Moroccan Sahara 4 - Sand

 Now, at the end of it all, I’m sat by the pool at Hotel Tisouline in Zagora with Jason and Damo, enjoying a beer and reflecting on a day that’s burned into memory.

I was up before dawn, riding out to the dunes to watch the sunrise. I found a secluded spot, beautiful, peaceful, surrounded by soft colours. That peace was quickly shattered when a man appeared from nowhere, trying to sell ornate bottles. He was swiftly followed by another offering a 4x4 tour. Do they live under the sand?

Breakfast followed—shared with kittens, one missing an eye.

Today’s route was one I’d done before on a KTM EXC, though I didn’t remember how difficult it had been. That bike makes most off-road easy. As we neared the start, a local man in a headscarf waved me down. He warned us off the route—“too sandy, you’ll break the clutch,” he said. (Later, Adventure Barrie confirmed the same in a text.)

How often have I laughed at middle-aged men taking bikes they can’t manage into places they can’t escape? Fools. And yet… today, we were nearly those men.

Heeding the advice, we changed plans. Our new route: Merzouga – Sidi Ali – Ouzina – Zagora. 174 miles, mostly off-road.

All was brilliant, until it wasn’t. The route was difficult to follow, tracks tangled through soft piste like discarded shoelaces and we had no GPS support today.

Then, as if summoned, the same local on his 100cc scooter—headscarf flapping, brown teeth grinning—appeared again. This time as our guide. (Below)

The African backdrop was stunning, but the closer we got to Sidi Ali, the harder it became. In places, the piste turned to deep sand and the bikes sank like stones. Damo had a few spills, once pinned beneath his bike. Jason toppled a couple of times, the soft ground clutching at the wheels.

It was brutally hard in the heat—sweat soaking through clothes. Move a bike, park it, walk back, help a mate, repeat.

I have a moment burned into memory: standing opposite Jason, both of us red-faced from the exertion, slurping from our hydration packs, shaking our heads in disbelief.

An auberge oasis appeared—cold Cokes, possibly the best we’d ever tasted.

The sand relented, and the riding improved.  Eventually, we made it to Sidi Ali. Ibrahim, our cunning guide, accepted his payment and vanished.

Only 90 more miles to Zagora. (I kept that detail to myself.)

We didn’t know it then, but the worst was behind us. While I lacked the headscarf and rotten teeth, I stepped into the guide role. The riding was smoother, the scenery glorious.

 

above, Jason on the final piste, prior to reaching the road finish line.

I suspect we’ll be a little more thoughtful with tomorrow’s route.