Yo, blokes! Beware! Sue had an e-mail from a friend and replied as below. If you thought that nothing that goes on in your life is of the slightest interest to the Females, and never gets reported, take this as a warning! They remember everything and then tell their friends about it - missing out their own foibles, pratfalls and f*ck-ups, of course. Anyway, since we've decide to limit the Blogging Time to 90 minutes max per day, I've nicked her stuff and posted it here. Cunning,huh?...
"We are in Mhamid, south of Zagora where we spent practically the entire day waiting for Daphne to be sorted at the Garage Iriki. We decided to get the brakes properly checked over because the Field Expedient repair ( bodge job) was good enough to get us to town but not reliable enough for anything further. We are talking brakes here so no messing around is really tolerable. We were intercepted/ambushed on the way into town yesterday afternoon by the outriders of said garage and we opened negotiations for a "grease and bleed job".
Having agreed what a reasonable cost might be, we then suggested that we get another quote from a well known expedition support garage - Mr Mohammed Gordito. Abdul the enterprising but clearly underemployed mechanic who'd waved us down announced that Mr Gordito had ceased trading 5 months ago because he was ill. He was an ex-mechanic. He had ceased to be. At this point, we were in a Seller's Market, a bit like when International Rescue pitched up at Ramilia. We agreed that he would come to our chosen campsite at The Palmerie at 09.30 the following morning so he could lead us to his Spannering Emporium.
We had a pleasant evening trying to unwind while being the source of much interest from a newly arrived squadron of Dutch "snowbirds" who had flown in aboard a dozen massive camper vans that appeared to have everything onboard including several kitchen sinks. Very nice people and clearly fascinated with our comparatively spartan setup. One chap tried to tell us that he was taking all the detailed photographs of Daphne for the benefit for his son back home, but his enthusiasm and the looks he was getting from Mrs Cloggie suggested that it was the equivalent of discovering his boyhood trainset in the attic but not being allowed to play with it. I'm sure that we could have sold Daphne to him on the spot. Earlier in the week, while struggling with the internet connection and a similar group of Dutch tourists we'd been accosted by in a garage "service station"; the Token Touareg offered to swap his sticker- bedecked Toyota offroad guide vehicle plus 2 camels for Daphne. Mike, distracted already by the difficulty he was having with the internet, replied in Arabic " not enough, try again". TT then offered the same plus an additional " chamelle". Mike replied "not even close", but I don't think he was really paying attention. I didn't feature in negotiations unlike when the carpet salesman in Fes was trying to strike a deal. This could've been an amusing and informative cultural exchange, but if you know Mike you'll know that, when he's allowed himself 20 minutes to do a job that might reasonably take two hours, he gets a little "focussed", and repartee isn't part of the game. Stand well back.
Before leaving the campsite this morning, we enquired of The Management where we might purchase some Moroccan wine. At this point it became clear that the campsite was run as additional accomodation to the very swank hotel and restaurant next door. Wine could therefore be provided on demand. Clearly we weren't going to get any suggestions as to alternative sources, but as we are on holiday we accepted that we would probably be ripped off, but needs must....and it's certainly a more efficient way of addressing Sue's dietary requirements than driving the 180 kms each way to Ouarzazate where, as far as we know, there is the only Open Source Alcohol Mine in Morocco south of the Atlas. We laid in 4 bottles of finest Moroccan vin blanc which should keep me going for at least several nights. Mike was very happy to pay the 150 dirham per bottle since this would keep me away from his beer.
We were now waiting for Mr Abdul to appear but given it was now ten minutes beyond the appointed RV time, Mike called up the garage coordinates on the Hudl - "Head Up Display Lite" - and we set off, only to be intercepted once again by Mr Abdul who had been lying in wait just around the corner.
Garage Iriki, judging by the vast numbers of stickers and photographs adorning the walls, was well acquainted with PLU doing TLT (People Like Us doing Things Like This). The agreed shots of grease and brake job gradually expanded into a number of other jobs that were discovered to be a Good Thing to do while Daphne had her underbelly exposed to view over their inspection pit.
We'd had Daphne checked over prior to leaving by Sandy, Kevin and the guys at our local garage in Lossiemouth, north east Scotland and if there'd been anything untoward, they'd have noticed. The worn out joints and bushes (big rubber cushions) that Abdul showed Mike were pretty knackered, but only as a result of the hammering they'd taken over the last 2 weeks, probably the equivalent of 4 years "normal" use at home.
Mike's repairs, done in the desert yesterday, were good enough to get us here, but the Local Experts weren't impressed.
While they got on with the greasing and bleeding, and waiting for the Boss to arrive to negotiate a price for the extra work, we went shopping.
While we'd been waiting in what passes for a Waiting Room at the garage - the next inspection pit - various individuals had wandered in, helped themselves to tea and passed the time of day. Initially, we assumed these guys were employees but it turned out that any passerby had no qualms about inviting themselves in for a natter and refreshment. The guy that had been improving our Arabic for an hour turned out to be the owner of the carpet and souvenir shop next door. You can probably guess the rest. After an hour we had negotiated a bargain price for a pair of silver earrings but far from being able to escape, we were then escorted up the street to his cousin's who just happened to be in the argan oil business."
At this stage Sue disappeared for a shower and I got to take over. Well, the Argan Oil man got some of our cash in exchange for the stuff you have to buy to give away when you get home. Gotta be done, so just accept it and don't argue. We returned to the garage, agreed a price for the remaining work and went off to the bank. No, not that bad, really! It's just that the next reliable source of cash is several hundred kilometers away and we needed a resupply. Now, I'm used to it taking a while to do business in the bank. Where we live it's quite common for the Little Old Lady in the queue ahead of you to pull £500-worth of halfpennies out of her handbag and present them to the cashier, who will - cos' they're Scots - count every one instead of telling the LOL to get lost and come back on Sunday. This guy had a degree in Not Being Able To Work His Computer. I suggested that 300 Euro into Dirham was an easy sum and we could manage without the use of digital tech. Not a chance. Computer says No. Eventually we get assistance from someone who understands The System and after 30 minutes have a wad of notes that you need a wheelbarrow to carry. Lunchtime.
A cafe lunch was a pleasant and amusing experience. We ate lamb and chicken on skewers with delicious orange juice, the like of which I've never tasted outside of Morocco. The next table was occupied by a European family of Dad, Mum and two boys of about ten and twelve. Despite the hubbub, music and general cacophony going on around them that must be completely alien to their normal environment, every one of them spent the time from arriving to eating -about 25 minutes -engrossed in their own private electronic world. What a waste of an opportunity, we thought, but each to his own....
Back at Garage Iriki, we find Daphne now in finer fettle than this morning. We're given the chance to inspect in detail all that's been done, all the parts removed and the state they're in, and that everything has been reassembled in the right order, with nothing left over.
Unlike my first attempt at mechanical repairs with my granny's mantle clock, but that's another story. I pay the bill, counting the notes out in Arabic, which impresses the H*ll out of Le Chef and me too, if I'm honest! Once again, the use of a tiny bit of the local lingo, badly pronounced and probably grammatically incorrect, works like a magic wand. I'm not saying I got a discount, but I wasn't looking for one. The cost of the works and the parts was well under half of what I'd have paid back home, and done with a great deal of humour and interest in what we were doing, where we were going, and all that. Actually, just like in the garage back home, but they're unusual too.
The road down to Mhamid is metalled but a necessary evil given the need to have the brakes and other things sorted. Once there, though, we'll be re-connecting with the route we had to abandon yesterday. It might be a modern road, but the surface is still wet - almost - and the towns we pass through have a bit of a "frontier" feel about them. The gas stations are "hole in the wall" roadside stall affairs, selling petrol and "gasoil" in 5 litre plastic water bottles. Lots of folk sitting around doing not much; if this were the set of a spaghetti western, the squatting figures would be wearing sombreros. The rest of the picture fits that image.
At the crest of a steep hill there's a sort of entrance gate, and we stop for a record of the moment...
So, now we're in a campsite in Mhamid as it was too late in the day to set off into the soft sand. The only glitch now is the smell of diesel...we refuelled in Zagora and the pump attendant, desperate to get the counters to read a nice round number, put too much in the tank. We crossed the road and parked a little nose high while went to get some water and when I got back there was an expanding and very smelly puddle at the back. I quickly checked for holes in the tank, but the overflow was only due to the overfill. Unfortunately this has left a residue of smelly gas all over Daphne's rear end, which is just outside the kitchen door. Guess who got the job of sorting that out? If it takes more than one guess, you're not paying attention!
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