Another day, another spectacular ride. Today I crossed the Jbel Sarhro, to the south of Tinerhir. I woke up to the hotel staff setting tables around me, this one guy could clank cuttlery for his country. During breakfast I chatted with Helmut (he just looked like a Helmut, rather than a Fritz or Walther) and his mum. Visiting from Leiptzig, Helmut was in his forties, bespectacled, and chaperoning his mum around Morocco.
I stopped in at Tinerhir to buy lip balm and fuel. Ever since crossing Spain my lips had been chapped, and this morning I couldn't smile without drawing blood. Today I was following a route from Sahara Overland, so I had programmed the GPS with waypoints and my copy of the book took pride of place at the top of my rucksack. Leaving town I came to the start of the piste, and the town's abatoir. Confused by the various tracks I asked the nearest man for directions. When he came over I saw that he carried a large cleaver in one hand, and his face was splattered with blood. I hooked first and headed off quickly in the direction he was indicating.
This piste was much smoother than yesterdays, and soon I was up in top racing across the plain towards the jbel. I climbed up a small valley along a series of first gear, foot down, hairpin bends. Eventually I reached a minor col, and stopped to take photos of the view. If the camera records the image half as well as my memory I'll be putting this print up on the wall. I descended towards a small village nestling between ridges, green palms giving away it's position against the scrub.
In the centre of the jbel a wide flat plain extended in front of me, the piste making a roughly straight line for the peaks in the distance. I wound the bike up and raced across the plain, every so often dropping into a sandy oued bed and hitting full compression on the suspension as I jumped out again. I stopped a kilometre before a waypoint to check the route description, and noticed I was missing a pannier. I retraced my tyre tracks for 5km until I found my bag lying on the piste, the snapped bungee several metres beyond it. I reassembled my luggage and carried on at a more sedate pace. For my trip across to Merzouga I can't afford to have this happen again. I'm comfortable with the fuel situation, but backtracking just reduces my safety margin, and throw in some navigational errors and I could be walking the last few kilometres.
Just after Ikniouin the piste from Boumalne Dades merged with mine, and the ascent to Tizi n'Tazazert began. The track became quite rocky, and the hairpin bends reappeared. The view from the top was jaw-dropping. I parked up and just sat on a boulder taking it all in for an hour or so. An eagle slowly soared above me, and occaisionally other birdsong was audible, but apart from that and the breeze I was all alone. On the descent, which became rockier still, I found several more vistas open up before me. I came around one rocky outcrop to find a German couple on a Harley-Davidson bumping along very slowly. It appears they had taken this route as a short cut between the Dades gorge and Zagora. I reassured them that they were only 20km from the road, as the crow flies. There are no crows in this part of Morocco. They seemed distinctly unimpressed, although they did agree the views were superb.
Further along the piste followed an oued, and out through a narrow corridor of palms that lined it. It seems that schools the world over kick the children out at roughly 3pm. And so it was here, as I weaved in and out of satchels and shy waves. Leaving the oued I came out onto a Martian landscape. Red rocks stretched in all directions, looking just like the images beamed back from the Mars Lander spacecraft. I hit the road at Nekob, and headed west for the Zagora road.
The Draa valley was a bit underwealming, after the palmeries at Tinerhir. The Draa wends its way along a wide valley, with palmeries lining its banks, and houses lining the palmeries. Other than that there's no more to see. I was expecting the oued to be flowing, and I was expecting kasbahs to line the finges of the palms. Zagora high street is a bustling place, with big gates at either end. At the far end is the famous "52 days to Timbuktoo" sign, to which I shall return tomorrow morning for a photo. That'll be a time I'll regret not having a travelling partner, as I'm sure to look stupid setting up a tripod on Zagora high street, then running back to jump on the bike.
Just over the oued is the Hotel Asmaa, a kasbah-style establishment, with air con and a pool. My two days sleeping in the restaurant had left me in need of a decent shower, especially before spending a couple of days in the desert. For 300 dirham I get an ensuite room, views of the courtyard and pool, and both dinner and breakfast. After unloading my stuff I set the air con for 18 degrees and went and dangled my feet in the cold pool. As sunset approached I took my camera and went in search of the hill that the Rough Guide recommends for taking in the view.