Jbel Xplore 2012 by Personal Motographic

st ” o l ty I w in i o g “H y vir m

ISSUE 12 | JBEL XPLORE 2012 | APRIL 2012

PERSONAL MOTOGRAPHIC jbel plore

http://2wt.weebly.com

Special thanks: To our life companions Nélia and Elsa for realising birds are best appreciated in the wild. To all our friends in MotoXplores, for keeping us pointed in the right direc ons. To Virgílio Duarte (100% Design) to whom we owe our s ckers, now splashed all over Morocco.

PERSONAL MOTOGRAPHIC http://2wt.weebly.com

To Paolo Dalmaso and all members of his “expedi on” team, for keeping us updated on their adventures at a distance.

Personal Motographic 12th edi on—Jbel Xplore 2012 21-29 April, 2012

To Luis Lourenço for his Moroccan knowledge and good advices.

Words: José Bragança Pinheiro

To Jordi “Triki” for helping us mending life’s twists.

Photos: Daniel Almeida, José Bragança Pinheiro

To Peter Buitelaar (Bikershome.net) and Maurice for sharing with us their stories and life experiences. Once again, to Malika, proud hostess of Auberge Tislite, for insis ng in receiving us with such warmth in the cold Atlas.

jbel plore

My Michelin Morocco road map My Michelin road map of Morocco is falling apart. It has started showing fa gue signs, leaving holes along the folding lines. Scotch tape makes it harder and harder to lay marker lines and nota ons, increasingly compe ng for space with the original lines. My Michelin road map of Morocco is a living en ty. And it smells of adventure. I’m even afraid that, if I leave it open on the desk, it might start telling stories. I wonder what language it would choose? I remember when I bought it. Like the brand new school notebook, its pris ne pages have a fragrance, ready to evoke memories, even years later. My Michelin road map of Morocco isn’t a GPS. It doesn’t run out of ba8eries, nor does it bosses you around, ﬁring orders for you to go places. Neither it says where I am. A road map, like family, isn't perfect: you don’t get to choose it, yet you end up loving it.

This year we decided to browse the Michelin road map of Morocco, in search of Jbels. We found several. Even chose a few. Not the best, nor the worst; just ours for this year “expedi on”. Jbel is just a way of saying Mountain. But when you say it in an exo c language, such as Arabic is to me, it sounds bigger. Or maybe it’s just because I’ve always felt it was fancier to speak in foreign languages. By the way, and you probably already no ced it, this is our ﬁrst Personal Motographic issue wri8en directly in English... ﬁngers crossed and be tolerant, my friend. It’s se8led: Jbel, it is. Xplore? Why not? Print it! No, wait! What year is it? 2012. Now it’s done! Let’s pack our things, Daniel! We are returning to Morocco.

pistes P.08

Morocco’s magne sm owes a lot to its pistes, those paths that refuse the upgrade, postponing civilisa on while they s ll have the strength to do it.

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P.12

places

Motorbikes have the ability to go places, and fast, too. A lot of those are a blur, others remain engraved deep in our memories. Don’t get mistaken: you might even not like them. We did, though. That’s also what’s fun about travel.

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P.26

P.32

Travel is made of moments; some happy, others unplanned and unfortunate. All of them are opportuni es: to ﬁnd more about ourselves and, by lowering our guard, about the people welcoming us.

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moments P.48

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TARIFA TANGIER Asilah

Moulay−Bousselham

Ait−Baha

Marrakesh

N´Kob

Zagora El−Mhamid

the itinerary

Imilchil

les

pistes So why planning, indeed?

By the me we leA Portugal, the master plan envisioned diďŹ&#x20AC;erent things, namely pistes. The name of the journey itself, Jbel Xplore, promised mountaineering (with a trail bike, at least). We ended up going in other direc ons, but Morocco kept fulďŹ lling our needs.

lesLarmes

Jbelsahro

Draavalley

Jbelbani

lesLarmes The tears of some are the joy of others.

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Left:

This track isn’t new to us. For me in particular, each one of the three times I’ve been in Morocco led me here. That should mean something….

Lake d’Isli with snow leftovers hanging in mountain ridges. Center:

The smaller lake Tislite, the legend says, was formed by the fiancé’s tears. Right column:

Along the tracks connecting both lakes.

I’m not going to elaborate on the reasons. I fear that by doing so, the magic somehow becomes mundane, ordinary. I choose to give in to the hocuspocus eﬀect, becoming the li8le boy ﬂabbergas ng to discover a rabbit leaping out of the illusionist top hat. The early morning reveals us a snowy mountain top hidden on yesterday’s low clouds. The previous day had been dark in more than one way (see “Sha8ered”), so I was desperate for some light. I found it riding once again towards Isli lake.

As in many places in Morocco, we feel alone and somehow secluded. We know it isn’t so; as soon as we stop, and even before the engine goes silent we’re bound to hear “Bonjour”, in the characteris c accent of those who are not French. Of those where days are spent gazing at the mountains and whistling to the loyal companion, the sheepdog. “How lucky are these guys?” I ﬁnd myself thinking; ashamed, I rapidly regret it. AAer all, life is simple for them, but also rough and unkind at so many levels.

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Jbelsahro Obstacles are there for one reason: to overcome.

Left triptic:

The scenery of the Sahro somehow justifies the hardship. Top center:

Man see rock. Man acts silly. Man too much sun in head. (native proverb)

In paper, this should be the more challenging track for this year’s journey. At Sahro, unlike the popular “Paper-Rock-Scissors”, rock beats paper. We decided to take it slow, and not running through this one... perhaps on account for the mother’s old advice: “Don’t run with scissors”.

Top right:

The sign ends up being some sort of inverted passport. Top middle:

It wasn’t easy to find a place to stop… let’s enjoy it, shall we?

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“Conquering her, in the end, will make you smile, despite the bleeding nail scratches deep in your back.”

Tizi’n’Tazazert

Top:

Natural sculptures along the Sahro. Top Center:

So many different colors make the Sahro.

Ikniouim

Bottom Center:

Todgha Valley

Souk day in Iknouim.

(Auberge Le Fes val)

Bottom: Todgha Gorges

Tinghir

There’s more then one kind of desert.

Ouaklim

N’Kob

As last year’s Cirque de Jaffar did, Sahro plays the role of the “Feared One”. Maybe for this reason, they both represent a breaking point: those ye-old mes before it, and those aAer. Whenever we spot someone vaguely knowledgeable of Moroccan tracks’ condi on, the ques on pops out: - “And Sahro? How is it? To rough?”, followed by: - “Will we manage to overcome it on these mammoth bikes?” As also happened last year, this came to be the first real allterrain piste of the journey. Muscles are s ll tense, and we haven’t had the chance to loosen up. It turns out that we mostly suffer by an cipa on. The track to Iknioum is easy and fun, which allowed us to relax and gas it. A gradually harder track is

Top :

Curiosity lives also in Tizi’n’Tazazert. Center and bottom:

Café Tizi’s relaxed environment invites to rest and prepare for some hard terrain.

For more informa on on this route, follow this link.

(Kasbah Baha-Baha)

showing and, by the me we arrive at the Tizi’n’Tazazert pass, it’s easy to envision tougher things to come. The small gite d’étape on top of the Sahro gives us the chance to absorb the scenery and to mingle with bikers, 4x4 drivers and locals. Inevitably, the same ques ons are asked, for a last evalua on of what’s to come. Deep breath… adjust suspension for longer travel and harder seMngs: check! The descent is steeper. The once soAer dirt pavement has been washed in past winters. The rocks emerge and rule. There is no res ng for the next dozens of miles ahead. Sahro deserves its femme fatale reputa4on, with unrivalled beauty and bad temper. You’ll fall in love as she treats you like crap. Conquering her, in the end, will make you smile, despite the bleeding nail scratches deep in your back.

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Draavalley Dates to remember come from these Moroccan palm trees.

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The Draa is one of the great rivers of Morocco. Not only in size but also in magniďŹ cence. Along its course, the oďŹ&#x20AC;-road path to Zagora crosses small villages, between orchards and farm gardens. Although the track is some mes rocky and uncomfortable, those moments felt genuine and less travelled, given the paved alterna ve distancing just a mile . Top left:

Palm trees as far as the eye sees.

[...] small villages, between orchards and farm gardens.

Middle:

Children during school recess . Bottom:

Another village between the Mountain and the palm tree valley.

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Jbelbani A straight line from Zagora to El-Mhamid

Top right:

A classic: wall signing 52 days to Toumbouktou, at the exit of Zagora. Left column Top:

Exchanging one of the 33 liters seemed little in comparison with the timely help provided.

Travellers passing through Zagora are bound to look aAer a certain landmark. They, as we did, seek to photograph themselves in front of a par cular wall. It depicts a painted promise, a sign: to reach Tombouktou will take you a mere 52 days.

Center:

Straighter then this, it’s difficult to find around here. Bottom:

Under the scorching Sun of southern Morocco. Bottom right:

Bianchi Prata’s party and our path crossed just as we arrived El-Mhamid.

As we dined (marvellously, by the way) at the Fibule du Draa, our decision was to go straight to FoumZguid, instead of crossing from Tagounite to Lake Iriki and then FoumZguid. The plan was to sleep in elMhamid (not to be mistaken with Mhamid, just south of Tagounite), and then head to Lake Iriki from West, leaving luggage and excess weight at the Maison d’Hotes Hiba. We head oﬀ, with our picture taken, all post cards dropped at the mailbox and water supply replenished. The thermometer lead us to assume high temperatures for the day. And it didn’t

fooled us: 40°C. The piste is very dry and exposed. The rugged surface is covered with corruga ons. Strangely enough, its humps are spread out more than the usual ones, which makes it harder to nego ate at lower speeds. This one is not a technical track. At most, let’s call it uncomfortable. The piste has gone through an upgrade a few years ago, but it seems works ended before they could have the chance to pave it. The re-

Top right:

The final stretch to El-Mhamid.

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Bottom:

The first road-wannabe section of the piste.

sult is a rapidly declining road plaUorm. At mes the road disappears as water goes by, year aAer year. Being the fast link between Zagora and Foum-Zguid, it is used a lot, both by travellers and locals. We arrive at a point where the road stops. From a distant couple of road works engines, a single dust line approaches. It sounds like a mobille8e. It is. Driven by a Moroccan, who tries to explain us in short French sentences that there is an alterna ve track. We end up following him oﬀpiste for a while un l we join the sought aAer piste. As a sign of gra tude Daniel accepts to give him a litre of gas. A hose and a reconverted can of Castrol Oil does the trick. The middle sec on of the piste remained rough although with more stones, pebbles and cobbles. It’s a whole diﬀerent sec on, though, closer to a dual track, rather than a roadwannabe.

Even when the piste abruptly ends, surely there will be a way. The dirt road returns on the third and ﬁnal sec on: a long straight line, forced to contour occasional pavement absences. And this is where some excitement arises. Some of these detours are sandy, others quite rocky. All of them are, in their essence, dried small river beds. Sand avoidance, however,

was the reason we chose the alterna ve course. Me and Alice, in par cular, don’t really thrive on the mushy soA stuﬀ. Both front and rear swerve and dance all around, giving me a sense of lack of control. Daniel, perhaps given his larger experience with lighter bikes, copes well with it. But, for me and Alice, it’s something to learn and train; I’m pre8y sure, that to properly enjoy the South of Morocco, minimum sand skills are recommended.

places Motorbikes have the ability to go places, and fast, too. A lot of those are a blur, others remain engraved deep in our memories. Don’t get mistaken: you might even not like them. We did, though. That’s also what’s fun about travel.

auberge

, N’ kob

Tislite

Gorges du #2

Todhga

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auberge #1

Tislite If we keep returning here, year after year, there must be strong reasons

Left column:

Auberge Tislite struck by morning sunlight. Top:

No wind nor ducks disturb the smooth surface of Lac dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Isli. Bottom:

The bigger tent has disappeared, leaving a couple of small ones, available to sleep over.

Malika won our hearts and her auberge our minds. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not the cheapest nor the cosiest. But there is a warm feel to it. I leave it with always more than I entered with. Every me we shared the space with someone who has stories to tell or tracks to share. No ma8er if out there is freezing

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or pouring rain. A huge hot oven in the centre of the dinning and rest area gathers each one of the adventures around it. And that’s when magic happens, and several worlds connect, by talking. Waking up to ﬁnd its peaceful surroundings, never ceases to amaze me, either.

Right and bottom:

Both girls literally freezed their buts off during Imichil’s night .

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Gorges du #2

Todhga Gorge(ou)s Todhga indeed.

Bottom left:

Late afternoon near the Gorges, when all tourists are gone. Top:

Early morning. Notice the bike on the road, which gives us the scale. Bottom right:

Todgha gives birth to a soon-to-be relentless Sun.

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, Nâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; kob

They warned us about it... ... that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mean we were prepared.

Left page Triptic:

Views along the narrow streets of N’Kob village and its palmeraie. Bottom:

Road separating the farming side on the palmeraie from the more “urban” village landscape.

I hesitate as I write these words. And, in a way, I only decided to go forward because (and let’s be honest about it) very few bother to read what I write down. Finally, there is a good side to it. I’m afraid that, by praising N’Kob and its narrow streets and welcoming locals, I end up contribu ng to ruining it. We chose Kasbah Baha-Baha to rest for the night: it turned out beyond our best expecta ons. We decided to stroll along the village’s palmeraie: it was relaxing and refreshing. We closed the day wandering through the streets. The whole package is a ﬁnding.

Use your smartphone to hear N’Kob night’s soothing sounds.

Right page Triptic:

Peaceful Kasbah Baha-Baha details. Bottom:

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Palm trees reach high creating a unique atmosphere, fresher than its surroundings.

Moments Travel is made of moments; some happy, others unplanned and unfortunate. All of them are opportuni es: to ďŹ nd more about ourselves and, by lowering our guard, about the people welcoming us.

cross

eyed

Shattere d

encounters

wet

soaking

t a h S ter Many things may become shattered, torn to pieces. Some will hurt you, in more than one way.

Blue. Bump. Shove. Fall.

Red. Rise. Scrap. Move on.

Blue is the color of this old Transit. One of those crammed with locals, travelling in another day's work end. Being used as a taxi between KhĂŠnifra and Imilchil, it's driver is familiar with the bends, holes and bumps of an even older road. Tarmac is more absent then present, and the mid strip is geMng thinner and slimmer by the day.

Red. A warm and dark liquid blurs my right eye. I seem to be missing my sunglasses. The glove returns red from my eyebrow. Alice lays a couple of meters ahead. So does Old Blue Transit on the other side of the road. People are star ng to emerge from it. Daniel shows up by my side. "Are you OK?" he repeats several mes, worried

I smell it for a few hundreds, maybe thousands of meters. Its rear is like so many others we've came to overpass during this long day. I stand on the footpegs, as I start to take its leA to leave it behind. Bump is the ďŹ rst sound, followed by a shove. Despite the heavy bones, Alice is loosing this one-second ba8le. The once vacant short strip of unpaved road edge has just been taken by old Blue Transit. She is trying to save herself by avoiding a couple of deep potholes in the road. Fall. I loose. I can see Alice as she tumbles and spins in the air. Now I can't anymore. Now I can. Now I don't as I, myself, whirl and twirl.

Rise. "Help me rise Alice". She will keep on. She must. Daniel returns her to the road, over the soil and rock crest. The windshield is sha8ered. My right eye wound s ll bleeds as I collect the pieces. Scrap. I try to keep myself busy, unscrewing bolts and removing bits of plas c. I replied nonchalantly to the Old Blue's driver excuses. Yet I recall each passenger's look, amazed, worried. I'm keeping hold of each plas c piece and bolt, as if they would give me comfort. They feed some slim hope that all could once again be s tched up. That Alice would be unharmed.

Move on. Alice, apart from having lost her windshield is perfect. She dusts oﬀ and roars once again. I take several laps around her, looking for something out of place. Nothing. The here-and-there occasional scratch, but nothing more.

Looking back, what I most remember from those short seconds was thinking "Damn! I've just ruined our journey!". Only a few miles back we've met Zaid, who showed eager to help us taking the right crossroad op on towards Imilchil. He ends up revealing himself to be cousin to Malika, our hostess for this evening near Tislite lake. Invites us for tea at Aghbala, the next berbere village along our common path. At the side of the road, s ll cleaning the dust oﬀ, I worried leaving him wai ng, worried for us not showing. Silly worries; I'm sure he would understand.

“My right eye wound still bleeds as I collect the pieces.” When we ﬁnally met him, having dinner with friends in Aghbala, I declined his invita on: "We're late to joint Malika. Some other me, Zaid?"

While riding these last 60 miles, my breathing is accompanied by a, at ﬁrst, light pain on the chest. As with the windshield, also one of my ribs cracked. I would have to live with it for the remainder of this journey. But the main vic m today was my pride; the pride of riding everyday for 10 years without ever having a road accident. Today was that day.

Oh, one last advise for riding in Morocco’s roads: use your horn. It is there for a reason. 43 PERSONAL MOTOGRAPHIC

Right:

Alice lays on her side, defeated by a chunk to large to bite and chew on.

There are more than one way to connect N'kob to Zagora.

cross

eyed Alice is at the mechanic. We left her just now at the hands of someone we didn't know until today, in a country where a mechanic is a sort of life certified MacGyver.

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The hard way will take you behind Jbel Rhart through Chris Sco8's MS1 route. It's rough, loaded with rocks and a view not so great. Jbel Sahro, on the previous day, made our teeth quiver and shake and our wrists sore, so a rest for them (and us) would be welcome. On the other extreme, there's the soAer way. The downside: it's paved and will probably be the prime choice for caravans, motorhomes, trucks, jeeps and buses. Needless to say, a 3rd alterna ve, along the Draa river, immersed in the palm trees groves, sounds great. It will take you across small and ny villages, on a nice stroll along the unpaved pistes. And, oh boy, did it delivered (see "#3 Draa Valley" in Pistes sec on). However… ...it included several small oued crossing, quite stony.

It is morning and Alice lays on her side. I'm familiar to see her revealing her undies in such an indecent fashion; this was far from being a ﬁrst, neither will it be the last. And that's good: it is a sign both of us will keep enjoying oﬀ-road and learning. But this one - rest assured- was harsh. The huge rock abruptly stopped all mo on, against my best evalua on of the terrain. I've clearly misjudge it, and the result is at plain sight. Not so obvious is the fact that the steering is twisted.

AAer hiMng the rock, it became evident and palpable that any oﬀroading came with a weird feeling coming from the steering. We decided to join the paved road as soon as possible. There aren't more than 3 crossings of the palmeraie to join the paved road, the faster link. Luckily, the nearest was just a dozen miles ahead.

Forty miles separates us from the nearest credible mechanic, in Zagora.

We head to one of the good hotel references Jordi "Triki" gave us, con-

As we drove to Zagora, the idea of ending all piste riding was growing on my head.

ﬁrming what Lonely Planet and Guide du Routard already suggested. Arriving at the"Fibule du Draa" we came across with, once more. - "Mohamed Gordito!", he bellows. The ques on was whether he could advise us on a good mechanic in Zagora. Drawing his phone, he dials him. The short conversa on uses a fast and mixed breed of Spanish and French which we've grown accustomed to hear from Triki. - "Todo está arreglado". Jordi and his "bunch of merry men" will lead us there, aAer lunch and some rest by the hotel pool, under the palm trees. Apparently, we realised aAer, the reason we ended up catching them here, since a couple of days ago at Imilchil, was that Top left:

”Shiu… can you hear that? It’s the sound of Alice’s market value sky-dropping.” Bottom left:

After the whole mending is done. Right:

It’s not a BMW dealership… so what?

one of their bikes refused to cooperate. The problem had been solved early on by Gordito, making use of some ingenious mechanics and electrics, bypassing a circuit and thus resolving it. Sipping a cold drink on the poolside, I had the me to convince myself to trust in Mohamed skills. Being recommended by someone we know and, to the extent of our experience, actually trust, does help. AAer lunch the caravan leaves for the town centre; des na on "Mohamed Gordito". We follow Triki's 4x4, the recently ﬁxed F800GS and a R1200GS. The big yellow sign above the repair shop entrance makes it impossible to miss it. It includes references to the Dakar, back from those days where it roamed through Africa. We shake hands, introduced by our Catalan friend, and describe the problem. Since one of my aluminium side cases has taken quite a bea ng these days, I've also asked him to try mend them back straight. Hopefully, I would manage to do the rest of

the trip with it able to close properly, nothing more. We arrange for picking Alice up by 7PM. And this is the diﬃcult moment: leaving her on a greasy backyard, to the hands of a total stranger on a foreign country. Another four hours separated me from the result. During that

me, Zagora oﬀered us refreshments and shopping me for the family back home. At least, while haggling the price over a scarf, the mind gets distracted. We are both riding in Daniel's motorbike, which didn't came with the pillion backseat. I suppose geMng my bum beat against the hard aluminium plate might be considered as some sort of punishment. Punishment for

not having the skills to avoid all these troubles.

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It's 06:45PM. Time to meet again with Mohamed. And to be dazzled. Mainly for his handcraA skills mending the hard case. The steering is be8er, but not perfect, though. It’s good enough to regain my conﬁdence, in driving Alice, but also in strangers.

As I travel more and more, people are growing into me. The adventure starts to seem void and meaningless without them. It is also increasingly evident that humans are complicate. This journey I felt both sides of this coin. I travelled alone for some years, before deciding to share future adventures. To some extent, I’ve done so because I am aware for the fact that I’m not the easiest of guys to cope with. I nag a lot, about almost any li8le thing. I have the tendency to absorb myself in thoughts. But, probably the most engraved dis nc ve feature is I revere silence. I chose words carefully and I’m conﬁdent Revering is appropriate.

people This doesn’t mean that I do not seek conversa ons and building rela onships with whoever crosses our path. In fact, most mes, I take the lead ini a ng contact.

We both have to accept it as a natural thing and grow our friendship considering it as such. Saying it, however, is easier than actually doing it.

A good travel companion is hard to ﬁnd. As our friendship become more and more at ease, eventually we will start pushing each other bu8ons. It is bound to happen… and it did.

But there is a par cular guy I have to learn to live and travel with: me. Work in progress... Future adventures will prove me right, hopefully.

encounters

Along our way, we came to meet several characters and friends. It’s one of those elements in travel that you don’t plan for, but they end up being a memorable part of it. When travelling people seem to be more open and willing to share. And what a wonderful thing it is: to hope ﬁnding and making friends wherever you go.

In last year’s edition “10 days in Morocco”, he was also around. He is becoming a regular presence in our Moroccan trips. Not only last year we did ﬁnd ourselves chaMng in the plateau of the piste des Roses, but also ended up choosing Auberge Tislite for the exact same night. This me he’s guiding a bunch of heavier GS, instead of 2011’s TTR and XR. Jordi is very friendly and makes for a pleasant company in Imilchil in mate environment, around a plate of Malika’s excellent couscous. Given his ex-

Jordi

triki

tent knowledge and experience, good track advices are prone to pop out. Once se8led in Morocco, was forced by recent hardship to return to homeland, Catalunia. A couple of days aAer, we bump into each other again, this me in Zagora’s hotel (see “Cross-Eyed” episode), where his willingness to help surpassed our expecta ons. Where will it be our next encounter?

Halfway along N2 from Zagora to Foum-Zguid we come across with a convoy of Huskvarnas.

Pedro

Bianchi prata

A few hundred yards aAer, a familiar ﬁgure stands on the edge of the road. His equipment and colours leave no margin for doubt. Pedro’s is leading a group through Morocco. Daniel starts speaking in Portuguese. He reveals we have enlisted in one of his recent OﬀRoad experiences, back in Portugal. He was nice enough to seem to remember us, but it seemed improbable at most.

In last year’s edition “10 days in Morocco”, he was also around. The expedi on truck ﬁnally arrives and our paths spread out. 49 PERSONAL MOTOGRAPHIC

encounters

mad

dutch

man

This “Mad” Dutchman is (probably) saner than most people I’ve known. We are wai ng for our lunch at Maison d’Hotes Hiba in ElMhamid (just next to FoumZguid). The garden ends with a green-water pool, where an adobe wall overlooks the palm trees on the valley. The birds suddenly stop singing at the sound of bikes arriving. The gates open to allow a blue Yamaha TTR showing fall signs, driven by Peter; the orange (needless to say) KTM is ridden by Maurice. Peter is a tall man, giving the impression that the TTR is even smaller than it really is. This group is returning earlier and the Yamaha arrives with a very low front tyre. The 3rd member of this team end up driving back the Toyota 4wd, aAer a nasty fall in a rocky ﬁeld, where he banged his

head hard, loosing conscience for a while. He went directly to his room for some “thinking”. The thing about bikers is that within instants conversa ons ﬂow. Only aAer two slices of a fresh watermelon, and we are exchanging experiences and tracing back our lives, sharing them probably more than I’ve ever been tempted to do with any of my work colleagues: why is that? Peter runs Biker’s Home. I’m not aware of who are the players in oﬀ-road travelling in Morocco, but this one transmits trust, based on knowledge and a sensibility not so common, nowadays. The appearance is of someone slightly mad, but it doesn’t take long to realise a lot of experience and good sense is

put into work when it’s necessary. And, in this line of business, it’s a invaluable thing to have at hand. On top of our table, Peter no ces our copy of Chris Sco8 book, “Morocco Overland”. As I see him grabbing it, I think is curious to see some routes around. He then returns the book, opened in the “Thank you” sec on, poin ng his ﬁnger to a paragraph where the author reveals his apprecia on for Peter’s help in puMng the book together. “Ahh… I only gave him the crappy ones”, he jokes. “If you want the really good ones, come with me on a journey”. In bikershome.net sec on “Tips and Tricks” his answer to the ques on “What if someone invites you to tea in Morocco?” reveals that he got in love with Morocco in more than one way. Contagious good mood and a lot of knowledge: you can’t 51 beat nor fake that. PERSONAL MOTOGRAPHIC

could have smuggled goldﬁshes inside our boots.

Although travelling is a dream, the end was a wet... nightmare.

dripping

Wet...

The ferry was scheduled for 12 o’clock. But this is Morocco. I try to say to myself that it’s OK; we’ll wait. But I’m trembling, some mes uncontrollably. As we were arriving yesterday in Moulay Bousselham, on the Atlan c Coast, the sky went dark with a huge mass of heavy clouds. It seemed as if it was exactly on top of our des na on. And it was. During that evening the wind and rain bombed Moulay. By the looks of it, the storm eye was going northbound… as in Tangier, the same place where it so happens we would catch our boat connec on back home.

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Finally the ferry arrived and aAer some skidding on the metallic ramp of the ferry, we boarded. Arriving at the southern Spain was a relief and for a good 3 hours, no rain came upon us. I was actually regaining sensi vity on my private parts. No hope for the feet, though.

First thing in the morning, Comarit services reassured us, over the phone, that the sea was calm, despite the buckets of water falling from the sky.

Night starts falling as we crossed Aracena. And just when the Sun was gone, and with it all hopes for drying, it poured for 2 minutes only. By second 15th, my boots were already drenched. With only six degrees Celsium, my boxer shorts were freezing, so much it hurts.

As in a diving contest, we inhale a big lump of air and head north. Our faith was that the several layers of our jackets would sustain all rain, keeping some warmth in our upper bodies. It did. But the trousers and booths failed miserably. And, beneath those are (usually) underwear and socks.

Riding without a windshield worsen the situa on. I was in a “Give me all you’ve got; I’m taking it all”. And not only water. A ﬁne mesh of mosquitoes and larger insect life (or death, in this case) decided that my chest and helmet visor is their ul mate place to be,

So at this point, the two of us stand in the dock, wishing for a ferry that would not depart before a good 90 minutes wai ng. If we wanted to, we

Memo to me: next me, pack a f&%$ing full wet suit.

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