September 13th - The road to Erg Chebbi

None of us were particularly objective of leaving Fés without exploring further. To be honest, last nights experience had left a slightly bitter after taste, and with the dunes at Merzouga calling, we decided to hit the bitumen, and make haste for the desert.

Now the upside of our overpriced accommodation, was the convenience of it lying alongside the R503, the road that would take us to Sefrou, then to Boulemane, and onwards to Midelt.

We lit out of camp at around 7:30, refuelled and took on water at a nearby Afriqué station, and hit the road. The weather was superb, and spirits were high. I put some miles between myself and the others, as I needed some "me time".
I had enjoyed our time riding together so far, but wanted to ride without checking my mirrors for a while, and needed to feel as if I was the only soul on the road.

I made good ground through some great scenery, and pulled up just short of Sefrou, to take some pictures, and enjoy my quiet surroundings.
Soon enough, the rest of Team Moto Maroc came shooting past, leaving me once more to roll yet another cigarette, and take some more pictures, the stillness of the morning broken only by a local truck rumbling out of the fields next to me.
As it rolled slowly past, I was greeted by waving hands, and a warm smile. It made me wonder if I would do the same if the roles were reversed, and thought probably not.
How humbling, clearly many of the people here lived in poverty, and yet showed no bitterness at seeing travellers like us, obviously better off.
I was to take a few similar lessons home with me.

Cigarette smoked, and the obligatory posed picture of me and the Grand Wazoo taken, I had the wheels turning towards Sefrou once more.
I thought I'd let sufficient time lapse between myself and the rest of the bunch to be assured of another solitary ride, but it wasn't long before I came across Shad and Alan at the roadside, Shad examining his destroyed camera, which he'd dropped whilst filming as he rode.
We pushed on with the ride, finding some beautiful mountain passes, (Massif du Kandar), on the way to Boulemane.
South side of Boulemane, the road between Aít Kermouss and the N13 at Boulojoul is nearly as straight as an arrow. It was beautifull, We'd unwittingly passed Shad and Alan outside Boulemane while they were photo-shooting next to a lake, and seeing this straight road disappearing into nothingness, reminded me of the Karroo roads found back in South Africa, so I cracked the throttle a wee bit, and distanced myself from Jason and Darren, eager to feel alone in this wilderness.

The road was wide enough for a large vehicle only, sand blown and straight as an arrow, I took a chance and blew down the center at 120 kilometers per hour, the sun scorching down on me I now felt like I was in the "real" Morocco, there was no-one in sight, no traffic, no buildings, nothing, it was exhilarating.
I reckon it was a good 50 miles of straight road, broken only by a little town called Taouerda, about halfway down. Before Taouerda, I stopped to capture the isolation on film, and was joined not long afterwards, and a little further down the road, by the others.
We all decided on a smoke break and further photo shoot. Shad abandoned his helmet for a camera shot over a washed out section of road.
It was a great place to stop, beautiful scenery, broken only now by the rumble of a rather large coach bus approaching us from behind...
Bugger, a scramble for the bikes to getaway ahead of it, as the road was too narrow for overtaking.

Shad, Alan, and Darren make it. Jason and Me, halfway through smoking admit defeat, and wait for the coach to pass, finishing cigs, and hoping for a passing place further ahead.
We easily catch the coach, but alas, no passing place. The coach maintains speed, I guess it must have been around 35 mph, the driver waves for me to overtake... on the gravel? oh well nothing ventured...
The gravel turns to mud before I draw level with the coach, and at that speed, the old girl is violently snaking about, the weight of the panniers accenting the rumba the Grand Wazoo is now performing alongside the coach, nothing for it but to grit teeth, and open the throttle even more. It works, and the big bird and me sail past the coach, shaking our tail feathers as we shoot past.
Jason makes it as well, although I cannot testify as to with what degree of finesse, as I was too preoccupied at the time to take notice. Further up the road we find Darren, who'd dropped the GSA in the mud, helped to right it, the locals soon muck in, and he's underway again, with no damage bar dented pride.

Up ahead, Jason and Myself through Taouerde slowly, as there is a seriously flooded section of road ahead, and the road is not in such great condition either.
In the middle of the flood, sits a boy on a bicycle, Jason is ahead of me, seeing the boy point to the right of him, Jason goes to the left, only for me to see his bike disappear into a pothole, he manages to stay upright, I however, take the kids direction, and riding the pegs, pass to the left of him... no potholes.

Midelt, and the scruffy hawkers.

We join Alan and Shad at the N13, and all five of us breeze into Midelt 20 minutes later, It's hot, we're hungry, and the bikes need fuel.
We fuel up, and discuss a lunch break here. Alan has seen a spares shop of sorts, and needs to find an HT lead, and that elusive plug spanner. We agree to meet at a cafe around the corner, as Shad had spotted someone selling grilled chickens, and wanted a whole one. He wanted a beer too, but that wasn't going to happen.

As it turned out, by the time we had got our arses into gear, there were no more chickens left, Daz had been sidetracked at the petrol station by locals selling fossils, and had bought several, I was having none of it, and the wallet and myself remained together, firmly.
Anyway, chickens, yes, sold out....
We headed further down the road, settling on a place at the end of the street next to an Axa insurance branch, where Jason did the honest thing and sorted out his Moroccan travel insurance, some of us were however not as morally scrupulous, and decided to wing it instead, hoping we didn't end up knocking some local over somewhere.

Lunch was awful, the worst brochettes we'd had so far, covered in flies, and just unappealing. Alan's bike was being seen to by a local mechanic, so we had time to hang around for a while.
Of all the places I visited in Morocco, Midelt was the worse for street hawkers. They were pests, and clearly didn't recognise the words "No".
I wouldn't have minded if they were selling anything nice, but they were grubby, and the stuff they were selling was cheap tat, and boy, did they try the hard sell, so much so, that when that didn't work, one tried sending me on a guilt trip by telling me that I had a "rich wallet, but a poor heart".
At that point, I could have said something about his grubby look, and cheap wares, or even biffed him on the nose, however, I bit my tongue, and went back to sleep on the road, next to the Grand Wazoo.

Hooray, Alan gets a custom made plug spanner, and a couple of HT leads, and we get underway. All for the princely sum of 40 dirhams, plus whatever we thought the mechanics labour was worth. Alan gave him 340 dirhams, as the guy was clearly one of the more genuine locals, and he had spent two hours labouring over the bike, and offered his advice on piste rides along the route.
We were soon beating a path closer to the desert.

After losing several hours in Midelt, we reckoned on riding for another couple of hours before looking for a campsite, thereby avoiding the mess that was Fes last night. We headed for Er-Rachidia, and a chance stop at the side of the road, just before hitting the Gorge Du Ziz, saw us sitting next to the Jurassic Campsite, and non other than the owner was outside, as if expecting us.
He seemed friendly enough, and claimed to be the cheapest in Morocco, we played the "old hand at Morocco" card, and secured the site for a measly 150 dirhams for all of us, a far cry from our 450 mugging last night in Fes.
We pulled in, and set up camp, ordering an in house meal for 8pm that night.

The Grand Wazoo goes down.

It was nice to set up early for a change, especially while it was still light.
By this time, the side stand of my bike was peeling away from the frame at an alarming angle, so it was center stand only, or several large rocks under the side.
The old girl was on the center stand while she was being unloaded, and as I relieved her of some of the gear, and turned my back on her, and came crashing down behind me, as if in protest it would seem.

Shad, seizing any opportunity to get behind the camera lens, clambered on her as she lay resting, and posed in his indomitable style. Bless the guys though, I'd hurt my back yesterday, and trapped a nerve, so they got the big bird back on her legs again for me, whilst I played the wounded soldier.

We had plenty of time to relax before the evening meal, which would be one of the best I would have whilst in Morocco. We brewed tea, showered, smoked, washed clothes, and relaxed before heading up to the restaurant. The place was amazing, it was more like a traditional home environment, several tajines of meat, chicken, and vegetables were served, along with plenty of unleavened bread, finished with melon and yogurt, a truly sumptuous feast, washed down with plenty of coke as always.

Jason and myself shared a brew and a smoke together before calling time for the night.
As it stands, we're in range of Merzouga, and should hit the dunes by at least lunch tomorrow, we'll see...

Pink Floyd's' division bell plays as I drift off... A good day for all of us.

September 12th - The road to Fez

Morning breaks over the campsite, and for once, we're not raring to get away early, as our French mecanic Tivo, who has promised to took at Alans' bike, is still safely ensconced in his tent.

We set about cooking breakfast, packing gear, and washing ourselves.
Now remember Jason nearly losing the engine bolt back in Spain? Well, I carry a supply of spares for the Grand Wazoo, amongst them, a bag of bolts. Jason goes off to hit the latrine, and a bolt from my bag mysteriously finds itself under his bike, covered with a layer of oil and water, and I go off to wash up, brush teeth, and watch the proceedings from a distance.

Shad, Darren, and Allan are in on the joke, and are intently watching as Jason calls me over on my return from the "Bloc Sanitaire". He seems genuinely worried and perplexed as to the origin of the newly found bolt, and the oil. After leaving him sweating for a few minutes, the origin of the bolt is revealed, resulting in a relieved Jason, who seems more than willing to part with a few expletives aimed in my general direction.

With Tivo up, and the carbs of Alans' Tenere being looked at, we enjoy relaxing in the morning sun, and I nip off with Shad, down to the camp cantina, where I manage to convey to the two ladies in the kitchen that I would love an "Omelettas Espanól", and was that "Por Favor" or "si vous plait", I can't remember, it's been strange jumping about between the little Arabic, Spanish, and French I know, along with chatting to some happy German campers, (in German obviously), so much so, that I'm never quite sure what's going to come out of my mouth when I open it. I think I'm having an identity crisis of sorts.

With Alans' bike re-assembled, the rest of team Moto Maroc hit the cantina for the same grub, which incidentally, was the best omelette I've had in ages. I head back to the Grand Wazoo, to prep her for imminent departure.

We're headed for Fez, over the Rif mountains, and into Ketema, "Banditsville".
A lot of travellers avoid Ketama, possibly due to the nature of its location, (being in the main cannabis growing region of Morocco), possibly because of the lawless reputation it has gained, in any case, we wanted to see what the fuss was about, so that was the plan.
Tivo, our newly acquired French mechanic, on his DT125, was headed to Fez too, but not via Ketama, as he considered it too dangerous, however, when hearing that we were going, he asked if he could ride with us, that way getting to see Ketama in the relative safety of a group. Hmmm, The Grand Wazoo vs Yamaha DT125, what the hell I thought, why not.
So Tivo joined us, and we rolled out of camp around mid morning, with the sun in a clear blue sky, and temperatures at 34 degrees already.

We're off to a good start, Shad goes missing in Chefchaouen, and Tivo drops his 125 on a bend, thankfully only scuffing his tent bag, and the bikes plastics. I go back into town to look for Shad, and get filmed by a pillion on a German GS, but Shad's nowhere to be seen. We press on, down the mountain to the N2, where we pick up Shad, who after getting lost, had left Chefchaouen by the back door, and come the long way round to meet us at the front. Glad to see he hadn't been abducted by the locals, we press on down the N2 to Bab Taza, and on to Bab Beret.

The mountain passes are spectacular, and make for great riding. The roads aren't in too bad a condition, however, oncoming drivers are unpredictable, so we learn to hug the mountainside on the right hand bends.

The smell of cannabis hangs heavy in the air over the Rif, the villages we rumble through are impoverished, semi-completed, squalid clusters of buildings, the ever present smell of rotting garbage and raw sewage fills our helmets at every turn.

There are very few women present, plenty of men, not apparently doing anything aside from smoking splifs and gathering at street side food stalls. We pass through the villages untroubled, by and large, the people appear friendly, or at worse, nonplussed by our presence.

We stop at a mountainside "restaurant", just past Bab Beret, a fairly nice building with brochettes being cooked outside, and plenty of locals occupying the tables out front. Once again, people seem friendly, we opt for cokes, mint teas, and kofte brochettes for all 6 of us. Plenty of food and drink, and a accompanying bill of 195 Dirhams, about £15.

Looking over the balcony surrounding the restaurant, the fields of cannabis are plain to see, stretching out in all directions, and so prolific, it's akin to driving past wheat fields back home, so much in abundance, and so openly grown, no wonder the air is so thick with the smell.

We finish our lunch and push on to Ketama.
The ride through to Ketama, and on to Taounate was superb, perfect weather, beautiful mountain passes, and minimal traffic, you couldn't help but feel a sense of extreme freedom and exhilaration as you constantly rode the bike through the plentifull left and right bends that took us up, over, and through the Rif mountains.

From Taounate and on to Fez, we lost our mountain passes, exchanged now for more sedate, but no less interesting plateau riding, down past Tissa, Ain Kansera, and on to our final stop for the day, Fez.

Coming out of the mountains, and down onto the plateau, I wasn't wearing a jacket, merely a light T-shirt. Naturally, I had gloves, trousers and boots on, as I felt that driving naked through cannabis country might not go down too well. However, the lack of arm protection saw be being stung on my throttle wrist by a drug fuelled wasp, no doubt employed by the locals to guard the seemingly unprotected crops.
It hurt like a bugger, and would for the next day, but that aside, it did make for some interesting throttle control as it happened.

Just outside of Fez, I came across Shad's 800 on its side in the road, with him resting against the armco barrier next to it. Thankfully nothing serious had happened, it had been more a case of a dismounting error which saw him and "Sam" part company.
I will add, that thus far, Tivo had been fantastic, his little 125 although lagging behind in some places, had managed to keep pace with us on the bigger bikes, and after 166 hard miles through the mountains, had reached the outskirts of Fez with us.

It was now 7pm, and we had lost daylight. Furthermore, we had no idea of where we were going to camp either. We hit Fez in the dark, and it was mayhem.
Traffic was gridlocked, lanes had absolutely no meaning to anyone, we were surrounded by swarms of moped riders zipping in and out between us, and we all became separated in heavy traffic. Tivo was off and filtering with Shad, oblivious to the fact that with our panniers it wasn't so easy to filter. Me, Jason, and Daz, were in eyesight of each other, but still separated by maniacal Moroccan drivers, It was bad.

Street names were undecipherable in the dark, traffic was everywhere, Alan came past me with no helmet on, and his rear numberplate hanging on by one bolt, after being rear ended by a car further back. Touts on scooters were everywhere, offering above the hubbub of the traffic to take us to hotels, whorehouses, drug dens, or any other place we wanted.

Myself, Jason, and Darren regrouping, we made sure all lights were on, and dominated the road, making sure the Remus, and Darren's HID's let everyone know we were about, as there seemed to be no structure at all to the driving system in Fez.
Up ahead, the cause of the mayhem became apparent, one of the million Mercedes taxis we'd encountered had demolished the central reservation, and along with it, a palm tree. Police were at every intersection, trying to regain some modicum of control. This time, we pushed past even them, trying to ride our way out of the madness.

Up ahead, I caught sight of some hazard lights, Shad, waiting for us on the central reservation at a junction, he pointed down the road to Tivo, engaged in conversation with a tout on a scooter. We pulled to the side, and it was agreed that the scooter tout, who smelled strongly of booze, would take us to a campsite...
We gave in, Fez in the dark had beaten us, and we were glad of the assistance, so away he wobbled, leading a pack of laden BMW's, and of course one small Yamaha, to the "International camping site" just off the R503, on the outskirts of Fez.

Fez, was probably our worse experience of Morocco, partly down to a bad judgement call of attempting it at night, but also down to the miserable tout we'd encountered.
We were annoyed that we'd found ourselves at the mercy of some unscrupulous money grabbing hustlers, and vowed not to fall into that trap again. Here's how the rest of the evening unfolded.

We arrived at what was actually a pleasant campsite, though marred by the fact that they had us by the balls, and they knew it. Unsuccessful haggling saw us coughing up 450 Dirhams for the 6 of us for tent pitching privilleges.
Somehow, in the fracas, a taxi had been arranged to take us into town later for a meal as well, another 350 Dirhams... whew.

After pitching tents, which saw Darren break 3 titanium pegs, we washed up, changed, and met the taxi.
Aboard, was none other than our scooter tout, who apparently was now our self appointed guide to Fez. He offered to take us to his brothers restaurant in the old Medina... yeah, you guessed it, another sting coming.
All we wanted was some bright lights, and street food, what we got, was a deserted Medina, and a restaurant, (an ornate one at that), with meals priced at a minimum of 300 Dirhams per head.
We revolted, and refused to eat there, as if by magic, cheaper menus were proffered, but we'd had enough, and demanded to leave. The restaurant manager came over and asked why we didn't want to eat there, and appeared annoyed, we made feeble excuses about wanting a different type of experience, and left.
Alan told our tout that we wanted to eat where the working man eats, and we were then taken back to the taxi, and driven to a bombed out looking area of town, most definitely not where the tourists go.

Perfect, the streets were alive with bustling, smokey food stalls, and street traders, this was were we wanted to be, we ordered the taxi to stop, and clambered out.
Our tout was intent on ordering food for us, but we had had enough of being mugged off, and took matters into our own hands, and found a stall in the middle of all the chaos and took up residency there.

Several mint teas, even more cokes, and rounds of brochettes later, and we were satisfied, and ready to leave.
All the time, not only was our tout making a pest of himself, but I spotted the campsite owner lurking in the background too... Were they concerned for our safety, or did they see us as the proverbial golden geese? who knows, but we were taking no more advice or recommendations, and having eaten and drank our fill, headed back to "camping a-la-internationale".

Our self appointed tout wanted a fee for his services, but we knew that we'd been mugged off, so gave him 30 Dirhams, (about £2.50), and told him not to spend it all at once.

We retired to our pitches, and almost simultaneously, hit the sack.
No campfire brew-up, no chit-chat... Everyone retires in silence, either Moto Maroc team morale is at a low, after being so foolishly taken advantage of, or the days hard riding has taken its toll

September 11th - Algeciras, and swallowing your own tongue...

The campsite we've found, seems to be a bit of a "Lovers lane". Throughout the course of the early part of last night, various cars had crunched onto the gravel, seen us, and departed, sadly, plans of any frivolities thwarted by five burly, and by now scruffy, looking bikers.

The time is 3:30 and I wake, firstly, by the ongoing cacophony of barking from across the valley, the stillness of the night air giving the impression we were being besieged by more than one of the Baskerville hounds, but more importantly, I was aware of a car pulling up just on the other side of the stone wall we lay behind, still snugly in our bags.

I rolled a cigarette, furtively lit it, and in the dark, with glowing embers shielded, peered over the wall. It was no more than an amorous couple in a small hatchback, who had no idea that they had us as neighbours. by this time, several of the others were stirring, I put that down to the dogs, but let them know we had company anyway.
With that, several of our head torches lit up the pavilion as we made no bones about having commandeered it for ourselves, and with much flailing of limbs and crashing about, the couple in the small hatchback beat a hasty retreat. We had once again beaten back the Spanish Armada.

Right-ho, back-tracking a bit to when we all dozed off last night..
As I struggled to fall asleep, I lay chuckling to myself as Darren's snoring echoed up from the end of the line, tickled that the unsuspecting Alan had chosen to bunk next to him. However, just as I started nodding off, I heard what appeared to be a splutter of sorts, from Jason, who was bedded down on the other side of the Grand Wazoo, I thought no more of it, and drifted off.

4am, and by this time, everyone is awake, and the heinous sounds, akin to that of a rocket taking off are coming from the direction of Alan's MSR Jet boil thermo-nuclear type stove... What a racket.
We cook breakfast, a motley assortment of hot dogs, noodles and rations, followed by Rooibos tea, and while this is going on, Jason recounts to me that while he was drifting off last night, his tongue slipped down the back of his throat, causing him to swallow it, waking him with a choking fit. That explains the noise then, hah hah hah.

Alans bike is still not right, and while returning slightly better mpg, he decides to leave the group early, and head into Algeciras, looking for a plug spanner that will fit, and some spare plugs. After going over the map with him, he picks a route, and promises to meet us at the port.

The rest of us get our gear together, and tidy the site, bagging up our rubbish, and finishing proceedings with washing and teeth brushing. 7:30, and we're heading out of camp, although not before Jason dumps some Levis, a plastic plate and bowl, and a few other odds and sods. I, leave the second tin of unopened beans and bacon for the next unwitting traveller to stumble upon.

We continue out on the A373 for a short distance, until it hits the A369, and A405, which were to provide us with 30 or so miles of beautiful twisting roads, running alongside the Alcornocales natural park. The roads were narrow in places, with sheer drops. I narrowly missed being pushed off a bridge on a blind bend, after a pick-up rounded the bend on my side, Shad told me afterwards that he was sure the panniers had made contact. The twisting mountain roads were lined with groves of cork trees, goats were everywhere, and traffic was minimal. The sun was just rising, and the views are amongst some that will stay with me for a long time.

After about an hour, we hit the A7 just outside Algeciras, where our splendid scenery changed to a sprawling grubby city, vastly different, and quite a disappointment after two days of gorgeous roads.
I will say though, that as we came down from the mountains, and entered more urban areas, I was struck by the storks, and their giant nests atop the pylons. They were everywhere, just peering down on us as we rode by, a sight I haven't seen since South Africa.

We find the ferry terminal easily enough, and being an hour and a half ahead of schedule, we decamp in front of the kiosk and relax.
45 minutes later, and still no sign of Alan, however, behind us is a Dutch guy on a bicycle. He introduces himself as Martin, and tells us that he's travelling to Mali, by bicycle!! That humbled me, and put our little jaunt into perspective, here we were with our massive laden bikes, and this little lad in shorts, a t-shirt, and some small soft panniers was doing this all under his own steam.

The customs booth opens, and we breeze through, as this is happening Alan appears on the wrong side of the fence, riding on the docks, we wave him round, and he joins us with minutes to spare. I think it's safe to say that we were all pleased he'd made it.

We get the bikes strapped down in the hold without fuss. No luxury foam pads across the seats like our French counterparts at Brittany, rather just some screwed up newspaper instead. We go topside to kill the next 90 minutes and recharge our batteries after the early getaway.

Whilst getting a baguette from the bar, I get engaged in conversation by the barman, a Spanish bloke in his 30's who very clearly is wearing a wig, and an ill-fitting one at that. Music, in this case being common ground, he proceeds to repeat, and rather excitedly, "Pink Froyd", "Dark shy of moon", and "Wish you here".
I humour him, but can clearly see that he's a Roger Waters fanatic, where as I prefer Gilmour myself. I hail "Division Bell" as my favourite, and beat a hasty retreat to the sofas, and the safety of my travelling companions. Jason is asleep on the couch, Darren seems cheerful, Shad, Me, and Allan just seem knackered.

Ceuta, it's bigger than I imagined, and after unloading the bikes, and nipping out onto more Spanish soil, we head for the border at Fnideq, and get promptly lost. After about 7 miles, and still with the ocean on our right, we decide it's best to turn about, find some fuel, and stop playing silly buggers.
At the gas station, I see a lizard clinging to Darren's motocross shirt, clearly it's hitched a ride from somewhere... but from where? It does look suspiciously like one I saw at camp last night... surely not?

We find the border at Fnideq, and gear ourselves up for a lengthy hassle with border police and touts.
To the contrary, things couldn't have gone smoother, we had our vehicle import form pre filled in before we left. As we disembarked, a guy wearing a name badge gave us all a personal immigration form to fill in and told us to take it to that window, where it was stamped, and we were then sent to a second cabin with our vehicle forms, which were checked and stamped, and we were off. A final passport check as we left the frontier, but in all, 30 minutes tops I'd say, contrary to belief, an easy experience.

We assembled in the car park outside, now on Moroccan soil, had a smoke, did the tourist thing and took a picture of us all lined up, like some visiting troupe of Americans.
We now needed cash, so we made a beeline for Tetouan, and once there, went in search of an ATM.
We found one in a narrow, yet busy back street, my Remus setting off car alarms left right and center. Getting the Moolah, we hit the road again, taking the N2 to Chefchaouen.

The first things to strike me about Morocco so far, are the smooth shiny roads in and around Cueta and Tetouan (must be a bugger in the wet), and the stench of rotting garbage everywhere. The country looks impoverished, plastic bottles and bags litter the sides of the road. It was nothing like what I had expected, however, the people were clean, and neatly dressed, what a contrast.

The temperature is now in the upper 30's, and we pull over near Souk-el-Arba to have a conflab about where to blend a campsite for the night.
We decide that in, or around Chefchaouen is probably the best, given the time, so we move out again, this time, riding jackets are ditched, in favour of vests, and Shads Helly Hansen... It's just far too hot for armoured jackets.

We hit Chefchaouen after taking a detour to recce a lake at Ichtal. (that proved to be too windswept and barren).
Halfway up the mountain into Chef, we meet the Moroccan "Stig". We're over on the hard shoulder, looking at a piece of wasteland, when this guy on a Honda 400 Chopper comes bowling towards us. Wearing a black bandanna over his face, and a black Roof Boxer helmet, he doesn't speak, he merely greets us all excitedly, shaking our hands in turn. He whips a camera out of his pocket, and gives it to Jason to take a picture of him with us. So there we were, with the "Stig", hanging off me and Darren like we were long lost brothers, and as quick as a flash, he's back on his bike, roaring off down the mountain.

We press on into town, vowing to come back to this little piece of wasteland when it's cooler, if we fail to find digs elsewhere.
We find ourselves in town center, and next to a sign saying CAMPING. We decide to stop right there, and grab a few cokes. We sit outside a small cafe, and order 5 cokes, only to be brought 5 mint teas.... Ok we'll have coke and mint tea then. Bloody marvellous though, it was the first time I'd had the drink, and I loved it.
After an hour in town, we followed the sign up a steep rock-strewn road to a great campsite. On the way up the rocky road, both Jason and myself had been clobbered by over-enthusiastic kids with water pistols. However, now at the campsite, we could relax.
We negotiated for 5 pitches and 5 hot showers, and set up camp.
Once more Alans' bike gets the campsite strip-down treatment. He's failed to find any tools in Algeciras, and the bike is still running rough. Luck is on our side though, in the form of French Yamaha mechanic Tivo. He's just pitched his tent next to Jason, after riding from Barcelona on his 2 stroke Yamaha DT125. He promises to look at Alan's bike first thing in the morning, now, he's going to sleep. Fair enough, looks like fortune smiles on us again, we cook dinner, drink tea, shower, and wash clothes.

It's our first day in the country, and we've made good progress, spirits are high, bellies are full.
Jason's managed to burn three fingers picking up a hot stove, and we've met some interesting people, including an Italian couple at the campsite, en-route to Cape Town, who have just rolled their Land cruiser, and another German couple, also en-route to Mali.

Darren pitches his tent next to mine, and we have a final cuppa before calling time out, I have diary duty, and a final smoke before bed.

Welcome to Morocco.

September 10th - Hervas, & the angry farmer

The angry Farmer

The alarm sounds at 6am, and the first job is to get the coleman fired up.
Looking through the food rations, I decide to save the "boil in a bag" food for the desert, and fall back on a suspect tin of spanish beans and bacon instead. I dent in the sides of the tin, smugly satisfied that when ready, the sides will pop out, letting me know.
5 minutes pass, and the can remains dented... ready or not, they're being eaten, so the unexploded device is removed from the boiling water, and the ring-pull given a sound yank... whereupon the apparently inert can of food then explodes, covering not only me, but the drybags, and the gear drying on the Grand Wazoo, in an oily orange mess.

Well, the beans were awfull, like giant faber beans, and the picture on the tin, offering the promise of juicy bacon chunks, delivered nothing more than lumps of a white fatty substance. After two forkfulls, the tin and contents were discarded, and the gear was cleaned of the offending orange matter.

Surveying the campsite in the light, I noticed a vegetable patch, complete with newish looking rotorvator, hmm, someone obviously tends this regularly, not good for us, so we make haste, and pack up.
By 8am, Shad and Alan wind their way up the dirt track to the road above. Shad is set to take some pictures of everyone rumbling past, when from the bottom, I see a 4wd decending the track... Ooops, no doubt the owner.
Intent on getting the bike away, I pay no attention to the commotion above, and continue to strap the remaining ortliebs to the panniers. Jason & Darren are about to peel past me, when the pickup arrives at the bottom. Out jumps a very irate Spanish man, and I recon he was swearing, as his arms were waving about as he ran between the truck and his veggies shouting loudly. I did try appologising, but he was having none of it, out came a book and pen, as he tried to take our registration numbers down, that was then followed by the mobile phone, and as if to add weight to this arsenal of weaponry, he let his dog loose as well.
Lucky for us, it was a Jack Russell sized thing, and its bark was no match for my Remus, so we left, loudly, and in haste I should add.

Regrouping at the road above, we assumed he'd phoned the local Police, so we decided to hit the road to Algeciras, and put a few miles between us and the field.

08:30, and we're back on the A66, heading towards Sevilla. We shift through Plasencia, Cáceres and Merida, making good progress in the mid-morning sun. Temperatures are mid 30's, the sky is blue, and with the roads quiet and wide, life couldn't be better.
We hit a little town just of the A66 called El Ronquillo, and decide to hole up there for an hour or so, it's about lunchtime, and we could do with some food, and a leg-stretch.

We rumble into the sleepy little town like astronauts on two wheels, and find somewhere to pull up... conveniently that just happens to be opposite a bar.
As we park, Jason notices a rather large bolt on the floor, and asks if anyone's lost one.. As it turns out, it was his, and none other than a frame to engine bolt.. ooeerr, how handy was that, a few meters further, and it would have been lost forever.
Shad goes off in search of a bit of food, while we decamp, and break out tools to re-unite the bolt with Jasons engine.

Shad's done a quick recce of the three closest cantinas, and settles on "Bar Los Plácids", which not only has a marked lack of food, but no-one speaks a tad of english either. Oh well, sign language it is again.
The barman's great, and understanding the fact that we're hungry, he offers to make Shad a sandwich... Super, I go and order 4 more, the barman asks what I want on it, and he keeps repeating something that sounded like "Hammos", oh well, go with that then, to which I smile and give a thumbs up.
He smiles in return, and lifts up a blackened foreleg of some or other recently departed beast, and still with hoof attached, proceeds to shave slices off it, onto a hunk of fresh bread.. Welcome to El Ronquillo.

We all eat, although the barman has run out of bread for Alans' sandwich, so Alan supplies his own bread, and still gets charged full price.

After resting up, and re-stocking the water supplies we head back out of town, and on to Sevilla.
To be fair, the traffic jam at Sevilla, was the only one we'd come across, and it didn't last very long either, onwards to Jerez then, when suddenly we come across our first toll.

Ok, Alan's in front on this one, with me behind him. Now I'm watching to see how this whole toll system works, and whether it's free for bikes, like back in Blighty.
I see Alan fumbling with his tank bag, and then see an assistant emerge from the booth, open a panel on the gate, do something, and then see the boom arm raised.
Fantastic, free for bikes I think, and as Alan goes through, I rev the Grand Wazoo into life, and with a surge of Remus induced power, take off after him, Only to meet the boom arm on its journey downwards.

Boom arm VS the Grand Wazoo...
The arm hit the old girl squarely across the eyes, but with the throttle still open, myself and the big bird managed to bend the arm outward at a magnificent 45 degrees before sheepishly stopping.
So there I was, sirens going, attendants rushing out, and me and the bike wedged under a bent barrier, you had to laugh really.
The attendants were great, and I guess the British flag on the mudguard explained it all. I paid the required 1.50, and was released to continue my trip...

After everyone had composed themselves, we decided to abandon the motorway, in favour of taking the A371 across country to Ubrique, and try and blend a campsite there for the night.
The ride was not to be dissapointing, with some great straight roads surrounded only by fields, and some superb mountain passes. We hit Ubrique at around 5pm, and decide to exit the town, looking for a quite place to hole up on the Algeciras side.
We split off onto the A373 and a few miles outside Ubrique, we stumble upon an overgrown campsite. There, sitting pretty on the side of the valley, is an abandoned stone lodge, leading down to BBQ areas, and tables... what a beautifull site.
it was in a decrepit state, and little overgrown, but we honestly couldn't have asked for a better place to set up camp.

We rode the bikes up onto the pavillion, where as if by some pre-ordered request, there were five spaces to park, one for each bike.
We de-camped, and set about once more drying gear that still hadn't properly dried out since Portsmouth, Shad, Alan, and Darren rode back into Ubrique for some supplies, leaving me and Jason to recce the area and relax.
We had decided to sleep beneath the stars next to the bikes, as the weather was too warm for tents, and the pavillion was dry and relatively sheltered. We cooked, ate and drank, and did some maintainance on the bikes, all somewhat alert after Jasons' bolt incident.

After a dinner of noodles, more olives, chorizo, and pears, we finally retired at around 11pm, drifting off to the sound of barking dogs from across the valley, and of course, Darrens trumpeting from the far end of the pavillion.