Fourteen incredible days riding across the deserts of Morocco
Years in the imagination and months in the planning for two life-changing weeks of exploring the sand and dust of Morocco
‘A re you a friend with Ewan McGregor? The man from Star Wars.” “No, why?” I ask. “Because my friend saw him on a motorcycle here and he was also bad.” “Oh. Thank you,” I say, unsure if it was a compliment, or a criticism. “Is OK. Welcome to Morocco.”
At that point I had been in Morocco for five minutes. A man whose sole credential seemed to be a large moustache had taken my passport and V5 into a room 20 minutes ago and not returned. I was soaked with sweat, having pushed my KTM through customs because turning it off and on a lot seemed to upset the alarm. Perhaps I was being paranoid but a large bike with a beeping countdown around a collection of armed officials set me on edge. I’d bought a packet of cigarettes to barter with (more on that later) but had panic smoked half the pack already. By the time I was free of bureaucracy it was 2pm and I had around 500km to cover. Easy I thought – five or six hours riding and I’d be done by evening. I pulled into the overnight stop just before midnight. I had quite a large portion of humble pie, then crawled into bed.
Best intentions
My plan was to ride from Tangier down to Merzouga, along the southern edge of Morocco to Zagora, then a bit further along to Foum Zguid, around the edge of the Atlas to Tazenakht, then on to Imlil (just outside Marrakesh). From there across to Ouarzazate, Boumaine Dades, then Agoudal and back to Midelt. Easy. The two really special sections were the stretch from Merzouga to Zagora and Agoudal to Midelt. I told two Swiss chaps on BMW HP2s my intentions. They were stoney faced. “Impossible. Too much fesh fesh. It took us hours just to do two kilometres.”
Bugger. I’d brought a Spot X satellite communicator with me, which would allow me to summon the emergency services if it all went Pete Tong, but I didn’t want to get myself into a situation where I would need it by getting bogged in the fine, loose fesh fesh sand. I headed down to Merzouga regardless and thought I’d sample my first proper bit of Moroccan piste.
‘The piste’, as it’s known, is basically the equivalent of a Moroccan B-road. They often go from town to town, so they’re reasonably well run and easy to navigate. However, they’re completely unpaved and vary in difficulty – most are rough gravel tracks but some will see your eyes on stalks. They are what adventure bikers the world over have dreamed of – mile after mile of seemingly endless routes that make hours of riding disappear in what seems like the blink of an eye.
After a few hours of piste surfing, my desires outweighed my talent and I ended up going around a corner a little too fast, heading straight first into some incredibly deep sand and sinking the bike up to its bash plate. Riding it out was a no go, forcing me to strip off all the luggage and engage in a makeshift World’s Strongest Man competition as I tried to wrestle the thing out of its sandy prison. A good 40 minutes later I got back on my route and headed once more for my evening retreat. This not also was without incident as delirium had conspired for me to misread its name as ‘auberge maison d’hôte’, which effectively means ‘hotel hotel’.
Ups and downs
The next morning, my excursion to Zagora was stymied by a whopper sandstorm. Visibility was reduced to just a few metres and taking on kilometre after kilometre of sandy track seemed like suicide. By afternoon the sandstorm had cleared, which gave me just enough
‘I’d taken cigs to barter with but panic smoked half the pack already’
time to head into Erg Chebbi – the huge collection of sand dunes, some as high as cathedral spires, that seem to go on ad infinitum.
Riding on sand is a strange experience. Go slowly and you just sink, making no real progress and shagging your clutch in short order. But if you go that bit faster you can ride in with no real issues, as long as you keep your inputs smooth. The added challenge is that the side of the dune you are climbing offers no indication of what is on the other side – it could be flat, smooth or a precipitous drop. A few hours wasn’t sufficient time for me to master it but it was enough to have fun and gain the taste of the sand that I wanted. The only casualty of a couple of soft flop offs was a missing numberplate, so a local made me one using a bit of old rubber matting. He even painted by reg on with a cigarette butt, all for the princely sum of £5.
The morning after, I had no option but to depart to keep to my schedule but that involved riding into a sandstorm little better than the day before. I survived to tell the tale by riding about two feet from the bumper of a Dutch campervan but my air filter took such a beating I had to wash it in a restaurant sink and reoil it with an old sock.
Prior preparation
For the most part I’d made all my routes in advance at home and, like most good trips, it all started with a map and an idea. And for the most part my routes served me well except one day, when the satnav completely stitched me up (NB satnavs, like all computers are infallible – the issue was entirely user error).
The track was delightful, a rollercoaster of gravel and rock but it began to tighten up unexpectedly. It narrowed until it pitched me out into a river wash with steep rocky banking on the opposite side. It’s fine – I’ll just ride up it and continue. A few minutes later and with some help from some locals we had the bike back on its wheels and up the banking. This is the perfect task for tobacco payment. There’s no way they would accept money for just a few moments of heavy lifting but you can’t leave them empty handed. Two cigarettes and all is square. Fearing this was already the wrong way and having already drawn a crowd, I thought I should ask some help. “Is this the way to Midelt?” “Yes. But is very bumpy. Your bike cannot make it.” Well that’s what I think he said. I didn’t speak Berber and he didn’t understand my French, so we communicated in the international language of mime. Thinking I knew what I was getting myself in for, I carried on up the track.
After a while I stopped to check my map. Seeing some hikers in the distance, I waited for them to scramble down the rock face that was stalling my progress. I was attempting to ride up a hiking trail and a tough one at that – brilliant. I then spent longer than I’d care to mention attempting to turn my machine around before riding it back down into the river wash, getting stuck in mud, clawing it back out of the mud then riding back down to where I had crossed the river in the first place.
The same gang of farmers were still there. They’d been waiting for my return (knowing full well I’d be stuck) and put on a pot of tea. I sense I was not the first European fool to make this mistake. I handed out more cigarettes then headed back to the road, tail between my legs.
Full circle
Once I knew where I was, it was time to take on the bit of the trip I’d been looking forward to the most: The Cirque de Jaffar. The Cirque is a natural stone amphitheatre in the Eastern High Atlas that’s come to be one of the most famous off-road challenges in Morocco and for good reason – the riding is excellent and the views breath-taking. Trundling down the beginnings of the track, I quickly understood its appeal. The riding was quick but technical. Perfect for a middleweight off-roader. It changed from corner to corner, sometimes rutted and hard going, then muddy and slow where the melt water had run off the mountain. The next corner was wide open and fast, before a sharp hairpin through a riverbed. I climbed further still until I was above the tree line and it became clear why people approach it with trepidation. To your left, just two feet off the correct line, is a 200ft drop to the valley floor. The section is only short, 45 minutes or so, and when I reached the end I could have easily turned around and ridden it again. In fact, I most likely will do and with any luck, it’ll take me another two weeks to get there again. Places like Morocco deserve so much more than one visit.
‘Just two feet off the correct line is a 200ft drop’