible visitors or beckoned us in when they heard the engines coming, we'd wave but in the sand stopping wasn't an easy option.
Aiming at a gap in the dunes occupied by one 'fort' in particular we burst through past it and on to a dry lake bed of crazed white mud. It was difficult to see definition and contours across the baked bleached surface but in the distance there were buildings at the foot of the hills and we found a shallow brown receding lake.
Stopping on the firm ground I tried to wash my hands in the water but only succeeded in painting myself brown, it felt good though; the heat was pretty intense by now.
From the buildings of Um Jerane ahead a white Land Rover appeared, a large moustached man trying to round up travellers for his auberge. We managed to get directions from him to find the right sandy track out if town which lead between two hills and in to the valley beyond.
However the Ktm was loosing power again. The hotter it got the more it seemed to happen. It was annoying on the road but on the sand it became dangerous. Several times while trying to power through deep soft stuff it went and the front dug in, without power the only way to avoid going over the bars or washing out was to work quick and balance the deceleration with the back brake, exciting stuff.
We stopped under a tree to let the bars on the gauge fall and heard two single cylinder engines approaching from opposite direction, two middle-aged French guys in bright coloured body armour on XTs were joined by three support 4x4s of friends and partners. In the spirit of desert comradeship they offered their help after enquiring if we were ok but unfortunately it wasn't the right place to start stripping the fuel system again. We exchanged notes about the roads ahead and wished each other well, we didn't share a lot of language but the words 'fesh fesh', a point at our baggage and a shake of the head didn't bode well for us! We shrugged and smiled, there was only one way to go, could it really be any worse than the sand we'd bashed before?
Well yes and no, ridding round a rise to see a valley filled with nothing but smooth rolling white dunes made our collective hearts sink. Ridding 50yrds in and getting the KTM buried to it's back axle had me climbing the tallest dune I could find and shaking my head like the Frenchmen!
I laid the bike on its side and filled the hole left by the wheel but in the heat I had no strength to get it rubber side down again, luckily Robin arrived with a helping hand and a pep talk. He pointed out the obvious, we'd just have to churn through it!
The next five or six kilometres were a test of many things; riding skills, engine temperatures, rider temperatures and tempers. We were literally running in sweat, Robin stopped to adjust something and it poured out his waterproof sleeve, the pale corrida of my jacket was showing huge dark areas and our water supply was taking a beating. We wove our way though the soft sea, feet paddling and tyres spinning, trying not to run in to each other as we both tried attack it with some degree of speed to gain stability, while not getting separated amongst the dunes and dry oueds. This was proper Fesh Fesh, we'd had bits before but not kilometres of it without escape or ability to see the end or even horizon.
As soon as it had began it stopped and we were suddenly riding between dry fields on a road of sorts which became the outskirts of Ramilia. Builders working on a breeze block building ahead waved us down, not ones to miss an opportunity they wanted to be our guides and take us to the local restaurant, it took a bit of work to extricate ourselves before we literally rode round the corner to park under the shades of the very place, we were due a few cold drinks!
Achmed the owner could have been a stunt double for Quentin Tarrentino and sat and talked with us as the wind whipped the sand about, sticking to our wet skin and getting in my Fanta. Kids played all around in the hot square, entertained by pointing and giggling at the strange travellers while one older girl occasionally approached us trying to sell crafts we sadly had no space for in our luggage. Fatigue was showing all round and face down in a puddle on the table Robin fell asleep.
Luckily the road out of town was a bit better and we put tyre pressures up a little to deal with some of the small rocks now in the sand. We crossed more dried riverbeds, each a maze of small cliffs and canyons to navigate, it was overlaid with deep ruts and tyre tracks but at least the going was firmer.
The hot wind from the south was picking up clouds of sand and blowing them across our path, once so thickly we had to stop under a tree and wait for it to die down. As if by magic a small family appeared carrying a basket of crafts, after shaking hands and thanking them for their offering they said goodbye and disappeared again in to the dunes.
It was hot work riding and at a water break further down the road a chubby young guy, face wrapped from the wind and sand, arrived on a mobillette. He advised against the road/feshfesh ahead and invited us to his auberge but it was still too early in the day, he did however suggest a diversion though a village on the other side of the valley before bouncing off down the tracks making sand riding look easy, if a little slow and less exciting!
We had learnt the hard way to be a little caution of 'good advice', a few hundred meters of deep sandy oueds and rocky climbs out again had us wondering if the lad on the scooter was now dispatching a conveniently located 4x4 recovery truck from the village at the other end. However it wasn't the mobilletteier we should have worried about, rather the guys in the next village so desperate to 'guide' us poor lost foreigners back to the piste for a few Dihrams that the way ahead became everything from impassible or non existent to a forbidden military zone! It was on the Garmin though so we pushed past them but only to encounter a second wave followed by two on a scooter in hot pursuit. British manners nearly got the better of me and I stopped just short of telling them we didn't want the F-ing piste and where to stick their military zone before blasting off in to the desert quicker than they could follow. Thankfully it worked and the way ahead was all as predicted :)
Finally the main piste became gravelly and firm, we were riding a bright white roller-coaster of jumps and berms like down hill mountain bikers. The DR's shock seemed a little tired and it was bottoming out but the laden KTM was in its element, leaping from peak to trough like a hyperactive hippo on a trampoline, it was great fun!
I cleared a rise in the air and passed a mobillette on the far side, trying to wave. At the top of the hill we met the first of three blue Merc supply vans Achmed had told us were due in Ramilia today and rode past a few more desert auberges, there was a feeling we were slowly returning to civilisation. Indeed on the horizon a radio mast popped up followed by some pink buildings and a roadside distance marker for Merzouga, then the prize, Tarmac! We stopped to celebrate, each time we rode on sand and lived it seemed good enough cause, we still weren't skeletons in the desert and the carefully choreographed self timer photo of an aerial high-five proved it!
Chez Julia gave us a warm welcome, the earth building with a tall exterior wall was well signposted in Merzouga and the mercifully cool rooms lead off a central kitten filled courtyard. Julia was an Austrian photographer/painter come interior designer who had at some point settled in her country of inspiration, with the help of some Moroccan staff her B&B was clean, reasonably priced and prided itself on serving good food. After filling the shower tray with sand we met Hugo from Paris in the dining room, a young guy travelling for 10 days on his own he was a kindred spirit who had also found sanctuary from Marrakech in the desert. We sat and swapped stories for a while then, inevitably, turned in for a well needed early night.
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