A motorcycle journey

I guess the seed was sown back in the early sixties.  My brother Bob and I had riden through Europe together. Nothing too far …..  France, Germany and northern Italy. Bob I remember had a two-tone Ariel Leader …… and me, a much less glamorous BSA twin. I’ve always had a love affair with bikes and enjoy the challenge of a long trip, prefering usually to travel alone. There are some risks of course but also benefits ……  the opportunities to connect with people and to be able to go with the flow as new situations arise. Sun and sand package holidays have never held any appeal.

This trip had been a while in the planning. Although I’d ridden in Morocco before, the intention this time was to ride further south, through the Western Sahara, Mauritania and Sénégal and on to the Gambia ……. then turn around, and ride all the way back again! Well, that at least was the plan!

The wrong turn.

Two uneventful days riding down through Spain finds me queuing to board the Algeciras ferry over to Ceuta on the North African coast. Across in the next lane is an aging Mercedes on British plates. Two men return to the car.  Ken & David are going down to Banjul, the Gambian capital. The car is stuffed to the brim with materials for a school for blind children. It’s their second trip. We’re passing the time chatting and I mention I’m heading the same way ….. so we agree to travel together for a bit.

Off the ferry into the Spanish enclave of Cueta and then a short ride to Fnideq …… the border proper with Morocco. Customs, Police, and Immigration have to be cleared and in the correct order. The task of checking visitors’ and vehicles’ paperwork should be straightforward. But the Moroccan authorities have clearly put considerable effort into ensuring it’s not. You have two choices ….. the tout option …… for a negotiable fee your tout will get you and your vehicle through. The usual approach seems to involve making the process appear as complicated and time consuming as possible so as to justify the fee you will be charged at the other end. For braver souls, there’s the DIY option. The challenge here is working out the exact order in which your paperwork has to be checked and stamped, and by whom ….. made no easier by the total absence of any signs which might give you a clue as to what goes on inside the various officials’ huts! I opt for the DIY option, not just because I’m tight, but for the sheer satisfaction of doing it for myself!

Forty-five minutes later I’m through and park up the bike to wait for the Merc. To the side a large area of wasteland is filled with stalls, rubbish, animals, and lots of people generally milling around. A teenage approaches and asks for a cigarette ….. then other and another! “Un Dirham, un Dirham”, a child shouts out. It’s time to get moving, I’m thinking ……. back in Morocco for sure!

David and Ken finally appear, the afternoon light is fading fast. We set off in the direction of Tangier with me on their tail. Dark grey clouds look ominous. Half an hour later and it’s raining heavily. As we approach a small roundabout the Merc pauses …… not a direction sign anywhere! …… the car circles it slowly several times ……  then disappears off to the left with me in close pursuit. Within a short time we run out of tarmac. Five or six kilometres on a dirt road filling rapidly with large puddles. The Merc stops and Ken gets out. Through my rain covered visor I can see the track ahead submerged under water. Trousers rolled up, Ken wades in to gauge the depth ….a brief word with David about the best line to take through …… and the Merc just makes it across. The light is now practically gone and it occurs to me we could just be heading towards a dead end. Do we continue or retrace our steps? It’s agreed ……. we press on in the hope of finding some precious tarmac ……. and thank heavens we finally do!

An hour or so later we check into Hotel Al-Khaima in Aslish for the night. Food inside us and a few Flag beers raises spirits. David and Ken are both larger than life Yorkshire men. Ken works in the West Yorkshire Ambulance Service when he’s not driving to the Gambia and back, and sports an amazing handlebar moustache. I get a few tips on dealing with border officials and Police in Mauritania and Sénégal.

In the morning we go our separate ways and I wonder what are the odds of bumping into them again in the weeks to come. I point the bike in the direction of Marrakesh.

Marrakesh

Rachel, my daughter, is due to fly in around 9am. We’d arranged to spend a few days together in Marrakesh, which I’m much looking forward to. I wait next door outside a cafe for her to arrive. Half an hour later she’s stepping out of the taxi …….. a big hug ….. it’s great to see her again. Later we stroll down to the Medina and into the Djemaa El Fna square ….. ambling around watching the odd snake charmer, monkey sellers, and some musicians. Seems like this place is Marrakesh’s answer to Covent Garden!

We sit for a drink. “Where ya from”, someone asks in a distinctive American West Coast accent. We turn around to see a middle-aged Moroccan smiling broadly. He proceeds to chat up Rachel for the next ten minutes, just occasionally including me in the conversation. Been around long enough to know this guy has something to sell, though it’ll take a while longer to find out just what. The small talk ends and he finally tells us he has shops both in Marrakesh and San Francisco, selling spices, herbs and natural remedies. Trying to change the subject, I mention alcohol. “Do you want some?” He gives us directions to a cellar next to a club called the “Noir Diamond”, a few blocks from where we’re sitting. His ‘end game’ of course is to get us inside his shop. Once we’re there he launches into his patter, without any obvious pressure on us to buy. Oils, ointments and herbs are rubbed onto our wrists or held to our noses for smelling as he extols their curative properties. He’s one smooth operator. Think some of them smell terrific and so does Rachel, but we’re not in the mood to buy and we leave his shop his exotic emporium empty-handed.

Rachel likes bags. What woman doesn’t? She’s after a leather weekend bag and we stroll around to see what’s on offer. I stay in the background leaving her to do the business. She spots a possibility and goes inside. Now I would never have put my daughter down as an ‘haggler’ ……. but she emphatically proves me wrong. For a full ten minutes she’s talking to the shopkeeper, while I’m outside trying to figure out what’s going on. Then out she comes a smile all over her face, and bag in hand. “Got it for just 450 Dirham, and he started out asking 700 !”. On our way back we stop off to pick up our booze, and climb up to the hotel’s roof terrace. Surrounding by drying sheets and towels As the sun sets Rachel sups her beer I enjoy my Moroccan Siraoua Red.

She has always enjoyed riding on the bike and as a break from Marrakesh, we’d booked an overnight stay in the village of Ouirgane, in the foothills of the Atlas mountains to the south. Our arrival isn’t quite as I would have planned it. Dar Tassa is situated 6km up an off road track. We’re almost there when the track forks, without any indication as to which branch leads to Dar Tassa. As Sod’s law would have it I take the wrong path which finally leads us between a few village houses before finally coming to a complete dead end. It’s now literally a few feet wide and a U turn is out of the question on a bike this size. Whilst I’m busy puzzling how to get out of the situation a villager appears from nowhere. He and Rachel physically manhandle the bike backwards with me astride it, until we reach a suitable turning point. My embarrassment is by now at an all time high! Rachel quips,“Why doesn’t your bike have a reverse gear, Dad? ” I thank the villager profusely and we’re off again up the hill.

Dar Tassa is a quiet place with magnificent views across the surrounding countryside, lovely food and friendly staff. We relax and feel very much at home. As evening comes Rachel starts to feel the beginnings of a chest infection which kinda takes the edge off things for her. The other people staying are all lean, fit and committed walkers, most having arrived from Marrakesh by taxi. One of the girls there says we’re the first to arrive by motorcycle in the three years they’ve been open. I’m very tempted to suggest a sign at the fork below for any that might follow us!

The following day we return to Marrakesh for our last evening at hotel Toulousain. It’s a large rambling place with rooms on several levels surrounding a central courtyard and a rather faded air about the place. Years back, it used to be known as the Peace Corps place, for obvious reasons. A stream of people come and go each day, but also one or two longer stayers.

Steve is one of these sitting at the same table tucked away in the corner of the courtyard, tapping away onto his keyboard. He’s from the US and on our third day I ask him where he’s from ….. “Ohio”. He has a kind face and a warm smile. He and his wife are midway through a very long cycling trip, and I mean long, years not months! A close family member is now seriously ill back home and Janie his wife has returned to the States leaving Steve behind in Marrakesh to await her return. “Do you know how the French spell Aluminum?”. “Not certain, but probably the same as us”, I reply. Steve’s metal bike pannier has recently sheared under the strain of too many miles on crap roads. “I need to find somewhere round here that can weld Aluminum”.

Over the Tizi n’Test pass

We pack our stuff and breakfast early. A ride through the Marrakesh morning rush hour to the airport. A farewell hug and she disappears through the terminal doors. I’m going to miss her.

Riding through mountains is a whole different ball game to riding on the flat. I’d already ridden over the Tizi n’Tichka pass. If the Tizi n’Test is anything like as good, I’m in for a treat today. The road has been literally blasted out of the mountains. From Marrakesh a gentle south ride to Asni and then onwards towards Ijoukak. Immediately the gradient changes ….. it  climbs and climbs. Ears pop, zigzag after zigzag after zigzag. The road is narrows barely more than a vehicle’s width in places. A near miss with a straying goat close to the top …….. a hazard on many Moroccan roads! Reach the summit and the obligatory photograph. The views are spectacular, despite the haze. Traffic is light …… less than half a dozen vehicles on the way up.

On the descent and suddenly out of nowhere three BMW motorcycles fly past me on a short bit of straight heading north …… headlights flash, a rapid wave and they’re gone …… amazingly these are the first bikes I’ve seen apart from a couple of Moroccan Police bikes south of Cassablanca. There’s something addictive about riding these bends. For some idea of what I’m talking about ….. Look here

After the pass, the ride towards Tisnit is predictable and borders on the humdrum. Arrive there around five and find a bed for the night at Hotel El Amal. Friendly people. Sit and have tea with the owner and his friend Farid. My glass is filled, and refilled, repeatedly. You can get tired of Moroccan tea after a while! Arrange to store the bike overnight in a lockup store next door …….. Just the challenge of how to surmount the two foot kerb first …….. but opt to leave that issue until later!

South from Tisnit

Took three of us to manhandle the bike out of the lockup this morning …….. the problem being the two foot step down to the street. Farid buys me an ice cold milk at the café next door. After a brief chat, it’s goodbye. The plan for the day is to ride across to the coast, down to Sidi Ifni, then on to Guelmim, and finally down to Tan Tan.

The Spanish colonists didn’t leave Sidi Ifni until 1969 and unsurprisingly it still has a strong Spanish feel including some interesting Art Deco buildings. I’m very tempted to stay longer, but after a quick look around it’s back on the bike. A good few miles to cover today. Don’t find much to delay me in Guelmim apart from a brief chat with Mohamed, a migrant worker from southern Spain, back in town to visit his parents who run a small café. He’s a tiler by trade, laying ceramic flooring around Malaga. Proudly he holds out his work-worn hands for inspection. In Spain for nearly three years now and he’s very happy with his new-found prosperity. No chance he’d ever return, he says.

I’m getting low on fuel. “Avez-vous sans plomb?”, I ask the guy manning the pumps. He shakes his head and  asks where I’m heading. I tell him. Then out of the blue comes this beauty. He likes the English very much cause his brother used to work in Downing Street as a translator …… and because I’m English, he’ll tell me where I can get ’sans plomb’. Decide to wind him up a bit ……”Oh he’ll be a friend of Tony Blair, then?”, “Naturellement, naturellement!”, says ‘pump man’. Where’s all this going, I’m thinking! He then changes tack completely ……. Did I know that the officials on the Mauritania border will happily take cigarettes instead of cash to pay for the bike insurance I’m going to need to travel on to Senegal? Just behind ‘pump man’ is a dodgey looking character sat astride a rusty moped. He listens to our every word, though I doubt he understands many of mine! Because of his great love for the English, ‘pump man’ says he’ll ask his ‘cousin’ here to go off and get some cigarettes for me. “How many would you like?” Within minutes the dodgey cousin rides back into the forecourt, plastic bag swinging from his handlebars.“How much?” I ask. “200 Dirham for 200″. “Too much, cheaper in Marrakesh!”, I say lying through my back teeth. We settle on 140 Dirham. It’s obvious from his face that ‘pump man’ is not a happy fella …… probably the reason he omitted  to tell me where I could get unleaded petrol in Guelmin! I’ve been hustled more times than I care to remember, but the sheer effrontery of it still surprises me every time!

On my way out of town I pass the Saturday souk selling all the usual stuff ….. meat and vegetables, clothes and jewelery, sheep and goats. Mohamed tells me it’s known as the Camel market, but I see very few.

It’s an further 125km to Tan Tan. A virtually straight road crossing a featureless stony desert, The sky is overcast and traffic very light ….. mainly lorries. Pass a couple that had broken down, stranded at the edge of the road. Quietly pray the same fate doesn’t befall me. As I relieve the boredom listening to Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” on the headset, I’m thinking this all feels a wee bit surreal. The ride down to Tan Tan is punctuated by two dead donkeys, one dead camel and what’s left of the wreckage of a huge electricity pylon lying horizontal across the desert. All help to break the monotony.

A cursory Police check as I approach Tan Tan. Then under a pair of faintly ridiculous giant camels and yet another check. This time I’m off the bike and told to go into a small hut where all my paperwork is methodically examined. He looks no more than twenty and his police uniform clearly a couple of sizes too large. We have a cigarette whilst he shows mild curiosity in the bike. A friendly handshake, and I’m on my way again.

Get a room at the Hotel Sables D’Or. Right across the road yet another Moroccan barracks ……. a reddish brown long-walled compound. It’s Saturday evening. Bored soldiers pass their time watching the world go by from their gate. Tan Tan’s no different to anywhere else on a Saturday evening I guess. The street’s filling up. People bumping into friends ……. gaggles of boys out to impress the girls, and the girls out to catch the eye of the boys. The womens’ sari-like dresses are spectacular …….. vividly patterned in intensely strong colours. The cafés seem a male preserve …..  small groups sit around tables …… in front of them empty tea and coffee cups. And always the shaking of hands with all and sundry when a fresh face arrives. Cafés are also the territory of the beggars and sellers of this and that. I’m full of admiration for their persistence.

It’s really no surprise to see so many French cars in a former French colony. The town is literally awash with Renault 4TL’s and 12TL’s that are literally decades past their sell-by date, their English equivalents having been dispatched to the scrapyard in the sky many moons ago. Garages abound with with piles of bald and part worn tyres. The MOT test passed this part of the world by for sure. But life goes happily on regardless!

On to Laäyoune and Boujdour

South from Tan Tan the road runs close to the Atlantic, with occasional views of the ocean to the west. Gradually stony desert gives way to fine sand. Dunes are visible on either side. The road gently twists and turns. Strong gusting winds from the west make riding less than relaxing. When the road swings occasionally towards the east it feels so good to have the wind at my back for a bit. The air is filling with sand. It’s getting everywhere. Now see why the shesh (strips of cotton wrapped around the head) were invented! Other travelers more experienced than me, had warned that sand storms were always a possibility in this region …… but I hadn’t expected them at this time of the year!

Probably it was just waiting to happen …… or more likely my concentration just lapsed. Sand is now being blown by the strong winds from the west across the road. Along some stretches it’s just a thin covering and not really a problem. But where the dunes are already at the road’s edge, it’s a different story. Gusts sweep them forward relentlessly. They threaten to engulf the tarmac. This isn’t much fun! Slow down and carefully weave the bike slowly through the worse sections. The wind gets stronger and stronger. Once or twice I stop the bike and ‘paddle’ it through some particularly tricky bits. Not enjoying this one bit and just where are the bulldozers that should be clearing this stuff!

I come around a blind bend …… and before I’ve time to think plough straight into a bank of deep sand covering the full width of the road. On a fully-loaded bike without off-road tyres it doesn’t take much to loose control. Back wheel wobbles briefly and over we go. Was it lack of concentration, lack of experience, or just bad luck? Probably all three!

Aside from a dented ego and some superficial damage to the bike I’d managed to trap my left ankle under the engine bar. Whilst I’m standing there trying to register what’s just happened, I soon become aware of my left foot throbbing. The GS is a heavy bike without luggage, but with a dodgey foot plus luggage, I decide to leave it where it is ……. horizontal! Traffic on the road had been very light but after ten minutes I manage flag down a passing lorry. With the help of the Mauritanian driver the bike is lifted up and I continue on towards Laäyoune.

Somewhere around Tarfaya, a quick stop to top up with fuel and grab a cold drink. Thankfully the wind has now eased a bit and the road is clear for the most part. But by the time I arrive in Laäyoune the foot is really starting to play up …… having difficulty putting any weight on it and it’s the gear changing one to boot! To cut a tedious story short, I finally find myself at the Hotel Sidi Ifni in Souk Djal, historically the town’s chicken market. It’s certainly not one of the most salubrious places I’ve stayed at …… calling it a hotel is rather like calling a greasy spoon café, the Ritz Grill. But I don’t care ….. just need to rest the foot.

News of a limping Englishman evidently spreads to the immediate neighbours. Around 9 pm a knock at my door. An elderly Berber gentleman enters with a large crepe bandage in one hand, and a tube of something suspiciously smelling like Germoline in the other. He speaks no English and I speak not enough of anything he can understand. As he massages the foot and ankle with Germoline using far more force than I think necessary, I shout and cry like a baby. He then bandages it very tightly rejecting all offers of payment and says he will return in the morning.

I wake very early. My head is telling me I need to get moving but my my foot is saying something very different. Manage to pull my boot on with some difficulty. I hate all this limping around ….. and people watching me, even more. I leave Laäyoune aiming for Boujdour and Dakhla, some 250 miles to the south. A brief stop at Lemsid …… little more than a petrol station, a café and a police post. There I meet two young travelers doing it the hard way.

Tommie and Mareike are from Germany and they’re heading to Cape Town …… on bicycles! They flew to southern Spain with their bikes courtesy of Easyjet. Now been pedaling for two months. Tommie tells me their best day saw them cover 105 miles with a strong wind on their backs. They’re no novices at this pedaling stuff ……… two years previously they rode from Germany to India on the very same bikes. As villages or towns down here are relatively far apart, I’m curious to know where they stop for the night ……. in deserted buildings along the roadside or sometimes they wild camp, says Mareike. Before saying goodbye, she gives me a book ‘Africa Overland’ that she’s finished with …… a practical list of do’s and don’t’s for travelers crossing Africa by bicycle, 4×4, or motorcycle. I sort of wish she hadn’t …… cause it starts me thinking about whether I’ve forgotten some essential spare part for the bike!

Reach Boujdour, a smallish fishing port. A pair of monumental Ostrich and Swordfish guard the entrance to the town. Swordfish I can understand, but more than a bit puzzled by the Ostrich! Find a room in one of the few hotels in town. Warmish shower and a light switch right next to the bed ……. what more can you ask for! Covered only 190km today …… very slow going. The following day I do nothing but hobble about testing the ankle. It’s painful and getting no easier. It’s seriously time for me to weigh up the options. By afternoon I’ve reluctantly decided the risks of going on are just too great. The foot may need medical attention. Gear changing is tortuous and I need to be properly fit to ride on the potholed roads of Sénégal. I Have to accept that Gambia and Sénégal are out for this trip. It seems sensible that Laäyoune is the place to head back to. Being much larger than Boujdour, it is likely to have some sort of medical facilities. The following day I ride back northwards all the time wondering if I’ve made the right decision ……..

Hospital in Laäyoune.

About three in the afternoon I get back to Hotel Sidi Ifni in Souk Djal, Laäyoune. There are one or two surprised faces as I tell Jamal and the others about my encounter with the sand dune and my decision not to go on to Senegal. In the early evening Jamal and I take a Petit Taxi to the hospital on the outskirts of town. The waiting room was already full. From somewhere Jamal found a dilapidated wheelchair and sat me in it. After an hour of sitting there we’re both getting short on patience. Nothing or nobody seems to be moving. Without any warning Jamal takes things into his own hands. Suddenly he wheels me through a swing door to where a doctor is treating a patient. Some sharp words are exchanged none of which I understand. It’s blatant queue-jumping, and quite rightly we’re thrown out! This is Jamal at his impetuous best! Finally we’re off to see somebody about an X-Ray. Discover I first I have to pay the 150 Dirham fee. Where? The young doctor  gives Jamal directions. Ten minutes later we’re back, receipt in hand and the foot is finally X-Rayed. Then another wait for a further hour before being called to see a doctor. Fortunately nothing is broken, just some serious swelling and bad tissue bruising, she tells me. I’m handed a prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatory tablets, and we’re finally out.

The doctors in Laayoune are doing a good job with inadequate staffing and very poor facilities. I’ve absolutely no complaints. There are those in Britain who knock the NHS ……. perhaps a visit to a hospital such as this might put things into sharper perspective. We are very, very fortunate.

Mouna, her husband and two children live across the street from where I’m staying. To bring in a bit of extra cash, she’s converted one room of their small house into a sort of neighbourhood café. It’s the same small group of faces I see in there every day. Supper is a bowl of delicious Harira soup, thick and filling, traditionally eaten to break the Ramadan fast.

The next day is a lazy one. Back to Mouna’s for omelette, bread and mint tea. “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” with Arabic sub-titles plays away on the tiny black & white TV in the corner. Then a very slow walk around the neighbouring streets. The foot feels a little easier …….  the painkillers are kicking in.

I notice some houses around the souk with distinctive eggshell-domed roofs, supposedly to cool the interior.

Atiq, who runs the small corner shop on the opposite corner invites me to share his evening meal with himself and his family. As we eat he tells me there are close to 70% of Laäyoune’s population unemployed. …… a staggering figure! Many rely on part time or short term work. The only growth area is in the military and the Police! Yesterday I’d passed three separate garrisons and an enormous Police headquarters in the process of construction, all close to the souk.

Rachel, my daughter, gave me a book called “Endgame in the Western Sahara” before I’d left. A few interesting facts about this small corner of North West Africa, AKA the Western Sahara …….

In 1975 Spain withdrew its forces from the region following territorial demands from both Morocco and Mauritania which culminated in the Green March. Shortly after, Morocco moved it’s military south to take control of the region. There then followed a sporadic guerrilla desert war between Moroccan forces and the indigenous Saharanis known as the Polisario, backed by Algeria. Mauritania had also made territorial claims to the region. In 1988 the UN stepped in and promised a referendum to decide it’s political future. Sad to say, two decades later that referendum has still not happened. The parties involved continue to argue about who exactly should have the right to vote.

All of this goes to explain why Laäyoune has such a strong UN presence today. Apart from their headquarters buildings, white UN vehicles are a common sight on the streets. The UN  block-book rooms for their personnel in the few better hotels of the town. There’s also a very high Moroccan military presence  ……. more soldiers in this relatively small place than I’ve seen anywhere else in the country!

Leave Souk Djal.

Up early and an omelette and coffee at Mouna’s house. Pack the bike. Say my goodbyes and take a few photos, prints of which I promise to send back. Last night, after finishing his last prayers of the day, Sammoud, the quiet chap who manages the Sidi Ifni hotel, gave me a stuffed leather camel for luck. This morning we attached it to the bike.

From his shop opposite, Atiq comes over and pops a small key-ring into my hand. Jamal calls me across to his workshop. He’d worked late into last night making a metal flower decoration which he’d painted early this morning …….the paint is still tacky! As he wraps it up in newspaper I’m lost for words. He then hands me back the lip balm I’d lent him a couple of days ago. His upper lip is still looking sore. I tell him to keep it …… it’ll be much more use to him than me. One more photo around the bike, and I’m ready to go.

The winds still haven’t let up. My aim is to get back to Tan Tan today  …… a modest 300km to the north. Approaching Tarfaya the sand is again beginning seriously to encroach onto the road ……. more deft weaving in and out! See two bulldozers at work today. Wish they’d been out working three or four days ago!

Skirt Tarfaya and on towards the small settlement of Akhfennir. Past here the road runs close to the sea, divided from the land by steep cliffs.

The roadside is dotted with a succession of small fishermans’ huts perched close to the cliff edge, some with rods pointing skywards……

……. and the odd herd of camels.

It’s overcast but very humid. Stop for a cold drink at every chance. A Land Cruiser pulls in and  four men get out.There follows a lot of hurried running around and shouting. Then one of them comes over to me and asks do I have a tyre compressor? They’ve a slow puncture and need to go south in a hurry. Why they’d assume a motorcyclist would have such a thing, I’ve no idea. But luckily for them I do, and a brand new one to boot! In a few minutes the tyre is re-inflated. It turns out they are Moroccan ‘twitchers’. They’d received news the previous day that a rare breed of Eagle had been sighted just south of Laäyoune. They were desperate to confirm it for themselves.

As I get closer to Tan Tan I find myself thinking of  Laäyoune, of Jamal and Sammoud in Souk Djal. They’re barely more than boys with their lives ahead of them. Jamal is generous and very impulsive, if a little childish at times. Sammoud is quieter, sensitive and thoughtful. On the surface they seem satisfied with what life has thrown at them …….  at least they both have jobs of sorts. Both have moved to the Western Sahara from the north in the hope of a better life with more opportunities but I’m not sure they’ve found it. From what little I’ve seen of Laäyoune there seems little there for them. I don’t see either of them as a policeman or soldier!

I reach Tan Tan around five. As the road drops down swiftly from a plateau, the town is laid out before you. And it’s back to the relative luxury of the Hotel Sable D’Or  after several nights of roughing it  in Laäyoune. Feel I more than deserve it!

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A chance of some dodgy Whiskey.

Could be a long slowish day ahead, given the state of my ankle …… from Tan Tan up to Bouizakarne via Guelmim, then eastwards towards Akka and on to Tata, that’s the plan. No problems resting it on the foot peg ……. but changing gear  is still very painful. But looking on the brighter side …….  now have a chance to see something of parts of Morocco I’ve not yet been to.

Motorcyclists are special breed coming as they do from all walks of life, they’re united by a shared passion. I remember the Plymouth ferry at Santander last year …… between twenty or thirty bikes lined up waiting to board. Everyone was chatting, absorbed with the bikes, sharing tales. Where were the car drivers? ……. sat in their vehicles impatiently waiting to board the ferry. My family think I’m off the wall as far as the bike goes and they’re probably right. On a long trip such as this a real bond develops between us …….. at the end of a day’s riding, there’s always that grateful pat on the tank! …..so much more than a collection of metal and plastic on wheels!

20km or so north of Tan Tan and the cross winds are starting to get up again. The side panniers act like sails pushing me towards the road’s edge. Not much fun while it lasts. I pull into a tiny place, no more than a few buildings and a deserted café.

Three lads appear. Initially they’re absorbed with the bike. The usual questions about how fast does it go and how much did it cost. I don’t bother replying. Then the tallest one says “Vous aiment du Whiskey?” “Peut-etre”, I reply. “C’est Whiskey Marocain” he adds. “Combien?” ……. “150 Dirham”, he says (about £10). For that price I insist on a taster before parting with a single Dirham. “Ce n’est pas possible, Monsieur”, said the lad who was clearly the boss. The deal fell through which was a pity because by then I was rather looking forward to a glass or two at the end of today.

Suddenly notice the fuel gauge is getting low. Do a rough calculation and estimate I’ve left things a bit tight for reaching the next marked fuel station. Need to find some fairly quickly for peace of mind if for nothing else. Feeling a bit panicky, I ease off on the throttle trying to conserve whatever juice remains in the tank. I spot a small village off to the right and scan the main street for any signs of a petrol station. With slight feelings of panic I ask a passer by, “Essence, Monsieur?”. He points back up the street saying, “La porte verte, a droit”. I’m thinking this guy is crazy but nevertheless I ride up and stop and look around. Out pops a chap well into his sixties, his face smeared with oil. “Essence, Monsieur?” I ask feeling a right fool. “Combien de litres?” he replies. “Quinze”. He disappears through the green door and two or three minutes later reappears with three 5 litre plastic bottles of fuel. With the aid of leaking funnel the precious stuff is poured carefully into my tank. I leave very much happier than when I arrived.

Late afternoon I reach Akka. I was thinking of breaking the journey here overnight. My out of date guide lists only one place, the Tamdoult, described as “an unwelcoming place with poor rooms”. Decide to check it out. It’s pretty hot and I fancy a cold drink. Go in and stand waiting for the attention of the guy in charge. I wait, and wait, and wait. Patience exhausted, I leave. The guide probably had it about right and I head off towards Tata.

Hotel Renaissance,Tata.

Tata is a smallish place, flanking a large oasis. Plan to have just one night here before moving on. The Hotel Renaissance falls some way short of it’s grand-sounding name. It’s a fairly big place, but dead as a Dodo. The young chap manning the reception (who looks impossibly young to be doing such a job) tells me Thursdays is their busy day. The hotel has an arrangement with an Ouarzazate-based Overland Discovery outfit to feed, water and house a regular crowd of French tourists on three-day package trips to the Talifalt. Sensing that the place is practically empty today, I decide its worth trying for a sizable discount on the price he’s asking. I make a really cheeky offer which is immediately accepted.

After a shower return downstairs to discover a pleasant surprise …. a small bar tucked away to the side. This is the last place I expect to find one. Islamic counties give alcohol a very low profile. Aside from the pricier tourist hotels and restaurants, it’s not that easy to get hold of the stuff. Two men are sat chatting, each nursing a bottle of Flag beer. In front on the counter are two neat rows of  consumed empties. The first ice-cold Flag slides down my throat instantaneously and the next almost as fast. Number three is taken to a nearby table and supped at a more leisurely pace.

I’m sat watching the world go by minding my own business when it dawns on me that there’s more going on here than first meets the eye. The snappily dressed barman, a jet black Negro, is surreptitiously wrapping bottles of Vodka in sheets of used newspaper. One by one they disappear under the bar counter. Over the next hour a steady stream of men come in. Brief words are exchanged with the barman ….. money changes hands ……. and each leaves carrying his bottle in a black plastic bag. Free enterprise is flourishing in Tata!

Taliouine

Since a brief stopover here last year things have changed a little. Lehcen Sebban, who still runs the grandly titled Hotel Atlas Bordeau, has given up running his small café next door. He remembers me and I ask Lehcen for the same room ….. no problem … there’s only one other customer tonight! On my last visit his two boys were fixated by the bike. I couldn’t keep them off it. They set about cleaning it with a gusto!

There’s also a new neighbour, Akerdoud Ab-dellah. He’s an enterprising young man in his twenties who speaks unusually good English. Recently graduated from the University of Agadir, he’s opened “Taliouine Nature”, a small shop selling spices and locally woven carpets and rugs. Always a smile on his face, he’s one of those people you can’t help liking. I fall for one of his rugs and toy very briefly with the idea of buying it ……. until I remember just how much luggage is on the bike already!

Almond, Apple, Olive and Walnut trees grow everywhere. Taliouine is also known for it’s high quality Safron which Akerdoud sells in his shop. It looks very precious in it’s tall glass jar. Carefully he weighs me out two grammes …… enough to favour two meals for four people he says. No problems getting that on the bike!

Hotel Atlas Bordeau is at the bottom end of the ‘cheapie’ range in a nondescript small town.Lying on the bed unable to sleep, I gaze up to the ceiling. The longer I look the more engrossed I become …… quite extraordinary craftsmanship, such intricacy of design and craftsmanship ……. it’s quite amazing and beautiful. The rest of the room is absolutely bare apart from the single bed I’m laying on. What a contrast with the tacky polystyrene ceiling tiles and coving in fashion in England not so many years ago!

I drift off to sleep to the sound of barking …… a pack of feral dogs roaming the street below. And it’s a noisy place at dawn as well. Before even the sun is up, the noise of diesel-engined lorries and minibuses reaches my room, ……. coughing jerkily into life ….. thick black noxious smoke belching out. For two mornings on the trot this performance has gone on and on both occasions was followed by the continuous honking of horns. On the second morning I finally twig what the racket is all about. They’re touting for business …… paying passengers to Taroudant, Tazenakht, or one of the smaller villages.

A dust storm on the road to Ouarzazate

Two days in Taliouine and it’s time to move on. Plan to ride to Ouarzazate via Tazenakht today, an easy journey or so I think! Tazenakht lies about 80km to the east. It feels good to be back on the bike and the foot feels all the better for a bit of a rest up .

As I climb up out of the valley wind’s force increases. None to easy trying to anticipate the gusts. I make my way up through the Tizi-n-Taghatine pass. Early on it had been a little bit breezy in Taliouine …..but nothing like this. From the top the Tazenakht road can be seen cutting straight across the valley floor beyond. In the distance a swirling cloud of brown dust sweeps right to left. Never seen anything like this before. It’s difficult to gauge either the depth of the dust cloud or the force of the wind down there from where I am.

I ride down towards it optimistically thinking I’ll be able to ride through it pretty quickly. Of course I should have stopped there and then …… but hindsight’s a wonderful thing! Much closer now, and visibility plummets to a few metres. A second or two later, I’m into it and can see nothing beyond a few feet ahead of the bike’s windscreen. A raging cloud of brown dust …… lashs against my body ……. it’s grittiness filling my mouth. Try to stay calm despite overwhelming feelings of panic. Bring the bike to a standstill straining to hold it upright against the force of the wind. I need to act and do it quickly ….. do a blind U turn and slowly ride back in the direction I came all the time praying the bike doesn’t go off the edge of the road. After what feels like minutes, but was probably a seconds or so, I’m through it. I can only describe the sensation as feeling like I’d just emerged from a very dark room and somebody had just switched the lights on! A scary experience. Someone up there is looking out for me!

Immediate priority now is to find shelter from the winds. Back up the road a bit, was a hawker of fossils and minerals ….. I’d passed him coming down. Pull in the bike close to his small stone hut. A head appears beckoning me to come inside. Little did I no that Hassan and I would be couped up together for the next four hours whilst I waited for the winds to subside.

I admit to being wary of the friendliness of people selling stuff ….. more often it’s part of the ‘long game’ of making a sale. But no sign of this from Hassan. His wares are laid out neatly along the top of a wide wall next to the hut ……. Amnonites, Quartz, and stuff I can’t even name and there’s a very real likelihood of some of it being blown down into the valley below in these conditions! He plies me with endless cups of Moroccan tea brewed up on a blackened camping stove. We crouch on our haunches as there’s nothing to sit on inside his hut. Conversation doesn’t exactly flow with my ‘O’ level French! It’s quite dark inside. Hassan prepares some food in a battered saucepan …… some pieces of bread and vegetables mixed and heated into a warm mash. After we’ve eaten, I offer him a cigarette. After he prepares to say his prayers and feeling I should respect his privacy, I stand up to step outside. “Non, séjour ici.” He pulls out a filthy bit of cardboard as a makeshift prayer mat. Just as he finishes his prayers, the wind’s howling is punctuated by a loud crashing sound. I stick my head out. The bike’s lying on it’s side. Just can’t believe it can topple a bike weighing almost 300kg.

We hear the sound of a car pulling up. Ever the salesman, Hassan is at the doorway in a flash, cajoling the driver to come in for a tea. The car has French plates. Its obvious the driver has pulled over to assess the wisdom of continuing on through the dust storm in the valley below. He decides against it, and then notices my bike lying horizontal. The two of us lift it and manhandle it into the shelter of the back of the hut. It turns out this Frenchman is also a biker. He has a Moto Guzzi ‘California’ back home in his garage in Toulouse.

Hassan tells me he has no wife or children and I’m guessing his age at somewhere in his middle forties. With a completely straight face, he asks me ….. can I find him an English woman who would like to marry him? If I can, he’ll go straight off to England to live with her. Non plussed, I decide to leave this one hanging in the air …… a job for a professional matchmaker, I’m thinking! Hassan begins to smile gently …….and we both have a good laugh.

I’m no particular fan of fossils but buying some of Hassan’s seems the most obvious way to repay his kindness to me. By four in the afternoon the dust storm is still raging. On the pass behind us it seems to have eased a little. I decide to point the bike back towards Taliouine hoping tomorrow will bring calmer conditions.

Ait Benhaddou and Ouarzazate

Twenty km north east of Ouarzazate lie the collection of kasbahs known as Ait Benhaddou. I guess they’re on most tourists ‘must see’ list. Elaborately decorated and well preserved, it’s a huge collection of structures piled upon a dark shaft of rock.

Built as fortified tribal villages, Kasbahs are found across the southern region.  Because of the absence of any other suitable building material, mud-clay piste from the river banks was used for construction. Difficult to date precisely, some are at least two to three hundred years old. If not maintained regularly, the structures decline rapidly ……. just twenty years is enough to produce a ruinous state if the mud piste walls are not renewed.

David Lean’s “Laurence of Arabia”, Orson Welles’ “Sodom & Gomorrah”  were all filmed at Ait Benhaddou. The town of Ouarzazate close by has even spawned its own film studio, the Atlas Corporation. These days the little cash it makes comes from charging punters to look around a collection of dusty old film props.

I met up with a quartet of Germans on an overnight stop in Ouarzazate …… a bunch of hardcore off-road bikers riding Honda Africa Twins. They certainly looked the business in their riding gear! Aside from passing three bikes on the Tizi-N’Test pass several weeks back, these four were the first I’d come across.

The ride to Tamtatouchte

Leave Ouarzazate late morning. The N10 snakes eastwards following the Vallee du Dades for around a 100 miles through to Tinerhir. The stretch through Skoura, El Kelaa M’Gouna and Boumaine du Dades is really memorable. Few others on the road and a magnificient view of the High Atlas peaks way off to the north.  The mountain colours are surreal …..  infinite tones of purple orange and brown, endlessly changing. All capped by a cloudless deep blue sky.

From Tinerhir the road climbs, snaking northwards towards the Todra Gorge …… something of a tourist draw.

I passed this way last year. Since then more tourist facilities have appeared in an attempt to pull in the cash. The Gorge is a money spinner in a region that needs every Dirham it can get. Reportedly around seventy per cent of the country’s income comes from tourism ….. but there’s the problem. There’s a risk of ‘killing the goose that laid the golden egg’. ATMs appear where there were none before; oversize tourist coaches struggle on narrow pot-holed roads; fast food outlets spring up …… all changing the character of the place and not for the better!

Relatively few travelers venture north of the Gorge. The twisting mountainous road leads on a further 17km to the village of Tamtatouchte. Last year parts of this road had been atrocious, the result of heavy rains, erosion and inadequate maintenance and there’s been a little progress since. Now the worst sections are detoured by roughly laid tracks of loose gravel and stone following the dry river bed …….. not ideal for a fully loaded bike on road tyres. I reach Auberge Baddou by late afternoon, determined not return by the same route

That evening the state of the road comes up in conversation with Brahim, the cook at Baddou. His take on it is that half the government money allocated for repairs goes to feed the workmen and their families, and the other half …….. to line a few unnamed pockets!

Auberge Baddou, Tamtatouchte

Returning to the Auberge Baddou  felt a bit like coming home. Funky and laid back, the place is managed by Ahmed, together with Brahim, Ali, and Mehomed. I’d stayed for several days in 2007 and found it a great place. It had been set up a few years previously by a German couple, Guri and Irma, who still spend part of their year here. The food is ‘to die for’ with the evening meal inevitably followed by a jamming session on traditional Moroccan drums.

The evenings are chilly at this altitude and the village is often snowbound in the winter months. It’s impossible not to contrast the lifestyles of those at the Auberge and the local villagers. Through open gates women pass by returning from the fields almost bent double by the huge bundles of vegetation on their backs. Bolder kids occasionally chance their luck by coming in few yards asking for bonbons, un stylo or more often money. Up on the side of the hill is the village school. Children play outside ….. close your eyes and you could be listening to playtime almost anywhere in the world!

Les nomades de Berber

On my last day at Tamtatouchte, Brahim the young cook at the auberge, mentions there are some Berber nomads camped quite close by. We go off to visit them riding back in the direction of the Todra Gorge. A tap on my shoulder ….. the signal for me to stop. Brahim points up to the side of the hill. Other than a mass of rocks I see nothing. He starts to climb with me in tow. He’s very fit …… and clearly I’m not! …….. feeling it with every step! As we approach the top suddenly I see what he’d been pointing at from below ……a tattered fading chocolate brown tent, straight ahead.

As we draw closer a small boy pops out of nowhere, an empty plastic bottle to his lips. Then a shy late teenage girl appears with a strangely anxious look on her face. It seems they know Brahim. In the shade of the tent sit their parents. The woman is clasping the side of her face looking uncomfortable…… she seems to be in some kind of pain. She exchanges a few words with Brahim in Berber. Then at last the penny drops ……. she has a toothache. Brahim tells me she’s had it for more than two weeks. More words between the two of them. “Avez-vous du paracétamol?” Brahim asks me …….. the mother fixes her gaze on me. From my jacket I pull out what remains of the tablets I’d bought for my ankle injury back in Laäyoune and hand what I have to her wishing there were more. I’m tempted to think that sometimes these things are no coincidence.

It’s amazing to think that this nomadic lifestyle has remained unchanged for centuries. The family will move on as and when their animals have exhausted the available food. Apart from their goats and sheep everything they have will fit on the backs of a couple of mules.

As we make our way downhill back to the road, my thoughts are fixed on the woman’s toothache. A few Paracetamol might give her some temporary relief, but no way will they solve her dental problems long term. What if it’s an abscess? …… It didn’t bear thinking about.

Up to Imilchil

Guri and Irma celebrate their twenty five years together on the last evening of my stay with a small party at Baddou. Everybody is invited. The last of the wine is drunk and Guri announces that he and Irma are returning to Germany the following morning. As I’d also planned to leave that day, he suggests we travel together as far as Imilchil.  Karin & Cedric, a young Dutch couple arrange to hitch a ride in Guri’s big red truck. The route is good piste for the most of the way and Guri assures me I’ll have no problems on the bike. He offers to carry the aluminum side panniers on the truck to reduce my weight. What followed was not quite what I expected.

I ride ahead up to Ait Hani then on towards Agoudal. I’ve little off-road experience but soon begin to really enjoy it …… confidence increasing with every mile. Drop the bike a few times, nothing serious …… and without the heavy panniers it’s no problem lifting it up.

The road snakes higher and higher. Come to a plateau. The road has transformed into water and mud. Clearly been some rain here during the last few days!

No use just looking at it …… stop the bike and try to work out the best line through. Opt to go to the left. Slither forward sinking deeper and deeper. Can’t move. Hear the truck coming up behind and a few seconds later Guri comes running up to the bike. We struggle and slither …..  slowly inching forward. Without his help I’d never have made it through!

Reaching dry ground is a joy! …. and the remainder of the ride to Imilchil is a piece of cake, as they say …….. ruggedly beautiful landscapes, lovely twisty piste and importantly, the comfort of knowing that Guri is not far behind if needed!

Beggars

In developing countries begging is very often part and parcel of life and  Morocco is no exception. No matter how often I’m confronted with an outstretched hand I struggle with my conscience. Some say that giving to beggars solves nothing …… it creates dependency and a part of me agrees. If you give to every beggar who approaches you your pockets would soon be empty …… and it would go on day after day after day ….. it’s a hard call.

I always give something to those who are helpful and who put themselves out. It’s my usual practice to stay in cheap rooms when not camping, and to eat what and where the locals eat …… apart that is from the Camel meat offered me in Boujdour in the Western Sahara! I try to pass on my daily budget directly to those who might benefit ….. the ordinary folk with shops, cafés, stalls in the souks.

But there are times when turning a blind eye is hard. I’d just finished fueling up the bike a few days back and I hear a voice behind me. A girl of about eighteen with a tiny baby tightly bound to her back is standing there. Her clothes are filthy and torn …….. the pair looked such a pathetic sight. Without even a second thought I gave her all that was in my pockets. Those situations just leave me with a lump in my throat. Was it genuine or a clever con staged for passing travelers ? No way of ever knowing and I wasn’t prepared to take the chance?

First Aid of sorts…..

The route eastwards from Tamtatouchte to Rich is a real joy to ride. About 100 miles of very varied roads with frequent dry river crossings. The weather is perfect. Leaving Tamtatouchte soon find myself behind a slow-moving convey of half a dozen Land Rovers. Thankfully they pull over one by one to allow me pass …… and see next to nothing on wheels after that.

 I pull over for a break alongside a fast flowing river just before the village of Amellago. On either side areas of wheat grow ….. a dark vibrant green. Irrigation channels weave their way amongst the fields. I don’t notice them at first ….. then I spot a group of four or five women sheltering from the sun in the shadow of a large rock overhang. One of them calls out. Can’t make head or tail of what she’s saying …….. it doesn’t sound much like French. “Bonjour madame” is all I can come up with. She leaves her group and comes across. I must look to her like the Man from Mars …….. full motorcycle gear and helmet! I’m thinking she may be after some cash …..  I couldn’t have been more wrong. She thrusts a filthy black hand towards my face. Surrounded by ingrained dirt is a nasty festering cut between her first and second knuckles. It looks to be at least several days old and is a real mess.

What’s she expecting of me? Then I remember I have a small basic first aid kit stowed in one of the bike panniers. The hand needs a thorough cleaning first.  I get her to follow me to a nearby irrigation channel where I do the best I can to clean things up around the cut. On goes ample quantities of Germoline followed by a dressing. A lovely toothless smile is my reward and with that she walks back to join her friends in the shadow of the rock overhang.

I ride on passing through the villages of Amellago and Ait-b-Yahya, before finally dropping down towards the town of Rich.

Rich

A bustling market town, Rich is a dusty ’straight-talking’ sort of place with no airs and graces. The day I arrive it’s stuffed with people for the weekly souk. The Rough Guide tells me there are only two cheapie hotels in town. By sheer coincidence I stop the bike right in front of Hotel El Massira, supposedly marginally the better of the two. It’s bang next to the souk. Tired and hungry and the last thing I fancy doing is trailing around a strange place weighing up the pro’s and con’s of two low grade hotels.

I’d asked for a meal at around eight but with no sign of it by Eight thirty I have a word with one of the women in the kitchen. Another forty five minutes passes and it finally arrives on the table! Brochette de Boeuf et une petit salade. The brochette is practically cold but by now I’m ravenous and eat it regardless. The room is nearly full ……. all male and all drinking tea. The sight of me eating seems to be providing an alternative to the Arabic soap playing on the TV up on the wall! Occasionally shoeshine men come in looking for customers without much success. Either the price is too high or the punters have better things to do with their money this evening.

A dishevelled man somewhere in his thirties sits alone opposite. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I eat sensing there’s something not quite right about him. He fidgets constantly, continually scratching himself and throws rapid glances around the room. He shouts abruptly at a woman behind the counter. He hands over some coins and she gives him a single cigarette. Standing in front of me he points to my lighter. As I go to light his cigarette for him he aggressively grabs the lighter ….. lights up ….. and returns it to the table. I don’t like the look of him at all. Within minutes he buys another cigarette. Over he comes. I just nod and he helps himself. Shortly after I hear raised voices. He’s now having a go at one of the customers. Finally fists start to fly. Three men manhandle him out of the place amidst a chorus of abusive shouting.

Later climbing into my bed between none too clean sheets I remember his continual scratching ….. and pray to God he hasn’t ever spent the night in this room!

Wake early. I badly need a shower. The douche is two flights up on the roof. Still half asleep as I start climbing the dark narrow stairs I hear what sounds like the sound of water somewhere up above me …. lots and lots of it. Water pours down the steps in torrents. Cautiously I climb a step or two further up and come face to face with a woman busily hosing down the whole place from top to bottom. From my waist down I’m drenched. It all seems a bit unreal. She pushes past me, gushing hose pipe and mop in hand without a word. Rather wet, I continue climbing towards the roof and into the douche to finish the job she’s started.

Rich to Midelt & north towards Azrou

It’s hard at times to appreciate how high up you are ……. through hairpin after hairpin, rising and falling …… ears popping. The pass goes by the name of Tizi-N’Talrhmeht which freely translated means the Pass of the She-Camel. Midelt sits on a plain and through the haze the snow-capped peaks of the High Atlas rise sheer behind the town. It’s a setting to die for. By contrast the town seems rather dull …….. a few streets, a couple of cafés and the inevitable souk. Have a coffee and discover a half completed Sudoku puzzle lying on the next table. I finish it.

On the ride down into the town I come across something I’ve seen many times before ….. but not yet got my head around. Dotted along the road’s edge are a series of small cairns or columns built of stones. Perched precariously on top are Coca-Cola bottles filled with something which looks nothing like Coke. Scraps of coloured cloth are wrapped around many of the columns intended presumably to attract the attention of passers by. But here’s the oddest thing ….. there’s not a seller to be seen anywhere. Does this work on the honesty principle? ……. you take your goods and leave your money? And just what’s in the bottles? It remains a total mystery to me!

The road north of Midelt runs across the Middle Atlas still high enough for snow poles to line some sections. Isolated houses, primitive by even Moroccan standards, are dotted across the passing landscape. Men and boys with dark weathered complexions stand or sit tending their animals. This is such a different world from the the towns. Suddenly I spot a couple of satellite dishes perched on roofs but oddly not a sign of any power supply cables. Years ago I’d seen car batteries being used to power TVs in rural Nicaragua.

Mopeds are a common and cheap form of transport for those that can afford them …… the kind you have to pedal like mad before the engine pops into life. Large powerful bikes are an extremely rare sight, unless ridden by a traveling European or the police in the big cities. The sound of the engine is a dead giveaway in the country ……. the kids know you’re coming well before you’ve spotted them. They come running to the roadside to wave you by …….. wide-eyed and open-faced ….. one or two making ambiguous arm gestures that I’m still trying to decipher! Just seeing their faces and excitment makes you feel really good.

Azrou

Close to the town of Azrou forests of green Cedar trees come as something of a surprise …… a real contrast to the rock and sand of the south. Just as unexpectedly  I catch a glimpse of a solitary Barbary ape sat minding his own business at the road’s edge. Later discover the forest is noted as home to several troupes of these creatures.

An enormous rock outcrop overlooks Azrou ….  the word Azrou being Berber for rock. I pull into the square near the town’s centre. To one side is the Hotel De Cedres. Even before I’ve finished parking up the bike, a character is working very  hard to persuade me to stay at the hotel. Minutes later he’s showing me a single room …… a film of dust covers everything. He makes great play of the single radiator tucked away in the corner. Next we’re off to view the WC and the douche. He opens the door to the toilet ….. and lo and behold, sitting on top on the cistern is a half-used roll of pink toilet paper! That clinches it, I’ve seen enough ….. I’m staying. In this country you can always tell a classy hotel by whether it has toilet paper in it’s loos!

 Large numbers are going in and out for prayers at the town’s only mosque …… neat lines of shoes parked outside. But I need to find somewhere with Internet access and search the length and breadth of the town. Finally stumble upon “Internet Moulay” only to discover a note pinned to the door announcing it’s shut down. Return to the hotel to be greeted by the chap who’d earlier shown me my room. ‘Mr Toad’ as I’d now privately christened him, asks me where I’ve been ….. I tell him…….  “Ah Monsieur, Internet Canadienne, dix mètres vers la droite”. Literally next door!

 Later Toad comes over for a chat and asks “Vous aimez un café”?  “Where did you learn your English?” I ask. “At the Uniiversity of Fez” he proudly replies. He’s trying so hard to ingratiate himself. He calls out to a man nearby to come over to where we’re sitting. Mohamed, in his twenties is smartly dressed. His English is better than our graduate from the University of Fez and I tactlessly tell him so. Toad is not looking happy. But things are never quite as they first seem ……. it turns out Mohamed earns his living selling cigarettes on the streets and in the cafés of the town. He’s certainly the best turned out cigarette seller I’ve ever seen! We talk prices ….. he even tells me how much profit he makes on one pack. “15 Dirham as a very special price to you”. “Non merci, J’ai cessé de fumer des cigarettes”, I reply untruthfully. With a vice-like handshake he walks off in the direction of the café across the square.

Toad asks when I would like to eat. “Eight would be fine”. Somebody at sometime had made a real effort with the room’s decor …… paper serviettes, dusty plastic flowers on plastic tablecloths. Over the doorway hangs a large colour photograph of Mohammed VI, the present king, wrinkled and stained by damp. Tables are arranged in mathematically precise rows. The two logs in the fireplace have long since burnt up. In a strange way it reminds me vaguely of a down-at-heel seaside cafe in Cleethorpes.

As the only one eating that evening I have total freedom as to where I sat. Predictably Toad serves my food. He pretends to occupy himself usefully around the dining room ….. whilst all the while watching my every move. How I wish he’d just bug**r off! He comes to the table. “Avez-vous des cigarettes?” A half empty packet lies in full view in front of him. I nod and immediately he helps himself to a couple and scuttles off outside for a crafty puff. I’d have given him the whole packet in exchange for a promise to leave me in peace! Five minutes later he’s back again at the table ….. without a word he picks up my Morocco map and slopes off to look at it. Needless to say he doesn’t get a tip. Climbing the stairs to my room it occurs to me that Toad would have done better to swop the study of English for the study of manners, courtesy and politeness at the University of Fez.

Chefchaouen

Chefchaouen lies to the north of Morocco just a couple of hours south of  Cueta, the ferry port for the Straits of Gibraltar. Hidden away in a fold of the mountains the town can only properly be seen once you’ve almost arrived! Colour pervades the place ……… whitewash tinted with blue covers many of the buildings. It’s real picture postcard sort of place and seems a million miles away from towns like Dakhla and Boujdour down in the Western Sahara.

The Rough Guide to Morocco describes it as follows:

“Until the arrival of Spanish troops in 1920, the town had only been visited by three Westerners. Two of these were missionary explorers: one a Frenchman who spent all of one hour in the town disguised as a rabbi: and the other, a William Summers, an American who was poisoned by the townsfolk here in 1892. The third, in 1889, was Walter Harris, a British journalist whose main impulse, described in his book Land of an African Sultan, was the very fact that there existed within thirty hours ride of Tangier a city in which it was considered an utter impossibility for a Christian to enter.

This was my second time here. In 2007 I’d just arrived in the town and was looking for somewhere to stay. By sheer chance I met John Hayes, an English-based psychotherapist. He and his Moroccan wife Denize have a house in the town. They showed me much kindness and hospitality.

The tale of the missing Moroccan goes ba to my brief stay with John and Denize last year. On the last night after our meal, he began to tell me about his efforts to track down a local Moroccan man, Mohamed. Originally from the town, he’d left four years previously to try to find work in the UK. After some initial contact his family had heard nothing for several years. His sister’s wedding was now fast approaching but she was refusing to go ahead with the ceremony without her brother being present. The family were desperate for news of him fearing the worst. John showed me a piece of paper on which was written his last known UK address: Macaulay House, Macaulay Street, Grimsby. Dumbfounded, I told John this address was less than a mile from where I’d spent the last twenty odd years of my life. I was literally blown away by such a coincidence! In the weeks that followed I  managed to track Mohamed down, with much help from the Muslim community leader in Grimsby and some nameless Moroccan acquaintances of Mohamed living in London. Turned out he was had moved to North East Scotland and was working in the off shore oil industry. But most satisfying of all was to hear from John in Chefchaouen a month later, that Mohamed had finally made contact with his family once again.

Appearances can be deceptive ……

Bit of a postscript this, but I admit to finding the incident very funny …… my apologies if you don’t!

Having crossed the Straits of Gibraltar I arrive on the Cueta ferry at Algeciras fairly late in the day. So I decided to look for somewhere to stay for the night. Head out on the road to Cadiz and come across two likely looking places, one of which is shut and the other full! Continue riding and eventually come to a third, the word ‘HOSTAL‘ emblazoned across the front. Looks just the job.

With just my handful of  Spanish I ask the man in reception about a bed for the night. Not one single word does he understand! I’m just about to resort to sign language when two scantily clad attractive females come walking down the stairs. Judging by the look on their faces they’ve overheard my pathetic attempts at Spanish and are finding something very funny. The shorter and sexier one of the pair says in faltering English with a broad grin all over her face, “No hotel, here is for a fu*k”. With that the pair disappear through a nearby door.

Walking back to the bike I can hardly keep a straight face. As I ride on I wonder how many other passing travelers have been lured into this house of ill repute!

Home

After two days riding up through Spain with winds, rain and snow, catch the overnight Santander to Plymouth ferry, and the final stretch up to North Lincolnshire and home.

It was great to go, and it was great to come home. Six weeks and 7,143 miles.

Mike Kirk

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