Gorgeous Gorge and the Perfect Storm

Thu, 09/04/2015 - 12:00

So, another day. Heading north east for Boumalne Dades, the intention is to visit the Todra Gorge and then use an offroad route to connect us with the N13 and from there slowly start our homeward journey north to Tangiers and the ferry on Monday 13th.
The start of the day's journey took us through a small town called Kelaa Magouna which sounds like one of the songs from the Lion King. I digress. Mike would say "so what's unusual?"... This rather mundane place is the centre of the rose water industry. Roses were brought in originally from Persia by the Phoenicians and were used for hedging the fields. The shops sell rose petals, rose water, rose scented soap - you got it. This hive of activity also includes the making of les poignards. Daggers to you and me, and you've guessed it, there's a commune here that makes them too. We decided that a blade might be a good souvenir and having decided on what we wanted to pay for one, we went to see what was on offer.
Our attention was caught by a young man who was sitting cross legged outside his shop. He was forming metal decorations for scabards out of pieces of tin, on a last that was rammed into a log which may have been used by several people before him for the same purpose. He was delighted to show us how he could decorate them and we were invited to enter his shop where we spent an interesting 15 minutes or so looking around. His price for a dagger was too steep, but we did buy a couple of items made of camel bone and which were tinted with henna.
Having passed through the valley of Dades and stopped to take photos of the palmeries at Tinerhir:

we turned up the road to the Todra Gorge. The Lonely Planet says " At its' deepest narrowest point only 15 kms from Tinerhir, this trench through the High Atlas presents an arresting spectacle - its' gigantic rock walls changing colour to magical effect as the day unfolds". There were a few stalls around the small parking and viewpoint areas at the outset who were hoping to take advantage of the fact that people were stopping. Once past these, we were able to see the gorge in all its' glory. It is breathtakingly beautiful and despite knowing that there were cars ahead and behind us it felt as if we were the only ones there. The presence of the "usual tourist stalls" didn't detract from the experience one bit. The monumental spectacle of the natural features completely dwarfs the bling and glitter and made the tat-sellers completely irrelevant to the scene.
We manoeuvred ourselves carefully amongst the wandering spectators as they all seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they were walking on a motor road. Up until recently, the road was piste. It was obvious that even with some tarmac there is still a battle against the elements. Several rock falls had blocked the road and we had to wait patiently while a dumper truck manoeuvred its' load at the side of some repairs. I usually write notes as we drive along so that we can always conjure up a snapshot memory of places and events. Todra got just one word - WOW.
Farther up the gorge a huge rock had fallen and demolished part of a hotel ("auberge" in Maroc-speak) after the heavy rain at the end of last year. Apparently all the auberges in the gorge are now closed as a precaution. Good idea. You wouldn't want to wake up to that kind of a hangover.

We continued north to pick up MH11 from Scott's book. This route I called the triple A route as it starts at a place called Ait Hani and wiggles north east through Assoul (Mike called it Ar*ehole) and Amellago. It is a useful link road, all "sealed" which means its' all tarmac-ed - cos I had to ask - and it would connect us easily and quickly with the village of Rich on the N13 south of Midelt.
So, we are on the Triple A. Let's look at the notes I made. Mike put the washing machine on. I kid you not. We have all the mod cons in Daphne. We have a shower. We have a fridge, a cooker and an electrical recharging system. We have (intermittent) wifi courtesy of Moroc Telecom and we have a washing machine. It is a container for a mortar bomb with a lid. Add water, soap and dirty clothes, seal and reattach to roof rack. It is black so absorbing the heat of the sun and with all the shimmying (poshword = agitating) that we do along the way, it is supposed to clean the clothes.

I just packed enough to last me. George at Asda supplied my nicks £4 for 6 and they get binned every day.
I am brought back to earth by the vehicle in front of us. One of the worst jobs in the world must be driving a two tiered slow goat truck with a following wind. A short time before we'd overtaken a small car on a narrow uphill hairpin section. He was dawdling and Mike was getting concerned that we'd get too hot, engine-wise, if we stayed behind him in low gear. As we passed him, he swerved out (towards us and a vertical drop) to avoid a hole in the road. He obviously hadn't seen us due to the dust he was kicking up so to suddenly be aware of a big yellow Landrover adjacent to his left ear might've been a bit of a shock! He stopped very suddenly, anyway, and he was still stopped when we looked back after the next hairpin. Poor chap. We suspected an explosive evacuation of the colon.

Pay attention...we are now nearing a place called Imiter but no one has told us that it has a gorge.

Not quite as good as Todra but its' close...it is so far up this lonely road ( Mike will probably add something here connected with ar*eholes), that I don't think many tourists venture here. This is where the River Rheris begins and the ground is fertile and lush.

There are stone lined allotments and almond trees which border the river, all hemmed in by the ochre gorge walls. While the road is a good one, it sometimes disappears under water at the oueds. Mike's got his MUVI action camera running but we can't upload to this blog so the more dramatic stuff will have to be added here later. Enough to say that everything got pretty wet outside which, if you own a Landrover as old as ours, you'll know that also means everything inside gets wet too.
We are nearing Rich and the N13 but the weather is starting to get a little iffy. The landscape is flat as a pancake with no obvious places to pull over and wild camp and there are no known campsites nearby. It is getting to that sort of time when we want to stop nay should stop. Mike needs his beer and I've got to set up camp, sort the washing, plan and cook the meal and make the bedroom up...as well as thinking about breakfast for the following day...what we need to supplement a lunch and work out how I can get him to do the washing up...
The weather is getting iffy-er and I think I'll let Mike do the next bit...
....because I've got nothing else to do, clearly! This is being written some days after the events which I now relate.
Just as we began sorting ourselves out for the evening's chores, the sky began to darken considerably and the wind picked up. We'd been watching the approach of a line of clouds beyond the mountains for some of the late afternoon, and as we forged northwards looking for a camping spot it was getting obvious that things weren't going to improve, weather-wise. Vehicles coming the other way had headlights on. We decided to stop ASAP and turned off the road just north of the "gap" at Ait Labbes, heading for some open ground to the west.
The ground proved too hard to get the pegs in for more than 3 or 4 inches; below that it seemed to be concrete, so we did what we could. Retreating inside we watched as a shepherdess moved her flock closer to us and we half expected her to come and ask for shelter as the wind increased to gale force and, minutes later, hail began to fall. Well, not exactly "fall". That implies downwards motion. This hail was going sideways. With stones the size of peanuts. The racket on the roof and windows was really something but outside and exposed must've been really painful.

Shortly after, the noise of flapping canvas changed enough for us to realise something wasn't right, outside. I went out to investigate (the scene reminiscent of Oates in the Antarctic) and finished up like Leonardo's Man, making like a starfish with each foot on a tie-down and each hand above my head, holding everything down against a roaring storm. I remained in this classic pose for about 15 minutes before 'Er Indoors twigged that I'd been gone rather longer than it takes for a pee. I'd have taken some pics, but I had my hands full of tent.
With the pegs almost all ripped out, all we could do was pile up rocks and hope it didn't get worse. We ate in a rocking, pitching rowboat simulator as the wind just got worse. I could see plastic bags whipping across the landscape which made it easy - and concerning - to see what speed the wind was really hitting. I said nothing out loud.
After all, no point in getting worried about the inevitable, eh? The thunder and lightning just added to the drama.

By 2200 it'd all blown through. Sigh of relief. Tent is a bit torn at one corner but otherwise we've survived OK. Could've been very different.

Still, with enough Bombay Sapphire onboard, one can survive anything....

Down and Out

Wed, 08/04/2015 - 12:00

Sunday, 5th. The first job is to get down off this mountain. According to the book, we've broken the back of this route.Shouldn't say things like that. Be more accurate to say "we aren't out of the woods yet".

We hadn't gone more than a kilometre or so before we found the track disappearing into a gully, ten feet deep and twenty wide....It's difficult to put into words just how your heart sinks when you're confronted with something like this, knowing that, somehow, you've got to find a way to beat it. We search upstream for a bit and find a place to cross the gully - now more a deep ditch - but the far side is a bit of a soggy landing, to put it mildly, and the Up side of the ditch is very steep, but not as steep as the Down side, and it's only about ten feet across. Something under Daphne is going to get a thumping here. We both get to the other side on foot and inspect the ground, Mike then returns to fire up Daphne for a cautious stalk of the options. We don't have a pickaxe but even that probably wouldn't make much impression on the concrete-like agglomerate of the ground, so we'll just have to be extra careful not to get hung up.

Once across, he's underestimated the depth of the swamp and Daphne slows, slows, labours and stalls. Bugger! Not a Good Thing. Before she has time to sink, Mike is reversing to the edge of the ditch and takes another run at the bog, then lots of gas and out and racing forwards onto firmer ground. Luckily I'm out of the line of fire of the rear wheels. The mud flies thirty feet astern.That's one more obstacle overcome. This can get a bit fraying on the nerves!
The track does indeed get "better now", but this is, of course, in comparison to what it's been like up to now. We continue, very aware that the "better" track is of a standard that had everyone - tour guide included- on our Alps trip stopping to take photos of 6 feet or so of Big Rock Crossing. We thought it was a big deal at the time, too....

Still crawling slowly along, we come across a shepherd squatting at the side of the track, making breakfast on a fire made of camel droppings. His kit seems to consist of little more than an ancient blackened teapot, an equally black cookpot and a bucket. His water bottle was empty, so we gave him a couple of litres of ours, although he was probably quite happy without us happening along.

At last, tarmac. Never thought I'd be happy to see it, but even though the last 24 hours have been a fantastic experience, I'll enjoy it more now if I can have a very long exhale!
With 30kms to go to Anzal, we passed a diminutive elderly woman bent double with the weight of a huge bundle of grass, presumably for her animals. The size of it was far bigger than her. She was almost running with the weight of it, though, because of the fact that she was going downhill at the mercy of gravity. She didn't stop or falter or look our way as we passed by.

We stop for bread at Anzal and look for a shady spot for lunch. As we go along we pass a dilapidated roadside building, but not, as we'd become used to, built of mud. This one had been plucked straight from the 1950's US Route 66 - a sun-bleached, fly-blown back-of-beyond gas station and Joe's Diner, reminiscent of a Road movie. It'd been built for a remake of some slightly dodgy psycho-movie then abandoned to the ravages of time. The plan is to head for some culture now- the town of Ait Benhaddou, and onwards to Ouarzazate for a shower and a beer.

Ait B, according to the Rough Guide, is one of the "most spectacular sights of the Atlas". It's a remote hillside ksar which is one of the best preserved in the country. Its buildings are towered and crenellated, the sheer walls standing out a terracotta red against the blue of the sky. The river that flows past the base of the walls provides a natural barrier to the way in, which is as effective now as it was in the 11th Century.

Once across the river - and we did use the stones - we tried to get in via what we assumed was the "usual way", judging by the well worn path and steps. Entry was denied unless we coughed up dirhams. We suspected that this might be another unofficial "try-on" so bantered the young chap to find something more useful to do other than rob tourists, but he was adamant that the charge was for "renovation of the buildings". Yeah. We retreated and found a pathway around the walls to another entrance - the more usual tourist one at the end of the bridge. Entree Libre. Funny old thing.

Once inside the walls, Sue's impression was of the set of Monty Python's "Life of Brian". It certainly had a feel of another, more ancient time, about it. The streets are only wide enough for 3 people to pass, or one donkey and a squeeze.

Doors are small and interiors dark and impenetrable, which is why most of the merchandise is outside on the street, I guess. And very colourful it is too. There are fabrics of every description and lots of shiny metal, all there to catch the eyes of the visitors.

What isn't clear, though, is how the laws of Economics work here. Every shop sells the same stuff as the one next door. Maybe they all get together at closing time and divi up the takings? Certainly, our experience in other towns has been that if your chosen emporium is deficient in the item of your desire, the boss will despatch a runner to get what you want from another shop. Probably owned by a relative.

On the way out we stopped off at a carpet shop, claiming to be an outlet for a co-operative. Please forgive my cynicism here, but you've probably got the drift from our previous posts that we're beginning to feel that most of the people in Morocco are out to get their hands on what we've got, be it money or otherwise. Clearly, this is a difference in cultural "normal" and perhaps the fact that we've never heard a "please" or "thank you" is colouring our judgement a bit. It does have it's interesting aspects, though. We'd been in the town for 5 yards before Mike had a guy wanting to relieve him of his boots in exchange for the ones he was wearing. The chap in the carpet shop was willing to barter anything we had, with a cash adjustment, for his wares. He seemed a genuine, honest guy so it's a great pity that we've met so many of his countrymen who have left us with a very different impression and that's the one that'll last, I'm afraid.

We planned to nightstop in Ouarzazate with a secondary aim of replenishing stocks of alcohol at the supermarket. We heard about this place from a group of Belgian offroaders that we met in the site at Moulay Idriss. "It's opposite Dmitri's, the best restaurant in town". In fact, Dmitri's has the reputation in the 4x4 Trekking world that Harry's Bar had to well-heeled ex-pats in Singapore. We had our beer on the terrace and felt that, somehow, we'd earned it! Refreshed in every way, we made to leave but as we were about to drive off we were intercepted by Michael and Anja, our Mobile Bankers from Zagora. We swapped tales of our experiences and they gave us a recommendation for a campsite just outside town.
The site, once we'd found it down a dusty back street, was compact and pleasantly shaded but was suffering a little from what smelt like a rubbish pit just beyond the walls. For the first time ever, we got back into Daphne's dusty seats and drove straight out again, heading north, to whatever we could find up the road. We settled on "Camping Continental International Amadril", obviously an upmarket place with all mod cons. The GPS co-ordinates took us to the right place. The proprietors had, since the guidebook was written, renamed the site "Gites Rural de Amadril". This was possibly as a result of the Moroccan equivalent of the Trade Descriptions Act being applied. Facilities were basic but, given our last 48 hours of excitement, we really couldn't have cared less as long as the water was hot (it was) and the air didn't reek of something dead. Sue shared her luxurious shower with an equally grateful beetle the size of a wheelnut.

With the prospects of a quiet night, we make our plans for tomorrow. Along the Dades valley and through the Todra gorge - a must-see item that was on our list made so many months ago. Another week of new experience lies ahead.
Mike slept well, Sue stayed awake listening to the tent flapping in an increasing wind and the usual serenade de chiens, so there was no sympathy when M had to exit at 3 am to take the awning down before it did it on its own. I told him he should do it before coming to bed. Tee Hee.

Up and Over

Sun, 05/04/2015 - 12:00

So, we've decided on a plan for the day, Saturday 4th April: 1. Drive to Taroudant. Get cash. Gawp. Do Tourist Thing. 2. Find Route MH7 and spend rest of day getting high.
Drive to Taroudant. The Rough Guide has good things to say about this place, and we need a break from driving, a "civilised" cup of coffee and an ATM. There's also an ancient Kasbah that's said to be worth a visit, and the town has both an Arab and Berber souk on every day of the week, which is a bonus as today is the Muslim "Sunday" and a lot of places may be closed.
We decide, on arrival, to chance a drive into the centre of town. We know this is going to be fraught with hazard but, equipped with Garmin and compass, we are prepared for the worst. We get it. Satnav shows streets, does not show one-way systems, dead donkeys in the middle of the road, holes where the road ought to be, broken down cars and corners/junctions whose radius is shorter than the turning circle of a Landrover. Which is, to be fair, about that of the Ark Royal.
Fun over, we retreat to the edge of town and park next to the old town walls and kasbah. Stroll about, take pictures, get a Good Feeling about this place. Everyone is friendly. Two young women approach us and we are on our guard; unfairly. They welcome us to their town and hope we have a good day. Shake our hands, and move on. We are refreshed. A minute later, M takes a photo of the huge entrance gates to the Ksar, and a bloke appears from the shadows, whingeing about "permission"...The coffee is good, though, and we head off into town to find a Hole In The Wall to replenish our cash.
Having found the "money souk", we make our tourist credentials blindingly obvious by looking for a bank that isn't closed. A helpful passer-by suggests that we'd be better off finding our way to the central square, where there are ATMs, as the banks are all closed today. He'll show us the way. Cynics among you will hear the Alarm Bells ringing now, as we did. We explained that "Nous avons besoin d'un guide" but our helper is insistent that he's helping us out from the goodness of his heart, and no money need change hands.

Right. Anyway, he leads us through a maze of narrow streets all packed with humanity going about the business of making or spending money.
The atmosphere is, to be blunt, medieval. The noise, smells and general atmosphere are redolent of a scene from a Crusader movie. We try to keep tabs on where we are and Mike often glances back to fix a scene or two in memory much like Hansel and his breadcrumbs. If this bloke drops us, we may have trouble getting out of here, it really is a rabbit warren.

We are safely delivered to the ATM, after which we are invited to visit our friend's family business, which produces and markets herbal products. OK, we'll play along. This was always going to happen. We do the necessary, play the game, and as our guide delivers us safely within walking distance of Daphne, offer him 50dh "for the children". The money, and him, are gone in the blink of an eye.
We head out of town, and towards our route into the hills. On the way out of town we pass a convoy of British 4x4s coming in. They're all nose-to-tail like a trail of ducks behind their Tour Guide. One of the ducks is clearly lame and is attached to it's mate by a towrope, like an umbilical. We hope that this isn't somebody's holiday ruined. It reminds us though, that what we're doing hasn't the Comfort Blanket of an organised group. If it all goes to rats, we'll have to sort it out ourselves.
Our chosen route is "a thrilling traversal up and over the highest driveable point in the Jebel Sirwa" and "the tracks in Morocco exist primarily for local people to get around in normal cars". These two quotes are from Scott. This encourages us to set out on what we expect will be a gentle scenic drive across Alpine meadows, with a quiet spot to spend the night. Oh how the Brits have mastered the art of understatement!
I don't know what the route was like when Mr Scott wrote his guidebook, but I would suggest a few amendments to the route description based on the nail-biting, heart-thumping rollercoaster that we experienced. While some of the route is completely benign - or as much as a hairpin bendy, 1in3 sloping, steep drop to nowhere single track road can be....some of the rest is enough to give the most experienced 4x4 drivers a good run for their money. I suppose you could liken some of the rougher bits to - well, I've never actually been in a piano while it fell down stairs, but I reckon the experience would be similar. Some of the sections would've been almost impossible to reverse and if we'd had a problem with the truck, difficult to extract from. However, this is what we came for and although we weren't expecting it, the difficulties - increasing as the route progresses - keep our interest firmly on the job of getting to the "idyllic camping spots" mentioned in the pace notes.
Daphne groans and protests loudly occasionally. Her shake, rattle and roll has us thrown around the cab and sometimes on the edge of our seats, craning to pick out the best line. She tiptoes across rocks that are as big as armchairs, all jumbled and angled every which way, and we try to make sure that none of her vulnerable underbelly gets too close to them. Occasional squeals mark our lack of total success. At the bottom of a particularly gnarly-looking ascent up a narrow gully, we debate who's going to drive, and who will guide.

Sue adopts that "don't look at me like that" expression, and gets out to do the talking. Or should I say yelling, waving and generally jumping about looking "interested". As the difficulties ease a bit and we've still got all the bits attached as designed, Sue takes the camera to record the rest of the climb. Of course, the results do no justice to the experience - a bit like the fisherman's best catch - no-one else will believe it, but we were there, and it was a real white-knuckle ride, believe me. Once we'd got to the top, M spent a good 20 minutes crawling about underneath, making sure everything was "all present and correct."

We have to do some surgery on my step, a headlight is cracked in several places and only held together by the beam converter stick-on thing but everything else seems to be in the same state as it started in.

We could camp here,

but Sue is worried that the difficulties aren't over and doesn't want to spend the night worrying about what might be coming, so we press on to the point where "at 2437m the track is better now". The altimeter shows us at 2350, so we've a bit to go. We anticipate nothing much else to slow us down; M's quote "Well, it couldn't get any worse than that, could it?"
Oh yes, it can.

However, you're probably getting tired of this gripping tale now - we were beginning to get a bit ragged about the edges as well. We decided that the crew deserved a double issue of rum and these went down in one gulp once we'd made it to what was, in truth, a fantastic situation in which to spend a night out. At over 8000 feet above the sea, a crystal clear sky and a silence so profound you might almost think that you'd gone stone deaf. We took a glass of wine each and took the time to sit and watch the sun go down over the mountains, aware for the moment of the earth's turning....

Hello Moon.

The Ride to Agadir

Sun, 05/04/2015 - 12:00

....and for those of you of a Certain Age, you might remember this Mike Batt classic. If not, it doesn't matter 'cos, as far as we experienced, neither does Agadir.As cities go, I'm sure that Agadir has it's good points, but for us, fighting the rush hour traffic to find 1. a supermarket and 2. a campsite, it had little to endear it to us. Jammed into the mayhem of commuter travel is bad enough if you know where you're going but as we didn't, and were relying on apparently random signage, it becomes very much more frustrating.

This was at the end of a particularly humdrum day, flogging up the main highway from Tan Tan.
We had no option here, as there's only one road out of The Western Sahara region that was of any use to us. Our plan is to head for the Todra Gorges, which means a long couple of days on tarmac. M has identified a possible diversion using a mountain road, which probably means a lot more than it suggests.
We gave up on the supermarket a few minutes after losing the last of the useful signs. It could be just around the next corner or miles away. Stuck at lights, Donny's dad rapped on the passenger window and congratulated us on the colour of Daphne, enquired after our health, and suggested we give him some food. This is in a traffic queue in the middle of rush hour! Sure, matey, dive in the back and help yourself to a burger. We keep the oven on standby just for you. Twat. As you can tell, we've about had it with these chancers. As we left Tan Tan this morning we thought we'd stop and record the "Bon Voyage. Revenir a Tan Tan" sign.

You guessed it. The Teenage Highwaymen led by Donny and Unbonbon, now joined by Unstylo, appeared from nowhere on their bikes. We spotted them early enough to get the photos done and scoot up the road before they could climb on the roof and beat their way in, Apache-on-stagecoach style.
So, Agadir retailers abandoned, we make our way, via another debate on routing - and you know what that means, chaps, to a v pleasant site up in the hills to the northeast. This is a particularly upmarket establishment run by a couple of ex-pat French people. Despite our somewaht dishevelled appearance, they don't seem to mind us sitting in their bar - the first we've seen in Morocco - and getting on the outside of several beers before doing anything else. When we get the bill we understand why. Upmarket though it is, the dogs still make as much racket as the other sites we've been on. In fact, I'm sure I heard a wolf at one point, howling for an hour at least, and the local Immam left his microphone on when the Faithful pitched up for prayers at 6-30. We could hear every word, from a mile away. Joy.
Highlights of the day? Not many. Roadside filling stations selling petrol from 5 litre water containers. Acres of Argan trees.

Twisty roads with hairpin bends that keep you wary of downhill traffic which has a habit of cutting the corners on blind bends. We were nearly wiped out twice. As we approach Agadir we're suddenly aware of how close to the coast we are - last night's haar is still lurking. As we get to the campsite, the sky disappears and the clag arrives. We're knackered. Any thoughts of cooking for ourselves are abandoned, and we eat in the on-site restaurant. Our second experience of a Tagine, and very pleasant too. A great meal for the price of 2 beers in a London pub.
The decision to "eat out" gives Mike some time to do some essential Maintenance, and we find that the repaired tyre is still losing pressure.

A quick investigation with soapy water reveals another hole, this one with a camel thorn sticking out of it. Reaming it all out and attempting a "field expedient" repair is only partially successful, so we may be forced to lose yet more time getting this sorted out. Risk Assessment in the morning. .....
As we droned northwards, we drew up our lists of "Most Useful (and Useless) Things you packed - or didn't":
Sue, Useful: Nail File, head scarf, Kaftan, tea bags. Also added "patience" but crossed it out. Hmmmm.
Mike Useful: Loops of bungee cord, Industrial WetWipes, Leather work gloves, compass, OSMAndroid mapping.
Sue Never Bring Again: Swimming costume, smart clothes, hat.
Mike: Winch, B&Q luggage straps, shaving kit, more than 3 pairs of anything.
Saturday morning, 4 April. We've decided to investigate the mountain piste listed in Scott as MH7. He says that this has been done by an ancient VW Golf, so we anticipate an easy cross country transit to Ouarzazate with a scenic , if not "idyllic" overnight camp en-route. The tyre is holding enough pressure to get us out of trouble if necessary. We're glad to be heading away from the clag - the bedding is damp, the tent dripping. Looking for the sun again.

Hello, TaTa, Goodbye

Thu, 02/04/2015 - 12:00

We arrived in Tata on Tuesday afternoon after a long, hot and frustrating day. Leaving our desert camp at about 0930 we felt we were lagging behind the sun a bit. The clocks changed here last weekend - have I mentioned that twice? - and our body clocks aren't in sync with that yet. The sun still comes up as normal and the cocks still crow at the same time. They need some education on the new wake-up call.
Passing through a police post at the end of the desert piste, there was a squadron of dune buggies headed in the opposite direction that was keeping most of the officials busy. Clearly they feel that they need to know who is going where, and our details were checked against some list that was perhaps being used to keep tabs on our progress. It'd be nice to think that if we didn't turn up in the next place we said we were heading, they'd send out search parties. What do you think? Take a bet?
Anyway, through F-Z and tried to take a shortcut to the beginning of our next piste, but this turned out be "un route ancien", according to a very pleasant chap we met (as we retreated) who turned out to be an English teacher who'd trained in Marrakech. What he was doing, smartly dressed, walking in the middle of nowhere we didn't ask. His estimate of the distance to the correct track was 2 k's, but it was actually 12, so maybe his language skills are better than his maths.
After a long boring stretch of tarmac we left this behind and began making dust again. The washboard road was really giving Daphne a good seeing to, and Mike was wincing every time the vibrations hit a high point. Over the course of the past few days, this vibration has slowly begun to have an effect on how things are holding together - or not. The dashboard, or rather the rather fancy radio and gps unit that Mike built, has begun to come away from the mountings. The driver's headlamp has rotated through 90 degrees,the cupboard doors keep bursting open - and these are airline food boxes with "bombproof" latches - everything that isn't strapped down starts to move about the cab in a clattering fashion, a mudflap has been left behind somewhere, and, worst of all, some of the beer cans have punctured! There are lots of unexplained Bangs and Clangs. One of these turned out to be a burst tyre.

A flat tyre, as I'm corrected. The rear driver side is a bit deflated. Like, no air at all. There's a slit in it about 30mm wide, probably caused by a sharp stone. This takes 45 hot minutes to fix, and progress thereafter is slow to reduce the risk of getting another. If that happens, we're in trouble. As a result we get into Tata a bit later than estimated, tired (tyred?) hot and needing to find a tyre fixer before anything else. I've been researching the French for all the words we'll need, and Mike does the talking when we find the local KwikFit. Actually, this is another one of those "hole in the wall" enterprises that we've seen so many of, but appears pretty proficient and happily very used to 4x4 offroaders limping in with one shoe off - Pneumatic Chibani. He tells Mike about the last time he fixed a damaged Landrover, having been called out at 0400. He had the guy back on the road by 0900, and this from somewhere miles out in the desert. He proudly showed us the new sticker, donated by his grateful client. We agreed a price - 120 dirham -and agreed to call back the next morning at 8 to collect it.
The campsite was OK, if a little noisy. We had another faff with the electrical connection so gave up on that, getting a 10dh reduction on the bill to offset it. In fairness, they did all they could do to resolve the problem, to no avail. The only difference this really made to us was having to work pretty quickly to get our blogging chores done before we ran out of juice. There was the usual cacophany of dogs at intervals through the night, underscored with the loudspeakers from 2 nearby mosques trying to outdo each other for clients during the early hours. We didn't sleep well and promised ourselves that we'd spend more time in the wild wherever possible. Experience so far suggests that the only thing campsites have going for them is wi-fi and showers. We have our own shower. If we can work out how to write up the blog using Notepad without it throwing up those annoying "Don't Understand" icons, we could do it in the evening and blast it through the 'net as we pass a Telecom mast the next day. We didn't appreciate the two Austrian kids sitting 5 feet from our back door, watching us with zombie-like expressions, either. They must've been taking lessons from some of the locals.
Wednesday morning. April Fool's Day. We're outside Chez Chibani at the appointed hour. All is locked and the street is just coming to life, so perhaps they've ignored the clock-change? While we wait, Mike goes off in search of a plug that'd fit the campsite sockets and I get the evening meal - some tired looking greens and a chicken. The latter hasn't actually been killed in front of me but I see it out through the de featherer box, and it is still warm as I hand it to Mike to put in the fridge. I get an odd look back, as if he doesn't believe what I must've just done...In the course of the shopping trip, it's become clear that French isn't as widely spoken here as further north. Mike's directions to a likely source of "prises" (plugs) are accompanied with hand signals which are the opposite to the words used - left instead of right. Mike queries this and the speaker corrects himself in what sounds like Arabic but might have been the local Berber dialect - Teshalhit.
We're on our way by 0945, heading for Tan Tan via a long offroad route that hopefully won't have had the attentions of the tarmac layers.

Although fast - obviously - these new roads lack the atmosphere of the desert tracks, which is what we came for. Unfortunately for us, this is becoming quite common. Great news for the local communities, though.
Some very interesting rock formations were seen as we progressed west.

The first few hours of the day are spent on one of these new roads. We make much faster progress as a result, and in a moment's inattention The Navigator misses her vital road junction. This only becomes apparent quite a while later when the Driver queries the distance to the checkpoint that'll signal the turn off-road. There follows a silence known as "eloquent" by some. Others might say it indicates "I haven't a clue where we are". Mike translates this in professional terms as "You've porked it, haven't you?". Indeed, we have. The options are to retrace our steps and lose 2 hours, or press on and try a new route that'll get us to the same place but from the south not the north. We agree the latter, but under some strain...

At just after 5, we call it a day. We're in the middle of nowhere, up a creek, literally. The good thing is, we know which creek and how far up it we are, and we do have a paddle, so all's well.It was also, probably, the best offroad section we've done so far with some vey "technical" parts and stunning situations. A Happy Accident. Relations remain strained, however, and supper is eaten in a grumpy silence. Perhaps it was the Puy Lentils....Silence made the more noticeable by the complete lack of any other noise save the hissing of the grass as the wind blows through it.

It's an equally silent night save for the buzzing of the mozzies, a few millimetres away on the other side of the nets. We are the bottom of the food chain here.
A restful night. The lack of barking dogs or Immams is a definite factor when it comes to the choice of campsite (pay) or campsite (free). Today's the day. We should get to Tan Tan, our notional "furthest south", this afternoon. Inshallah.
We pick up a good tarmac road very soon, and it seems that we may be cursed to follow this all the way. Scott's tome warns us that the whole route is likely to be sealed by now (he last saw it in 2012). Luckily the road improvement programme, while still ongoing, judging by the piles of hardcore lining the track, hasn't progressed as fast as he feared. Tarmac gives way to a hard graded surface and then back to sand, gravel and rock. Good stuff. The route finding is being shared between us, with the rally notes being read by the Left Seat while the Right Seat does the pointing and compass reading. We do not get lost although there are a number of "backtracks" to cross oueds (watercourses) that our chosen line has brought us to and are too difficult to negotiate. Otherwise , progress is steady though not rapid - Mike is being very careful with the tyres today.
We stop for lunch. We just had to get at least one photo like this in here:

1600. Here we are:

Hurrah! Furthest south. Sad though. Time to head back. As we return to the truck, two local lads arrive on their pushbikes. You guessed it, Donny Moir and his brother, Un Bonbon. Donny demands, a "cigar", then "dirham". We respond with a tip we were given by Anya : "Pourquoi? Pourquoi je vous donne la monnaie?". The effect is almost magical. It's as if we've hit him flat in the face with the back of a spade. Dumbstruck....but not for long. His next utterance isn't in French, and, we assume, not too pleasant either. Oh well, c'est la vie, we're here now, We've done it.
Before we do, we need to check and replen. We find two campsites next to the beach in TanTan plage, under a clammy Atlantic haar. One site looks disused but the Guardien tries to entice us to stay. We do a quick 180 and beat it. The second looks more promising. It's the size of 6 football pitches and has one customer. We might as well have wild camped, though. The plug doesn't fit the socket (no surprises) and the water's off - in the whole town. No worries, we can cope with all that. I just wonder what kind of discount we can get when we check out.
Some maintenance is required, both on us (alcohol stocks remain adequate) and on Daphne:

Running out of battery now, so this has to be the end of this post. A bientot.