Still going South.

The last two posts were despatched from a filling station as it was the only place we could get a decent Maroc Telecom connection on our dongle and not be bothered with hordes of begging children. Instead, we got bothered by hordes of Dutch tourists who spilled out of a coach, eager to take pictures of some “proper desert drivers”.

So, they walked straight past us and gathered around the Token Touareg, all dressed up in blue robes, leaning casually on his sparkling Toyota pick-up. This was liberally plastered with Dakar rally stickers and other gung-ho stuff and who’d just pitched up for an “impromptu photo opportunity”. I bet the coach driver called ahead to set it up. I also would bet that they didn’t notice his Levi’s and Saucony trainers peeking out from out the bottom his robes, and the collar of an Adidas sweatshirt from the top. We’d seen him getting his “game face” on a while before…His accomplice, sorry, business partner, was doing a roaring trade in stickers and other stuff, so presumably with that and the tips for the photos, they did quite well out of it.

Not surprising that we were ignored. I mean, back home in Europe, you’d cross the road to avoid us in our present state. Because everything is covered in pink dust, we wear our “travelling clothes” during the day and change into something more comfortable, as they used to say, at the end of the day. So, at 10-30 in the morning we look a little, shall we say, unkempt. Dusty, dirty, smelly and generally unapproachable. This, as far as Mike is concerned, is a Good Thing. It lets us get on with stuff without interference. Sue tries to counter this by talking to anyone who comes within fifty yards. It’s a Team Effort…..

The route down to Mahmid, as I said in the last post, is quite long and Mike wanted to get an early start. By the time we’d done the shopping, driven 5kms north -  the “wrong way” -  as it was the only gas station before our destination, and uploaded the blog posts, it was nearly 1130. As we were forced onto a few kilometres of tarmac to reach Taouz, we debated our strategy once we got there. On a previous attempt to use the route – MS6 – we’d been baulked by an insistent – and ultimately bloody annoying – local on a moped who just got in the way and Sue found quite intimidating in his attitude. He’d insisted that we use him as a guide and just wouldn’t quit. This time, we’re wiser and better informed! We swung a hard left onto south about a km before the town and avoided the police checkpoint and lurking “guide”. He did spot us, though, and attempted an intercept, but we used some terrain masking and got away before he’d had a chance to throw himself on the road in front of us. Like last time.

The Road South

A late lunch in a secluded spot. Yeah, right! This is Morocco, where you’re never too far from people even if you don’t see or hear them. Five minutes after breaking open the lunchbox, these young chaps arrived:

They didn’t beg for anything, not even the usual stuff, but just stood silently, watching us eat. I was reminded, for a moment, of the doe-eyed Labrador that used to frequent the crewroom at work, years ago. You’d sit quietly eating your bacon sandwich and this mutt would park itself, and it’s bloody appealing eyes, right in front of you, and watch you devour your food. Drooling. It quite puts you off….Anyway, this presents a dilemma, much debated. Do you give kids like this presents of food, water, sweets, pens, money or any of the other things that they constantly demand – and it’s not a polite “request” either – or not? One argument is that by doing so, we create a dependence culture that makes them see tourists as a source of free stuff, and more lucrative than being at school. I think I’ve ranted about this before…? So, we compromised. We asked each one in turn to count to ten as we held up fingers, eldest – Mohammed (of course) first. Perfect score, wins a biscuit. Second in line is Hussein, nearly right, stumbles on “6” but wins his biscuit anyway. Salim is about 5 and struggles, but tries his best. Rewarded one biscuit. The tiny one, Fatim, clearly isn’t old enough to be out on his own, let alone be able to count. A freebie biscuit for him. We left satisfied that we hadn’t betrayed our principles too much, helped with education and reduced our own calorie intake all at one go. Bargain!

We also left them our offside front mudflap as a gift. It’d all but been torn off so there was no point in carrying dead weight.

So far this trip, we’ve lost the use of the washing machine, the tent awning, the split-charge system, the rear passenger door latch and now a mudflap -  not that it was any use here anyway. Sue’s second-best fleece parted company with us somewhere around Figuig when the door catch burst and we didn’t notice. Said door is now daily fastened with a ratchet strap. The driver’s wing mirror is a little loose as the bolt that holds it on has bent, the rear stowage bin, as previously reported, as sprung a leak and part of the tow hook gubbins has been wiped off on the scenery. So far, so good.

Well, you spoke too bloody soon there, didn’t you? 2 kms out from Ramilia, Mike casually announces that we have no brakes. Stopping Foot flat to the floor and no stopping apparent. We get out and inspect. There’s brake fluid cascading down from the area above the rear brake calliper on the driver’s side. Bugger!

Not much we can do about it at the moment, so continue on the thankfully level track towards the village, hoping to find a garage. As we near it, we see a Defender stop near the track, heading in the opposite direction. He stops us to warn of difficult conditions ahead and we describe our problem. It so happens that he and his mates are in the “Support to Off-Road Adventures” business and their Landrover is suitably decorated with gnarly-type stickers…a stroke of luck. Mike and Head Mech get underneath to inspect the snag, which is now worse, in that the brake pipe has fractured completely and brake fluid is soaking the ground. This is Not a Good Thing, announces the Cap’n. No Sh*t Sherlock.

They set to work to fix the problem, while Mike stands by and watches, wincing at the butchery that’s going on to Daphne’s anchors. Other than providing water, something comfortable to kneel on, a hacksaw and a chisel, he can do nothing but watch…and he’s not happy. Control freak, see?

Did someone say “hacksaw and chisel”? Why would they be part of addressing this problem? Suffice to say that the removal of the broken pipe from the nut that holds it onto the brake calliper-thingy required the use of a number of tools including the saw and chisel, items not normally employed in this area, I’m told. Mike said something about “unions” and “flaring tools”, neither of which are in evidence, and he’s looking a bit worried. After quite a bit of hitting things with hammers and driving nails into other things to get them out, Head Mech creates a flare on the end of the now slightly shorter brake pipe by winding an Allen key into it, then tightened the whole thing up using Mole grips and a bigger hammer. Mike looks as if he’s just swallowed a spider. There are no leaks. Job done apart from adding some brake fluid and getting some air out of the system – none too effectively, as we discover later, but well enough to give us some stopping power… ish…A negotiation over what it’ll cost us is probably a dead loss as we’re definitely in a Seller’s Market here, but we do our best to negotiate a reasonable fee. We eventually strike a deal that satisfies the mechanic and gets us a guide through the apparently “impossible for one vehicle alone” oued crossing ahead.

The route through the maze of small dunes was, actually, quite tortuous and would’ve been quite a challenge to find without local knowledge. We kept close behind our guide vehicle which gave Mike half-an-hour’s hard work trying to keep him in sight throught the dust while not getting so close that we’d crash into him if he braked hard. The brake fluid warning light was on and Mike had to pump the brakes to make them bite. Added to that, the sand was becoming increasingly deep and soft and we were driving on tyres at road pressure. If we’d been alone and not under pressure to follow, we’d have stopped and deflated the tyres to a more suitable pressure, but we pressed on. In fact, we proved to ourselves that the tyre pressure wasn’t critical and we followed the Pied Piper through without getting stuck once, although it’d been close a couple of times. A lesson learned there.

We paid off International Rescue and continued along a flat sandy piste and through some interesting sand features known as Kem Kem:

Grateful to be back on easier ground, we decided to stop for an early tea. Well, actually it was getting well past the time when we’d normally call a halt, but the day had been so busy we lost track of the time. With tent up and beer cracked, Mike got busy with the diary updates while Sue sorted out the chickens we’d bought earlier. At this stage we realised that we were missing the very things we’d come to see and downed tools to watch the sunset..

A little while later, Mike is standing at the kitchen door, watching the final preparations for supper, when there’s a slight gust of wind. A mere zephyr, but enough to make the chef complain that the gas flame is misbehaving  - let’s have the side doors closed, pleased. As Mike glances to the left – eastwards – he sees a westbound wall of pink dust completely hiding the view of the hills we’d been enjoying minutes before. And the wind has now picked up from “zephyr” to “breeze” in a matter of seconds. “Cover the food, shut the doors and don’t come out” he says, then disappears “upstairs” like a rat up a drain. As Mike races around closing the tent windows and vents, the wind is now gale force and the visibility is down to just a few yards. Whether this is a “sandstorm”, a mere “duststorm” or neither, it isn’t worth the argument – we’re in for an unpleasant night if this keeps up.

We eat supper in the kitchen with everything battened down, and we’re sweltering. Luckily the wind drops a little later on, and we can get to bed relatively sand-free, but the night gets pretty wild. This is our fourth night out and while we relish the isolation and quiet - when the tent isn't flapping like a sheet on a Skegness washing line, we decide that some shelter from the wind is needed now. Tomorrow will probably be a campsite……and a hot shower, perhaps?