Fez was now fading in our mirrors as we headed South. The road had obviously been designed by a Roman who had graduated with a 2:1 from the Roman School of Straightness. There was not a single bend in it for miles on end. Great for making progress. Not so great for entertainment value.
A hot sun was beating down on the thin line of tarmac which stretched out to the horizon. We kept experiencing the “water mirage” effect where the hot layer of air above the road bends the light to create an optical illusion of a puddle in the road.
As the hours passed eventually our brains just stopped noticing it. To begin with there was nothing unusual about the large shady patch up ahead. Except it didn’t disappear. It just kept getting bigger. And browner.
“Massive fucking pothole!” came the cry and we all suddenly twigged this wasn’t a mirage. In a flurry of heavy braking, tyre smoke and evasive manouevres we managed to bring ourselves to an undignified halt.
Behind us there was a faint whimper followed by the sight of a T80 sliding past with Greg underneath it rather than on it. Caught out by the unscheduled stop, Greg made the classic novice mistake of applying the brakes whilst also still applying full throttle, resulting in the bike bucking and skipping before eventually dumping itself and Greg on the floor. Normal service had been resumed.
Luckily Greg stopped sliding before he reached what turned out to be something rather more than a slight structural defect. Our side of the road had completely collapsed creating a sinkhole about five feet in depth.
After a brief once over to check the bike wasn’t damaged we pressed on, stopping only for the occassional leg stretch and roadside wee, whilst trying to ignore Greg’s protestations that his leg was hurting.
Straight lines only please
Pass the oxygen
After several hours of straight-lining, it was something of a novelty when the road got bendy as we started to ascend into the mountains. Before too long it became clear that Charlie was having a problem maintaining “speed”. His bike was refusing to rev and had all the power of an asthmatic vacuum cleaner.
As our altitude and the incline increased his progress went in the opposite direction. We decided to pull over when his bike became so slow that it was overtaken by a wind-swept plastic bag. Then it started to rain.
We agreed to stop at the very next campsite where they might at least have some facilities and shelter and the light was starting to fade. This took longer than anticipated since it was inexplicably located near the top of the mountain.
The dusty handwritten “camping is here” sign creaked ominously in the breeze like a scene from a Spaghetti Western. We parked up. A donkey that looked like it had been groomed with a wire brush looked on forlornly as we wandered around looking for signs of life.
An equally shonky sign that read “Piscine” led disappointingly to a shambolic pile of bricks. It wasn’t clear whether the sign was aspirational or a sad reminder of former glory days.
Eventually we found a man pushing a wheelbarrow with a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. He motioned and we followed him over an obstacle course of old tyres and broken plastic pipes. Then he just stopped in the middle of what appeared to be the local landfill, said “camping” and ambled back to find his wheelbarrow.
We weren’t in a position to be choosy but you couldn’t design a worse campsite if you tried. The pitch was on an acute angle and was merely a dusty patch of ground that had been cleared of most (but not all) of the sharp rocks and other spiky things.
We literally had to camp between a rock and a hard place.
After twenty minutes of hammering and cursing there wasn’t a straight tent peg in sight. The limestone was not very forgiving. We may as well have been trying to anchor our tents with bendy straws.
If there was a positive it was that our day could only get better.
It didn’t.
We would normally sit around a fire having a good chat over a beer whilst regaling the highlights of the day but we were all so knackered we quickly retired and fell into a deep sleep.
Around 3am the donkey started making an awful racket. We weren’t sure if it was giving birth or dying but is was enough to ensure no one got anything more than fitful sleep, occassionally waking to find a limb had gone numb due to the awful terrain.
The crowning turd in our 1 star accomodation was waking to find that a water pipe was leaking, and rather than irrigating a patch of dying grass, it had in fact irrigated Charles’ tent.
On a positive note Charles, assuming that he’d pissed himself (again), got up early so by the time the rest of us stirred, he’d pretty much fixed the problem with his bike (dirt in the carb) and set about knocking up breakfast.
The coffee was magic, the sun was shining and we had an awesome day of riding ahead of us. The first 3,000 metre peaks of the Atlas Mountains beckoned and with them, the awe-inspiring mountain tracks and views.
In the absence of anything resembling a shower, our morning ablutions consisted of one wet-wipe under the armpits and one down the pants. We then packed up our tents in the dustbowl of doom and ended up even grimier than before.
The bikes were loaded, wheelbarrow man was paid and we departed the worst campsite in Morocco (so far) but not before checking on the donkey. It wasn’t dead or with child so clearly it was just there to annoy us.
A sense of well-being was restored the moment we pulled out of the gate and headed out on to the open road…
Obviously packed with eyes closed
Don't Wake My Wife
That Is Not A Tyre Lever