Morocco - Sand, snow, speed, and spills
Morocco's geographic diversity is nothing short of amazing. Taking guidance from Greg Fatrai, owner of Wheels of Morocco, I'd hit a few key routes and cities while making my way back to Spain from the southwest corner. The previous days along the coast were "nice," as Greg put it, but not too memorable. The "good stuff" lay ahead. The next four days would entail the bulk of miles and memories in Morocco.
I departed Taroundat just after daybreak to head northeast to Ouarzazate. The route Greg had carved out for me included two key passes through the southern Atlas Mountains: Tizi n'Test and Tizi n'Tichka. The journey would take nearly nine hours by car. I'd have to shave that down to have some daylight hours for drone sorties and to still make it to my destination by nightfall. Needless to say, Green can traverse such mountain passes much more quickly than the average car or tour bus.
This was where Morocco got fun. Tizi n'Test started out as a beautifully-paved full-width road with sharp hairpin turns and occasional guardrails. It soon deteriorated (or improved in my mind) to narrow, spotty tarmac and sheer, unprotected cliffs. Snaking high into the mountains from barren sand to snowy hillsides, route 203 climbs nearly 2,000 meters within an hour's drive. Tizi n'Test runs near to Toubkal, the highest peak in Morocco and the Atlas Mountains, standing 4,167 meters (13,671 ft) tall. Stopping mid-way for some aerial footage, a nomadic salesman provided input on where to acquire petrol and all the great places that lay ahead. We fired up the drone, and he was genuinely afraid I'd lose Maverick out in the mountains. He screamed frantically while almost giggling like a kid playing with a new toy on Christmas, "Bring him back! Bring him back! I'll go get my donkey and go find it." Just as before, it came back on it's own, but he was more than willing to help, should the drone go rogue. Of course, our 30-minute conversation had to be capped off with a very persistent sales pitch. "I'll trade you that flying camera for some jewelry...No? Okay, just come look and buy for your wife...what, no wife? Okay, come buy for your mother...what, no mother?" (Just kidding, Mom).
Green and I barreled down the backside of the pass. Usually, I'd rely upon the GPS to provide some insight into the depth of turns in the immediate path, but Google Maps was not reliable, and the larger concern was not the sharpness of turns but the presence of sand on the road. I quickly developed pattern recognition, and luckily any malicious gravel or sand in the road was of a bright red or white clay coloration, easily to distinguish and avoid. We found our rhythm and really mastered that winding road. After the curvy descent ended, there was about 100km of flat desert and small towns, but we soon arrived at Tizi n'Tichka and were climbing again to 2,200m. This time, the multi-lane road was wide and pristine. The twisties could have been taken at higher speed, but my hybrid off/on-road tires wouldn't support it.
I pulled into Ouarzazate just before nightfall and after settling at a B&B, ventured into town for the classic Chicken Tagine dish. Come to think of it...I ate Chicken Tagine six nights straight. It was always the first dish they recommended. Familiar and healthy... so why not? Yes, it got old, actually.
Ouarzazate is Morocco's movie-making pride-and-joy. "Atlas Film Studios" greets inbound tourists with a larger-than-life clapperboard. The town has numerous mock villages and castles both in and outside of the city limits, providing versatile sets for many new and older films. Think Gladiator, Ben-Hur, Game of Thrones, and many more. Pulling into town, you can see barren castles that could easily be breathed into life with a few props. But, two things are very interesting: First, to keep versatility, these fake towns are quite vanilla, offering no architectural identity. Then this same uninteresting design spills into the city of Ouarzazate. Homes and businesses along the main roads, though in better shape than any other in the region, lacked aesthetic character but maintained the tourist-friendly facade. Of course, just a few blocks outside the main tourist areas, the neighborhoods quickly devolve into shanty towns with makeshift plumbing and piles of trash. Secondly, there are even more mud village film sets being constructed on the outskirts of the city. Despite having countless empty villages not in use, they just don't seem to know when to stop building. I passed by as a few people labored slowly to build mud huts that appeared may never be used, but they cling to what has worked in the past.
After some Chicken Tagine, I quickly passed out, exhausted from nine hours of focusing all physical and mental faculties toward speeding through mountain passes. Well worth it.
The next day would be one of the longest of all my world-wide gallivanting. Green wound up on his side twice, the drone was almost confiscated, and a mountain pass would test this adventure rider. This took me from Ouarzazate to Agoudal, a planned 4.5-hour journey that took twice as long. Will save that post for another day.
Waking in Agoudal to a freezing 40-degree mud hotel, the host assured me R703 was "good," which, as I had learned the day prior on R704, was not always accurate. Would the next 50-km take four hours again? I sure hoped not. I inspected the bike for any damage from the prior day and dusted some caked mud from my jacket. Departing at 9am, Green and I sped down the mountain toward the Sahara. Had I done the route in reverse, this would have been an appreciated landscape. I'd have stopped often for videos and pictures. But, compared to the day prior, this stretch was nothing but forgettable. The mountain descent flattened out, changed to narrow canyons, and then opened to sandy desert. So happy to be back on solid, smooth tarmac, Green and I then set some trip speed records (only to stand for 48 hours). Maps said Merzouga was just over 4 hours away, and we can confirm. I reached the base of the far western Sahara sand dunes by 2pm...glorious!
Now...my biggest complaint about Morocco is how pushy the locals can be with tourists. I recognize I stick out like sore thumb, and my BMW screams, "we make it rain," but come on! A guy on a scooter sped up behind me 15 miles outside of the town, deep in the barren desert. I insisted he give me a fistbump before I'd converse, and he reluctantly accepted, but only to quickly, relentlessly, try to convince me to have tea with him and stay at his hotel. Upon arriving in town, two more dudes riding scooters and dressed in costumes (think Aladdin) pursued me, honking and revving their engines until I'd stop and capitulate. I followed the gentleman and his flying carpet (scooter) to a crappy hotel, where I fended off the main host for a good 15 minutes. When I told him I was going elsewhere, he insisted on knowing what place I'd chosen. I finally shrugged him off and rode just 50 meters toward the sand dunes to take a quick picture. As I turned Green around to depart, the turning radius forced me to ride over a very small patch of sand. I know this massive machine won't do well in sand, but I figured I could make it 15 feet. Nope. The rear-end sunk like a rock. We tried to power through, creeping closer and closer to the edge of the gravel parking lot, where we would be safe. But with each foot closer to safety, the rear-end sunk inches deeper into the sand. With the front wheel perched high on dry land, the entire rear axel was sunk and the aluminum panniers rested on the hot sand. A Norwegian gentlemen heard the commotion and came quickly out of his RV wearing nothing but tighty-whities. He looked kind and helpful, but he just laughed and took pictures. The hotel host heard the engine revving and quickly came to investigate. "You want help? You want to stay at my hotel now?" Screw you guys. I spent a few minutes wiggling Green back and forth as if trying to pull an over-sized fence post from the ground, pausing often to try again, revving the engine and spinning the rear tire. It was painful to hear that sound. After a few failed attempts, I'd had enough. I reached under the luggage rack, picked up the ass-end of the bike, and set it on top of the sand next to the hole we'd dug. The jerks standing next to me didn't say much then. I started him up and we rode away. Won't make that mistake again.
I found a hotel that almost didn't seem to care if I stayed there. It was lovely. I spent the evening cleaning sand from crevices (of the bike, of course), climbing dunes, and managing digital files and trimming clips (this is no small task). The drone paid for itself once again, capturing great footage of all the tourists climbing the largest dune. They'd been delivered to the base by camels, but the hard work was theirs. I'd be happy to get the same view from miles away--and keep it forever. Sleep came quickly but was not sustained.
The latest plan was to go from Merzouga to Fes, a 7-hour drive, where I'd rest a night and then do the final leg of the Morocco journey by returning to Tangier, just 4 more hours of riding. This trip to Fes would combine two days from the original plan. However, the previous-low mileage days (relatively speaking) and rough terrain, coupled with too much morning caffeine and some personal anxiousness caused me to change plans. We'd make it to Tangier by nightfall. I loaded the Camelbak with water and the cooler with canned tuna and Red Bull. Green's suspension and engine were set for aggressive riding. I kept my eyes peeled for camels, sand, and speed traps. We mastered desert straightaways and curvy canyons, and I reduced speeds through villages to stand on the pegs and stretch the legs. There would be no pictures, no footage that day. We passed through a cedar village near Azrou, renowned throughout the country for a thriving population of Barbary monkeys. Did we stop to join the throng of tourists buying peanuts from pushy local peddlers? Hell no. No monkeys would be appreciated on this day. Green and I were making miles. On multiple occasions, we'd crest a hill and be staring right down the barrel of a radar gun. Police would camp in the middle of a traffic circle or on the edge of town. Those things might as well have been kaleidoscopes, 'cause they never pulled me over. Rolling into Tangier at dusk, we'd covered over 550 miles in close to 7 hours. I undoubtedly missed some memories along the way, but this seven-month journey would average 125 miles per day, and it felt great to cover four days at once. We caught the last ferry off the continent and I breezed through customs to enter Spain.
Adios, Morocco. We are eastward bound.
On a side note...I visited Marrakesh for two days a few weeks prior while on the way to NYC. Cool town. Note, it's not included in motorcycle antics because, frankly, it's a tourism town and I didn't have my travel partner with me. Happy to provide insights or travel advice, but that's about it.
