READERS’ RIDES
A madcap tour of the Moroccan desert by three quite crazy amigos on Africa Twins that can still hack it: read on, if not feint hearted!*
Three barking Spaniards on old Africa Twins: fun!
Hello! Firstly apologies for the crazy words that will follow, but this was a 10 day adventure in the Moroccan desert on board three ageing Africa Twins and we had a wild time. Secondly, ‘no names, no pack-drill’ as you English say. We all have respectable jobs… suffice to say I’m a Catalan motorcycle rider (along with my two compadres) and I have one foot in the UK, as you say, as I work as a horse doctor. No more will be said… just call me Dr Infierno and my compatriots Marc the Hunter and Ramon the Landowner. We all come from the same village as Marc Coma, the desert racing champion. In fact we used to ride together as kids, but then my father told me to study to be a horse doctor and Marc? Well, he won the Dakar six times. But such is fate! That’s not to say the Dakar didn’t have a big effect on me over the years. For me, the Paris Dakar was always an occasion round our house. We used to huddle around the TV and watch it every Christmas on the telly. That also reminds me: I was 15 when I first saw a Honda Africa Twin (or its race-bred predecessor) crossing the desert. It instantly became my dream bike. Twenty-five or more years later, I am now 40-something and the proud owner of a 26-year-old Africa Twin. One of my major childhood ambitions has been achieved. I tested the Africa Twin in Wales, on the Dusk to Dawn race. I am sure the Welsh organisers still remember me, as I competed wearing only my boxer shorts, following an unsightly crash that left the Twin and I in a bush. I pulled the muscles in both forearms and lost my leathers in the dark of night. Fortunately, the Twin fared better: a few minor dents and its reputation intact, more than I could say for myself. Undeterred, I, along with my equally adventurous compadres Ramon and Marc, decide to sign up for our very own Paris-dakar event… Call it a mid-life crisis, but we thought this would be preferable to having a week of drink and drugs with ladies of dubious background. The first day of our journey sets the tone for what is to come. It’s cold, very cold. We decide to warm our cockles with a classic Catalan brew called the three carajillos: whisky, cognac and Ron Pujol rum, all mixed with coffee. This is one of the many traditions in my village, Avià. Sadly, we’re running late, because Ramon can’t handle his carajillo, and feels like vomiting. He asks if I have anything to ease the nausea. I reach into my medical bag, only to realise that I forgot to switch out my veterinary equipment. At first I am annoyed but then I realise I can punish Ramon for his lack of alcoholic fortitude. I drop some ketamine – which I use to tranquilise horses – in a glass of water and tell Ramon to drink it. We board the ferry and I chuckle, knowing what the effect on Ramon will be.
We hit the bar and continue drinking. Ramon begins to slur his words, then he knocks our drinks over, says he is going to be sick and excuses himself. Marc and I get stuck into the local lager and play some cards. Ten minutes pass before Ramon bursts into the bar, his head and arms, wrapped in toilet paper. He falls to his knees and begins to crawl toward us, while making a demented howl, akin to that of a baby calf as it leaves its mother’s womb and crashes onto grass for the first time. His madness continues, as he finally makes it to our table. He jumps up and shouts: “Behold! I am Ramon-eses! Mighty Egyptian ruler of the heavens and the earth! Kneel before your king!” Needless to say the other passengers are perturbed by the scene which is unfolding before them. I grab Ramon and haul him out to the top deck, while apologising for my friend’s erratic behaviour. Marc follows me out and we all start crying with laughter as ‘Ramon-eses’ continues to berate his subjects on the top deck for not showing him the respect he deserves. This continues for another 20 minutes until the ketamine finally wears off. After a night of deadly snoring, we arrive at Tangier. Marc and Ramon smoke too many farias: rustic cigars that countryside people smoke after a garlic, wine and trotters breakfast. I have a single one, but I load it with something else and feel nicely baked when we exited the boat. When we are all feeling up for it, we proceed to jump on our bikes. My Africa Twin has peeling paint and the dents it acquired in Wales. Ramon’s Twin is the newest motorcycle in the group, and has the luxury of heated grips! Marc’s Twin is an absolute travesty, lord only knows how it doesn’t fall into a heap of bolts and parts. As we disembark, we are met with scenes of carnage: overloaded cars, and endless queues of Moroccans, coming back home for the holidays. We are lucky and escape quickly by trading some of my
‘something else’ to the guards in exchange for speedy passage. This is what happens here. But, finally we are in Morocco. It is one of the most diverse and beautiful countries I have had the pleasure of visiting. The Gibraltar strait is always very windy; both sides are lined with wind turbines. It’s almost hard to drive on the winding road going towards Ceuta. We follow the road to Tetouan and find a good place for the first group photo. The wind blows up and Ramon loses a few notes from his wallet to the wind. We consider this a novel way to redistribute some of his ill-gotten, western wealth. It’s getting late now, but not too late to gaze in awe at the vast blue Morocco sky, which is as blue as a very blue thing, covered in blue, with a sprinkling of blue bits on top. As I am having this deeply spiritual connection with all things blue, it becomes clear to me that I am beyond high. I suddenly wonder how long I have not been paying attention to the road, and I decide to stop looking at the sky. The bikes roar, three to the beat. We make our way to our first stop: Chefchaouen and the Rif Hotel. Marc, being in the fittest state of the three of us, is delegated the job of checking in. Ramon and I, like a pair of rabid homing pigeons, head straight to the bar. We begin sampling all manner of exotic local spirits, when Ramon spots a bottle covered in dust. The barman advises us against trying it, but we are intrigued and insist on a further inspection. Marc joins us and asks for a drink. Before I get a good look at the mysterious bottle, I open the top, pour a large slug into my glass and pass it to Marc. As Marc downs the drink, I rub off the layer of dust, to be greeted by (what appears to be) a fully-preserved mouse carcass. Just as I see the mouse, Marc begins to wheeze. Ramon, seeing he is struggling, helps steady him as he clutches his throat, and begins motioning for water. As Marc throws as much water as possible down his gullet, I calmly ask the bartender what they call the drink, hoping that my appearance of utter indifference as to what is transpiring next to me will reassure him that he has nothing to worry about. Following a lengthy discussion, in broken English, I find out that the drink’s name translates to: The ‘black death.’ Well, I am sold, to be able to say I have had the ‘black death’, and survived, is too good a story to pass on. I refill my glass, knock back the foul concoction and hope for the best. What happens next can only be described as a comprehensive exploration of Cartesian duality. Initially, I have the same reaction as Marc, then, after dousing myself in water, to placate the searing heat running through my body, I am overcome with a pulsing wave of transcendent joy. Unable to stand, I take a seat in the corner of the bar. I am confused, is this just an unusually potent, euphoric transition from stoned to drunk? I start to sink into the seat, the world around me suddenly melts. I know this feeling. This is not just alcohol! Just before I slip into a self-reflecting hallucinogenic spiral, Ramon appears right in my face and says: “Payback time, bitch!” It all makes sense now! I’m spirited out of my body to the hellish soundtrack of Ramon and Marc laughing. I am awoken from my sleep by a solid kick in the head from Ramon. I look at the clock: 6.30am. “Time to go!” shouts Ramon. I get up, glad to be alive. My last memories were of being devoured by a horde of beautifully intricate, geometric serpents. I wash my face: grab some food, blaze a special cigarette and saddle up for an off-road trek of 50km around the Moroccan mountains. The mountain paths are some of the best I have ever ridden.
We get to let loose, as the paths are covered in snow. As we find our rhythm, the intensity increases. Soon, we are going hell for leather, snow flying everywhere. It doesn’t get better than this! We move out from the mountain’s shadow, and soon get lost in undulating valleys and half-paved roads. We cross remote villages, with amazing panoramic views, infinite green spaces of unparalleled beauty. After eating in a place with no name, we continue dodging holes and bumps between fields of broad beans, olive trees and wheat. On rides like this anything seems possible. Finally we arrived at Fez, with heavy traffic and quite different from the city. It is all changing so fast. Rarely buses pass us, but today is the exception: it is dark, 15km from Ifrane, where we plan to sleep, a coach at full speed behind us is asking for more road, we happily accede and the bus flies, passing us and the other cars. As it passes, we see it is carrying a female sports team, a German flag flaps in the wind from the rear window. We arrive at Hotel Chamonix: three beers, three bottles of local wine, five Phillies Blunts cigars and no ‘black death’. Staying at the hotel are the German ladies who passed us in the bus on the road earlier. Turns out they are a lacrosse team on a holiday tour. I leave Marc and Ramon chatting to them at the bar, as I’m in desperate need of a good night’s sleep. I fall onto the bed and drift away. I’m awoken, startled, with a hand over my mouth: “Be quiet. Get up slowly. We have to leave!” whispers Marc. Through the dark, I make out a head of long, blonde hair and a stunning figure. Marc breaks me from my trance. We creep out of the room. Ramon is holding open the lift door and the three of us scurry in. While I was dead to the world, Marc and Ramon had talked a couple of the German girls into a nightcap. Apparently, while Marc’s was a vision of blonde Teutonic loveliness, Ramon’s resembled “Chewbacca’s sister” and he wants to make a sharp exit. We run into the lift at light speed in fits of laughter, escaping the hotel as outside we are greeted by an inspirational sunrise. The journey continues over the days, through the dunes and valleys, culminating in a couple of days R&R in Marrakesh and then we board the ferry home. Determined to make the most of our final hours together, we reconvene at the bar to reminisce on our adventure. The beer, stories and laughter are all flowing when Marc suddenly looks at me with a puzzled expression. I grin and watch the all-too familiar effect as the onset of a mild dose of am nercru’ n you were going to avoid it did you?” I ask. “Yooooooouuuuu baaaaaasssssstarddddddd!” Marc slurs, as Ramon and I carry him to a seat in the corner of the bar and watch the fun begin. What a journey.