bugsonmyboard

My newly acquired riding partner, Jonathan, was talking to a stately looking man that had flagged us down on a dusty moonlit mountain road and I was still sitting on my bike and beginning to get annoyed. Since model forecasts showed no substantial swell arriving until the following week, I’d delayed my departure to the coastal city of Safi in favor of a mountain and desert excursion deep into the interior of Morocco. My poor attitude at this juncture didn’t make a lot of sense, since it was dark, we were tired, hungry, and hadn’t seen any suitable place to camp or take shelter for hours and this man it seemed may be able to put us up for the night in his guest room.

Our journey from Marrakech began with a stop in the foothills at the village of Ouzoud where we found a majestic looking waterfall. Ouzoud was filled with lots of mostly Moroccan tourists striking the same pose and taking the same photo in front of the waterfall. The very existence of a waterfall seems to create a tourist vortex causing a feeling of urgent need to show up and stare at the thing. Since we’re tourists, we went and stared at it. It was very nice. It looked as though there should be magical fairies of some kind flitting about in the mist above the torrent. We took the same photo that everyone else did.

We rode southward from Ouzoud higher towards the peaks of the Atlas range that loomed hazy in the distance. The Atlas ranges separate the Mediterranean and Atlantic coastlines from the Sahara Desert. They were created as the land masses of Europe and Africa collided at the southern end of the Iberian peninsula, pushing peaks up 13 thousand feet into the air. Our path had us traversing a high pass and then descending towards the Sahara desert on the other side to the town of Ouarzazate. I’m very happy that I can now correctly spell and pronounce the name of that town since my first attempts were not very useful. Red rock faces and soils dominated the landscapes that we rode through.

As the sun sunk behind the mountain tops and our altitude increased, the air temperature dropped nearly as quickly and the road quality. We dodged massive pot holes, wash-outs, rock falls and wayward sheep as night fell. Truth be told, I have trouble to tell the difference between a wayward sheep and one that knows exactly where it’s going. We passed small villages with soccer games happening in the road which they stopped for us to pass and I smacked a couple of high fives to the kids as we rode through goal on the far side of the road. There were a few jeers from some of the kids as we robbed them of a few last moments of game time before it became too dark to play. In every mountain village kids would give us a cheer for as we passed as if we were in the middle of a massive rally race of some kind. I pretended that was true. I think it made me keep waving at adults that had no intention of waving back at me. Their confused expressions as they hesitantly raised their hands out of politeness indicated they must have been thinking “What hell does that guy think, he’s some enduro race star that everyone wants to wave to?”

Jonathan had negotiated a fair price for us with the man who had flagged us down in the street for a night stay and dinner at the guest room in his home. We drank Moroccan tea and his wife made us an excellent vegetable targine for dinner. Their simple home had a warm feeling within its walls.

My cause for annoyance at our initial stop proved to be immaterial, as there was a secure place to park our bikes right next to where we slept, provided we were able to ride them up the steep dirt slope, up a few steps and through the narrow doorway. We both managed it, though not without a bit of difficulty. Our sleeping quarters were richly layered with blankets and pillows of vibrant traditional Moroccan design.

The next morning we awoke to rooster crowing and our host bustling about in the main house who was quick to bring us morning tea and bread with honey as soon as we began to stir. We were very thankful for the hospitality that we’d found in this simple dwelling simply by chance riding along a dark road in the mountains. We had no idea of the day of riding and scenery we were in store for as we motored away that morning. The narrow band of asphalt that traversed the mountain pass seemed to wind back and forth unendingly, with the road narrowing where gravity worked to smooth the man-made gradient back to a more natural, unorganized state. From time to time the asphalt disappeared entirely, reclaimed by soil and rock falling from the upslope side. Though our throttle hands grew heavy on some of the twisty racetrack sections, our progress was slow as we could hardly ride a few kilometers without stopping to admire the landscape or the villages below us. The square mud and hay buildings flanked by cultivated terraces took on the appearance of delicately constructed models of some kind. The red peaks held our gazes spellbound one turn after another. At each village we slowed so as not to disturb local villagers going about their business in the road.

On a slow rocky section, I dumped my bike over and broke one of welds of my surfboard rack. So, I hadn’t actually gone surfing yet, but I had managed to break my surfboard rack. Which I need to carry my surfboard as I ride around in the Atlas Mountains towards the desert. This was starting to feel a little bit ridiculous. At least it makes a really nice camp table.

At least I wasn’t the only one with a sleepy motorcycle..

We woke our bikes up from their naps and headed for lower ground.