There is no doubt that the body adapts surprisingly quickly and well to the hardships it endures. The aches and pains, so prevalent on the first couple of mornings, were notable by their near absence on Day 5. The body seemed to have somehow hardened and inured itself to them. What had replaced the specific discomforts was a deeper and harder to identify weariness. Whilst in many ways we (lazy sedentary types) were surviving the physical onslaught surprisingly well, in other ways it was starting to tell.
The terrain had changed once again. We were travelling back in the direction of Ouarazazate along the Draa valley. In our itinerary it was described as the palmeries of the Draa valley, and it was quickly apparent along this fertile strip following the line of either river or canal that palm trees were grown as crops. The proximity of water also meant a much greater population density; there were frequent villages and occasional towns, but also many more mud walls segregating land than we had seen previously. The Moroccans remained as friendly as ever. In one small town, Rob and I rounded a corner to find a lorry across the track, completely blocking it and surrounded by a small crowd all obviously trying to help. Now how the lorry had managed to get itself into such a tight spot and how (if) it managed to get itself out shall remain a mystery, however on seeing me the crowd all smiled and waved, parting and directing me up the bank into which the tail of the lorry was rammed. I even got a small cheer as I jumped the bike down the steep far side of the bank and back onto the track. I waved my thanks shouted a “Shocran” {“Thank you” - sic} and they all waved this bizarre sight from an alternate universe (ie me) on my way.
The mundane still managed to astound me. As we loped along one particular track, I saw ahead a donkey being ridden by someone and I slowed to a reasonable pace. As I passed, I saw it was a young girl around the age of my own 10 year old. She sat astride the donkey and around the beasts neck hung numerous plastic bottles. I was still taking in and trying to mentally compute this image as I came over a small rise and saw a group clustered around a hand-pumped well filling (yes, you guessed it) plastic bottles. I found the realisation of what I had seen shocking. Back at home, my daughter would have not long jumped into the car to go to school, still uncomprehending as to how not buying her a laptop and a mobile phone isn’t classed as cruelty to children. Here only a couple of thousand miles away a young girl is riding a donkey to fetch the days water for the family from the well. Worlds apart.
The riding was easy as we followed tracks by the canal, around enclosures and through towns and villages, nonetheless, the sights and experiences kept coming. In one village the main square was partially filled by a threshing machine, the type of which I had last seen in a market in France in one of those ‘demonstrating farming machinery from yesteryear’, and here it was put to real use by the community. To the side of the square was what I assumed was the old town, now deserted and derelict. I can only presume that as the mud buildings crumbled, the inhabitants simply moved out and started again.
It was, as in previous days, really hot and the slower average speed meant that I was feeling it more. There was occasional relief as we rode through tall grasses being grown each side of the track and high enough to throw shade across us. The sight of the Unimog (and therefore the chance of a cold drink) was extremely welcome. Shortly after setting off again the water course of the Draa changed from the canal we had been following to a river. The river at this point edged some hills and the track we followed was considerably higher than the river following the contours of the land. This meant it was incredibly twisty, winding along the side of the valley and in to switchbacks each time we crossed a tributary (or what would be a tributary if and when it rained).
After seemingly hundreds more twists and turns and a couple of photo opportunities we forked away from the river and away from the villages. The terrain was now similar to previous days as we picked up speed and headed toward a saddle in a line of hills. We wound up the hillside on rocky tracks, but once over the other side, the ground suddenly changed to a grey / green fine shale surface. We encountered more road building which seemed to start at an indiscriminate point and end likewise passing through a town enroute. As we were passing through the town I came up behind a lorry negotiating its way passed something extremely slowly, a look down the left side of the lorry revealed a donkey tethered to a wall, its bottom sticking out obstinately into the road.
After this more mountainous area we rode back down into the palmeries and then into a busy town to stop for lunch. I was knackered, as usual, Rob and I having lead the group since the mid-morning stop and not wanting to let the side down with too slow a pace had pushed ourselves. We had stopped at a restaurant in the town square where we once again had some fabulous Moroccan salad (seemingly no more than finely diced tomato, onion, red and green peppers with vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper) with fresh bread. I declined the offered omelette and asked John about meat (the least a man deserves after a long mornings ride), but he indicated behind me and suggested it was probably best avoided. I looked around to see a wide selection of meat, most as yet only skinned and in very recognisable form. The attendant flies did nothing to whet the appetite. I returned to the salad and bread.
It did not seem to be a particularly touristy town (obviously it had a number of rug stores!) and it was fascinating to watch the hustle and bustle of the place with beaten up pickups and twenty year old motorbikes heavily laden and heading through the square. As normal, both we and our bikes looked incongruous in the surroundings and generated a good amount of interest. As previously it was invaluable to have John around, as he spoke Arabic; trying to communicate with the locals speaking pigeon French just wasn’t working.
After lunch we rode up out of the town onto increasingly rocky tracks culminating in riding up rock slabs around the side of a large mountain spur. The layers of strata which had formed the mountain were clearly visible and we rode down a long straight track which traversed the hill, sloping gently down. Stopping a little later and looking back you could see that the track had run along one of the strata lines. Geology and KTM 450 in perfect harmony.
From our brief rest stop, we descended down a tight twisty boulder strewn path which had us all practising our trials skills. Dougie Lampkin need not beware. It brought us out onto another dry river bed which started as coarse sand. This was wider than many we had ridden in, with more of the large shrubs with beautiful delicate looking pink / purple flowers and what must have been the grandfather of all palm trees. It was absolutely enormous, its height accentuated by the thick bare trunk soaring upward to the foliage far overhead. As we came around a corner the terrain changed again, as the river bed was strewn with rocks and the bikes bounced across it for a (thankfully) fairly short time before the GPS directed us out of the river bed through a village and up into the hills again. The tracks were good here; fast and flowing. I was following Rob as the track swooped up and down, right and left, getting a really good rhythm hampered only slightly as I passed unsighted through a dust cloud created by Rob. We wound up the hills at a pace somehow both comfortable and exhilarating. The bikes had been superb throughout, their pace delivered by lots of grunt; their suspension soaking up everything thrown at it. Now I really felt like I knew the bike and its capabilities; this track seeming to suit it and me perfectly. The sun was bright and the views extraordinary as we swept along, and then rounding a corner there was the road. It was over.
The road marked the end of our off-road adventure. We had come about 150kms so far, but there was a further 60kms to go, this time all on road. We travelled in convoy back to Ouarazate along a well made road complete with lots of traffic (by Moroccan standards), and whilst the views were good, the bike (and the tyres) suddenly felt less at home, the vibrations through the handbars, seat and footpegs more intrusive. We arrived back at the Motoaventures base and parked our bikes up.
As I stood there, it was difficult to comprehend that it had only been five days since we had set off, and yet we had seen and done so much. Incredible. Unforgettable. The trip of a lifetime? I hope not, I just need to get permission for next year!
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