I woke at around 7am feeling stiff, sore and slightly nervous. Dressed. Breakfast. Sort gear. Tape up hands. Ready. We started with a 15km road trip to see the Todra Gorge. The drive itself was interesting from a geographic point of view; we stopped at the side of a road overlooking an incredibly lush green valley which contrasted absolutely with the brown plains leading up to barren brown mountains behind. The gorge was incredibly deep with just an innocuous looking little river in the bottom. How on earth did one cause the other? There was just a little bit of a feeling of home when all the other tourists looked horrified at seven bikers invading this place. It was the only time I felt less than completely welcomed in our entire week. Ironic then that it was caused by other foreigners.
Our off-roading for the day started across an anonymous plain dotted with small villages and crossed by river beds. It was as we crossed one of these that we passed a small group of women a number of whom were riding on donkeys. We had seen a number of donkeys on the first day, but it really sank in at this point that they are widely used as everyday transport as well as beast of burden. When I thought about it afterward, the other thing that strikes you is the paucity of vehicles. Whilst there are cars and lorries in the towns and on main routes, beyond that, there really just aren’t that many around. Despite this, and only a little further on, we turned onto a wide flat, obviously graded track, a part of the extensive road-building programme which was ongoing. To this day, I am not sure where this came from or was going to, but as we hurtled along, it was slightly bizarre to have to slow considerably and manoeuvre around a large earth-moving machine in the middle of nowhere.
Across more rock-strewn plain, out onto a road and it was into a vibrant town. We stopped to fuel the bikes and then went in under the shade of some trees for mint tea. This is a drink which has huge potential, but a more accurate naming of the brew we were served might be syrup with a hint of tea and some mint leaves in. It was good to try the local brew, but this and all the subsequent tea I drank was so heavily sugared that I found it nearly undrinkable. All of this tea tasting happened against the aural backdrop of the local market across the road and through a beautiful Moroccan arch. There was intense activity, and it sounded like a dog-track; someone was using a megaphone to good effect. The populous of the local area seemed to be heading to or back from the market, including three on a single bicycle.
After our respite, we wound our way through the town itself and adjoining villages down ever narrower streets. Once again the level of poverty was startling. All the houses were made of mud and straw. As you passed some, you made the mental judgement that it was derelict, only to see signs of habitation. Shocking. One of the highlights was as we passed a school. The children were clearly all leaving for the morning, and the sight and sound of seven bikes suddenly super-charged them. They were all brightly dressed, and ran smiling and waving out into the narrow street. It was a fantastic reaction, but slightly concerning given the potential for a nasty accident.
Suddenly we left the houses behind and rode out into a moonscape. Dried mud had formed weird shapes, and some caution was needed, especially at one point where a two metre deep, eight metre wide crevice crossed our path. We stopped for lunch at an oasis. No water in sight, just a group of palm trees in the middle of nowhere. All the trees were apparently individually owned by families. We had large chunks of bread and hacked bits off a couple of roast chickens for lunch. Rustic. Decadent. Fabulous.
In the afternoon we started to see a lot more sand. The dunes were well spread out and small initially, only a few feet high with tussocks of camel grass. After another hour they were starting to get higher, maybe 10ft, and on the whole gently curved. What were much harder to spot were the sudden and sharp drop-offs, invariably accompanied by very soft sand (perfect for burying the front wheel). These could not be said to be frequent, but everybody encountered a few and most people became a victim at some point. Whilst these potential bear traps kept everyone on their toes, riding along the length of these smooth gently wind-corrogated dunes was simply glorious.
We came out onto a dry river bed. Another excuse for a blast, but after a couple of miles we rounded a corner to see the Motoaventures Unimog sitting on the top of a steep, 30ft high sand bank. The challenge was on. In turn, we each had a crack at it. As I stormed up the bank, it was impossible to see what lay over the crest. Having a reasonable sense of self-preservation, I cut the throttle before the top and received my first lesson of riding in sand. Cutting the throttle puts more weight on the front, digging the wheel into the sand, pitching my body weight forward, putting yet more weight on the front, etc etc. This vicious circle happens in a fraction of a second, and I found myself hitting the sand head and shoulder first. Beside me was my bike, front wheel substantially buried, canted over and three feet short of the top. Dragging the front wheel downhill and out left me out of breath and sweating heavily. Thankfully my second attempt was successful. The third to eighth attempts were just for fun. The general verve and gung-ho spirit of our playtime was in no way influenced by the fact that Mel was taking photos for TBM!
About a kilometre away was the Celestial Staircase, a bizarre broad staircase leading to nothing but a narrow gap between high banister / walls. Hundreds of stones were laid in a huge circle, presumably marking the boundary of the property (apparently it was actually a house commissioned by a German). Two men were working on repairs to the stairs. A bicycle leaned against side of the building, clearly one of the workmans. Where he had come from, or how he had crossed the terrain remained a mystery, even after a short conversation in pigeon French.
It was mid-afternoon now, baking hot and we were about 45kms from the hotel. The real problem, however, was that the ground we were about to cover was not easy. It was more low dunes and camel grass, but their oscillations were more severe and irregular. There was no way to get into any kind of rhythm, and the short, sharp inclines and declines were punishing. My lower back was absolutely screaming, and when I looked ahead to see just miles more of the same, my decision not to take today’s homo route back at the Unimog looked unwise. After what must have been an hour and a couple of very close inspections of camel grass, the terrain eased and we came out onto fast salt flats. Another 15 minutes and we reached the hotel. 210kms.
Our hotel for the evening was magnificent. Built only a few years ago in a Moroccan kasbah style, it met the mental image I had before leaving England. I was again shattered, and my muscles were aching, so I booked a massage. This should have been bliss, but the combination of a masseuse who needed to cut her nails and having oil rubbed into areas which had been chaffed raw by my gear somewhat spoiled the overall ambience. A quick dip in the pool, beer and the obligatory roasted peanuts quickly revived my spirits. Our evening meal was interrupted twice, first by a man entering the restaurant leading a camel, and second by a large influx of guests in a cloud of strange smelling smoke. We generally agreed that this must be dry ice from some entertainment, well until we went out into a dust storm. Somehow dry ice had seemed so much more likely in the middle of a desert!
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