23 April 2001 - Merzouga

Feck! That's the best word I can find to describe the last two days. Yesterday I awoke in an air conditioned room, with views of the pool I had breakfast by. After the most relaxed packing session yet, I headed into Zagora to fuel up. I then popped down to the other end of the high street to take a photo of the Timbuktoo sign. I discovered this morning that my tripod had forged out on its own at some point yesterday. I don't remember unpacking it, so I think it probably came loose on the piste to Nekob. Consequently people are going to have to believe I was there by the fact that my bike was.

On the way out of town I bumped into a German on a DR800. He'd been travelling around Morocco for four weeks, all on time owed from his last holiday year. It had got to the point where his company were going to write off a whole years worth of holiday, so he'd threatened to leave unless he could take a big block of it. He also had comedy horn, from a childs push bike, mounted on his engine bars. Every time he was crowded by kids he'd push the horn and they'd stop clamouring for money/pens/sweets. He'd come from Tan-Tan, so couldn't give me any advice on my piste.

An hour later I was supping a Coke in Tagounite, tanks topped off and raring to go. I missed the piste at first attempt, but then left the buildings behind and entered a palmerie. Missing another turn off I blundered around the palms on footpaths until breaking free and getting onto the piste at last. After a wide fast plain I crested a ridge on a very rocky track. Looking down the other side, a vast basin extended before me, the piste wobbling across it's floor. Around here I discovered the obvious piste cut out one of the waypoints from the book. I rolled up to a nomad settlement and a military checkpoint. I don't tend to stop for people who wave me down, I'd still be back in the Rif mountains if I did, but I stopped for the uniformed man here. Unusually he didn't actually want anything, so I headed out on the piste indicated to me.

So I was trundling along, taking in the views, when suddenly I'm vearing off the piste in a hurry. Any input I made with the handlebars was ignored, so I coasted to a halt, feet down Fred Flintstone style. My first puncture, and at about 60km/h to boot. "No problem", I thought, "I'll replace the inner tube and be on my way in an hour". Morocco is an incredibly rocky place, in fact it puts other so-called rocky places to shame, but I had managed to get a puncture in the only place in Morocco devoid of rocks. And without a rock I couldn't get the bike off of the ground to repair the wheel. In the end I carried the largest rock I could find over from a good distance away, and then used my oil can to achieve the necessary height.

By now it was about 3pm, and I hadn't seen another vehicle all day. An hour later I'd replaced the tube and reloaded the bike. Five minutes later I had to pull off the piste to let a caravan of nine French 4x4 pass going in the opposite direction. "Typical", I thought, "I break down, then five minutes later the only other people I'll see today pass by". Back on the move I arrived at a waypoint on the route, two half burried tyres weither side of the piste. Bang! Complete lack of steering again. Someone up there is having a laugh.

Knowing I was going to have to repair the tube this time I tried to set up my tent for some shade. So the wind got up some, old mother Nature was not going to make it easy for me. Just then a Moroccan turned up in a 4x4. He lived up on a nearby hill and had seen me stop. Between us we extracted the 5cm thorn from my tyre and patched up my sieve-like inner tube. My two stints under the sun had tired me considerably, especially as I still haven't mastered the technique for getting the tyre back onto the rim.

Back in motion the piste changed from rocky to sandy, and I found myself in lower gears at higher revs. My spirits had sunk with the punctures and now fuel began to weigh on my mind. Then at one sand patch I fell off. Nothing too fast, and the sand was nice and soft. I pulled the bike upright, and footed up to the edge of the sand, where I fell over again, this time twisting the handlebar mounts. Time to call it a day, so after righting the bike again I headed perpendicular to the track to a lovely looking dune. By the time I'd got the tent up I was exhausted, and I just collapsed inside and fell asleep without eating. During the night I was woken by the wind, as the tent was being buffetted from side to side. If I hadn't been for me and my kit, I'd be looking for it in Algeria right now.

In the morning I had time to take in my surroundings. I was camped by a very pretty dune, and off across the plain a few camels were being led past a row of palms. If I'd had to choose somewhere intentionally to camp, it may well have been here. I ate breakfast, and siphoned some more water into my hydration pouch. In between falling off in the sand and setting up camp I'd wandered off of the waypointed route. I calculated that I needed to circumnavigate my dune and head north to regain the piste. Loaded up I rode all of 150m before getting bogged down in a spur of the dune. Not the perfect way to start the day. I unloaded everything, walked the bike to firmer ground, then reloaded my kit. 9am and I was covered in sweat.

My grand plan to head north was somewhat scuppered by a low ridge. I suspect the actual piste lay to the other side of it. I slowly made my way along the base of the ridge, wincing every time I hit a rock a bit harder than I'd have like to. The machine-gun ricochets of stones bouncing off my sump guard I'd enjoyed listening to, now became dreaded sounds. Eventually the ridge fell away, and the piste appeared across my path. I crossed the dry bed of Lac Maider, and passed on the opportunity to call in at the auberge. I felt that, while in motion, I should continue to make progress. And that began to matter more than taking in the view.

The piste was much sandier here, and then faded away to nothing. I checked the GPS, and saw I had drifted away from the point-to-point route on it's screen. Usually I am happy with this as the piste rarely travels in a straight line, but the route notes said this was a rare occaision when it did. I cut across the desert floor until a sea of dunes blocked my path. I knew from the route notes that the piste crossed these dunes, to I headed north again to intersect it. When I found it I wish I hadn't. Deep sandy ruts pose few problems for 4x4, but were a nightmare for me and my overloaded bike. I wobbled, paddled and generally careered from sandy rut to sandy rut. I had more almost-falls than I can remember. After 3km of this I was a walking wreck when I emerged into the village of Hassi Remlia. I stopped outside the first building I saw, which served as cafe/petrol station/shop, and collapsed on the handlebars. I muttered "Deux Coka" to a surprised local, and felt the sweat trickle down my back.

I spent the next hour and half drinking Coke and water, and chatting with the few locals who gathered around. They had a good flick through Sahara Overland, and laughed at the photos of real Africans doing authentic African stuff. They were particularly impressed with the wide range of photos of 4x4s. I discovered I'd broken the other rack I'd made, so my luggage was looking quite lopsided. I'd also lost my fleece, which I'd bungeed to the top of my kit (Sorry Alex, it was my best one as well!). My friends confirmed that the worst of the sand was over, and the piste was easy all the way to Merzouga.

Rehydrated I continued on, and on a relatively flat section had my third puncture in two days. This time it turned out to be that the edge of a previous repair had lifted, letting air escape. By now I was beginning to doubt making it to Merzouga unassisted. I had one tube patch left, and not a lot of patience with which to use it. Near the Hassi Ouzina auberge the piste crosses a narrow oued, plunging down into deep sand, which doesn't let up on the other side. I knew I was going to fall about fifteen seconds before it happened. I made it down, and up the other side, however with bars flapping from side to side I rode into a sand bank at the side of the piste. Several kids appeared and helped me right the bike. One asked if I wanted to come to the auberge 2km away for a drink. I said no to the former and yes to the latter. Immediately a smaller child was despatched to run and get me a drink. (Tourists may well be the key to African distance running success!) I didn't mind paying double for the drink (£0.60) bearing this in mind.

Several kilometres later I stopped a lone French 4x4, and chatted the enclosed family about the condition of the piste. They were impressed with my GPS, I was impressed with their Paris-Dakar roadbook. I really wanted to believe it wasn't going to get any sandier bewteen here and Merzouga, which they didn't think it was. In the end I had an uneventful run from there to Merzouga high street. I'd been recomended the Auberge Soleil Bleu by several other bikers, so I set about finding it. I was flagged down by a man on the street, so I decided to ask the way. I wasn't convinced when the man claimed to be the owner of the Soleil Bleu. Anyway I followed him across the village on his moped, and lo and behold he took me straight to the auberge.

So here I am, completely exhausted, looking out over the dunes of the Erg Chebbi at sunset. Hell of a view! In the past two days I managed to ride 250km in a total of thirteen hours in the saddle. I've had three punctures, three falls, I broke one of the racks, twisted the handlebar mounts and bent the gear shift lever. I have a lot of repairing to do tomorrow. I plan to stay here for a day, get the bike fixed up, walk and photograph the dunes, and recharge. Then I'll make the long trip back to Chefchaouen, and over to Gibraltar. In the mean time I'm going to eat tagine and sleep, a lot.