Tag: Damien Murray

Are you taking the piste?

The following morning it was cold but dry so after plenty of coffee and a filling breakfast we loaded up and headed back south to Agoudal where we turned off onto the R704. I’m not sure what the letters mean in front of the road names but in this case the R stood for ‘rough’. The 60km was an unmade road, only formed through usage by the locals over years.

We stopped to turn off rear ABS and traction control to low. On loose ground we needed the power delivery to stay on, especially riding up an incline, traction control cutting the power halfway up so you come to a complete stop and having to descend down backwards does not make for an enjoyable ride. Likewise, heading downhill, we didn’t want ABS kicking in when we really wanted the back wheel to lock and dig in to give some speed control.

Initially the track was soft soil which was largely dry, the rear wheel sliding around a bit on the damper sections. After a few miles we stopped to take it all in, we really were miles from anything here, just mountains and a track ahead of us which snaked and at times split before re-joining itself.

Looking down the valley ahead we could see the track was rough rock, covered in stones and gravel, with downhill straight sections and switchbacks with steep drops on one side. There wouldn’t be any look, lean and roll skills used today, sliding off could be a messy affair. After checking the ABS and traction control again, (which has the annoying feature of turning back on to max each time you switch the ignition off and on again), we headed down. The views down the valley were spectacular and the ride started to get more challenging, having to keep enough momentum going to ride out the bumps, controlling the speed with gentle inputs on the rear brake and letting the bike move around rather than forcing a line.

At this point I should say that Marije isn’t really that keen on off road riding but she had agreed to give it a go on the proviso that if she dropped the bike, I would be the one to pick it up. As I rode down one straight section I heard over the intercom “Oh, for goodness sake”. I stopped and looked in my mirror to see her bike on its side halfway around a switchback with Marije standing off to one side looking in my direction. I asked if she was ok, silence. Marije stood watching and waiting so I left my bike where it was and walked back up.

As we picked the bike up I asked what happened and she said it just went off balance when she’d hit a rock coming slowly around the bend. So rather than try and keep the heavy bike upright she’d let it go and stepped off, a good call, better than risking hurting herself. I started to explain that keeping some momentum going would help bounce over the rocks. I got the look. Time to shut up Damien.

I was really impressed Marije was giving this a go even though it was well outside her comfort zone, especially after 50km of this terrain. I think if there had been a chance of getting a taxi at this point that bike may have been parked up for me to go back and collect!

Just as we re-joined tarmac road, Rob the fixer on his black Africa Twin passed us heading up towards the piste. We later found out when we met him on the return ferry that he’d got to the section Marije had taken a break on and decided it wasn’t wise to ride further on his own.

An hour later we got to the Dades gorge, a series of tight switchbacks and steep descent. We had a spirited ride down, then back up and down again. Who knew when we’d be back?

At this point we’d been riding every day for almost a week and the weather forecast for the following day showed thunderstorms and hail so we decided to take a day off in Ouarzazate, a town well known for film making. We checked in to a tourist hotel and explored the local markets and film museum, enjoyed a few cold beers and some Moroccan wine and sheltered from the storm.

Marc and I played pool against the locals in the hotel bar on a pool table that looked like it had been surfaced in shag pile carpet, an interesting change! We had a hookah pipe brought to our table to share as this seemed to be the custom looking around. Although most Moroccans don’t drink and it’s a largely dry country, this seems to be by personal choice and there were several locals enjoying a beer in the bar. There was a small door that led to the street outside so they could enter without going through the hotel.

You may hear stories of zealous police doing speed checks and handing out big fines and we did encounter several police checkpoints, but only one was doing speed checks just after entering a town. At the rest of the checkpoints they pulled over vehicles seemingly at random, but they all waved us through apparently disinterested in foreigners.

Erg Chebbi

We had used booking.com to book a couple of days at the La Vallée des Dunes, a small auberge outside the main town with views of the dunes from the terrace. Erg Chebbi is roughly 28km long and 6km wide, a pre steppe to the Sahara, the sand rising up to 150m, it’s constantly changing dunes formed by the winds. On arrival we were greeted by the owner Mr Ali in both English and Dutch. Over the years he had picked up thirteen languages well enough for casual conversation – amazing! Once settled he directed us to a café bar where we could pick up some cold beers, our supply having been exhausted in Imilchil, while he prepared us dinner.

Riding the dunes

In the morning Ali offered to lead us to the dunes so we removed our panniers from the bikes in an attempt to make them as light as possible. As we followed him in his 4×4 towards the dunes we hit the soft sand and the bikes started to squirm around, having little to grip. As you ride, sand builds up in front of the front tyre until it’s high enough to deflect the wheel. It’s not a surface I’m adept at riding on. Marc struggled even with his knobblies and we decided to let some air out of the tyres at the base of the dunes to try and get more grip.

Having let the tyre pressures down I found it made little difference with my road tyres, riding on sand was just not going to work for me. Marc tried for a bit longer but even with his knobblies he gave up before even attempting a dune. The bikes were just too heavy, definitely not the right ones to try and learn dune riding on! But we’d given it a go and learned it really is a skill you have to work on.

Marije wanted to walk up to the top of the dunes but with shifting sand under every footstep it would have been an arduous climb so we settled on booking some quad bikes Mr Ali had advertised at the auberge. After a few pictures we headed back, Marc and I continued to slide around while Marije seemed to take to it well, riding confidently across the sand with much more finesse than us.

An hour before sunset our quad bikes and guide arrived at the auberge. Our guide appeared to be about fourteen but he seemed to know his stuff as he briefed us on the controls and the importance of keeping in his tracks. We hit the dunes and realised these quads were ideal, they flew up with ease and we were all soon enjoying ourselves. At one point I cut across the edge of a dune, trying to keep up with our speedy guide but not following the tracks as instructed. I found myself leaning over as the quad fought to scramble up. I turned towards the bottom of the dune rather than risk rolling over and rode up the opposite side and back to re-join the others.

After half an hour we were high up overlooking a sea of sand and stopped to take in the views as the sun started to set. What a magical place to be! The low sun throwing the shapes of the dunes into relief and no signs of humanity in any direction.

As the group rode back through the dunes we came across tourists on camel trains and even a photoshoot with a woman in a meditation pose on top of a dune. It’s certainly popular here. Having parked up, our guide asked, “Did you enjoy? All good?”. Marc said, “It was a little slow.” “No really?” our guide replied looking surprised. “Like little old lady,” Marc responded. Everyone laughed and bill paid and guide tipped, his crew arrived and took the quads away. The forty euros it costs to hire one of these is without doubt worth it.

Puncture and the KTM shop

It was time to turn northwards having explored the areas we had set out to see and with two days before getting the ferry back to Spain. As we headed out from Merzouga, Marc rode up next to me and shouted “Puncture”, while pointing to the back of my bike. I pulled over to the side and looked at my rapidly deflating rear tyre. We’d planned for this as the Africa Twin runs tubed tyres and each of us carried some of a spares kit that worked for all the bikes. Included were two front and rear tubes, tyre irons and a compressor as well as the necessary tools. I had even practiced changing tubes in my garage at home.

Spain

On arrival at the Tanger Med port we booked the next ferry and handed back our temporary import slips at customs. No x-ray for the bikes this time and the ferry was on time. We stopped in Madrid to have dinner with some friends of mine after a day of torrential rain and hail, neither of which worked for Marc’s well-worn knobbly tyres. We found out that northern Spain had been hit by the worst snowstorms in twenty years so needed to change our route on the final day to avoid the now closed high roads.

The twenty-four hour ferry crossing gave us another break and a chance to reflect on the trip as well as meet some of the bikers such as ‘Rob the fixer’ who we had met on the way down and exchange stories.

Looking back we wouldn’t have changed much. We had still packed too much, as on the Balkans trip. We should have camped in the open desert, given an ideal opportunity to ride away from the main roads in almost any direction and set up a camp.

Will we go back? Morocco is pretty much on our doorstep, has friendly people, amazing terrain and is culturally mixed, encompassing Berber, Arab, African, Mediterranean, and Jewish influences it feels vastly different to Europe. It would be great to experience it once more, perhaps on a longer trip once we’re able to travel again.

Marije may even agree to ride the R704 again, especially as I’ve heard it’s being paved over now.

Damien Murray

First published in Slipstream June 2021

How it all came about

As explained in the February issue 2021 our ultimate plan was a big trip to New Zealand to see friends with no time frame which was meant to have kicked off in 2020 until Covid struck. Here we relate the second of our preparation shakedown trips. The first was in 2018, to Eastern Europe and the Balkans (see Slipstream Feb/Mar issues 2021) and then in 2019, this trip to Morocco.

Six, Five, Four, Three….. Go!

Bike insurance – check. AA breakdown cover – check, not that either would be valid for most of our upcoming trip. In fact, due to timing and Brexit we’d also need green cards and international driving permits. The UK was due to leave the EU on 31st March 2019 and we were planning to be in Morocco a week before then, returning a week after.  This made for some interesting conversations with our UK insurers, as they wanted us to contact them the week before when they would be able to confirm if a green card was needed. How they thought they would get them to us I don’t know, but I’m sure we weren’t going to be the only people travelling abroad at that time. The potential penalty for not having one could be confiscation of our bikes, so pretty serious stuff. Most people under a certain age wouldn’t have even heard of green cards, Brexit was going to bring even more complexity than needing a separate piece of paper alongside your insurance for Europe, but that’s another story.

Planning for the trip had started several months ago with a group of six on a mix of bikes. The route would take us from Portsmouth to Santander on the ferry, south through Spain, ferry to Morocco then head south. The ferry would leave on Friday afternoon and we’d be in Morocco by Monday lunchtime. Much like our previous Balkans trip, we did very little pre-booking to give us flexibility on the road.

Once in Morocco we’d head south past Casablanca and Marrakesh, through the Tazi n Test pass before turning eastwards towards Ouarzazate, north into the High Atlas mountains via the Todra Gorge to Imilchil, then south again into the Dades gorge on the piste. Next, we’d head to Merzouga to ride the Erg Chebbi sand dunes, before turning north and homewards, stopping in the blue city of Chefchaouen before the ferry back to Spain.

I’d met Chris Scott and bought his book Morocco Overland at a Horizons Overland event, and it was invaluable for planning, showing a number of pistes over the Atlas and High Atlas mountains, graded by difficulty and bike size, which was pretty important as none of us were experienced off road riders. I had a Garmin Montana which is great for off road routes so I loaded them all, marking by difficulty so we could decide when we were close. I mounted it next to my TomTom SatNav on the bike so they could be used side by side.

The routes were often remote, many miles from the nearest villages, no breakdown or emergency services out here, so we’d be on our own. I had bought a Garmin InReach Mini in anticipation of our big trip, which would attach to my jacket. This little gadget communicated via a direct satellite link and featured an SOS button hidden under a small flap. You didn’t want to hit this by accident as it would signal a control centre to start a rescue with local emergency services wherever you were in the world. A bit overkill for Morocco but a great backup.

Researching the paperwork we’d need, we found we would need specialist travel insurance that would cover us riding large adventure bikes off road. Most insurers will only cover a 125cc abroad and then on road only. Navigator Travel Insurance would cover us and included emergency repatriation should the worst happen. Next up was motorcycle insurance. None of our existing policies would cover us and neither would any we could take out in the UK. Insurance would be available at the port in Tanger Med and would be 3rd party only. Two of the group dropped out due to this, not wanting to risk a complete loss in the event of an accident, which was understandable. Another dropped out as he decided his bike wasn’t up to riding any pistes. We were down to three – Marc, Marije and I, all riding Africa Twins.

Finally the barrier went up and being at the front of the queue I shot through. Having been through and checked once already I didn’t even notice the raised hand of the customs officer. Marije came over the intercom. “Best come back, he looks really pissed off and he’s armed.” After circling the car park I backed up to the booth and sheepishly handed over my documents. He checked them, handed them back and smirked, “Now go.”

Once on the ferry we had our first taste of bureaucracy. Everyone had to complete a police form, queue up in a long line and once at the window the officials would take the details, stamp and return it. We had known this would happen so made sure we got in the queue quickly, as it wasn’t uncommon for it to take hours to process everyone, possibly even longer than the crossing. Off the ferry and as we rode towards a set of booths we were summoned aside to put the bikes through a giant x-ray machine, big enough to x-ray trucks. Once done, our universal translator Marije spoke to one of the port workers to find out where to go next.

It turned out the x-rays were for people leaving, we’d just paused to work out where to go next in exactly the wrong place! Once headed the right way we stopped again to have our paperwork processed. V5 ownership document, police slip from the ferry and passport details were all entered into the computer. Marc swore under his breath when he pulled his documents out. His original V5 was still on the copier at home and he only had the copy with him. In true comradery we wished him a good ride back to the UK, we’d send him pictures as we went. Miraculously the customs office accepted his copy and issued a temporary import slip which we’d need to hand back when we left the country.

The summer in Morocco can see temperatures north of forty Celsius, and the winters can be quite cold and wet. The best times to travel are early spring or early autumn and we’d chosen late March. As we headed to Marrakech we could see dark clouds on the horizon, then lightning, then torrential rain started. I asked Marc over the intercom if he wanted us to stop so he could put on waterproofs. “Too late, soaked through already,” came the reply. Marije and I had our Richa kit we’d used for the Balkans which kept us dry. It was pricey, but we were glad we’d invested in it.

I’d put a few places to stay in my SatNav, so we headed to the Palm Auberge on the south side of Marrakech, where the owner opened the gates so we could ride our bikes into the foyer. It was just big enough to get all three in and allow other guests to still walk through. After checking in and finding we could have food but no beer, I rode to a nearby supermarket to stock up, which was a good move as we wouldn’t find any more for days to come. Two pounds for a 330ml can, in case you’re wondering.

The rain continued all evening, the beer flowed, the tagine was excellent and Marc dried out.

The Tizi n Test

The following morning the sun was shining, a great time for a ride through the Tizi n Test pass, described on the Dangerous Roads website as one of the most spectacular drives in the country. Not for the faint-hearted.

We stopped for fuel near a large open air car park that had dozens of 4×4’s parked in it for tourists to be driven up the pass. It also meant it was a tourist trap and we spent more time saying no to souvenir salesmen who surrounded us at the pumps than we did fuelling up.

Earlier on in the day we had stopped for a quick brew next to a lake, only to find we had stopped next to a school. After the children had surrounded us, asking questions and skilfully extracting every snack bar all three of us possessed, I had pulled back onto the road only to find I was on the wrong side when I came face to face with a local driver.

As we headed up the pass, I kept reminding myself to keep right, there are no road markings and the edges are weathered and worn. There are few barriers and the ones that exist are more likely to flip you into the valleys below than save you. The road twists and winds with regular switchbacks and little traffic and stunning views across the valleys – a truly spectacular route.

Nearing the top of the pass we hit the clouds and drizzle. Visibility dropped to a few metres and the road surface broke up, not yet having been repaired after a wet winter and freezing temperatures. Now I was riding in the middle of the road, sheer rock face on one side and what looked like a steep drop on the other.

This is when I found out that Moroccans don’t use their lights in these weather conditions. They do use their hazard lights which allows you to see something through the mist, but as I made out the yellow flashers ahead I realised it doesn’t help with working out which way they are facing. I moved to the right just in case, but fortunately the car was heading the same way as us so we just followed, giving it as much space as we could without losing him.

The clouds cleared and the road opened up a bit, the surface improved and the local we’d been following accelerated. The road down was as spectacular as the route up but instead of mountains ahead, in the distance we could see desert stretching for miles. We turned eastwards onto the N10 and we rode across seemingly endless desert, only slowing for camels crossing the road.

The Todra gorge gave us a stunning entry into the Atlas Mountains, with steep cliffs up to five hundred feet high either side of the canyon, and a river running through it. As you look up, the upper portions of the cliffs look golden where the sun reaches down to illuminate them. Alongside it, the road runs, twisting and turning as we ascend. The gorge runs for about twenty five miles and once we got higher it gets colder and the roads crumble. Kids run out at the sound of the bikes trying to high five all three of us. At first it’s fun but after a while I got nervous about running them over as they dart out, or losing my glove as they hang on to the fingers of it.

We encountered a couple of sections of road which had been washed out, resulting in forty foot long fords to traverse, leaving us covered in water and muck. We looked a state when we arrived in Imilchil and pulled into the impressive looking Auberge Chez Bassou. The front doors were covered in stickers from previous two and four wheeled adventurers. We hadn’t pre-booked, but the owner stood outside as if expecting us.