Morocco Day 4 - Tanghir - Sahara - Zagora

There is a day in every trip that epitomises the freedom of biking, a day that stands out in memory for years to come, a day you hope to never forget. Today was that day.

Our plan was to get to the edge of the Sahara for some desert riding. It was a stretch from out current position in Tinghir and I hadn't slept so well. The wind picked up overnight and made the window in my hotel room rattle and i ended up sleeping with ear plugs in. It was raining, the wind howling when I awoke for breakfast.

ruin behind the hotel at first light

Again no one was awake in the hotel and so once again when had to wake the concierge who was sleeping on the sofa. He then kicked the people in the kitchen into action and breakfast preparations began. I'd woke up starving and stuffed my face with boiled eggs, yogurts, sweet breads, cheese, tea and coffee.

Our first trek of the day was supposed to be off road and one of the best descents out of the atlas mountains (MH4 in Chris Scotts book), but it had been recently sealed.(tarmacked)

I was a bit piste off, but the views were simply stunning and made for the best photography of the trip. The region is called the Djebel Saghro and it's a number of ancient volcanic massifs, basalt peaks and deep gorges still being eroded by natural forces. Its simply breathtaking to behold and Jason commented he was pleased it was tarmacked so that we could concentrate on the scenery.

Because we were on tarmac we made good time, reaching our next two fuel stops ahead of schedule. According to my research we were currently heading towards our last opportunity for fuel at Tazzerone before attempting a desert crossing. Knowing the next stretch was going to be a long one we filled up the extra fuel can and headed out.

Taking the road to Taghault the asphalt ended in myriad different tracks through hills, none of them sign posted. On some we made good progress, on others we got lost. We took one such track but ended up at river bed, took another and could see we were heading in the wrong direction. Doubling back in the baking heat to the dried out river bed we looked at the map and within minutes we were surrounded by kids.

We asked one of them direction's to Oum Jrane, our next stop on the way to desert, and the lad just pointed down the river bed, Jason and I looked at each other in disbelief. Thankfully another older boy approached over the river bed, feet caked in the clay like silt. Upon reaching us he promptly drew an accurate trail map on the ground complete with dead ends. Praise Allah for him, we would've never found the route.

Crossing the river bed on bike, climbing a steep hill we eventually found the correct path behind the neighboring hills. The piste was long and wide open with nothing for miles around and we were able to cover ground quickly. Then out of the blue and travelling at speed over the rocky path, a local would hurtle by on a 50cc pedal and pop and wearing nothing but a traditional djellaba (a long, loose-fitting unisex robe with full sleeves and pointed hood) Imagine Harry Potter in a Hessian robe and you're about there.

At 20 miles we reached Oum Jrane and picked up the next track into the desert. I was really apprehensive that this point, i knew the desert was just ahead, i knew there was no fuel stops and knew it could be dangerous, but i still wanted to try it.

Following tracks in sand we headed for a waypoint on the cusp of the Sahara Algerian border. 40 miles heading into the desert felt like forever, the heat intense. I was just following waypoints from a book that i'd plotted in england, now thousands of miles away, I was taking me and friend, both father's and or husband's, into a hot and desolate nowhere. Gulp.

Finally we reached the waypoint and were surrounded by old weathered signs for business that probably existed. You could see the edge of the desert in the distance. Taking photos with sweat running down backs we smiled feeling a real sense of achievement. From this way point we were able to pickup a real desert route that traced along the Algerian border. We emptied the remaining fuel into our tanks.

The next section was the most amazing, exhilarating ride of my life. Skimming the desert , in total sandy wilderness, with nothing around for miles, we pinned the throttles open and hurtled along at blistering speed. Looking to the right I could Jason flying along in parallel , the desert his back drop, our intercoms buzzing with lively chat like Americans whooping at a ball game. There is no path or track to follow on the ground its all just the same, sand and rocks and tire tracks in certain places. You're able to just plot your own route using the satnav or scenery as waypoints and it feels thrilling and explorative for that reason.

It went on like this for miles and miles and miles we were overtaking each other, riding together, filming sections on the go-pro. Then Jason nailed it and disappeared into the distance, a long plume of dust marking his path. When i caught up we had just reached some big whoops in the land and so proceeded to jump the bikes along the path, both wheels leaving the ground. We stopped only once for a photo when we came across a train of camels.

Eventually until we came to an army checkpoint where our passports were taken by one guard and the other, older guard, made small talk with us about our bikes and journey. He let us know that they were checking for travellers approaching from Algeria. Clearing the checkpoint we still had 30 miles of rocky piste ahead, the landscape resembling a Quarry in places. It was really hard going, hard on the bikes and hard on us, to add to the intensity Jason had run out water, but wouldn't accept my 'dirty backwash' water. I figured he definitely would if things got desperate.

After an eternity of rocks we reached the road, filled with petrol and headed into a small village for water. A skinny, leather faced, one eyed, weathered old sand pirate then sold us two small bottles for 70 Dirams, about £7! What a total ripoff, but thats the way with some people here, they want their pound of flesh and you are the meal ticket. Its not like we had other options.

Pointing the bikes north for 70km we headed to Zagora hoping for some civility. Reaching the town we were pleasantly surprised, it was bigger than most and clean. on entering Zagora I was immediately approached by a guy dressed in mechanics overalls, I was still moving on the bike and he was on a scooter. Matching my speed he asked if we're staying in Zagora, as he knew a good hotel, he asked if I needed spares for the bike, as he had much stock, he asked if we wanted to eat. He wouldn't leave us and followed us through the town and back again pointing at the hotel, shouting at us as we moved. Like a fly around fresh poop, he was very persistent and annoying. Jason eventually shook him loose with some well worded phrases, but not before he handed us his business card.

We parked close to some cafes and again people approached asking about the bikes, asking if we needed parts or help as they had spares for KTM. Bare in mind that getting parts for KTM anywhere isn't easy, but these guys had 'much stock' in Zagora.
The evening hotel bun fight then began as we sat at a cafe drinking orange juice. We both agreed on Hotel Tousline and left to check it out. As we did a young lad was asking for money, who we ignored until a taller guy dressed in a djellaba, eating nuts and spitting shells on the floor, approached us speaking english. He explained we owed 2 dirams for parking (20p), we paid and left.

Hotel Tousline was incredible! A walled, quite and cool wonderful arabian oasis, complete with pool and bar. We immediately enjoyed both and marvelled at the amazing day we had experienced as we swam in the pool.