So, here we are, all 3 of us - or actually 4, but more of our unexpected guest later. I'd like to think that some of the regular readers - both of you - have missed us over the past few days, but probably not. Just to recap, then, the last you heard from us was our missive describing our fun time in Chefchaouen. Or something. We left, heading south, on another wet morning feeling somewhat dispirited. Our plan for the day - Wednesday 23rd - hatched in the warmth of the kitchen back home, was to start our off-road adventures with a route down to Fes through the Rif. Under the conditions applying presently (as they might say at the BBC) we didn't have much enthusiasm for this. We stopped a little way down the road at Bab-Taza, where the route began, and gave ourselves a stern talking to. Actually, I ranted at the weather and Sue fed me Haribos while we debated the options. After a few minutes we decided that - to hell with it - we came here to do this, so we should just get on with it and stop moaning. Sue was trying to dry the bedding by holding it against the heater vents and the whole of the cab was beginning to feel like a sauna since our Defender heater does actually work pretty well. I had to open my window a bit to clear the windscreen and accepted a wet arm for the benefit of some visibility. Not that we could see much through the murk anyway.
As we progressed I was aware that things weren't right with Daphne's electricals. We have a split charge system that feeds power into the aux (leisure) battery when the main starter battery is up to capacity. With the fridge and lights running at night this depletes the aux to a point that it needs a top-up and once the engine's running it generally gets it pretty quickly. That isn't happening today and the reading on the voltmeter is gradually dropping. Something isn't right. It could be that the extra load of heater full on, windscreen wipers beating themselves to a frenzy, inverter running and headlights on aren't allowing enough spare ergs to pass to the aux battery. I upgraded the 65A alternator to 100 to cope with that, I thought. There must be something else....The red (not enough volts) light is now blinking on the fridge. As we go along, I'm going through the "what if" scenarios in my head, trying fault find without actually stopping and doing anything about it...mind you, in this deluge, I don't fancy opening anything electrical 'til it's a bit drier. I'll investigate later.
The route, as far as we could tell from maps and Google Earth, was what's known as "piste"; that is, unmetalled tracks at best graded but generally, and hopefully for our plans, often just bare earth and rocks. The reality was a bit different from what we'd expected. The track had been sealed....but some time ago judging by the state of the surface. Good by Moroccan standards in places but broken up and deeply rutted in others. We had a 220km line to follow through the western Rif mountains that'd bring us out at Ain-Aicha. I won't say that you can buy a map that shows any of this, but if you're determined enough it can be drawn onto a satellite photo and, combined with a bit of GPS magic, some form of navigation assistance can be concocted. We followed this as best we could but, with the rain now coming down in biblical amounts the visibility needed to navigate with confidence just wasn't there. For that reason also, we didn't get many pictures to show how it was, but those of you who are familiar with the Scottish Highlands in Summer will know exactly what I mean when I say "driech". We topped off the fuel tanks in B-T and I tried, with the pump attendant, to get an idea of the track conditions higher up using some of my newly-acquired Dharija. I got a blank look as a reply. I tried again French. Similar result. He called to his mate to come and help using a dialect that I'd never heard before, and he struggled in French, as I was now doing, to understand. I thought about adopting the Standard English tourist routine and just talking more loudly, but we all gave up in the end. The rain didn't, though.
Conditions higher up weren't any worse, in fact, which was just as well given the condition of the "road". We passed through a little place called Beni-Ahmed where the main street was almost washed away, with the crumbling remains of tarmac in places, split with huge ruts that were over a foot deep. Lots of huge puddles which were more like ponds that I was very careful to drive through slowly because we couldn't know how deep they'd be. It'd be a bad start to our trip if we dropped into a crater and got bent.
The locals didn't seem too impressed with the weather either, slopping along in wet shoes, huddled into their Hobbit coats. The kids going to school seemed to have plastic tablecloths that did double-duty as raincoats. They were all, without exception, apparently happy to exchange a wave and a smile despite the conditions. There was the occasional attempt to wave us to a stop by local entrepreneurs who were operating the local hash franchise. Sue initially thought that one bloke was holding up a mobile phone in a plastic bag - quite a sizeable "score" if you like that kind of thing. The Rif is rife (sorry - couldn't resist that) with drugs and has a reputation for unpleasantness which might be justified. Like a lot of other things we've read or been told about Morocco, the only real way to get at a bit of truth is to bite hard and make up your own mind about how it tastes. We saw nothing but friendliness. We stopped for lunch as the rain abated and a guy driving a road grader chugged up alonside us and waved. Climbing down from his rusty cab, he crossed to us carrying a plastic bag and a large bottle of milk. We assumed that, having seen us eating, he'd decided to join us. Yes, in a way. We had a brief exchange of "hellos" and "how're you doings" and expected him to sit down with us but instead he produced half a loaf of bread packed full of large chunks of what looked like cheese, and offered it to us to taste.
The "cheese" was home-made butter which he was keen to stress was from a cow. Of course there are a number of other alternative sources, but "vache" is clearly "la creme". As we passed it back, he made it clear that it was a gift, with the milk. The rest of his lunch. Then he climbed back into his grader and made off, but not until I'd gone after him with an offering of an apple. He took the apple and gave me an orange in exchange....."Watch yourself in the Rif - dodgy bunch of ruffians...."
At this stage I managed to sort out the electrical snag that'd been bugging me all day. The rattling and bumping had done two things - shaken the cover off one of the big bar fuses that isolate the split charge relay, and also dislodged the little bit of bent aluminium that I use to open said cover as it's a bit tight. I store it wedged in the insulation in the electrical compartment under the passenger seat. You can probably guess the rest. I didn't hear the crack as the fuse was shorted by the bit of ally, but it was probably pretty loud. The fuse is a bit of a "rare animal" too, so good to have a few spares available. Satisfying to cure the problem, too, as where electrics are concerned you can chisel my knowledge and understanding on a pin head. With a fire axe.
We worked our way through the hills and as the day wore on the rain lessened until it was actually pleasant, even if not yet as warm as we'd like. The villages didn't have any signs, names on shop fronts or other ways of working out our position and the names on the map didn't always tie in with where we thought we were. Professionally speaking, this translates as being Temporarily Uncertain Of Position, but maintaining a general compass direction and the occasional hint from the Garmin did the job well enough. An old instructor of mine used to say "You don't need to know where you are, just where you want to go" and we had a pretty clear idea of that. For those who want to chart our progress, we reckon we passed through or close to Tabouda and across the Oued Tasrafte where we were checked by a very pleasant copper who expressed some concern about the state of the road ahead but let us pass with a "bonne chance". El-Khemis, wriggled up through the mists and cloud to Rafsai (or Rhafsai or Rafsi) up hairpin bends and eventually to the road at Taounate. And sunshine!
By late afternoon we were negotiating the traffic on the Fes ring-road, or what passes for it. At one point I think I missed a red light at a major junction, but given that no-one else seemed to pay them much attention it probably wasn't such a crime and we didn't hit anyone. We were intercepted at one roundabout by a guy on a moped who had clearly "pinged" us as tourists looking for a campsite, and drew up alongside as we went around the circle, offering his services as a guide. I nearly wiped him out as we took our exit, but he was clearly well practiced at this and reappeared at Sue's elbow having switched sides better than a Red Arrow. He persisted for several more "rondpoints" before giving us up as a Bad Job and breaking away to starboard, nearly colliding with a donkey cart as he whizzed off. After a long day, we made our nightstop as planned, and had a bit of a rearrangement of cargo:
While sorting out the damp chaos in the back, Sue discovered a little surprise:
From Sue:
Apparently Mike volunteered to do some product testing for our local craft brewery. The idea is we take this little chap somewhere hot, shake him about a bit (lot) and see how his contents taste after 4 weeks...and after I was persuaded to ditch a similar weight of really useful foodie things! Mike says he can be a mascot. This is clearly a pathetic attempt to appeal to my cuddly side, and "what are we going to call him?" We? Nothing to do with me, buster.
Suggestions by comments, please, but Mike's working with variations of "Wilson" - remember the coconut that Tom Hanks adopted on his raft? If Mike starts talking to him the same way, I'll be absolutely sure he's lost it.....
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