Forgive us, but it's been another few days since our last confession. The limiting factors are 1.time, as there are a lot more chores when you live like this, and 2. power supply.We've discovered that at this end of Morocco the socket/plug combination has not only defeated us but several campsites as well. Despite all efforts, we remain reliant on Daphne's electrical supply and the 600w inverter - and what a bonus that's turned out to be. Even so, we have a max of 3 hours laptop power with 2 batteries, and the daily batch of photos has to share time with this blog....
So back to the Travelog. We left Erg Chebbi, as you know, with the intention of follwing a southern desert route through to Zagora. The end of the tarmac prior to this route is at Taouz, and it literally is The End of the Road. There's a barrier at the end of the main street and it's quite clear that progress beyond is not as free as eleswhere.
Because of the proximity to the Algerian border there are a lot of these checkpoints around, as we discovered later. The "stopper" on this occasion was not the barrier but a persistent "helper" who appeared at the window asking if we wanted to visiit his fish farm This was, apparently, on a different route to the one we wanted to drive. Our preferred route was, according to our new friend, impassable due to a "broken bridge". The truth of this was hard to verify and we had the choice of believe him or not.
Since we had an alternative off-road route to the north already planned, we elected to take that instead. The Fisherman's Friend saw us detour and set off in pursuit on his moped. In followed us for about 4kms, riding close behind and in our dust cloud, shouting that we were going the wrong way and being generally annoying. Eventually we stopped, explained our intentions and asked him - politely - to Go Home, which he did. Reluctantly.

We did our detour to the north, roughly following the printed directions but very soon striking off on our own bearing as it seemed to be more interesting. We made our own line over the Black Rock Desert, covering about 35 miles across country before hitting the westbound road towards Zagora. We won't make it there tonight and need fresh meat and bread for a meal, so we head for a recommended campsite at Nkob. Shopping was done in the town and we collapsed into hot showers after a very long - 10 hours plus - dusty day.
The site was smal, comfortable and hosting a wedding party, or similar. We'd seen them setting out the tables as we arrived, including the bowls of salad, pasta and nuts. We'd also seen Morocco's allocation of feral cats helping themselves from the table when the staff weren't looking. Glad we're Eating At Home tonight.

Sunday 29th, and outbound from Nkob to an off-road route south to Zagora. A largely uneventful drive, basically following a pylon line across a largely featureless plain, hemmed in by mountains. A confused mass of tracks towards the end of the planned route saw us heading for the tarmac rather sooner than we'd intended, so we took a deliberate "90 left" onto south, as M would say, to take a more sandy line down to Zagora. We've got loads of video of the last few days of very exciting driving, but as this site doesn't support it and Mike hasn't the software to snapshot, it'll have to wait - but it's really wild!

Stopping for lunch under a convenient tree, we intended to relax for half an hour or so.

No such luck. As we've now discovered, if we stop for more than a few minutes (and sometimes not even that long) we attract an audience, most often with their hands out. The conversation normally starts with the usual pleasantries and we have no problem with that. Howver (said loudly) the conversation rapidly moves on to "Donnez-moi...stilo, bon-bon, water, food, money, cigarette, clothes or anything else that you might be persuaded to part with. This is becoming annoying and, to be honest, a little intimidating for me. I was quite unnerved by the pursuit yesterday.
On Sunday at lunch we had a total of 3 visitors in 15 minutes. The last one left, empty handed but with a parting comment: "Bonjour, et ne reviens pas!". Ditto the above four or five times over the next couple of days. We've seen perfectly fit people running from their tents or houses suddenly develop a debilitating hobble and arrive alongside the track with pleading hands, wanting medicine. Denied that, the request might be for "vetements" or "dirham" or whatever else catches their eye, and this is beginning to "adjust our attitude" to the local people we have the opportunity to meet. We expected poverty and wracked our brains for some way to help with this without being patronising or condescending.
While we have seen what, back home, we'd assess as dirt-poor and subsistence living, the picture is more complicated than that and might be illustrated by the above-mentioned well-dressed 20-something chap who suggested that we "don't come back" went off chatting on an I-Phone. Clearly, his need of "d'leau" wasn't too pressing. As for the dozens off kids and their demands for sweets, we've come to the conclusion that it's just some kind of game they play amongst themselves, to see what they can get from the passing trade. Maybe it's only one point for a bon-bon but 2 for a pen, 3 for a dirham, but you get a jackpot Dix Points if you can score a chocolate bar.

We made it through the back streets of Zagora, pursued by blokes on mopeds trying to divert us to their garage "for Squeegy grease, 20 dirham only". Stopping for vegetables, these outriders surrounded us and were in some competition to get us along to their establishment - as opposed to the opposition's -before we got to our campsite, which they would, of course, guide us to later. We've now got a more wary mentality than we had a week or so ago in Moulay Idriss, and while the offers might be genuine, they might also be a prelude to another money-making enterprise to which we will be invited to invest. "Nuts" as Patton said. "Je n'ai pas besoin d'un guide. Au revoir".

A pleasant evening in Zagora's backstreets.

Doesn't sound promising, does it? The site was off a dirt road in an area that, if we were at home and found ourselves there, we'd lock the doors and reverse out. Appearances are deceptive - throughout Maroc, as we've found out - and the site is inside it's own castle walls and is a tranquil haven from the scenes beyond. We parked, switched off, and let out a sigh of relief. The sort of noise that might make your husband say "sounds like you need a drink". After the last 7 hours of dust, washboard roads, hot sun and Bon-Bon bandits, I think I'll have several!

We had the pleasure of meeting Anya and Michael from Germany who arrived at the site in their converted mobile Sparkasse Bank.

This 7 or 8 metre (might've been longer) bus is a true home-from-home and Mike and I got a guided tour. Michael is clearly a talented engineer, and Anya has made their bus a real Des Res with every comfort. We're jealous. Maybe one day.....

Monday. Desert tracks again, from Zagora to Foum Zyguid (MS7, for Scott fans). A choice of routes - the north (boring one) or the south (risky one) across the deeper sand, dry lake and the close approach to the Algerian border. Guess which one Mike wanted to do?

Long hot slog with LOTS of deep sand and stony tracks to a coffee break under a camelthorn bush while we planned the next move. Mike was cracking stones to find fossils, finding not only images of Mike's work colleagues but also evidence of ancient fairies. That what I think, anyway.

We were stopped at a military checkpoint, where a very freindly chap, dressed for a disco, inspected our paperwork and passed the time of day without asking for a sweet or a pen. What a pleasant experience! Mike did his best to follow the rapid French cum Berber the guy was using, and after some repetition we got the gist - he was giving us alternative directions to save us some time. How many times have you asked directions of a policeman and been told "Go south by southwest for 10 kilometres, then west to pass north of that mountain. Straight on for 30 kilometeres. Bon Voyage."

A few K's to go to F-Z and we decide to stop for the night. Our first visitor arrived after 25 minutes. Mike won the bet. Trying to make conversation: "That's a nice animal. What's it's name?". There's a few seconds pause, a quizzical look, and the reply...."C'est un chamelle". As he left, with a few litres of water, we could hear him thinking "Idiot!"