Morocco trip - words

[ian]

I put the pictures up a while ago but never got round to posting the words. So here they are..

Tour Morocco!I saw an advert for an organised tour in a British bike magazine and fancied it. I thought paying 4000 euros, going with a guide, a back up van and staying in 5 star hotels was a bit of a poncey way to do it, though.
Luckily I had a 25 year old bike parked outside my flat in Seville and a week off work for Easter. And 2 of the girlfriend’s friends coming to stay for the week. The combination of religion, crowds and 3 women in the flat made my mind up for me. Preparations for the trip commenced.
I bought a puncture repair kit, a petrol can to strap to the back and a map of Morocco. A work colleague lent me a guide book and after changing fluids and filters I was ready for the off.
After a later start than planned (due to bumping into a few friends in a bar the night before) I set off at 8.30 in the morning from Seville.
A cold and foggy run down the motorway cleared my head and whetted my appetite for some sun and the service station toilets in Jerez prepared me for whatever I’d find in Morocco.
I got to Tarifa, bought an open ticket from a travel agent and boarded the 1 o’clock ferry. After initially thinking I was the only bike on board, 2 Triumph Scramblers boarded, loaded to the gunwhales. I had a vague-ish route in my head (stolen from various organised tours) but after chatting to the two Triumph-riding Catalans (heading for the Western Sahara) one thingbecame clear: GO SOUTH!
They seemed surprised by my lack of luggage: ‘Aren’t you carrying any spares?’
‘If I knew what was going to break I’d have brought it’
Iroared off the ferry with Africa laid out before me.

1 hour, 4 cigarettes, and 3 euros later I chugged away from customs and queued up with scores of others to change money.

[ian]

Morocco part 2

Tangier was quickly despatched and I was soon on the motorway, hoping to reach Marrakech by nightfall. I settled at a steady 120 (kmh) with the usual old bike paranoia for company; is that vibration getting worse? The motorway had little traffic apart from the occasional dog crossing and the pedestrians at the side of the motorway waved as I went by. At first I thought all this waving might mean there was a plume of smoke coming out the back of my bike or that King Hassan’s motorcade was directly behind me, but after checking this wasn’t the case, I started waving back. It was fantastic. Like leading the Tour de France up a mountain stage.
I’d decided not to ride at night but as the light faded and the motorway disappeared I still had 100kms to go to Marrakesh. I decided to press on and join in the wacky races on the single carriageway road to Marrakesh. Moroccan drivers are nuts and their overtaking, sometimes 3 abreast and all fighting for position, was frightening. I’d like to report that because of this I slowed down and looked for a hotel. But I can’t. I didn’t. The adrenalin was pumping, I had Marrakesh in my sights and I made them look like grannies.
Getting into Marrakesh at about half ten I began to regret the fact that the guide book remained unopened in one of my panniers. I headed for the centre and looked for a hotel. The first one I found assured me they had hot showers and I could leave the bike inside. I dusted off my haggling skills, asked them how much they wanted for the room and paid it.
After a quick shower it was time for a bit of tourism before bed. Went to the big square – Jma El Fnaa. There were no snake charmers, though plenty of drug dealers. I watched a bit of impromptu music, people fishing for coke bottles and a boxing booth where a very elusive man challenged people to try and land a punch on him – no-ne did. I had a tagine at one of the stalls in the square, found my way back to the hotel through the unlit streets of the medina and collapsed into bed.

[ian]

Morocco part 3

The next morning, after a breakfast of crepes and mint tea for me and a bit of oil for the bike I headed for the Tiz n Test pass. After getting lost a few times in the foothills of the High Atlas I started to climb. Fantastic roads – non-stop bends, very little traffic and stunning scenery. Half way up the pass I stopped to take photos. As I pulled away the clutch cable snapped.
‘Aren’t you carrying any spares?’ echoed through my mind in Catalan tones.
The road meant I only needed 3rd gear (clutch or no clutch) to get to the top of the pass. In a hut at the top I stopped for tea and a chat with a retired couple from Yorkshire who spend the winters travelling in a camper van and then head back to the U.K for the good biking weather “the Guzzi’s too heavy to be strapped to the back of the van”
An inspiration to us all: Would you, as a child, prefer grandparents who constantly fuss over you and complain about the price of butter, or grandparents who come home for the summer holidays with tales of winter in Africa and a pillion ride on a Moto Guzzi?
The south slope of the High Atlas was as good as the north but hotter and when the flatlands arrived so did the first town. My decision to not carry spares (poor countries are full of mechanics and everything has to be repaired) paid off as I got a new cable fitted in just 15 minutes. The mechanic, and his 2 agents, informed me that the cable cost 2 euros and asked me how much I wanted to pay for the labour. I offered another 2 euros and it was immediately accepted.
I set off for Tafroute but as night fell I decided there was no point in pushing on in the dark so I stopped in the next large town, Tiznit. This time I checked the guide book for a hotel, figuring that if it was in the book there’d be other foreigners there to talk to. I found one easily enough and the friendly owner said I could leave the bike in the restaurant next door when it closed. Went to the restaurant/garage and had another tagine which could have been either chicken or fish, while I watched Spanish football with German commentary .After dinner I was joined by a fellow guest, a Quebecois backpacker, and we smoked hashish with the waiters and threw out a fat hooker who was getting a bit loud.

[ian]

The next day I headed up the Anti-Atlas to Tafroute. Once again, fantastic mountain roads, almost no traffic and my major worry traffic-wise was rounding a corner and being confronted by an advertising agency shooting a car advert.
According to the guidebooks, Tafroute is a lovely place with all sorts of hiking opportunities. But, more importantly, it has a petrol station. I filled up and continued up the mountains to Igherm. I got into Igherm, absolutely frozen, put my gloves on the exhaust and hugged a cup of mint tea bought more for its warmth than its taste. I had already encountered several urchins and by now I’d refined my tactics for dealing with them. My lack of biros and sweets were an initial disappointment to them but they soon cheered up when I lifted them onto the bike and let them twist the throttle – though I’m not sure ‘mechanical sympathy’ is on the Moroccan primary curriculum.
Once the circulation had returned to my hands and the urchin had got off my bike I headed for Ta Ta through a canyon of red, folded mountains. Two lorries were the only traffic in 100kms. Everyone was still waving despite the lack of smoke or descendants of the prophet behind me.
I rolled into Ta Ta and found a hotel with a clientele of mostly elderly French couples on packages to the Sahara. The one cashpoint in town wasn’t working and neither was the phone in the hotel. I had dinner and went to bed feeling a bit lonely.

[ian]

The next day the hotel changed some euros for me and I headed east through the desert on the appropriately deserted road to Foum Zgoud. Apart from the incredible beauty, the thing that struck me most was how far you could see. Mountain ranges that seem just a mile away are, when you look at the map, about 50 kms away. After a brief stop in Tissint for the obligatory chat at the military checkpoint, and a failed attempt to find batteries strong enough to power a camera I pressed on. In Foum Zgoud I filled up with petrol, again failed to buy decent batteries, and wondered whether to take the long way round to Zagora or the direct route across the desert. The direct route was classified as an ‘unsurfaced track’. After exhaustive enquiries as to the state of the road the petrol pump attendant told me it was ‘bien pour une moto’. I’m not sure he’d seen my ‘moto’ but I decided to take the 130 km piste to Zagora anyway.
It started off as a wide gravel road and, over the first couple of kms, my major worry was punctures. I told myself that the road would soon improve and if not I’d turn back. After 2 or 3 kms a bike came the other way. A red Honda XR. I slowed down hoping he’d stop and I could ask him about the state of the road. He didn’t. Miserable bastard. I continued, eyes glued to the ‘road’ for sharp-looking stones, and after about 10kms the ‘road’ changed to a rutted sand/stone track about half a metre wide. A pipeline was being laid and this was obviously the reason for the wide gravel road I’d just travelled. Blind optimism (and the fact that the bloke on the XR hadn’t stopped to warn me that this was no road for a 25-yr-old street bike) meant I didn’t turn back but instead pressed on.
The first patch of deep sand brought the first fall. No damage but petrol ****ing from the recently filled tank. I’d only ever had to pick the bike up once before and someone had to help me. This time, much like newspaper-story-mothers who can lift cars off their crushed but still alive children, I lifted it easily. No damage. *@%^$*@%^$*@%^$, swig of water, press on. Another kilometre, more deep sand, another fall. Lift up bike, *@%^$*@%^$*@%^$, swig of water, road must get better soon, press on. Another kilometre, another fall, another lift. Only another 120kms to go. The lack of traffic was now a worry rather than a delight. The fall, lift, *@%^$*@%^$*@%^$, water, get back on drill was repeated every couple of kilometres or so until I got into a rotine of ‘spot the deep sand, don’t touch the throttle, put feet out, let the sand stop you’. 4 motocrossers whizzed past going the other way. Bastards.
The ‘road’, which was really nothing more than tyre tracks in the desert, now forked off left and right.
Now my worries weren’t about punctures but about getting lost, breaking something in a fall and dying a slow death. *@%^$*@%^$*@%^$, water, think. As ever in Morocco, when you haven’t seen another living being for an hour and you stop in the middle of the silent wilderness to contemplate the majesty of it all, a 7-year old kid pops up for nowhere.
“Donnez moi un stylo, un bonbon!”
“Is this the way to Zagora?”
“NO”
“Where does this track go?”
“NO!”
“You’re not going to help me, are you?”
“NO!”
And off he went.
Time to get the map out. The two mountain ranges I could see on either side of me corresponded to two ranges on the map and I realised that if I stayed between the mountains I’d eventually hit a proper road. This got rid of the ‘getting lost’ worries if nothing else.
The road wasn’t getting any better but I was getting better at spotting deep sand and I realised that as long as I could follow the piste with my eyes, I was better off ‘off piste’ where the ground was a bit firmer - and hurt more when I fell off.
5 hours after leaving Foum Zgoud I arrived in Zagora, checked the guidebook for a hotel with a bar and staggered in.
I went straight to the bar and got chatting to Mario, a German, and his Spanish girlfriend, Marina who were travelling around Morocco on their BMWGS1200 Adventure. I popped outside to check on the bike just as a bloke was getting off a Honda XR.
“Did I see you about 5 hours ago near Foum Zgoud?” I asked.
“****ing hell! I thought you were a goatherd just tootling up the road to check on the flock!”

[ian]

After a couple of beers and Darren ‘the XR rider’ informing me that my first ever off-road riding was, in fact, a 130km section of the 2001 Dakar, I spent the afternoon on (and off) pistes with Darren, Mario and Marina. Great fun. And the fact that my bike cost the same as a BMW topbox only added to my smugness.
The evening was spent eating, drinking and laughing at my lunacy/their ridiculous óff road´bikes
The next day we all went down to M’Hamid on the edge of the Sahara. I left my bike on solid ground 20 metres short of the dunes. Mario left his one metre into them. Darren buried his about 50 metres further on.
Then it was back to Zagora for a bike wash, haircut, beer and to talk about what enduro bike I should buy – I still think a set of knobbly tyres and sump guard’ll be enough.

The next day it was time to start heading north. Straightish (tarmac) roads, fantastic scenery and no traffic, save for an emergency stop when I rounded a corner to find 4 camels standing in the road.
I was looking for somewhere to stop for lunch in Er Rachidia when I saw a Fazer 1000 and a Ducati Monster with Spanish plates parked outside a restaurant. The riders and pillion all turned out to be lovely blokes, and were heading south. They had gone out for a Sunday drive from Spain the year before and were turned back at the Senegalese border.We had lunch, they warned me of the freezing temperatures in the north, we wished each other well, and I pressed on.
I should have stayed in Er Rachidia. As soon as I was through the Todra Gorge and into the Middle Atlas the wind started.I had to lean the bike right over on the straights and I couldn’t get over 80kmph. The pedestrians had now stopped waving and were clinging to telegraph poles.
The next largish town I hit was Midelt, where the wind eased off and I stopped and shared a pot of tea with two blokes from San Sebastian who were heading south.
Back on the bike, the Middle Atlas looked more like Scotland than Africa, with patches of snow on the ground, forests and fog. My leathers that I’d sweated in all through the desert were now no match for the freezing temperatures. I stopped for petrol in Azrou where the pump attendant ushered me into a room with a fire to thaw out and gave me directions to a hotel.
The evening was spent in the hotel bar with the local drunks. I think the conversation will be screened later in the year by channel 4 as part of their cultural understanding season. I, for one, will be glued to the subtitles.

[ian]

I set off early the next morning, trying to remember (or forget) how many of the houses of my new friends’ from the night before I’d agreed to have lunch at that day. I skirted Fez and started up the fourth and final mountain range of the trip.
A couple standing beside a BMW flagged me down. Fritz and Bertha had a puncture that they couldn’t fix. I rode to the next garage and managed to get a lorry sent out to them. Unfortunately, the rescue truck was a gravel lorry. However, with the aid of about 20 curious and willing locals and some Evel Kneivelesque riding from Fritz, we got the BMW onto the lorry. As I said goodbye to the German couple, I started to feel I’d been rather lucky regarding breakdowns.
I pulled into Chefchaouen in late afternoon and headed into a tea shop to warm up. The clientele, to a man, was dressed like Obi wan Knobi and initially looked none too friendly. However, my fears were allayed when I realised that they were all glued to a Harry Potter film on the T.V and didn’t welcome the interruption. Several of the Obi Wans’ attention wandered from the film and they were happy to talk and all turned out to be very friendly. The owner of the bar, after hearing I lived in Seville, asked me for some help filling in his Spanish pools coupon. Before I’d finished my tea I’d also got a hotel organised, a man to watch the bike overnight and countless offers of hashish and visits to blanket/carpet factories. We also, more importantly, established they’d be showing the Spurs-Sevilla game when Harry Potter finished.
The next morning I headed to Tangier, caught the 10.30 ferry, slogged back up the motorway to Seville and already, in my mind, I was working out when I could next go back to Morocco.

[ian]

Pics are here if you missed them.

http://www.imagestation.com/album/pictures.html?id=2093513341&code=27472376&mode=inv ite&DCMP=isc-email-AlbumInvite


PS - For American readers a ´*@%^$*@%^$*@%^$´ is a cigarette.

[MissFabulous]

Great write-up! I really enjoyed it, as well as seeing the pics again. Sounds like a time you'll never ever forget, and well worth the hassles along the way!

[mark]

As ever in Morocco, when you haven’t seen another living being for an hour and you stop in the middle of the silent wilderness to contemplate the majesty of it all, a 7-year old kid pops up for nowhere.

Hilarious. This has to be the coolest thread that I've encountered on this forum in the couple of years I've been messing around here. Thanks.

[Odinist]

"we smoked hashish with the waiters and threw out a fat hooker who was getting a bit loud."


That is, quite possibly, the most awesome thing I will hear all month. Thank you. \\/

[mf70]

I'm sooooo jealous. Your bike looks great too.

[catfishk]

i really enjoyed this. i too have been through parts of Morocco, though not by cycle, and i am pretty sure it is your sense of humor that got you through it

much appreciated!

[jimcor]

Ian. Classic stuff! Why am I looking at the Horizons Unlimited site when stories from a GS Suzuki adventure rider are right here! Excellent story and pics!

[duaneage]

Like my caption says, the 650G is all the bike you need, even in Morocco.

Shaft drive is a pretty good choice in sand, eh?