travellingbennetts

Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. Already done the first two in four days, nothing more to see there, so it was time to do more. Morocco in fact.

We left Part 1 on Day 5 at Algeciras about to embark on the ferry. As always ferries are exciting to ride onto, with all the tie-down and lane marking lumps of slippery metal to somehow avoid and try to keep the wheels on surfaces that aren’t wet and polished. Succeeding beyond our wildest dreams, we parked as directed in a long line. For the ferry first time ever, the crew directed us to put the bikes up on their centre stands. Normally they are pulled down onto the side stand because with the back wheel on the ground they are held in place by the gears, but arguing with people who only speak Spanish is unlikely to reach a good ending, and besides this wasn’t their first crossing.

Off we went to the passenger deck. We’d been warned by Ride Leader Julia that border control into Morocco happened on the crossing, and it could take up most of the crossing, so getting into the queue was considered priority. We located the immigration forms, filled them out while blocking everyone else so they couldn’t get in front of us, chucked all our jacket/backpack/helmet paraphernalia on the seats, and got in the queue. Off the ferry went, heading slightly south-west as the destination is Tangiers port, which is nowhere near Tangiers and sits in the Strait of Gibraltar. The queue was getting very long and hadn’t moved when an official said we had to first go and do our customs bit to get the bikes into Morocco. Sweet I thought, surely we’ll be able to do both together, before remembering that there is no Spanish word for efficient. This turned out to hold true, we did the customs, then had to re-join the original queue where we’d lost our places to all the slackers and laggards. Still, we managed to get through with enough smooth voyage time left to hit the restaurant for a quick drink and chips.

Into Tangiers port, we managed to untie everything and ready ourselves to un-board. This was a little technical as we had to do two U-turns to get down from the upper deck, but no embarrassment and we rolled off. Strangely, we were stopped just off the ramp by officials and a big queue developed. I was waved through to an official who was starting another queue, and he asked me where I was going. I had almost zero recollection of the name of the town we were staying in, so confidently stated something like Chez Chook. Not ringing a bell for him. Choy Concheeraz? Still blank. Che Guevara? He placed his hand gently on my arm, and said “You with Rally?”, making motions like a Dakar rider sailing over a nasty sand dune at 180kmh. Yes. Yes I am with Rally, thanking the helmet for disguising the fact that I am 30 years past even getting on an Enduro bike without an elevated work platform. With near hero worship happening behind me, I rode off and waited for the average riders who’d remembered where we were staying but were not with the Rally. We headed east onto the Mediterranean beaches and stopped for lunch in a wildly crowded beach carpark.

Morocco riding had been articulated to us by Ride Leader Julia as needing a bit more attention than Spain and Portugal which we had already assumed having ridden Egypt – but we happily found Morocco to be more “first world” in road manners, cars are quite modern, but when in country areas donkey and carts are commonly seen and the hay trucks, OMG the hay trucks.

The Moroccans are a beach people. The beaches went for miles and were packed, and we weren’t set up to get amongst them so had a quick lunch and moved on. It was hot, damned hot. But the movement was good, and soon we utilised the corner marking system to the max in Chefchaouen, of course that was it and I’m sure it is pronounced Chez Chook, the blue city. It had its technical challenges with very steep streets and tight turns onto roads without the benefit of seeing whether traffic was about to spear into the rider, but the corner marker was usually helpful. Into the hotel, with parking of 15 motorcycles into a space designed for 10, and our first night in Morocco was underway. A wander into the town, then dinner. Moroccan food expectations weren’t terribly high, I was anticipating Middle Eastern where it is good, but the range is limited. Completely wrong, the food is fabulous and there is a huge range of different dishes, with the obvious exclusion of bacon. I kicked off with a goat tajine, like a stew in its own clay pot. Hoovered it down. An interesting thing about Morocco is the alcohol sitch. It certainly isn’t illegal, but it isn’t freely available except in large hotel chains and some other places, and almost never in restaurants except in the expensive ones full of western clientele. A few of the crew managed to find a pub-like establishment, but it took a fair bit of effort. Naturally it was packed.

Up on Day 6, we did a micro-tour of the city and thanked the Google Maps profusely for getting us out of the labyrinth. We wandered through the Jewish quarter; “The Jewish neighbourhood dates back to the 16^th century, when Jewish people were welcomed to reside within the walls of the Medina”. The current Jewish population is tiny compared with the 1950’s, mainly due to immigration to Israel, but the relationship between Jews with the Moroccans remains surprisingly strong – they arrived in early Roman times. Back into the hotel and dressed ready for action, I volunteered to do Tail End Charles, or Charlie according to the disrespectful. The plan was Fez, and we achieved Fez after some riding in admittedly warm conditions. Another feature of Morocco was on display during the ride, which we’d been warned about by Julia; roundabouts can be incredibly slippery. Why is a bit of a mystery, talk about diesel spills seemed a bit random, but the bitumen in roundabouts is incredibly smooth and they are off camber. Going through needs a lot of care, the 3^rd exit turn especially needs to be done very carefully. The front started to wash out in one, luckily a straightening righted the ship, but Julia’s advice was adhered to for most of the trip afterward. Highlight of the day was definitely Ain Dfali for a late lunch. A note here – we were travelling with quite a few people whose heritage is southern Africa. Too much meat is nowhere near enough meat for this demographic, and it is easy for we salad-loving victims to be sucked into their protein inhaling vortex.

Into Fez, we were staying at the Marriott for two nights. No problems here getting a Casablanca beer, brewed in Morocco, and a vast array of wines. The bikes were parked up and the keys handed over for João to work his magic while we did everything other than worry about the bikes. A group dinner was the go for the first night, requiring a minibus ride into the Medina district.

The restaurant was fairly up-market albeit up some seriously steep stairs with narrow steps, and the food was excellent. The drinks service was a bit random and a lack of alcohol in Moroccan customary life meant that they didn’t realise beer should not be served at the same temperature as tea, but besides that it was very nice with good views and a rather scary looking top floor with large holes through to oblivion below. Replete, it was back to get the bus to the hotel.

Day 7 was the first rest day of the tour. The rest day title is completely misleading, rest is not something that happens on a rest day. Firstly, tours to local sites are always planned on the rest days, and often these take 6-8 hours and rarely present opportunities for La-Z-Boy relaxation. Also, the daily grind means only those who can tolerate wearing damp undergarments risk doing laundry on the run. So the rest day is like the Laundry Sabbath – as per Genesis 57:3 (in the Appendix) – on the seventh day they found a laundromat, who charged 10 Dirham/kg for a full firmament removing service, and all was good. I put Laundromat into the Googs and lo – two were within easy walking distance, i.e. a kilometre plus or minus. So Nic and Margreth were convinced, and we all headed off. All went well even though the socioeconomics dropped off a cliff enroute, and we were followed for a while by a crazy shouting person, but then we got to the laundromat. The Googs said it was open, but it said it wasn’t. Maybe that was what the crazy person was yelling about. Damn, okay plan B, striding off as though I’d fully expected plan A to be closed. The socioeconomics were in free-fall and the traffic was scary, but the laundry was priority one and if a few potential customers didn’t make it, that didn’t matter now. A kilometre to plan B, and it was closed even though the Googs said it was serving customers with gusto. I acted like I was fully expecting this, no worries and laundry is an oppressive first world construct, and suggested we should return to the hotel to be there in time for the tour. Luckily we saw a rat running across the road so I could say that I’d brought my laundry to use as exercise weights, and of course it was a Fez wildlife tour to see the rare and endangered Moroccan Brown Rat, Rattus Moroccanus.

Onto the bus with foul clothing stench pushed far to the back of the mind, we headed into the Medina. The guide stated that should any not remain with the group, they would be lost forever, having to survive on any cous-cous and dates that fall onto the ground. Tightly packed together, we headed into the leather shop. Notably, at the door we were all given a sprig of mint.

The leather shop looked out over the Fez tannery. The concept of a tannery is foreign to the average westerner these days, but they are famous for a particular reason. Even with the mint sprig jammed hard up into both nostrils, the smell has to be smelled to be believed. It is a place where if you accidentally soil yourself, people will crowd in and thank you. Trying to distract ourselves with the excellent leather goods while searching the premises for one of those blokes who habitually drown themselves in Lynx Africa, we managed to soldier through and get back into the street. Next the carpet shop, where the owner said we would not even be approached by the staff unless we asked to be shown carpets, yet we were swarmed by staff demanding to show us every carpet in stock.

Keeping absolutely still to avoid someone throwing a carpet out in front of us, we were back out onto the street. The last shopping opportunity of the day was a weaving shop, where craftsmen use ancient manual looms to create cloth for headscarfs and general wear. After everyone had wrapped a cloth around some part of their body that sticks out from the core, we were on the way to lunch. No-one complained about the lunch, except those in the group that received too many meat skewers. But no-one was in that group. A note about hot beverages in Morocco here. Boiling the kettle and pouring it into a cup from just below the spout is not acceptable, the pour into the cup must be from a great height, preferably one or more stories up. Why, I’m not sure, maybe just showing off. Back to the hotel, it was relax until a big dinner and more beers with the crew.

Day 8 started amazingly. We strolled down to breakfast as we had a late-ish start, and as we walked from the table suburb to the buffet precinct, we passed someone who we knew. The shock of seeing someone you know completely out of context is always confusing – I know them but they don’t belong in Morocco, so we’ll look at each other for way longer than social norms allow, but say nothing and keep moving. Coming back from the buffet we were prepared, so when we saw him again, we immediately marched toward each other. It was Peter, whose highly recognisable moustaches have been a feature on quite a few Triumph rides back home. Peter was on a bus tour, so we immediately made him insanely jealous, and he probably had a miserable time for the rest of his Morocco experience.

Onto the bikes, we continued south for an hour to reach Ifrane. SUVs with ski racks are a feature of the town, we were entering the Atlas Mountains, and this is Morocco’s answer to the ritzy ski resort question. Very good schools are also a feature of the town, the hoi polloi send their Sebastiens and Persephones here. The coffee was perfectly aligned with the Kultur, the latte was very smooth.

To make the day even better, we were heading to Midelt, the home of Moroccan mining. Julia said we must stop to look at rocks, thus cementing her place in history as the first ride leader to ever consider her clients as actual human beings who cared about important things. So we pulled over into a mineral display area.

Loaded up with bits of galena, pyrite, chalcopyrite, and some random fossils, we headed to the hotel. A bit middle of nowhere, a bit wind-swept, but I’m calling it the best hotel we stayed in. Yes the pool required hiding behind any shelter to avoid hypothermia, but the bar staff were attentive and the rooms were excellent. A large display of adventure motorcycles, not just ours, were out the front and we all eyed each other off but ended up integrating with people from a bus tour. This started with hello. Oh, you are obviously Australian. Where from? Upper Kumbuckta West? OMG Max and Hyacinth over there are from Upper Kumbuckta East! Social docking complete, locked on. Day 8 complete.

Day 9 was more south. Target was the Sahara, which is in the extreme east of Morocco. The trip was through the Low Atlas, there always seemed to be the High Atlas off to the right, but we didn’t get their coolness. The Atlas’ are not tropical, and the ranges resemble the Atacama in their lack of vegetation, but regardless they are seriously spectacular.

Lunch on a river bank, a bit exposed to the hot sun and needing to lift all the boxes of plates, utensils, and food over a fence, yet still a lot of fun. On we pushed, eventually landing in Merzouga after a lot of weaving around flooded areas. Very few people have the ability to cause rain, but Cindy and I and every one of our friends named Richard have this talent. The first time I went to the Atacama Desert, one of the driest places on earth, it rained. Every time one of our friends named Richard organises a ride, we barely survive hail, cyclonic winds, and flooding rains. The entrance into a flash hotel to get changed into camel riding kit created some excitement. Especially for those who didn’t realise that the super power response associated with BMW’s Dynamic mode is not ideal for slippery bog crossings.

All made it across, no joy for the waiting photographers unfortunately, and into the air con. Riding pants off, camel pants on, and we were out to the camelport, which is just like an airport but with camels rather than aeroplanes. The similarities end there though, there is no such thing as Business Class when it comes to camels. The last time I’d ridden a camel was as a child at the town show in the early 1970’s, when 6 kids would somehow be used as decoration on a mangy old beast, and I fell off the back. I was done with that activity, so wasn’t a very positive contributor to the Sahara experience. The biggest problem I have is that there are no foot pegs, so all the weight is on the groinal glutes. Going down dunes means sliding forward and punishing the entire front business. But they are interesting to ride, and the rider is up very high so a good view is guaranteed.

A sunset on a high dune, with one of the locals encouraged to go and get a sand board so we could fill every pocket and orifice and hair with sand, the mystery appearance of a few glasses of sparkling, thanks William, and we headed into camp.

It was a glamp camp, and things didn’t get off to a good start. It was hot, bloody hot, and the planned refreshing shower started badly as there was no water. Some investigation and whinging solved that problem, but with all the rain it was still quite humid. Off to a fabulous dinner, where more wine mysteriously appeared courtesy of William, and then there was a very poorly attended cultural event – everyone was pretty much shattered, especially those that had climbed up the dunes three times. The tents weren’t well ventilated, so many punters dragged their mattresses outside to take advantage of the breezes.

Day 10 started well, I thought we were going to have to ride the camels back to the camelport, but it was an awesome Hilux ride, no front business damage and lots of exciting moments swooping over the dunes. Back to the air-conditioned hotel we all wished we’d stayed in, into the gear, and it was off to the west because we’d run out of east in the Moroccan Sahara.

Target for the day was Boumalne Dades, through the Atlas Mountains. What a riding day, it had everything. The rain event had done a lot of damage to the roads, making it a bit of technical fun, before we reached the true highlight – the Tinghir Gorge. Award winning photo after award winning photo were taken as we rolled through the gorges up to Toudgha Dam, which had everything a dam needs except water. An about face from the dam, more award winning photos and we were back in Toudgha El Oulia for a very pleasant lunch.

A feature of Moroccan dining was experienced here and not for the first or last time – the slow build-up. We were all seated, we ordered drinks, and the food started to come out. It starts with a couple of small plates of packet chips, positioned so that only some can reach them. Shared out as best that can be managed, maybe 2 whole chips and a broken one each. Then a plate of salad, meat skewers, and some rice. The meat skewers are hard to share, some miss out. Is that all we are getting? Then a small spoon of salad and rice each. Then hot chips, same as the rice. Then suddenly the table is full of everything, plates balanced on any available surface. Those who feared they were going to miss out notice their pants are about to explode. And it just doesn’t stop – more hot chips, more meat skewers, sweet Jesus there is more coming! Can I just fit one more skewer in? I have to think of the children! They can’t have any!

Heading into Boumalne Dades was the plan for the afternoon. It was getting a bit hot in the lower Atlas, with not much in the way of shade or glaciers to cool everything down, even though we were once again riding in the late afternoon. It was feature of this trip that we rarely got into the hotels before 5pm, which showed that we were packing a bit into each day.

Into the Dades Xaluca Hotel, one thing in particular made this place memorable. Every top floor room had its own extensive roof area, even the small rooms had a Roland Garros centre court-coloured and sized area to stroll about on and hang laundry, with the ability for guests to shout things at each other like “Bloody hell, have you seen the size of our balcony? What? Yours can’t be bigger! I’m coming over!”. A buffet dinner, another positive, and we were done for the day.

Up and away after the usual buffet breakfast experience on Day 11, the target was a big one – Marrakesh. But first some riding into the foothills of the Atlas, which promised some cooler temperatures, just not yet. Into another place we’d never heard of and yet knew of through the agency of cinema. This was Aït-Ben-Haddou, a world heritage example of an earthen village, which gives some idea of how much rain they normally get. First, we had to get across the Asif Ounila, also known as the creek, because you can’t drive or ride into the village. Some kind villagers had started building a sandbag stepping-stone style crossing, but delays to the project meant it hadn’t gotten over the muddy and “just deep enough to overtop the Gore-Tex boots” sections.

Into the village, the first monument was the gates. Used for Lawrence of Arabia, they were meant to represent somewhere with gates that was nowhere near Morocco, possibly in Egypt, Arabia or Jordan. Then into the village, with the large empty area off to the side the site of the Gladiator arena where Russell Crowe defeated the opposition in his first bout by throwing his mobile phone at a staff member or something. A heap of other Game of Thrones sites and we flogged our way up to the top of the village. The renovations are continuous with this style of building – mud daubed means every time it rains the render washes away, but at least it is all the same colour.

Another wild creek crossing return, completely un-necessary as it turned out because of the proper concrete and steel bridge, and we were back on like Russell on his Spanish horse or Lawrence on his Arabian camel. Up into the High Altas, finally some cooler temperatures. A break at a lookout where we finally managed to herd together and get a photo of the BMWMCQ members on the tour, with many of our other tour friends trying to get in and making us feel bad for having to drag them out and push them to the side. No-one dared move Julia though, so we fixed that by making her an honorary BMWMCQ member for 3 minutes, generously waiving the $0.00003 membership fee because she looked financially distressed lying there in her BMW Rallye suit.

Down the Atlas hills and out of the cooler temperatures, the sweaty arrivals continued into the Marrakesh Es Saadi Hotel, only Deadhorse in Alaska has had the opposite problem. This hotel had two excellent features suitable for our second two day stay: a pool, and a bar. That was all we needed.

11 days done; the exotic delights of Marrakesh were in our sights. But all that could wait until after a swim and a gin and tonic.