By the time I wake up the women are all up preparing breakfast. Again the same routine of washing hands before and after breakfast and the self-prepared bread and butter is superb. I help where I can with Ibuprufen for grandmother’s pains and eye-drops for an old gentleman with a painful eye. Explaining usage instructions regarding frequency of use using the position of the sun for time is always an interesting exercise. We take out the bike and my favorite of the boys comes along for the ride, but he does not last long, so I do not get to take him to school, as his sister had requested. I leave with a heavy heart, the atmosphere of this family so warm and hospitable, and they made me feel so very welcome.

Saida Ikoukalne & Avlaziz, Fatima, Mohammed, Nora, Meliga, Mohammed, Ferid, Abdelzak, Ghadija

I return down the beautiful gorge and follow the river Asif M’Goun all the way back to the main road to Quarzazate. I am driving carefully, conscious of the condition of the back tyre. The road to Marrakech is long with stunning views as it winds its way over the Atlas. The drive gives me time to collect my thoughts.

I have been in Morocco for over a month, and it has been wonderful experience. I will of course return, but as they say, when you travel, you take something with you and you leave something behind. I have made great memories both driving, being close to nature, and my encounters with the people of Morocco. There have been only good experiences, even if some where tough. I have experienced Morocco and it’s Islam as very tolerant of diversity, including alcohol, homosexuality, and even in the cities promiscuity.

The people are friendly, helpful, hustling and hardworking. Family is hugely important, and so is friendship. By the time I make it to Marrakech there is no more time to establish how I will get the back tyre replaced (it needs to be a specific make). But another priority is more urgent, Mikou has warned me of a potential issue with the customs authorities leaving the bike behind while I travel back to Switzerland.

He has also arranged a garage in Marrakech through a friend. A check at the airport and the official explains to me that I have to leave the bike on the airport parking and the key and registration papers with the customs office. If the bike is parked at Mikou’s friend I have to go to the office in the city. A quick decision is needed. While leaving the bike at the open airport parking is not for 1001 Arabian nights, but only for 30, I weigh up my trust in Morocco and enshallah, decide that finding Mikou’s friend and the customs office is too much. So 30 Arabian nights it will be be. At first I decide to spoil myself for the last night and to go to a good hotel. With the somewhat dirty look I drive up to the Sofitel, and once inside, I realize I cannot face this type of tourism at all for the moment, I much prefer the real people of last night.

Back at the hotel Imlilchil I re-arrange the luggage and clean out both panniers to find a thick layer of wet sand at the bottom of the damaged pannier. When I return I will have to give it to one of the local metalworkers, and fill the hole with epoxy steel putty, or better, perhaps a more ornate Moroccan solution. The hotel offers to store the panniers for the time I am away.

Again, enshallah and in God we trust. For my last evening I retrace some steps and have dinner at Djemaa el-Fna. As well as the obligatory jus d’orange, a kawa nuss nuss at Charlot, a visit to African Chic, which has the local working girls going for the promise of a bachelor party’s financial rewards. The barman recognizes me from the previous time and visibly enjoys the fact that I have taken a bike into the desert, which is where he is from.

He recommends the Western Sahara, and I make a mental note to do this sometime with a friend. There is a screaming queen who outshines the showtime the showgirls are putting up working the bachelors party and he recommends I visit a club called Silver, which I pay a visit to observe the locals and tourists, partygoers and professionals enjoying themselves. Morocco is in a state of change, a plurality of levels of religion, wealth, tradition all living side-by-side.

I leave la boutique, the disbanded mining town, and my friend to continue my way north.

The most efficient way to clean your bike is to sandblast the rough mud in the desert, and to wash off the dust in rivers. That was what today was all about. The plan was to set off after breakfast with my friends from La Boutique and to return to Marrakech to leave a day available before the flight back to organize a new rear tyre as the current tyre is shredded, and to arrange the necessary with the customs authorities to be able to leave the bike in Morocco for a month. But the plan did not materialize at all, enshallah, and that is always best.

After a brief pause in Boumaine Dades, I decide to travel a Northern route via Bou-Thrarar to El-Had. The first piste between Äit-Youl and Bou-Thrarar leads from the Qued Dades to the Asif M’Goun, both two large rivers cutting their path through the mountains, leaving deep and steep gorges and fertile soil for the inhabitants of their valleys. You have to know that the route is there, since the start looks unobtrusive and there are no signposts. The piste is a wonderful drive, and I realize I must be on a lesser travelled but touristic road, judging by the amount of tourist 4×4’s coming my way. In Bou-Thrahar I stop by a river and immediately a guy starts talking to me in very good German. He is studying German in Agadir, and invites me for tea at his home. I have given him my number and Facebook details, but as of two days later he has not contacted me. After an interesting conversation I continue, and am again confirmed in my belief of the hospitality of the people.

I continue north and a first wrong turn takes me into a river bed and the local kids indicate that the piste is forever down the river bed, so I continue before realising that I am falling victim to the local sport, leading people like me astray. I enjoy the many river crossings and on my return I try to traverse a steep drop and ascent, and on the ascent the lack of profile on the back tyre makes itself felt, and now I am stuck in the river – the thought of all my electronics makes me use full force to keep the bike from falling over. Again, entertainment for the locals, and they help me push the bike up the ascent, all in the water. One of the panniers got damaged during the fall on tar and is no longer watertight. But that does not matter, a little water between engine oil, dust, sand and bread. I return to the main road and at this point all navigation methods fail. The paper map says there is a road north through the Atlas, the GPS map not, and the first Morrocan GPS tells me there is a piste. So I go. I get treated the most beautiful gorge imaginable, only as broad as a single track, driving all along the river bed and into a green valley amongst the palmeraie. It proves the point that a) serendipity makes you discover the most beautiful areas, and b) they are not on maps and c) off road capability helps. I continue up the valley and up a very steep and tight scent up the mountain (Tizi-n Äit-Hamed). My back tyre has limited traction now and on the tight gravelly turns this is starting to become tight and somewhat risky, since mistakes on the steep mountain will be punished severely. Just over the pass I am stopped by a guy wanting a lift to his village. I tell him it is too dangerous on the bike. He invites me to the village to stay with him, but at the same time informs me that the maps indicate that there is a road, but in fact there is not, which is confirmed by a cross-reference (Morrocan GPS triangulation :-)) later on.

I turn around unwillingly, but I feel I need to get to Marrakech. As I finally get back down into the valley, dusk is setting in. During a smoke break two woman pass me, and invite me for tea with a sincere smile. I decide that Marrakesh is going to have to wait (rightly so since the Quarzazate – Marrakech pass is better done in daylight) and follow the woman.

I am however stopped in the center of the little village for a chat, and as I continue I seem to have lost the women. I am stopped by some kids and had in fact driven right past the house. I am invited inside and one of the boys brings a tea can and a bowl for me to wash face, hands and feet. I am particularly happy to take my soaked boots off, the burn blisters still painful on my feet. I show the kids some pictures of the bike in the desert, and observe them interact with each other.

There is a toddler and each of the kids takes a turn carrying the child around. I notice they are extremely loving and gentle with the toddler and with each other. I struggle to understand the family relationships since it would seem the younger of the two woman is the mother of the toddler. Later on however the older lady breastfeeds the toddler, and at first the thought crosses my mind whether Berbers breastfeed from multiple mothers (as I have learnt that camels do). It turns out that the older lady is in fact the mother of all of them, the younger woman is the eldest of 8 children. She is 21 it turns out, and the youngest child about 1. That is a long time to be bearing children… I wonder if it really is for a lack of contraceptives.

In my life most women that I have met with many children somehow have seemed the more content. After tea with bread and self made honey and palm oil they offer for me to stay, and I gladly accept. The boys take me for a small tour around the mountain ridge and teach me the different herbs they have in their garden. They warn me of the kicking donkey and prove their warning to me. However, with a bit of effort also the donkey calms down and instead of biting me snipes at one of the boys. For all the talk of slow life and bio-food, here you have it. Was all the “progress” of the the last 200 years in fact regress? See also the movies „The Gods must be crazy“ – especially 1, shot in the Kalahari.

Eventually I meet the father who is a tranquil distinguished soul. Him and I smoke the occasional cigarette together and also he explains the herbs to me that grow in a little garden inside the house which is arranged as a square with the garden in the middle, and now also my bike. Another room is the wood burning kitchen, the women of the house have been preparing conscientiously for winter, there is a large supply of wood. Another houses a sheep and a goat, separated from others outside. I can only assume this is for reasons of fresh milk.

This family is wealthier than my previous encounter. The family is larger, they live in a larger house, have electricity, and television with satellite (compulsory for any respectable Moroccan family) and water in a reservoir on the mountain above. I see no scooter, only the donkey. The kids eventually want photos taken, and only grandmother and mother are camera-shy.

Eventually we have dinner, couscous with herbs and goat meat. I notice the large portion of meat I am being offered compared to the others, and I also notice how they offer each other their own portions. It is beautiful to watch this family interact.

Another ritual that is wonderful to watch how always a different kid takes the tea can before and after dinner around the entire family to wash hands. Furthermore, the kids eat with spoons, the adults with their hands. The world is inverted. The lounge turned dining room now turns into a bedroom and I am offered a corner place. The kids are very attentive and one covers the camera with a cloth. Some of the family sleeps here, some of the family in another room. The covers seem to have fleas but once I learn to ignore the itching I fall into peaceful sleep to the thought how much happier I am having partaken in this hospitality rather than a hotel night in Marrakech.

The day starts in relaxed fashion with leisurely breakfast,  writing the notes of the past two intense days and working through the myriad of impressions, sensations and thoughts. My body is tired, but I want to press on. A visit to the pharmacy follows and somehow the pharmacist and me manage to establish with lots of gestures what I am looking for – “non” but after diarrhoea –  and the content resembles the ingredients of the dehydration sachets I had brought with me. With new supplies including pens for the kids and honey for the guardian of la boutique (when Katherine and I slept there we learnt it was very expensive), I set out the climb from N’Kob to Jebel Sarhro.

The piste is rock and stone, testing not only suspension, but the steel radial in the tyres as well as the drive train. Again the BMW just keeps rolling along, much more at ease than the exhausted rider. At some otherwise arcane point on the road apart from the gravel surface, the front wheel twists and digs into the gravel, consequence my right foot caught under the pannier, I guess it is a good 100kg, perhaps more. As soon as I am able to free myself, there is a friendly Berber at hand to help right the bike (and I have really come to appreciate the help).

As if a mid-mountain get-together, two Spaniards come towards us on bicycles. Knowing the steep rocky pass ahead, they must have had a rough ride! It is a real pity that the berbers are so camera shy, they are so photogenic – the old, the graceful, the wild, the wise, the beautiful, the genetically challenged, it is all there but cannot be respectfully captured without building a lot of rapport in a very time consuming manner. It is said that time is what Moroccans have a lot of, perhaps I get my chances (in addition to my Berber family).

At the top of the mountain is Tizi-n Tazazert I stop to show the boy who had sold me a knife for not a small sum (that subsequently separated blade from shaft) how to fix it properly using steel wire. I also show him photos and video’s on the iPad. The speed of learning of this boy is incredible, or perhaps he was part of the Apple development team for intuitive control design!… I am told he goes to school, anything else would be a pity for such a bright kid. And if he is bright, his little sister scores full points on curiosity!

Across the mountain and looking for the small river that Katherine and I had come across, I find it reduced to a mere trickle. There you have it, sometimes there is water, sometimes there isn’t. Enshallah. Arriving at la boutique I meet the guardian who understandably takes some time to recognize his previous visitor, this time in full metal jacket (OK, bike outfit and helmet) and is visibly happy at the gift.

This time I set up camp with the tent, am invited for coffee and briefly rattle some berber girls because I ask if the fruit of the tree they are sitting under are edible and eat one of them. Tonight I am treated to a bright full moon lighting up the valley, a pleasant temperature, a light wind and complete silence – in short a tranquil serenity.

Just after sunrise I awake, feeling slightly better. One mission only, get out of the sand. I walk over to the bike and remove any major weight and bring it to base camp, leaving the tent standing for shade in case I do not manage and need an abode for a hot day ahead. I try to drive the bike and in the cold sand and after some pushing I manage to get going and cover the 600 meters out of the sand. Time to go back and carry the tent and all heavy stuff back to the bike. Already I am destroyed. It is barely 3km to the Sahara camp site and I decide that it is the best option, with fall-back option the oasis with the best salad marrocain in all Morocco.

After a drive over a reasonably hard dry lake, I face sand again, and after a further 400 meters am stuck again, 400 meters from the site, just on the other side of the dune. But I decide, enough of sand. Lesson Nr 3, always deflate your tires BEFORE sand, do not wait until you get stuck for the first time. A 4×4 comes past with a Spanish photographer and after having been his motive, they give me 1.5 liters of water. I guess last night’s drumming came from a Berber tent alongside the road and I get to discuss the northerly piste that avoids the masses of sand ahead. I think of the incredible physical fitness it takes (plus different light bikes) to do a Paris-Dakar and make a mental note to speak to a friend who has done it, Xavi Riba about his experience.

I greatly appreciate the help lifting the bike again and the push to see me return for another salad marrocain. While waiting I essentially collapse on the carpets trying to avoid cramps. Another 1,5 hours later with breakfast salad marrocain and 3 sprites, and giving the mother with the swollen knee some Ibuprufen, I depart again and decide to continue on the northern route, which supposedly is pretty good. Well, it is shake rattle and roll stone piste, the camel is galloping again.

By now I am down to 4.5 liters of water, so the remaining 100km have to be flawless, not much room for mistake now, even if I am on a more frequented route (a very relative term as I did not see one other car). Again the heat and wind is shriveling me up, my mouth is dry as desert sand and my lips cracking everywhere, even with factor 50 baby sunbalm. The suspension of the bike takes a beating and the damage is immediate. Dented rims and the hind plastic wheel cover (that has GS emblazoned on it :-)) gets eaten… The most challenging bits are rough, steep rocky dry river crossings and in the most challenging of all I get some help from “enshallah”.

The front hits a big rock and starts falling over. As I want to put down my foot I step into air, only to find a rock under my foot a split second later, just in time to heave the bike upright again – cramp in my leg the consequence. I manage to get trough and up the other side. In retrospect I am disappointed for not having taken a picture. Even after my offroad driving course I would have never had the confidence to take a heavy bike like the GS (or any bike for that matter) through something like this, and I would have loved to make a video / photo for my brothers. But in that moment, in that heat, in the race against time of remaining water suppplies, the priorities are different. By now riding is managing cramps, now also in my hands, trying to manage clutch, brakes and accelerator.

I carry on and arrive to a massive dry lake with a reasonable hard surface, with sandy patches. After the camel gallop I am happy to be traveling at 60km/h and with that closer to destination ice cold coke, the thought that is driving me on. The environment is barren, nothing ahead, mountains on the right, dunes on the left. Next a sand storm reduces visibility to next to nothing, no dunes, no mountains, only 15 meters of dry lake ahead, a couple of tracks still visible. I am reduced to driving to GPS, tracking a thin pink line on a screen to get me through the desert. It is like navigating on the open ocean. Except for the heat and the sand being swept in your face. When the horizon changes colour, as it does below, know that in a couple of minutes you will see NO more.

Finally I arrive to tarmac and I understand the photos of bikers kissing the road. I arrive to the military town of Foum-Zguid and the first cafe that seems pleasant I stop. I have not even takes my eye-saving goggles off, and I have already ordered an ice cold coke and 2 big bottles of ice cold water. The shopkeeper notices my exhaustion and kindly gives me a bucket of water to wash my face and cool down. There is something about arriving alone on a bike. Here people appreciate it more that the comfortable tourist blasting through in guided air-conditioned Landcruisers, ice cold drinks included. After letting my swollen feet dry again I decide to continue to N’Kob, 200km on tar, and I arrive after nightfall with a beautiful sunset on the way.

I stay at the same beautiful Riyadh we had stayed before, a good night’s rest is sorely needed, and the salad, fruit and brochettes are wonderful and exactly what my body needs. I spend the evening reflecting on the harshness of the past few days. It is not a beautiful trip, it is tough on man and machine. If you want to come for adventure and finding limits come here by bike in summer alone. If not, come by bike in winter with others, or take a 4×4.

The major lesson of physical wellbeing is that you will need 8 -10 liters of water without ever needing to pee. You can almost not drink enough electrolytes to be absorbed at the rate they are being consumed. I cannot imagine people actually living in these conditions, knowing that also the winters are harsh and cold. During the trip I was smiling at the stupid problems we create, the often times silly office politics of our workplaces, and how affluence disconnects us from real life values and enjoyment. I am glad I went south, to have made this experience, and I am glad to be back north on a comfortable bed while writing this. No photos nor words can do justice to such hostile territory. And I guess also I will have to prepare for silly office politics when I return to work. For now the next steps are set, on Friday I fly back from Marrakech, Katherine booked the flight. I now need to decide what to do in the meantime (Jebel Sarhro) with 3 days to the flight and how to store the bike until I return.

This was going to be in a small way my own 9/11.

I decide for the route west to Chgaga. After checking that tracks are visible on the GPS, I decide to go it alone. After restocking and refueling in Tagounite I take the piste towards Chgaga, a vast dune in the Erg el H’hazil, on the edge of Algeria. It is about 60 km’s and I think I will arrive just after lunch time. How different it turns out. It is the first meeting of my fully loaded BMW with deep sand.

I hit a couple of km of sand, and after getting stuck 3 – 4 times, having to lie the BMW with it’s 300kg fully loaded on the side to fill the hole where the back tyre had dug in, picking it up again, in 46 degrees Celsius, I can hardly breathe in this heat. I am destroyed, and the trip has only started. A couple of hundred meters away is a shrub and I decide to rest in the shade. In this heat it is hardly possible to recover. I have in the space of 2 hours drunk 4 liters of water, I am consuming more water than the bike does petrol, there is a blood coming from my running nose (in the heat the nose is always running), I am sweating that I could offer someone to take a shower. And my heavy breathing does not abate even in the horizontal – I curse every cigarette ever smoked. The heat is relentless, and there is not a breath of wind for convectional touareg cooling to work. I realize that here (this) man and machine are hitting their limits.

There is a little mobile phone reception and after a couple of attempts I am able to refresh my sand riding experience with a little theory, remote mobile internet be thanked – weight back on the bike, tires to super low pressure, and push, a lot. At some point I decide to walk back to the bike, about 200 meters away from my shaded bush. Idiot, I should have known better from the hot beach sand in South Africa. Before actually managing to get to the bike, and my sacred Havaianas, I have burnt blisters into my feet. With direct sunlight, I can only imagine that the sand must be 60 – 70 degrees hot…

I walk around to explore how far the sand goes. Eventually I can breath again and I decide to try again. With weight back, deflated tires, I manage to push the bike close to my shaded tree. Again, I am completely out of breath, exhausted and feel my heart beat in my entire body. It takes another 20 minutes before I can reasonably breathe and I can get back on the bike. I had managed before to get the bike on a slightly resistant surface so with some pushing I manage to get going. Riding in sand is the like a mating dance of camel. The bike oftentimes takes you where it wants, leaving the circular tracks of a desert viper (which I also have the privilege of seeing). But I manage to do a km or so without being stuck again. Back on stone desert the little compressor (Touratech) does it’s magic again, and I continue. If sand is dance of camel, then stone piste is gallop of camel. It is incredibly trying on the suspension of the bike. Everything rattles and anything that can come loose will come loose, bags, bolts and toothpaste cover…

The wind has come up and is blowing in my direction. Traveling towards it I have a 80km/h 47 degree headwind blowing in my face. My mouth is dry, my lips are being shredded, the top layer of skin is burnt away. The water I have to drink is hot, it is like drinking hot tea in a hot place in direct sunlight. This is desolate, grim, stark and unforgiving country, and my respect grows for the nomadic tuareg. This is a tough life.

The road leads to a well and thus means of more water cooling. I suppose I am  a bit overzealous, and in pouring water over me I get a lot of water into my boots. But it is wonderfully refreshing, and my spirit lifts. I consider if or not to top up my water, which in this case i would need to filter and i am too lazy to do so – it is just too hot, a potential mistake as I soon learn. In the desert, ALWAYS fill up your water supplies!

I continue through rough stone piste in the middle of barren no-man’s land. If before I was stirring through sand, now it is back to being shaken! I actually see another 4×4 and this remote area of the world, you are glad for any person, especially when you are traveling alone on a bike. You never know when you will be reliant on assistance. It just takes one nasty fall.

The harsh environment is a constant reminder that responsibility for the safety of man and machine is absolutely paramount. I find an oasis and after the strenuous morning I am so happy for a respite from the heat. The inviting space is nothing more that carpets hung under some palms, but they offer a salad marrocain (fantastic) and two cold sprites. A very nice conversation across different languages and a lot of mimicking and I have new friends. When I arrived the entire family was on the mats and it was wonderful to see them interact joyfully with each other and with a little toddler. Here the happy toddler has the benefit of family time and warmth, but she may never have an education or earn a (decent) living by Western standards.

After an hour and a half, and having eaten something it is back on the road. My eating habits have changed in Marocco. I eat much less and cannot eat much bread. I can only face fruit and vegetables, and on occasion meat. I am loosing weight quickly, so perhaps I should maintain it that way back home :-).

I am not far away from the Chgaga camp site of Sahara Services when I follow some tracks that take me off the main piste back into sand. I manage to drive a couple of hundred meters and get stuck nose first in a smallish dune, but I know that the bike will need to be turned around. It is hard work turning a bike around, on it’s side, all alone in the sand in that heat. I collect sticks and after a couple of attempts I manage to get the bike off the dune and stuck again just where the ground had seemed slightly harder. I am dead, finished, destroyed. All my muscles are cramping, I am not sure if for the exercise (which no doubt there was) or for a low level of electrolytes / mineral salts. I decide further is not an option, I am only 2.8 km away from the camp site, but carrying on is simply impossible in this state, and hopefully the sand will have more grip when it is cooler just after sunrise.

  Eventually there is an old very squint Berber coming along with 3 camels and my mind is trying to envision the possibility of camels dragging the bike out of the sand. I ask him if it is safe for me to spend the night here (others usually warned me giving as reason the vicinity to Algeria). It seems to be so. It is a very friendly exchange once again. He carries on and I put up tent about 300 meters away from the bike. The wind it still relentless, so i need something to tie the tent to, since tent pegs in the sand have the grip of a tooth pick in water. My muscles are cramping while I carry tent etc to location, I feel like a dried fig and when finally inside the tent I collapse in exhaustion, take off my boots since my feet are now a mixture of blisters and shrivelled up as if having spent 3 hours in a bath, and 47 degree heat inside the normally already tight fitting boots. Reminder for various lessons :-). Walking barefoot on the now cooler sand is painful but best to dry the skin quickly. I cannot be bothered with sleeping bag or mattress. My body is cramping all over and I drink more electrolytes.

I am also concerned that my water supplies are dwindling fast. But I do need to recover by sunrise, I need to do something about the cramps, so multi-vitamin, a dose of magnesium and potassium, a dose of electrolytes (sodium etc) and a 800mg dose of Ibuprufen is my dinner. I am absolutely not hungry but the need for proteins makes me eat a tin of tuna. The wind is still howling around the tent, the terrestrial radiation of the desert sand heating up the tent and I am trying to balance cooling of the wind with flies as friends inside the tent. I manage to text position and general state of affairs to Katherine, and try to text Sahara Services without response. I do not want them to start a nightly search party. The game is not yet over. The night is uncomfortable, it is hot and the tent is going crazy in the wind. I cannot sleep and a couple of times try to walk off the cramps. On one of those walks to the bike and back I am reminded just how easy it is to loose orientation in the desert at night. I am lucky that my tent is on the edge of some plants, and that it is almost full moon. Always carry your GPS with you. Lesson number 2 for the day.

Apart from the moon as my companion, the desert bristles with life, mostly flies and biggish black bugs. Rumor has spread that I am here and they seem to be attacking my tent in a concerted effort to have the advantage in numbers. I leave the tuna tin for them and it is shiny silver metal the next morning, in the meantime they had a noisy party. It is not a romantic night as envisioned, for that you need a 4×4 (with absolute edge over a bike in sand), a guide and a nice camp site to arrive to. This is adventure romance instead, the moon remains beautiful, it is full and the desert is amazingly alight. Eventually I fall asleep to the faint sound of remote drums. It is good to know that I am not alone. It is intermittent sleep and eventually it cools down to bearable measure, and the wind dies down.

I LOVE this stuff.

After a morning swim (yes, I lost adventure points for staying in a ‘local’ hotel (Flint Quarzazate) and breakfast and trying again to make the video camera work, I head towards Agdz, with thoughts of having to come back with a working video camera, ideally two, one attached to the bike, one to the helmet.

Just outside of Quarzazate I stop for a broken down car. The guy writes me a piece of paper with a note to his brother to send a mechanic. I duly set out for my first good deed of the day and promptly delivering the note. Actually, nothing is prompt in Morocco, not the service, not the bike repair, and not my delivery as I must have driven past the place three times. Sometimes Moroccan GPS is the best GPS. But my good deed is rewarded with an offer of Berber whiskey and good conversation. My question whether or not it is actually safe to camp freely in Morocco or not is answered with hesitation and concerns for safety. I for the moment still beg to differ but do heed warnings of locals. After my good deed it is time for another and I am sent on a mission of acquisition of a Berber water flask at our familiar dealer of old overpriced goods. At least they appear real. So I pay more than planned but still a decent price. The best negotiation tactic remains simply to leave. As the say, follow the money, and they do all the way onto the street for the commotion of moroccan negotiation to continue. Anyway, got the flask, got a new knife, and I leave less content of a pleasant experience compared to the last time. The story of how the dealer needs to send 10 children to school did not help either my conscience or my liking of the dealer.

On the spur of the moment I decide I cannot leave with regrets, and therefore head south in the valley Draa to Merzouga. On the other side of the valley there is a stunning piste. I find it because I decide to turn into the beautiful Palmeraie on the left of the road. A tricky ride through donkey paths and tight single track “bridges” and I suddenly arrive at the river (qued) Draa, much the surprise of kids and women washing clothes, seeing this biker come out from between the palms. They send over friendly greetings and again I regret not stopping for a chat / kind exchange. Through the river and up a donkey path into town. My riding is definitely getting more confidant and I am proud how I negotiate the tight turns and narrow bridges in the Palmeraie, a beautiful experience.

But perhaps too confident as in my next effort I try to pass a palm with a single track before me and a ditch to the right. I need a couple more millimeters to get past the palm with the case at the back, and as I try to put weight on my right foot I step into air. Next thing the bike is lying upside down in the ditch at an angle of about 110 degrees, wheels in the air. This time I take the time for pictures :-). Well, that’s easy, since I cannot move the bike I have all the time in the world. So plan A) walk to the town and find help, and I set out only to return to the bike when I hear sounds – all my valuables are there… So onto plan B) honk the hooter time and time again, in the hope that someone arrives. No luck, and no luck either with the temperature. It is a pleasant 45 degrees Celsius. So plan C) is to use tie downs to create a jack using the palm tree, and millimeter by millimeter I manage to raise the bike.

I am sure plan C) would have worked and I am somewhat disappointed but thankful at the same time when two guys arrive to invoke plan B). Three of us and the camel is back on it’s feet. Out of the Palmeraie with a swim in full gear in the Draa – that feels good. Carry on south in the Draa valley and you drive up a little hill and on the other side you are treated to a spectacular site that makes you instinctively hold your breath, a field of palms as far as you can see, a sudden fertility and an explosion of green just when you are accustomed to the arid colours of heat, sweat, dust, sand and rocks.

Further down south and after this splendor hit Zagora, desert outpost supreme. I decide to head all the way south, entering protected desert territory to find Sahara Services in Mhamid to get advice on the piste and a Lonely Planet recommended place to sleep. They want me to go east, I wanted to go west to Merzouga. Tomorrow we will see what in fact I did…

It is almost full moon and the silence of the desert is just wonderful! And the moon is one night short from full.

I am acutely aware that my days are numbered now until I have to be back in Europe with a key decision to make. Leave the bike in Fez and come back later, or return by ferry / road through Spain and France (over 3000km). I think I am already too late, so then the question comes up if or not to return by bike this time to Merzouga, sand and desert an relentless heat. I will have to study the maps today.

I leave Tizi –n-Test and drive south. I am running out of fuel and cash, it is time to restock again in Aoulouz. North again towards Toubkal, this time from the south. Driving aro        und a tight bend on the pass, on a tarred road, there is a stream, and in the stream are water plants. Before I know it the front wheel slips away and the tar has grinded away the cylinder protector and reshaped by force my pannier. So now it is no longer water proof. And of course I am already wondering if a mechanic in Switzerland is going to do a better job of hammering it in shape, or one of the many Moroccan metal workers in every town. I think I am going to go for the Moroccan steel worker, and perhaps I can organize it to be beautifully engraved, like the Moroccan tea cans and serving trays… I will try tomorrow!

Apart from the damage on the bike, I have a slight graze on my elbow. Nothing serious. In the rush to get the bike off the road I miss the opportunity of a photo, which later I regret. Shortly afterwards the opportunity of a cool-down presents itself in the form of a cold mountain stream. Yes, cold, and burning on the recent graze, but wonderfully refreshing.

The road leads me back to Taccheddirt, which I remember for it’s friendly inhabitants, and this proves once again true. Coming in from the other side of the valley and driving through the Palmeraie and it’s water, by bike and my trousers merge with the beautiful deep red brown colour of the soil and the clay buildings of the town. I have to stop to wait for a truck in the road and promptly get invited to stay the night.

However, with a feeling of being pressed for time I decline after accepting some water and meeting all 4 generations living inside the house. Now I regret it, and dislike that feeling of being pressed for time – that feeling that has been my constant companion for a 15 year corporate career. That feeling that is personality changing, to the negative. But alas, I probably need to get used to it, as I cannot do this forever (although my mind already conjures the idea of writing Lonely Planets for adventure bikers for Morocco and any other exciting countries I can find!).

Today I sadly have to admit that I drove over a chameleon, I just could not stop or get out the way. As I turned around I saw him in his back, and the pantheist in me was hurting, just as much as when observing a cow have her eye scratched out by the metal guard rails on a transport truck – I almost wanted to stop him and lecture him on treating animals properly…. So perhaps the lecture should have been for me – drive slower. I notice I have picked up speed and probably am no longer traveling at speeds that avoid damage on the bike. I feel safe, but probably a rude lesson awaits me soon. For tonight I found myself another honest eatery, always go to where the locals eat, and it is even a fixed price menu! And it turns out to be great.