In late March 2009, I flew out to The Gambia to pit my wits and riding skills against the harsh Saharan environment in NW Africa, and the
Atlas mountains in
Morocco. This was a 16 day trip, organised by Kudu Expeditions (www.kuduexpeditions.com), which they label The Trans Sahara Challenge. For about £2600 they provided a BMW GS650 Dakar, a support crew with 4x4, most food, all accommodation, and tents for those essential bush camps. All I had to do was arrange flights to The Gambia and then home from
Malaga, Spain, the finishing point.
My reason for signing up was, obviously, to enjoy the adventure but also as one of several trips I want to take over the next few years to prepare me for a much longer adventure ride – around the world no less!
Friday 27th March. The amazingly small sum of £100 got me a plane from Gatwick to Banjul, where I met some of my fellow riders and was taken out to the base camp to meet the crew. Five of us had arrived that day from the UK, Alex arrived from the USA the next. There was supposed to be another American on the trip too but he didn’t arrive and we never really found out why except that he had cancelled at the last moment. So, six keen but very apprehensive bikers wondering what pain and joy lay in wait over the next two weeks.
Our group, minus Alex.
That question was answered on the first day when we went out for a 'learn how to ride in sand' training exercise. Dave came off and broke his tibia. Now sand is very soft but it seems that 190kgs of GS Dakar landing on your leg at the wrong angle is enough to snap bone, even when the ground beneath it is soft and silky. This was despite Dave’s heavy duty motocross boots with all their built in armour. End of trip for Dave and a delay to our departure while the crew organised his flight home.
I found the BMWs a bit cumbersome during the practice session, with their near 200kg weight, and I wasn’t too sure how they’d be once we went properly off road. A bit too high geared for my liking but I recognised they were going to be on tarmac most of the time so I put my doubts to one side especially as it was a long time since I’d ridden on the rough on any bike. Our luggage was in the 4x4 so at least we didn't have to contend with the extra weight and width that would otherwise have been on the bikes.
We had some clearly set down riding instructions to follow, along with a system for navigation, lunch and fuel stops. The first couple of days were for training, to make sure we were familiar and comfortable with the bikes and the riding system. We also had our GPS loaded up with all the way points for the trip and practiced navigating with them.
Werner, the trip leader, would be on a bike and planned to ride with us. Niall and Jack would crew the 4x4 and follow along. We would all meet at fuel and lunch stops en-route and obviously at the overnight accommodation too. Other than that we were free to ride as we saw fit. For the first day or two we let Werner lead us as route finding was likely to be tricky and we had the ferry to get to and also border crossings. But once we were into Senegal and were on the main roads we went off on our own, using the GPS, with Werner happy to ride along with the 4x4. He told us he had been observing our riding style and general competence and would not have left us to go our own way had he not felt that we would be OK. Complimentary and comforting all at the same time.
Dave tries out the crutches we made for him.
Tuesday 31st March. With Dave out of hospital and plastered up, and his return journey organised, we were finally on our way. We headed to the ferry to cross the River Gambia and on to Senegal. The crew manage the border crossings and all went smoothly with none of the expected 'management fees' being paid out. In fact, this pattern was repeated all the way through the trip, so perhaps stories about these things are more (African) myth than reality.
The Gambia is completely surrounded by Senegal (except to seaward of course) and was created by the British to protect the port at the mouth of the river, presumably from the French. The wonders of colonialism!
One of the women at the ferry terminal, keen to sell you shirts, trinkets etc. Very friendly, English speaking and who also enjoy a joke.
Once into Senegal, we headed towards the famous town of Dakar, well known to aficionados of the Paris-Dakar Rally. No lurid trucks or spaced out bike racers to be seen though. Wrong time of year and anyway, the Paris-Dakar now takes place in South America. Yes, really!
The roads were tarmac but very potholed. The cars and vans we saw were mostly mobile wrecks, with some richer owners of 4x4s flashing their cash in a metallic way. Plenty of donkey and pony carts, lots of French style mopeds around too. The towns were very poor and downbeat, with rubbish everywhere. Plenty of kids running around but there were also some schools to be seen. Most kids wore dirty and ragged clothes (often English football shirts) although we also saw plenty of women dressed in very decorative traditional African robes. This pattern was repeated in Mauritania, but generally with more poverty, worse roads and beaten up vehicles that seemed to defy all laws of technical cohesion. I believe Mauritania is the 3rd or 4th poorest country in Africa, possibly the world, and seeing the poverty brought that home.
Senegal, Mauritania and Morocco are all ex-French colonies, so at least the language of most signs and most officials was familiar, although in Morocco there was usually Arabic as well.
En route to Dakar
Our hotel in Dakar was very nice, once we'd found it in the dark, with good food from its restaurant. We enjoyed celebrating our first night of the trip, feeling that the adventure was now underway after our delayed start. We raised a glass to Dave as we were very sad he couldn't be with us.
From the left, clockwise: Dion; Alex; Richard; Verner, Jack and Niall (crew); Gareth.
Wednesday 1st April. The roads had improved so we had a good fast ride, following the coastal route north. Straightforward riding conditions but we had been warned not to upset the Senegalese police, who have a bad reputation. Jack instructed us always to stop at railway level crossings as there would be a Gendarme watching and waiting to fine us. It didn’t matter if the line was rusted up and clearly not in use – the law had to be obeyed! And he was right, as we did see some Gendarmes lurking near the railway lines in the towns.
Even well prepared bikes get punctures.
En-route to St Louis, Senegal. Traffic jams were common when entering most towns.
We stayed the night at a campsite out near the coast, down at the end of a sandy track. There were other travellers there too, a German guy on his BMW GS1200 and another German, an elderly guy with a 1960s Steyer truck, which he had taken around most of the world. A terrific looking vehicle, as you can see.
Forty year old 4x4 Steyr truck, fully self sufficient from solar power.
The seventy year old owner, who has been on the road at least twenty years in this vehicle.
Views from, and of, the Zebrabar campsite, St Loius.
The campsite is entirely powered by solar photo voltaic cells and solar heating for the water. A comfortable place, with huts for us. There was a viewing tower too, with great views over the water.
Thursday 2nd April. Today saw us complete our second border crossing into Mauritania at the quiet Diama customs post. The main one at Rosso has a very bad reputation for corruption so we were glad to avoid it. No fees at the border but a 10euro fee to enter the Diam national park. No receipt given either – no surprise there. Not much to see by way of animals - some cattle with large horns and some warthogs and monkeys - but the road was actually a hard packed sandy/rocky track, so we could practice some off road riding. It was raised up above what looked to be a flood plain. We met plenty of other vehicles here, 4x4s and various cars, as it is a busy through route. None of them going slowly, despite the rough ground. In fact, the smooth tarmac we had been on the day before is the exception for this part of northern Africa. This piste gave us 60 miles of dirt biking and allowed me to rediscover my off road riding skills, dormant up to now for about fifteen years. The BMWs showed themselves to be agile and easy to handle here and I was starting to warm to them a bit.
The raised track through Diama National Park. Not much to see, but enjoyable riding.
Rejoining the tarmac, we headed north for Noukachott. The terrain was becoming more desolate, with very few towns as such, just small groupings of huts at the roadside from time to time, often behind walls. They were a mixture of block buildings and traditional brush walled huts. We weren't in the Sahara yet but reddish sand and small dunes were the main features of the landscape. No sign of any agriculture, so we did wonder what people found to eat, especially as we didn't see a Tesco anywhere. Not even a Lidl. It was getting hotter too and the people were wearing a more Arabic style of clothing.
We were all getting used to the riding and the road conditions by now. The rule is always to watch your mirrors for vehicles overtaking and always use your horn when you overtake. There were plenty of slow moving trucks on the road, often very beaten up, but they would always make way when you went past.
We had quickly gelled as a group of riders and made sure we stopped often, partly to take photos and also to drink plenty of water. The temperature was getting higher as we headed north and he desert approached. Having easily settled in to the rhythm of the ride we were enjoying a relaxed pace during the first few days when the distances weren’t too long.
Roadside ‘village’. At least there seems to be some vegetation here.
An overnight stay in a hotel in Noukachott, with decent rooms and a nearby Pizzeria to eat in. Decent ice cream too, so a nice end to the day.
Driving standards in these cities are very poor by our standards but we did work out the rhythm of the traffic flow after a while and got in tune with it. For example, a driver who was parked but wanted to join the road from our right (nearside) would simply build up speed by driving along the sandy verge, until it more or less matched ours, then just drift onto the road and take his place in the passing traffic. Everyone expected it and it seemed to work well, especially as traffic speeds were quite slow anyway.
These sandy verges were about 10-15 metres wide, often with businesses operating in front of the roadside buildings. Typically, stalls selling produce; tyre suppliers; car or van repairers; welders; just about anything else that could be done in the open air.
It wasn’t unusual to see a beaten up old Mercedes van lying on its side in the sand while the axle was being swapped with one off another vehicle, or the brakes were replaced.
This was also the area of the road were the donkey carts would be trotting along, with the owner and donkey looking as fed up as each other in the heat and dust.
Friday 3rd April. So far, our longest day's mileage had been just over 200 miles but we were about to increase this considerably now, with a 300 mile run to Nouadhibou. We knew this was going to be a long, hot achey bum kind of day. And it was! We were into the real Sahara now with a desolate, sandy landscape either side of the road, no vegetation to speak of and not a Little Chef to be seen. Sometimes you long for a large red sign with a short fat bloke in a chef's hat on it. And those are not words I ever expected to write.
The desert lives up to its name.
As a group we tended to stick together during our rides. Only being five, this made sense and no cliques of any kind had formed. But today, and on subsequent high mileage days, we were happy to string the group out over a few miles. It actually enhanced the traveling experience for me as I allowed myself to drop back behind the rest until they were out of sight, then maintained a steady 60/65 mph and zoned out as the miles clocked up. It gave me the feeling of being lost and alone in the wilds, with just the arrow straight road to concentrate on and no sign of any other human. Me and a sweet running bike, and just the horizon to ride towards. A unique feeling for me, up to that point in the trip. Dion liked to do the same too, he told me later.
A Berber family home along with their main source of income.
Not a Little Chef, but a very welcome lunch stop. Petrol and tea.
Having written about the desolation, I must say that one of the most puzzling things about riding along these roads was the occasional random bloke that I would see just standing or squatting at the side of the road. This would be at a place where the last village would be at least twenty miles behind me and the next one at least twenty miles in front. So where did they come from? What were they waiting for? I couldn't work it out and I still can't.
In the afternoon we found ourselves riding into a very strong headwind, very tough on the neck muscles and the fuel consumption. We later learned that this was a feature of the time of year. About four hours of wind every afternoon from March through to July. I can easily understand why most men wear the djebella, as it looks to be very effective at keeping the sand out.
This train consisted of three engines and at least 150 wagons full of coal and minerals.
Eventually we reached Nouadhibou and found the Auberge we were staying at. We were welcomed by the owner with tea, served in the traditional way with all the ceremonies. Very much into the Arabic North Africa now, with the mosques calling the faithful to prayer at dusk and dawn. How did they do it before the invention of the electric amplifier? Luckily I sleep quite soundly and didn't get disturbed too much.
The welcoming tea preparation ceremony, as performed by the hotel owner.
Nouadhibou, Auberge Bai du Levrier. Six BMW GS Dakars get their rest too.
Saturday 4th April. This was due to be an interesting day as we were to cross from Mauritania into the Western Sahara. Now part of Morocco, this area had been fought over by the desert tribes seeking independence. They didn't get it but the result was an area of increased security and land mines. Between the Mauritanian and Moroccan borders is 5kms of no-mans' land, heavily mined at one time but allegedly mostly clear now. Even so, the advice was to stay on the well used part of the track, with no wandering off course. We listened, obeyed and survived!
A roadside Bedouin camp.
The 8km track across the no-mans’ land between Mauritania and Western Sahara.
Gareth forgets his ‘Riding in Soft Sand’ lessons. Luckily, no mines just there!
Many of the cars in the next photo had been abandoned by people who travel to Europe (or who start out from there) to buy cheap, old cars from Spain, France, Holland, Germany etc. and attempt to drive them to Mauritania or Senegal. This is why the towns are full of Mercedes, Renaults etc. Cars and vans that you or I would regard as too old to use but which can earn some good money in Africa, provided they reach there.
This is the final resting place of any vehicle that doesn’t quite reach the border.
The border crossing brought us into Western Sahara and took close to four hours. No bribery or anything untoward from the very smart Moroccan officials, just lots of bureaucracy, including a physical check of the bikes' VINs by the customs man. At 250 miles it was a shorter day than the one before, but was far tougher, with a real chill in the air and a fierce headwind to fight. The terrain was really desolate with nary a tent, village or camel to be seen. This made Mauritania seem busy by comparison but we supposed it was due to the heavy mining of the area during the rebellion. There were invariably police checks at every town or road junction and Western Sahara is clearly a very sensitive area.
Desolate desert lunch stop. Note the Oyaji sweatshirt, already well travelled around Europe, bearing the symbol of the Oyaji Bikers.
The road to Hell, possibly.
A polish couple who were heading for Cape Town, from Poland. About one third of the way at this point, I’d reckon.
No hotel or auberge to stay at tonight but a real desert camp with a tent each and the evening meal cooked al- fresco from the supplies in the 4x4. This method of eating was not new to us by now as it was a common feature of the trip. A cooking rota had been set up at the start and we cooked our own meals most nights even when we were at an auberge or a hotel. But doing this under the desert sky seemed different. The meal certainly was - curry flavoured cous cous, if you please!
Desert camp, hidden from the road by some dunes.
Saharan sunset.
My newly bought sleeping mat and bag stood up well to their first test and although the strong wind caused me to wake up several times, I generally had a comfortable night out in the dunes. Having to dig your own toilet hole behind the dunes next morning didn't impress me quite as much, but a man's gotta do, etc. Thankfully no sand in the toilet paper though.
Sunday 5th April. Today was due to be a long one, with 344 miles to cover on a bike with a seat that is about two hour friendly, and that period reduces as the day goes by. We fuelled up and set off, managing to cover close to 200 miles by the time we stopped for lunch. Once again, it was best to zone out and just let the wheels roll and the miles clock up. A mostly dead straight road, with the occasional bend to keep you alert and police checkpoints from time to time. The police are friendly and just want a 'fiche' for their records and to help with security. A fiche is a form with the details of all the riders and bikes printed on it and it makes their life easier and our passage smoother. Occasional stops for photos allowed for a leg stretch and an easing of the numb bum. I want to say, at this stage, how impressed I had become with the BMWs. They just cruised along at a mile eating 70mph or so, with no sign of being affected by the heat. We were getting around 70mpg although that had dropped closer to 50mpg in yesterday's strong headwind.
Staying the night at the Les Bedouin campsite, we ate in their restaurant and tried some braised camel in date sauce, cooked in a tajine. Very native and very tasty. This was another solar powered desert campsite and the owner got us to help him erect his wind turbine at dusk, presumably to take over from the PV panels in powering the lights. Solar thermal panels provided the hot water but it was salty, which made shaving and showering fun – not!
The restaurant at Camping Les Bedouin.
We had ridden through some very hot conditions over the previous few days and I'd developed a bit of 'hurry curry'. Not sure if it was bad water, heat exhaustion or a bit of both, but I really needed the early night we managed to get and found more relief thanks to the Immodium tablet I took. Extremely effective too.
Monday 6th April. Another 300 mile day ahead of us and although the roads were still arrow straight, the terrain alongside was slowly changing, becoming greener and a bit hillier. By the time we reached our lunch stop at Tan Tan we had left the Western Sahara region. One of the most noticeable effects of this was the sharp increase in the price of fuel, from 7.45 Dirham to 10.45 Dirham per litre. It seems that the Western Sahara region is a low tax zone within Morocco, reflected in the fuel price. Petrol costs about the same as in the UK generally, although having to swap currencies each time we crossed a border made it a bit harder to keep track.
Money changers were always plentiful at the borders, with one woman combining that part of her business with running a cafe. Coffee and currency, all at the same place. Our banks could learn a thing or two. One unexpected problem for Alex, our American rider, was that nobody wanted to change his dollars into their local currency. He did find one guy that would change them for some Euros, but he didn't want to take too many. It seems that the mighty dollar no longer rules the world. Not in North Africa anyway. But he managed to survive on a few subs from the rest of us until we found a Moroccan town with a cash machine.
Lunchtime stop in Tan Tan where a crowd of Portuguese bikers had also eaten.
A glass of mint tea – very refreshing.
Followed by kebabs for lunch.
Instead of sandwiches from the 4x4 we stopped and had lunch in a cafe today. We found a cafe in the high street and sat down outside. Salad and brochette, which was delicious but took ages to arrive. In fairness, all meals seemed to be freshly prepared so waiting was worth it. I had by now discovered mint tea. It's very tasty and very refreshing too.
We were now riding very close to the Atlantic coast so had some nice sea views but also some heavy sea mist. This made riding difficult in the very poor visibility at times. Not something you expect in a desert!
As we headed to Guilmim the countryside was changing and becoming far more green and agricultural, a real contrast to the day before and a welcome change.
The changing landscape as we head north and leave the desert behind us.
We headed to Fort Bou Jerif Campsite, down a 9km long piste. Plenty of rocky sections and gullies, allowing me and a couple of the others to get the BMWs jumping about a bit and seeing what they could do on the rough. They took it very well considering their road bias although the gearing is a bit high really. Werner told us there'd be plenty more of this once we got onto some of the pistes in the Atlas mountains. Something to look forward to then!
Another good campsite, with Bedouin style tents (with the usual breeze block walls) and lovely hot showers – not salty, hooray!
Tuesday 7th April. An attempt at another early start today but some confusion about refuelling in the town meant that we didn't leave as early as we wanted to. However, the Anti Atlas Mountains awaited us, something we were looking forward to after our diet of arrow straight roads, sand and camels. Hills and bends became more frequent and getting past the slow moving trucks - and I mean clouds of diesel smoke, crawler gear slow - was making the ride interesting and challenging. The road had plenty of corners too, so some bend swinging was enjoyed by all, well handled by the bikes.
A typical Moroccan street scene in one of the towns we passed through.
After three hours of this we stopped for coffee at a cafe and were interested to see half a dozen Toyota Land Cruisers parked outside, carrying French tourists. We felt sorry for them after Dion reminded us that all there was for them to do was stare out of the windows or sleep. A real contrast to the instant thrills we were getting on our bikes.
After a while we took the road to Marrakech and started climbing up into the hills again, but this time it was high enough to be feeling cold. We could see the snow on the mountain tops away to our right.
The snowy Atlas Mountains get closer.
Werner guided us to our campsite, Relais de Marrakech, which was just as well as Marrakech is a big and busy city and we wouldn't have found it ourselves, even with GPS. It was a big site, with loads of French camper vans, some caravans and some tents. We were in the Berber style cabins, luckily with hot showers and plenty of room, so a chance to clean up and re-organise. We had two nights here and were looking forward to a day off the bikes and some R&R.
Our comfortable accommodation at the Relais de Marrakech.
Tasty looking CCM enduro bikes, as supplied by Euro Maroc.
I spotted these bikes on the campsite and chatted to the owners, who were Swiss. Once we’d discovered a common language (English!) I learned that they ran a tour company called Enduro Maroc. They stay on the site for three months and their customers fly in for a week or two of adventure riding. The CCMs only weigh 148 kilos fully fueled and look really handy.
Most of the other guys went into the city for the evening, headed for a club which had booze, food and dancing, all for 30 euros each. It didn't appeal to me so I stayed behind, as did Werner, and we had a quiet evening chatting and enjoying the meal he cooked. A nice lie in the next morning, some washing and sorting of gear and then a trip into Marrakech, heading for the main square and the souk. Alex and I got a taxi – a description that proves how flexible the English language can be. It was a Suzuki Carry van with two garden chairs in the back, completely unattached to anything. One had a cushion and one didn’t, so I sat on the bare seat and hung on to the sides of the van as we wafted our way into the city. Hassan, the driver, spoke good English and told us about life in Morocco and how he wanted to get married and have a family but couldn’t afford it. He said he was fed up with people who had no job but got married anyway and had loads of kids, believing that ‘Allah will provide’ somehow. He sounded just like a London cabbie really, a nice touch of home. I asked him about all the infrastructure development we’d noticed in Morocco. It all comes from the Euro, as brought in by the tourists, particularly the French. Morocco is a very popular destination these days. Good for his business and for Moroccans in general.
The main square in Marrakech, mid-afternoon.
Absolutely delicious fresh orange juice. And dead cheap too.
Having thoroughly enjoyed the fresh orange juice from one of the juice bars, and having been royally stitched up at one of the nut/fig stalls, we headed into the souk. When I say 'stitched up', I don't mean that I was overcharged, just oversupplied. You ask for a certain amount - say, 12 figs - and you get a big bag. You ask for half a kilo of nuts and you get 2 kilos. Still good value, just five times the amount you wanted. They rely on your reluctance to argue to get away with it. Still, we all ate the extra with breakfast cereal during the rest of the trip so it wasn't wasted.
The souk is big! And difficult to navigate. With stairs going up here and over there and many of the stalls looking the same, it’s easy to get lost. Which is why I did! I escaped eventually, but only after saying ‘no thanks’ to the same stallholder about six times as I passed him trying to find my way out of one small section.
Cheap and very cheerful. You haggle over everything.
Spices
Carpets and rugs.
But I met the others again and we went looking for a Sahara Cross. The story is that this is something that is given to Bedouin boys after they have made their first desert crossing - a kind of badge of merit. Well, we’d made our crossing, even if it wasn’t over the sands on a camel, and we reckoned we deserved a badge to prove it. There are twenty one different designs, we were told by the shop owner, one for each tribe, so we each selected one we liked and haggled for a deal. Dion even managed to trade a Swiss Army knife somewhere in amongst it all.
Sahara Cross. 100 Dirhams (about a tenner). Made from silver extracted from coins by Bedouins. That’s what the shopkeeper said, and why shouldn’t we believe him?
Deals done, we headed back to the main square for a meal. There is a central area where stalls are set up selling a huge variety of food, from goats’ heads to cous cous to salad and chips. You sit at bench seats and order what you want off the stall in front of you, elbow to elbow with whoever happens to be next to you. All very egalitarian and cosmopolitan.
A taxi back to the campsite, after a very nice touristy day. I like Marrakech!
The main square at about 7 p.m. Hundreds of food stalls.
A variety of dishes to share, all very tasty.
Thursday 9th April. A crap night’s sleep. Not because of the usual wailing from the minaret but because of the dog that joined in and wouldn’t shut up until sunrise. He clearly doesn’t like the infidel.
The view as we left the campsite, with the Atlas Mountains beckoning us toward their slopes.
Anyway, the Atlas Mountains beckoned, snowy on the tops, so we had dressed in warm gear in anticipation of it being cold up there. But it was mild and stayed that way, despite the continual climbing upwards on the good roads. We rode up through the Tichka pass, enjoying the bends and stopping often to take photos.
There were plenty of French registered motor homes to zip past (bends permitting), reinforcing once again the popularity of their former colony with French people. But just think about how far they have to drive to get there – about 1,000km of Spain to cross first. No surprise then that most of the people we saw were retirees.
A nice view and an annoying bloke who wants to sell you a rock.
We had to be careful at times as the roads would catch us out with ridges of tarmac halfway round some of the tighter bends, caused by the truck tyres scrubbing the tarmac up. Potholes too, so we were glad of the forgiving BMW suspension. But it kept the speed down and gave us a chance to enjoy the view. These mountains have plenty of quartz in them, producing some really nice rocks with beautiful crystal structures. This causes a problem though, in the shape of guys who are so keen to sell you their samples that they leap out in front of you half way round a bend. Bloody annoying when you’re trying to get your line right.
We stopped for a tea at the restaurant at the top of the pass and enjoyed looking back over the road we had just ridden up and the views of the mountains surrounding us.
Café Annsou, at the top of the Tichka Pass.
The route we’d just come up.
The route ahead – more fun!
Down the other side of the pass, more great bends and views, until we came to the start of our first piste. We had stopped by a riverbank for lunch but quickly found ourselves surrounded by about 200 sheep and the family that looked after them. They were friendly and curious but obviously very poor. But they enjoyed having their photos taken and being able to see themselves on the camera.
Nomadic sheep herders, who joined us while we lunched.
Onto the piste and into some challenging terrain. Lots of rocky climbs and descents, along with the inevitable sandy patches. A good technical ride, with a couple of river crossings thrown in for good measure. Spoiling the piste in places was construction work on a new road, causing us to divert off the track at times. Werner reckons Kudu won’t be able to use it on subsequent trips as the new road will eliminate it. Good for the locals, bad for the biking tourists, but that’s the kind of progress that the tourist euro is bringing and I've no doubt the local people are very happy about it.
We passed through several villages, miles from any main road. The people were clearly very poor and worked on the poor land surrounding their village. Some of those we had seen on the Tichka pass had seemed poor, with donkey carts and women working in the fields. But at least the children had schools to go to. These villages seemed to have nothing but mud walled houses, with few donkeys and no schools. Plenty of kids to wave at us as we rode past though.
Off road in the Atlas Mountains, sometimes with villages ……
….. but more often without.
We camped out that night. We’d just got the tents set up when a strong wind suddenly blew up out of nowhere. It’s a shame I had forgotten to zip my tent up – sand everywhere. It’s an even greater shame that I’d left the tent bag lying on the ground outside – it sailed away immediately.
The BMWs have really impressed me today. They are good on the road and seem able to deal with anything the pistes can throw at them. The gearing is too high really but you just have to adapt. Everyone was learning to handle the rough conditions well, some more than others if truth be told. Some of the guys were really pushing their personal envelope to the limits. Werner would always stop every ten minutes or so, just to let the slower riders and the 4x4 catch up. This made it easier to concentrate on the ground in front without having to worry about navigation. It also allowed everyone to ride at their own pace, essential for safety on terrain like this, but Werner was always in the lead. So nobody got left behind and everybody enjoyed the challenge.
Friday 10th April. A very wild and windy night! It blew strongly all night, so sleep was a bit disturbed. But on my way back from a visit behind the dune, what did I see half buried in the sand? The tent bag. I’m guessing it got blown away and then blown back again as the wind changed direction. I felt a bit less guilty over losing it now. Packing the tents up in the strong wind was good fun but we got away about 08.00 to finish our ride along this piste. And it was a terrific ride and challenging too. Rocks, sand, gullies, dips, climbs. All interesting and enjoyable on the ever so capable BMWs. I managed to fall off in a patch of soft sand. Unfortunately the handlebars somehow landed on a hard rock, leaving me with a broken clutch lever. Enough of it left to ride with though, so no need to fit the spare from the 4x4.
Talking of which, I should mention that this amazing and versatile vehicle travelled along behind us like a faithful packhorse. It’s a Toyota Land Cruiser, easily the most preferred vehicle in this part of the world. It was also towing a one ton ex-army ammunition trailer with all our gear in it. Yet it went up the climbs and down the gullies just the same as we did.
A very windy and therefore dusty start to the day.
And these tough conditions lasted all day long.
The ride along this 65 mile piste was a fantastic experience, partly because of the challenging terrain but also because of the constant wind and the sandstorms created by it. Visibility was down to 30 metres at times.
One of the strangest features of the landscape were the randomly built houses, completely alone, literally in the middle of nowhere. I have absolutely no idea how the occupants survived as there was nothing growing in this lunar landscape. Despite this, whenever we stopped some kids would emerge from over the horizon and run towards us, often half a mile, looking to sell us some trinket or doll they’d made from scraps of clothing or waste. Often with only a pair of plastic sandals between three of them, their poverty was painful to see.
‘Desolation Row’.
We eventually arrived at Zagora and posed under the signpost for Timbouctu for photos. ‘52 jours à Timbouctu’ it said. But by camel, not BMW. The piste we had just ridden was part of the route.
Rather than a sandwich off the 4x4 we had lunch at a restaurant in the town, enjoying a Tajine Kafta – meatballs in a sauce with an egg on top. Real local food and tasty too.
We were very tempted to go!
Out of Zagora and onto another piste, heading to Tazzerine. Another 50 miles of challenging riding saw us at Tazzerine and another campsite. The original plan had been to wild camp again and a couple of the group wanted to stick to it. We had made better time than expected and the hot showers and cold beers available at the campsite seemed to sway them in the end. Real Bedouin tents to sleep in tonight. None of that namby pamby breeze block that some of the others were built from. But Hessian doesn’t keep the cold at bay and the one blanket we were given just wasn’t warm enough!
Bedouin style tents at Camping Amasttou, Tazzarine
Saturday 11th April. Today we were heading to Rissani with the intention of visiting Erg Chebbe. An erg is an area of dunes, usually big ones, and this one was renowned for its size and the fact that it seemed to be an outpost of the Sahara, which was some miles distant. In front of it lay a huge area of sand covered in small pieces of volcanic rock and dust. Black in colour, it made a stunning contrast to the golden sand of the dunes behind it. The 4x4 parked up on the road and we headed out across the black dust to the edge of the dune. Not being tempted to ride up it (read 'scared'), we settled for taking photos and then enjoyed watching some guys on enduro bikes racing up the side of it and curling off the top to enjoy the chase back down the side. Over and over again - they were clearly having great fun. We headed back to our 4x4 and enjoyed watching loads of other 4x4s playing around on the dusty area. About 3 miles wide by at least a mile long, this area was a 1,000 acre BHP playground. No restrictions, no signs, no ramblers, nobody to whinge and moan. No wonder Europeans came down here to play.
Erg Chebbe and the vast cindered playground in front of it.
Lunch eaten, we headed off to our evening destination near the Ziz Gorge. Riding up the lower slopes of the Atlas Mountains, we enjoyed more great roads and stunning views. Greener and warmer in appearance, these hills were a real contrast to the dry, arid hills that had overlooked the piste we rode along yesterday, although they were still quite bare.
I can’t remember where this is but it’s typical of the gateway found when entering most Moroccan towns. Just beyond the exit gate at the other end of town would be a checkpoint manned by local police, immediately followed by a second manned by national police - the ones with guns. But we usually got waved through anyway.
Alex and I arrived at the Auberge ahead of the others and blagged ourselves the nicest room. The Palma Ziz is a very nice place and after our meal we sat in the bar where we enjoyed watching the locals as they played their bongos and smoked their hookah pipes. A local Berber joined us and was telling us about his work as a lion tamer in a German circus. It seemed believable but on the other hand it may just have been his way of earning the couple of beers we bought him. All very entertaining though, and one of those chance encounters that you tend to remember.
A cold beer and an Aussie with a guitar, strumming while the sun sets.
Sunday 12th April. Last night was a cold night outside, . A bloody cold morning too! And it was going to stay that way as we would be climbing up the Ziz Gorge. It got colder as we climbed but the views again were stunning. We were still in the Atlas Mountains but much further north and the terrain was much greener, with pine trees on the slopes. Mind you, we went high enough to get above them and up as far as the snow line. We found ourselves riding across a high plateau that was completely surrounded by snow covered mountains. A strange place to be. The views from the top of the gorge, at 7176 feet, were stunning and the roads both up it and down again were equally good. Bend after bend, challenge after challenge. It was a terrific feeling when we got a series of bends just right. A real joy. Clear air, great roads, good handling bikes. What more could you ask for?
One thing we did learn was to respect speed limit signs. Cops with cameras? No, just roads that, half way round a bend, had suddenly disappeared down a cliff. There were always signs changing the speed limit from the normal 100kph down to 40 or maybe even 20kph and we very wisely took note of them. We were often left with only half the lane and a truck coming towards us. Twitchy bum time!
Tasty riding, but watch out for those landslips!
Not a bad landscape to be riding into on a chilly morning!
Riding across the high plains with plenty of snow covered mountains in sight.
As we rode down from the pass the landscape changed, becoming far more agricultural, with a variety of crops and even olive groves. At lunchtime Dion, Rich and I rode into Azrou and found a café. We were sitting outside when an old guy, of about eighty, started telling us about an old Zundapp motorcycle he used to have. He also said that in 1941 and 42 he was forced to dig swimming pools for the Germans. At least, that’s what we think he said. He was speaking French and had no teeth!
The lower slopes, coming down from the Ziz Gorge. More agricultural, but still at 4,000 feet.
Coming down out of the mountains now, much more agriculture and more villages. Often poor, the villages still had schools for their kids, even though the agricultural activity seemed to involve mostly women and donkeys.
Eventually we arrived at the Auberge Dadora, close to the town of Chechaouen. This auberge was a really nice place and we made plans to go into the town for a celebratory meal. It was to be our last night in Morocco so we wanted to end our trip in style. We got two taxis into town and wandered around looking for a place to eat. We found the restaurant area at the top of a hill, having wandered up through a souk. But not a souk like the one at Marrakech. This was no tourist trap but a market place for the locals to use. It was just as busy as but without the ‘sales staff’ constantly trying to tempt you into their market to buy tourist tat. We found a café in a square at the top of the hill, and this was a tourist area, but just what we needed as there were plenty of cafes. After our meal, a very un-Moroccan chicken and chips for some but a nice Tajine Viande for the rest of us, we wandered around some more, pretty much ignored by the busy local people. A refreshing change. I really enjoyed our night out in this town as it gave me a chance to see the real Morocco. We found a decent coffee shop and had a great hot chocolate and then found a cake shop, just as it was closing. We took a box of cakes back to the auberge to accompany the bottle of whisky Jack and Gareth were planning to use to celebrate their shared birthday, and for the rest of the guys to celebrate the end of the trip. The whisky was a thank you gift from us to the crew but they generously asked us to help them dispose of it.
The mural on the wall of the coffee shop.
Midnight whisky drinking and …..
…… the all important cakes!
Monday 13th April. An early and chilly start to our last day. We didn’t have far to go but we didn’t know how long it would take to cross from Morocco to the Spanish enclave of Cueta. In the event we got through quite quickly and got booked onto a lunchtime ferry to Spain. We were all amused by the Spanish border guards who went round every car that crossed over, hitting all five tyres with their batons. We guessed that the sound would tell them whether or not there were any drugs inside.
Posing near the border crossing into Cueta.
We met this Swiss couple while waiting for the ferry back to Spain. It turned out that they live in the next village to Dion. It isn’t often you ride 5,000km just to bump into one of your neighbours!
Bikes safely stowed on the car deck.
Sad to be leaving - our last view of Morocco.
Once in Algericas we hit the Autopista to
Malaga. And the Autopista hit us. Hard, in the pocket! Bloody expensive at over 13 euros for about 120km. Robbing bastards. Welcome back to
Europe!
We met up at the Ibis hotel and handed the bikes back to the Kudu crew. A really sad moment as that was the end of the trip. I was sorry to see the BMW go as I had really enjoyed riding it in the end. It definitely grew on me as it proved its capability over the days and miles. Excellent fuel consumption – close to 80mpg at times – and a real ability to handle the bends and the rough stuff. What it would be like with a full load of luggage is hard to tell, but it’s certainly tough. I still wouldn’t buy one though. Why not? Well, I would consider it to be too heavy with luggage on and the mechanics are too complex and vulnerable for journeys off the beaten track. Just my opinion!
End of the line, outside the Ibis Hotel, Malaga.
We finished our holiday by going out to a steakhouse for a good European style feed-up at a steak restaurant. Pricey, but a great way to round off a fantastic trip. It was very sad that had Dave missed out, but apart from that there were no mishaps, no injuries and no fallings out among the group. A great success and I can honestly recommend Kudu Expeditions if you want to safely enjoy a great adventure trip. I learned a lot about myself and about travelling, while also having a bloody great time, so it was well worth it.
So, where next? On the 13th August 2010 I will be flying out to New Delhi for a Himalayan holiday. I have booked a two week Himalayan tour with this company: http://www.blazingtrailstours.com/
The trip is from Leh to Shimla and involves riding a Royal Enfield across some of the high passes in that region. I'm sure everything will be a real culture shock, which is why I'm looking forward to it so much. Apart from the bike that is. An Enfield Bullet 500 won't be very different from some of the bikes I owned in my teens. Kickstarter, drum brakes, slow revving long stroke engine - a real step back in time. Roll on August.
Geoff
Sae enjoyed tasting Greek food for the first time, and for me it brought back memories of the time I was a tour guide on Kos.
On the eastern coast a favourite resort for Italians - the life blood of the island. Though we did meet a great Swiss biker who waxed lyrical about Honda NX 650's and Aprilla's
A thirsty Charlton duck. Typically for Charlton's performance over the past few seasons, this rubber duck doesnt even float!
The distictive roar of engines first manufactured as long ago as the 1930's drew us to the arena.
There were a number of great viewpoints so that the riders could be tracked up and down the course.
The races ran non-stop with each one divided either by engine size, country of manufacture or age of machine. After a trip round the very friendly paddock (in the literal as well as motorsport meaning of the word) Sae decided she would be cheering on a pair of 500cc Honda's.
Well you cant take Japan out of the girl! Personally I was just enjoying the sheer artistic and engineering beauty of the BSA's the Matchless and the Triumph, Norton and Triton hybrids.
The riders snake around the steep dirt track.
We are booked in to see 
Thanks to Suke-san, pictured here, Sae and Richard were able to enjoy an amazing few days in Aomori prefecture on the northern tip of Honshu, the main island of Japan. Map 
Freshly caught and still twitching, Octopus and clams, the local specialities - a great farewell meal to send us on our way! 
We travelled in style on a Honda VT 750 C Special Edition from Omazaki Cape south along the stunning coastline to Mutsu City.
Our first night was excellent despite it being Golden Week - the time when everyone on Japan takes to the roads to return to their families or enjoy the stunning scenery in this amazing country. Either way the hotels were full so our options were limited,. We opted for the love hotel option!
