Eschewing the main roads, we set the GPS units to avoid roadways and quickly turned off into a series of small villages joined by dirt tracks. With orange mud daub huts and several families to a compound, life has changed little for these people over the past few centuries. There is no television or electrical appliances. In fact, the only concession to modernity is the ubiquitous mobile phone of uncertain vintage.
Stopping the bikes in these small villages brings the inevitable invasion of kids who are keen to check out and touch the machinery. Photos on the camera are a hit, as are small sweets. The women scurry into their huts as soon as we dismount the bikes, and the menfolk eventually approach shyly once the kids have made introductions. A handshake and then the right arm bright to the chest assures them of your good will and broad smiles are soon out in full force (Morocco is a land largely untouched by modern dentistry).
Spotting a family group leading goats along a ridge line, Ty decided to ride up for a closer look. The goat track traversed some quite steep terrain before a rough stony patch led to an open clearing. This was James' first real test for adventure riding. He tackled it well and arrived intact at the top, confessing later that he was terrified the bike would tip over backwards and pitch him tumbling down the steep rocky slope.
We followed the ridge line for some time before descending down through wheat and poppy fields, and back into the villages.
We spent some time at a small bar (bars here serve coffee, not alcohol) and discussed the mental state required to tackle tough terrain on a big bike. The conversation drifted into general mental health issues, and I noted that some estimates say that one in four people has a significant mental health issue. I said "I'm fine, and Gary and Janes seem ok too" as we all looked at Ty. He said "well it can't be me, I'm a tractor".
In one street market; James, Gary and I stopped to purchase Jaleba's for the desert. These are a traditional hooded robe worn over clothing and cover the body from head to toe. With hoods drawn, we approached to within metres of Ty before he realised it was us and fell about laughing. We presented him with his very own jaleba, but he looks like a supersized ewok gone wrong when fully robed.
Once we emerged from the rural areas, we rejoined a motorway towards Marrakech. This is one of the largest inland cities of Morocco and is a study in red stucco. The medina and souk are thronged with people at all hours, and the main square hold many thousands of people all jostling for food, clothing and other necessities of life. I had always assumed that snake charmers were more myth than fact, but they were in abundance at the souk, with one of them draping a hissing viper around my neck for a laugh.
Gary and I joined a table of women for bread and dips. The red dip in this post photo is chilli oil, and strikes the side of your tongue like a hot iron leaving a searing trail towards the back of your mouth. As we move south, the food is becoming both simpler (unleavened bread and dips) and much hotter. I can only imagine how brutally hot it might be by the time we reach the Sahara.
