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Some of you may recall I planned a trip to Morocco this May as a warm up for a three part trip over to around and back from India starting in September. Here's how it went.

I was on the BMW Off Road Skills course in South Wales the weekend before which was a brilliant (if expensive) confidence builder in terms of what a complete novice can do with a bike off road. A quick word of thanks too to Jasext and his mate Terry for keeping me entertained the night before.

I started out like this

The eagle eyed amongst you may realise I'm carrying my nobbly tyres as I was riding down and back through France and Spain which would kill the nobblies. Of course the extra 15kg+ and the lack of suspension adjustment meant the front wheel was given to serious vibrations whenever I came to a stop.

The lesson I learnt from riding through France and Spain on autoroutes on the way down is that it is bum numbingly dull and is not something I want to do again.

 

On day five I reached Morocco which started off gloriously

I'd worn my thermal/waterproof layer as my destination was up in mountains although I quickly discovered that Moroccan A-roads are not to European standards. Crappy British B-roads might be more apt for some of the main highways. They would be brilliant biking roads -- barely a straight flat bit to be found with roads following mountainsides almost religiously -- but for the fact there's rarely more than 50yds warning of any known road works, subsidence, rock falls, missing road surface and no-one pays the slightest attention to any road markings with overtaking through solid white lines de-rigeur and being on the wrong side of the road on blind bends/crests commonplace. I can only assume there were fewer accidents than you might expect because everyone drives so slowly. Barely out of second gear in towns and generally held up by lorries on the open road.

Still, eventually, I made it up into the hills past Mekne.  Where it clearly had turned a bit sour. It had been raining for a mere 45 minutes, they said, when I eventually reached my target hotel in Azrou

where the Salon du The (Tea Room) doubles up after 7pm as the garage for motos.

The bloke loitering in the corner is Hassan who turned out to a useless git as far as being a fixer was concerned and something of a bad liar to boot. But typing that has already made me angry again so I won't go on.

Day 6: The day started out very early as I was under strictest instructions to have the bike out of the Salon du The by 7am. I set the alarm and sprang out of bed and set off down the hall. The "director" of the hotel slept at the end of the corridor with his door open and bed positioned so he could see down the corridor Presumably as some sort of guard when he was awake and ever so slightly creepy when he was not.

There didn't appear to be anyone around to unlock the Salon and after a few minutes the director came down to ask me why I was up at 5am. 5am? ********! I'd changed the clocks back two hours on everything except my alarm...

Still, it was a beautiful day

to be venturing into the Cedar Forest just south of Azrou.

 

Further south still is the Sources de l'Oum-er-Rbia.

(This photo isn't of the sources themselves which were off the beaten track a little.)

I carried on intending to follow the tarmac up to the main road to Midelt but made a wrong turn and ended up following some piste

No harm so far -- after all I've come here to follow some pistes. It did start getting a bit trickier

and not long after I found myself above the snow line which was a touch disconcerting. OK, that bit of piste doesn't look very hard but I only stopped at the bits where I felt it was safe to stop... I think I surprised a few locals by appearing, sliding through mud and disappearing off into the forest on more than one occasion.

Still, I made it out eventually, stopped for lunch (the only lunch I had in Morocco -- they stuff you with too much bread at breakfast and dinner) and planned a little more piste before Midelt, taking a route which would join with the Cirque du Jaffar (a famous Moroccan piste) and into Midelt that way.

Partway down, overlooking this valley

I had two groups pass me, three bikes and a couple in a 4x4 who both said they were following the Cirque du Jaffar and that I was lost, heading for a dead end (which doesn't explain where they came from). They were certain they were going to end up in Midelt directly and sort of ignored my point about having just come that way and it was not taking them directly there. Slightly disconcerting as this was my first day of following piste on GPS/map but, hey ho!

Not long after I found myself facing this

Even less time after I found myself picking the bike up after a rather cheesy fall (like some kind of beginner I had the brakes slightly on, on a loose surface when the bike went over a small ledge, brakes locked, bike falls)

At the bottom there were three exits, a very steep gravelly hill

some sort of gorge

 

and the way I'd just fallen in

(the piste is centre left)

Sadly, where the video ends, the route gets a little tougher. In fact too tough for me and the following happened three times

It seems that one time I'd lifted the bike had done me in and here, at 1900m, I simply didn't had the oomph to lift the bike and luggage so I was reduced to stripping the bike, shifting it and then reloading it. I noticed, btw, having taken this photo that fuel was dripping out of the fuel cap (and soaking my tank bag and harness). Very stinky for the next few days and something of a concern. Not for the environment but just how much fuel had leaked out and therefore how much did I have left?

A big thumbs up for the XT, here, as whatever luggage-laden problem it had gotten into, luggage-less it sprang out of without a problem.

Sadly, though, this was taking a toll on me, huffing and puffing and starting to make some dumb mistakes. I was also worried about the number of times I was restarting the engine. There have been suggestions that the battery isn't designed to turn the engine over a dozen times in a hundred yards (as may have been the case). So I turned around (impressing myself as there wasn't much room) and headed back down the gorge realising that one of the problems of going upstream is that it's very hard to read the path ahead, going downstream is much easier.

I tried going up the steep slope but discovered that it wasn't gravel but rather large fist and foot sized rocks which the bike just slipped in between and I was on the floor again. ******!

By the time I'd gotten the bike back into the valley it was nearing 7pm. The sun was getting low in the sky and I knew it was at least an hour back to the main road and would be an hour after that to get into town so, sod it, I'd wanted a night under the stars although not quite under these circumstances. The very stuff weighing me down came to my rescue

I guess the adrenaline was running out as it was all I could do to put the tent up and find a torch and then spent the next two hours lying down gasping for breath.

And after all that it was a misty night.

Day 7-8: Being the extremely novice/nervous/hungry type rather than pack the bike and head back up the way I'd come in I went back up a pannier at a time. A bit slow and wussy some might say but fine and rewarding practice say I!

I headed off into Midelt but had sort of lost my mojo for pisting for the day so in fact headed off down to Merzouga. Desert (warm) rather than mountains (cold overnight at any rate). I reckon it was probably down to about 5-8C overnight. I did have a super cheap Hong Kong import temperature gauge thingy but it had largely rattled itself to death on the way down through Europe.

I was offered a meagre one camel for the XT here

This is overlooking Merzouga

with Erg Chebbi in the background. Most of the (non-Saharan) desert is rocky, often called Hamada for its black volcanic rock, but where there is sand like here it is called a Sand Sea, or Erg.

The Hotel Panorama

The next day (having failed to find the start of any pistes leading to the Erg and being frightened off by pure sand) I decided to follow the R702 north from Merzouga up to Erfoud. This was my first experience of Moroccan numbered pistes

Yup. That's the main road north. On the left, not the right as I first chose.

It's actually quite a nice run

for novices which a trio of French newbie bikers confirmed later on in the trip.

I headed up to Tinerhir with a view to traversing the piste up behind the two famous gorges: Todra and Dades. In both cases there is tarmac for about 40km from the main road through the gorges and up into the hinterland. I went up to assay the piste (which is clearly pointless as it generally changes every few hundred yards) when a Brit on a blue Tenere pitched up and we had a quick chat. I wondered about luggage and he exclaimed that he travelled light. He had a backpack at his Auberge with spare pants and T-shirt, I guess he was wearing Draggin' Jeans or equivalent and used the toolkit on the bike. Very light indeed I pondered having been rescued moments before by some cyclists when I'd missed my footing on the gravel and teetered on the brink of a rather lame fall.

Still, this is what 99% of the tourists miss out on

 

 

 

An adventurous tourist might get to the far end of the Gorge du Todra

but most will only see

I like the contrast between verdant river and arid surrounds

Day 9: Today is my big piste day. I'm going to ride up through the Gorge du Todra to Ait-Hani, follow the R703 piste to Agoudal (pronounced Ag-dal it transpires which explains why many locals looked at me rather blankly), hang a left and back down the R704 through to the Gorge du Dades (pronounced Da-des, <sigh>) and back to Tinerhir. A nice round trip.

My camcorder batteries have either died at this point or the charger has died so I'm clean out of funky(!) videos. I'll have to review my technology for the next trip.

Up to Ait-Hani is a doddle and I crash through the first village where the piste is rock-hard dried mud. This seems to be the worse kind of piste as there's nothing that will mould it -- whatever ruts or potholes or water runs shaped it when wet are still there now. Nothing reshapes it and it's uncomfortable to ride over.

Still, things brighten up with the appearance of men and shiny new machines. A lot of them. And they are making good progress in creating and grading the R703 into an easy going road. This of course puts me in two minds: if it's easy it's not hard-core pisting but on the other hand if it allows the locals to get their wares to market then who am I to complain?

I have to stop as the are two caterpillared JCBs just squeezed side by side blocking the piste while their drivers have a chat. Looking back down the valley

you can see the pale coloured piste winding around. Looking up

you can see firstly that the piste is nice and smooth having been graded and that it still follows the mountainside without any armco. There's still an element of danger!

Up here the piste was good

 

and three bikers whizzed past with a cheery wave. All sat down, I noticed.

Then into Agoudal

which took a few minutes to negotiate as there isn't a main street and I ended up skirting around the back much to the surprise of a few people.

And onto the R704

Ah. The R704 hasn't seen quite the same number of men and machines as the R703. And it doesn't look as if it's about to.

I headed off and the piste followed the contours of the land quite closely. Sections ran through stream beds (which make it very hard to follow the route -- thank you GPS!) or over soft ground where the water flow caused deep gulley erosion and having missed the piste I had the odd nervy moment "jumping" these 1m crevasses to get back on track. After a while though you get into your zone. It wasn't technically very difficult but it did require concentration.

At one point I was waved down by some girls dressed in, I assume, tradition costume, who wanted me to turn of the engine because it would frighten the heavily overladen donkeys coming down the track. We then has the perfunctory "Donnez moi un stylo!" (Give me a pen) Followed by a selectionn of "Donnez moi bon bon" (sweets), "Donnez moi Dirhams" (the local currency). That's one thing that really grated about Moroccan kids, they simply couldn't say anything to you without the first being "Donnez moi un stylo!"

Anyway, once they'd been denied pens/sweets/money they were happy to chat (I say chat, my schoolboy French is pretty ropey, heaven knows what we were talking about) and finally the donkeys came past and I was off up a now mud-based track round an uphill tight hairpin bend and along a track where the two wheel ruts were at different heights. I looked up and...there's a bloody 4x4 coming the other way! I shudder to a halt with no idea what to do. I can't reverse, he's slithering down the slope and it's a fall to certain doom to my left. I stare hopelessly forward. The driver of the 4x4 is a little more clued up and when he stops slithering manages to edge the car off the track a little until he's on the edge of the slope. Now it's up to me (on my third day of piste) so ride over the central rubbish, up the slope a little and edge past the car. I'm quite pleased with myself that I do that though rather less pleased with the bedrock and pothole combination up a steep slope that follows but I crash through turn the corner and find a cafe at 2650m!

We chatted for a while about all sorts from his plans for expansion (one room with cushion for the cafe (omelette was on offer); one room with four mattresses on the floor and the expansion consisting of about thirty bricks so far) to the weather (a large black cloud had been forming behind me which given the rain on the way into Azrou I wasn't particularly keen on seeing). At the end of which he didn't even want money for the coffee! One thing he did say, though, and where I realised my preparation hadn't been quite good enough as that it was another 40km of this piste before it reached tarmac!

I headed off and the piste was fairly rough and worryingly kept heading upwards finally peaking at 2900m. The piste was now just about as wide as the two wheel ruts with a hill on one side and a steep slope on the other

This one one of the few places that I felt safe enough to stop. Any mistakes here and it's going to be a heck of a job recovering the bike (assuming I could walk and talk).

At least you can see the slope on the left even if it would still be a pretty bad day if you fell!

This sort of view ran for a good 5km at 2800m. I didn't stop very often and kept the engine running when I did.

Finally, I started going downhill

You can see the piste laid out before me with huge switchbacks. The piste doesn't look too shabby here (which is why I stopped) but I'd end up going dead slow and stop (often almost walking the bike) around the hairpins where the piste was covered in loose rock.

Finally, civilisation!

I'd had a moment when the land around the piste had flattened out and I had to stop to inspect a water crossing where I almost had a Pope-moment and kissed the ground!

I did suffer a short rain shower not long after in Msemrir but that was just as the tarmac appeared. Phew!

 

 

Back to tourist-ville

 

The tourists get some easy hairpins

That night I tried a Kasbah with some spectacular views over the river

 

although the frog chorus was rather noisy from here

I'd made it to Boumalne-Dades after 7.5 hours on the piste. The GPS suggests an average of 30kph from the cafe to the Kasbah which means it can't have been very high on the piste!

Day 10-11: I head over to Ouarzazete

where a local entrepreneur waylays me with his thoughts on everything as I try to eat my omelette berbere (in a tagine, of course). Typing this I realise that this too was lunch -- what a fibber I was earlier!

Having finally gotten rid of him back to his car rental business I loiter near the Bikershome Auberge. My phone won't call the number despite the help of a local kid and his mates who entertain themselves in my company (probably at my expense). Eventually, I realise it's a Sunday and maybe the guy who runs it isn't expecting anyone to turn up on spec.

I find another hotel (identified as the only other hotel in town by the kids -- not quite true) and then head off to Ait-Benhaddou, a famous mud city. Famous enough that it seems you have to pay to see it. Given I stayed in a mud hotel earlier (The Panorama in Merzouga) I don't feel so fussed about touristing.

I took this picture

of an older-style building (tapered walls) with, I realised after, a stork's next atop one of the turrets (not easily seen in this photo!). At the hotel I find myself staring at a painting in the room of an old style building with a stork's nest atop a turret. Clearly a national favourite!

The next day I head off up to go round the scenic route beyond the mud city. The piste starts fine

although everyone (OK me and a guy on a moped) had to stop when road works blocked the way

I let the guy on the moped head off first (fearing a rash bit of throttle on sand would leave me on the floor) and we tootled along in convoy for a little while. His high-pitched engine "wheen" contrasting with my growl. He kept a good pace though. I passed him with a cheery wave when the going was safe only to find him heading past me in a seamless move round the back of a JCB whilst I was being harangued by an enterprising cafe owner having foolishly paused for said JCB. These locals know the roads! I had him, though after a water crossing became a steep slope and his 50cc were failing him. I didn't dare bet that he wouldn't overtake me again, though.

Before long I'm stuck behind three or four 4x4s. Annoyingly, 4x4s in low gear go at walking pace which might be maintainable on a bike on tarmac but isn't possible (for me) on bumpy piste so I find myself regularly stopping.

I took this while waiting

If you screw you eyes up funny you can see a couple of silver dots at the bottom right of the slope, the 4x4s.

Having loitered for them to be clear of the slope I headed off. My explanation of what happened next is this: I have heavy luggage sat above the rear wheel. As I'm heading up this sort of slope (again, the tyre ruts are not level) if the rear wheel slips it'll head left, say, under gravity, the heavy weight over the rear wheel will swing left and, rotating about the centre of gravity, the front wheel will be swung right, pointing straighter up the hill. And thus quite likely to make you fall off. Which I did. Twice.

The first time I had tried lifting the bike to no avail (this is at 2300m) and so I was sighing audibly in face of stripping the bike of luggage and wondering how much fuel will glug out this time when "Monsieur!" a bloke is running down the path. Brilliant! One of the 4x4 drivers has noticed I'm missing and come back to help. I can barely understand a word he says but grasp something about trucks at the top. Whatever! He and his newly arrived mate lift the bike up and I realise the sideways slope of the path is such that the saddle is at chest height. Good job these boys are here as they can hold the bike while I climb around the other side to get on.

20 yards later I'm off again and there's another rescue. I then struggle up the rest of the path in one. A feat I'm quite pleased with as the path was terrible, potholes in front of bedrock with loose rocks in the most annoying places and according to the gaps in the GPS log the 300m path rose 100m: a 1 in 3 slope to boot!

The 4x4s are at the top with the tourists milling about and I give a triumphant wave to celebrate my success to the waiting audience. They seem non-plussed. I explain what has just happened and I get some quizzical looks. Then my rescuers appear and return to their positions of selling tat to tourists -- they weren't the 4x4 drivers at all!

Having rewarded them (and been obliged to buy some badly carved rock) I get the story that they'd seen me waiting for the 4x4s

then heard me crash on the way up. Apparently bikers are falling over here all the time so they're quite used to it (and presumably the extra income they earn).

The piste is easier (but not the easiest) beyond here although a dozen or so 4x4s make life annoying

before I can escape the piste and back onto tarmac

I then headed off down to Zagora and the desert again. I stopped at a deserted layby to take some panoramic pictures and come the third pic

this kid has silently appeared (like one of those horror movies). I can only guess he was hiding behind that rock. He said nothing. Very odd.

Day 12-13: I decided that after 11 days solid riding I deserved a day or two off. This is meant to be a holiday! I'll mess about in the desert.

I followed one of the pistes up the way for a bit. Looking forward

and looking back

I then went for a tootle down the road to Mhamid at the end of the road. It was all very deserty.

 

 

I then discovered that this famous sign was actually at the back of my hotel

I found another piste that turned into pure sand and decided that now I was free of luggage it was time to learn sand.

After that first foray I felt I was lucky to recover my bike on my own and retired for the day.

There were three Frenchmen making repairs to their bikes on my return. They too were on their first Moroccan trip quite possibly identifiable to regulars because they were carrying luggage. Either way they'd just had a torrid time in that rather than come down the main road they'd followed a piste parallel to it with a couple of rather innocent looking river crossings. The rivers were dry but rocky and like my experience on the steep slope they'd had a terrible time. One of them was limping having had his 1200GS land on him after one attempt. Two of them had to repair their luggage which had been torn off.

Still, we enjoyed a bottle of wine and shared our tales of woe!

The next day I was determined to do sand and so found a different piste with a couple of 50m sand sections. I went back and forth half a dozen times getting increasingly nervous about either the barbed wire or tree clumps impinging my increasingly wayward falls.

In the end the matter was decided for me. After a last hurrah had yet again gone inexplicably wrong resulting in a fatal weave I fell off to the side turning and had my leg trapped under the pannier frame. I untwisted myself but the damage was done, I'd twisted my ankle (something I wasn't expecting wearing MX boots but then no-one was probably expecting a dunce like me to be floundering around in them).

I retired injured for the rest of the day.

Day 14: It's time to head back north. I've left my road tyres in Azrou and the blokey doesn't work Sundays (outrageous!)

 

 

 

 

When I reached the bottom of this slope

I was flagged to a halt by a local driver who wanted to know if this was the road to Agadir. I guess he must have know a westerner would have a map! It is the road, if you were thinking of going yourself.

The next bit of road

after the roadworks

To the north of the High Atlas it gets a lot greener

and this is the food basket of Morocco

Actually, this was along one of the few flat straight (-ish) bits of road I found and I was merrily caning it along here at a whopping 100kph! You still can't go very fast because of road works, missing tarmac, crazy car drivers and around here combine harvesters in the road. You'll note it's harvest time in Morocco in mid May.

Day 15: I've changed my plan and decided to pick the road tyres up early -- largely to avoid the interfering Hassan and so I want to make it to Azrou late today or early tomorrow.

Along the main road to Azrou every opportunity is taken to maximize the use of the ground

here wheat is grown in between the olive trees. It'll be harvested by hand as probably half the wheat seems to be.

As ever on the long days you're looking out for somewhere to pee and as ever in non-first world countries there's always someone around. I spotted this layby overlooking a lake. Nice view, no-one around, good spot for a piss. As soon as I take my helmet off I can hear children chattering to each other but I can't see them. I take my photo

and these urchins appear over the bank gasping for breath having climbed up with limp posies of weeds (so far as I can tell) to sell. No deal. I can't understand a word they're saying but finally realise they want a drink. I hand over the bottle of water on the back of the bike and it's glugged down in about ten seconds. These girls were thirsty!

Spot the irrigation

I get my tyres changed back (there's no point i me doing it - it takes 3 hours for two) and head off for a reputable Auberge, the Auberge Berbere. As I arrived a drunk Canadian staggers over from his BMW with his beer filled flagon and starts burbling. He claims to be an off-road instructor in his spare time and has been to some BMW off road place in Germany but has never heard of Ystragynlais in South Wales. I get suspicious and bored but he won't go away. Eventually as dusk draws in someone from the hotel comes out and shows me a room. Oddly, the main rooms have been stripped of furniture and the bed room seems quite expensive but it's getting dark.

I hide in my room for a while to avoid the Canadian and eventually head outside to the Berber tent to find two Kiwis wondering about the place as well. They've been moved room once because the taps wouldn't shut off. I'd done a recce and found the pool black. I don't think dead things would want to fall in it. When the food turns up it's not what we ordered, we're startled by a bottle of mineral water turning up and the blokey saying it's not mineral water. Well, take it back then! Still, the entertainment value of it all keeps us in good spirits.

The room upstairs' plumbing protrudes into my room and makes a heck of a racket when they have a shower and then the music starts. What? It turns out that the owners are having something of a party for the staff and not bothered to tell any of us. And of course, with no furniture to absorb it any sound is amplified round the whole building. Grrr.

Day 16-17: I've changed my plan again as I can't quite figure out how to spend two more days in the north so I'm only going to do one. Just a little run up through the Rif valley to see if it's quite as notorious as people claim.

It's a nice run over to Taza with storks on poles!

It seems to be paler rock

But still plenty of dry riverbeds

 

At Kassita there's a T-junction at the top of a hill with a STOP sign and a couple of policemen. I decide to do the proper thing and actually stop where I see a car coming towards me so thinking European speeds I wait for it but it's actually going at two miles an hour and the policemen pounce.

The one is all paperwork and hassle and the other guy just wants to chat (the only other policeman to stop me in Morocco just wanted a go on the bike). There's a good ten minutes of chat

whilst vital details are scribbled into ledgers and I get to hear that the road onwards is "difficile" but I gather it is OK for motos. Fortunately, I get my papers back just as cop #2 is starting to show me his moto scars.

A mile up the road there is a "Route Barre" sign for 25km hence. Why didn't they tell me the road is closed? Another sign a little later but there's a small number of cars coming in the other direction. Unless they've all got as far as the blockage and turned back.

Eventually I find they're replacing a bridge but you can for the moment traverse the old one subject to negotiating a couple of piles of rubble.

This road

has many road works on it. You can just see the alternative route across the river bed (a white streak across the far bit of river instead of a bridge) in that photo. Later on there's a diversion which takes me around the back of some houses and halfway down the hillside before I see a vehicle coming the other way and can stop panicking that I've gone wrong before it descends into the river and meanders along the river bed for a couple of miles before coming back up. Diversions are different over here!

I nearly miss the turn for the N2 back to Chefchauoen which would have been disastrous in many ways not least of which is because it's a superb road, pretty well maintained flowing round the mountainside through some lovely country

Perhaps not best identified by that photo.

The trouble was I was running late. Really quite late in fact. So late that this lovely twisty road was proving to be something of a hinderance. It's getting on for 4pm when the road disintegrates as I arrive in Ketama the centre of the marijuana growing region. And then the road starts to climb back into an alpine forest. Most of the side roads or open spaces have a car parked in them (unlike anywhere else in Morocco) I presume for the sale of illegal substances.

I get hollered at much more than before. In towns you get hollered at partly because I think people think you can hear what they're saying not realising that noisier bikes and faster speed/more wind noise make that unlikely and partly because you're a dumb westerner easy with your cash. You've got to take the opportunity! Here, they just want you to buy drugs.

Times getting on and the road varies enormously, sections of piste, slow twisties, stuck behind trucks, up into the cold, down behind the mountain into gloom as the sun sinks. This is all not good.

At one point I realise my right hand has gone completely numb. I can only think that the loading of the bike is such that when going up the front has almost no weight on it and I'm absorbing all the vibrations. Not good for that finesse of control. Going downhill involves a twist of the throttle and then some vigorous shaking of the arm to get some sense back into it.

Finally though, I can follow a local through the early night time and into Chefchauoen. What a huge relief. The final tally for that day was a mere 558km but 10:25 hours on the road. I got off the bike three times in that, twice for fuel and once for a piss.

Chefchauoen turns out to be a really lovely little place. I wandered through the middle of town at 9pm and had not one stall holder called out to me even if you stopped for a nose through their wares. I wondered if it was a real souk. Nice twisty turney little centre and some top nosh in the recommended restaurant for (in Moroccan terms) peanuts. A place to visit next time.

I'm strangely fascinated by the not-often seen

b

The bike survived in the street

clearly no-one wanted some half-used TKC80s!

Up here

on the terrace of the guest house was a lovely little breakfast room although the saloon door in the far corner hides a squat toilet. Share a little with your fellow breakfasters!

Summary

That's pretty much it. I took five days to amble back up through the countryside of Spain and France which was altogether more enjoyable than the three and a half day charge down. The real problem was Europe costs EUR100/day (food, lodging and fuel). Morocco wasn't that cheap, maybe EUR60/day.

The bike looks like this

 

 

 

Early on I lost a bolt for one of the handguards, one of the spacer/pin combos for the front plastics and my tax disc (not necessarily at the same time).

Later on I thought the rear brake was a bit loose so had a look to find that the top bolt holding the assembly on was missing and the bottom bolt had a turn or two left before it too would have been lost in Morocco. I didn't have any spares either!

Most annoyingly, from the rear photo you can see the nearside chain adjuster plate and (obviously) both nuts have gone. I didn't check the work of the guy who swapped the tyres over. The first time the job was fine (it had survived a number of crashes after all) but the second time it got overlooked. The locknut on the right has gone too!

But that's it, arguably my fault for not checking everything (often enough). The panniers still have some Moroccan rock embedded in them so they worked well. The bash plate sang some expressive songs when big rocks hit it and has at least one hefty dink. The handguards earned their money avoiding busted levers.

Lessons learned?

1. If you're going somewhere vaguely Westernised (as Morocco is). Don't take any luggage! It's not easy to find circular routes over the pistes and luggage wears you down.

2. Don't take the long route through France and Spain. You could go on your nobblies (and avoid carting a spare set of tyres with you) or you could just get the ferry to northern Spain and be done with it.

3. JFDI! Just F'ing Do It! I was a complete noob and not much better now but I've been out there on my tod and had an adventure. I was way out of my comfort zone on at least two occasions and I was knackered and I was crapping myself. But you're only knackered and crapping yourself for a couple of hours and then you're telling tall tales of derring do! ("Hey, I've ridden the R704 with full luggage!") Other than than it's just roads like anywhere else and people who are interested in what you, a stranger, are doing.


I've sort of flooded this thread with pictures which I know are a pain to have to wait to load but I always like to see what other places are like. Hopefully you've got an idea of what central and central southern Morocco looks like which might pique your interest.

All the photos should be at http://s676.photobucket.com/albums/v...orocco%202009/