Nought to Nomad

Prologue

“Shit, where are my keys?!” After years of romantic speculation as to how my first ever bike trip would begin, I guess I should have expected that I would lose something so integral to a long distance bike journey as the very thing that makes it turn on. But I did, albeit temporarily, as they were in my pocket the entire time.

Chapter 1 – How, What, Where and Why.

The idea was a simple one; drive down to North Africa on a motorcycle. As a rule I tend to keep all my ideas simple, as I find anything more to be quite distracting. So how and where did this particular idea begin you might ask?

It began with scraped knees and ramps made of pallets and milk bottle crates. It began with a boy’s love of riding his bike. As a kid I scarcely remember being off my bike. It was for all intents and purposes my first instrument of freedom; a way to go beyond the next field, while having a laugh with my mates. What resonated with me as I grew older was the freedom. I remember if I was angry about something or just needed a think, going out on my bike usually blew all of that away. As I grew up, the next field didn’t quite cut it and the prospect of going further and further fuelled my imagination with travel to distant lands. Simultaneously I developed a passion for motorcycles and I found myself thinking, there’s got to be a way to do both.

My obsession with motorcycle traveling has evolved immeasurably since my introduction thanks to watching Long Way Round. From there I found the bible and its author in this realm of motorised adventure, Mr Ted Simon and his book Jupiter’s Travels. This defining piece of work is much, much more than just a road trip. It charts a human experience, with all the factors associated: growth and change, up and down, hard and easy. The book did more for me in my formative early twenties than any other book, film or song. It’s a relatable story about letting the world change and shape you, all of which just happened to be on a motorcycle, which is itself a pivotal character in his tale. If I may further my gushing to a quote of his, “I had felt very high and very low. I was no longer afraid of the world, I thought I had the measure of it.” I had felt this before on my travels in Asia and I couldn’t wait to replicate it on the saddle. These inspiring works helped cement the simplest of ideas; how about going a bit further than the next field, a lot further?

This idea grew in my mind every day, inspiring and tormenting me in equal measure. Having finished my degree, my thoughts on the matter became more serious. My wages as a waiter weren’t going to cut it, so I started to think about alternate methods of gaining the necessary funds. Eventually I found myself teaching English in South Korea for two years from 2010 to 2012, and that in itself is a tale which deserves more than a mention in the string of events that led me to my bike trip. Because of my work there, I was able to earn the money I’d need to do this thing comfortably. Little did I realise at the time that endless piles of cash are not actually a prerequisite to an enjoyable bike adventure, but it doesn’t hurt.

Chapter 2 – Nothing Left But The Doing Of It All

Now we’re up to February 2012, and I’m back home in the UK with a stack of cash and a trail of new friends, all with bleeding ears caused by my incessant scheming and planning. My first task was to get legal, so I signed up for one of those courses which gets you an unrestricted license, which I’m happy to say I obtained without a single mistake on both parts of the test.

I tell you, I was more nervous than I had been for any exam prior to that point. As I saw it, my whole dream rested on those two tests. When I got the good news I leapt on my instructor, a funny yet none-hug loving gentleman who nonetheless received the full force of a hug from me, a hug many will tell you is not something you can experience gently.

I was legal, so next came choosing the bike. I love motorbikes, however, I’m not going to list a single technical fact of any of the bikes I looked at. That’s just the way I am. I’m romantic with my idea of motorcycles and the freedom they enshrine, but at the same time I respect their existence as a working machine that in all its pieces and complexity is an amazing piece of engineering. I know that if I blabber on about cubic capacities, I won’t write with the same enthusiasm.

Alright fine, I just don’t know anything. After reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance I discovered I can get all spiritual AND look cool (well a boy can try) without the need to strip an engine blindfolded. I’m not a tyre kicker, which means I won’t pretend to know it all, but I’m willing to learn.

Neil (r) and I make ready the Tens on the busy Wandsworth High Street

The bike I settled on was a 2008 Yamaha XT660Z Tenere. I loved this bike as it was meant for the purpose of travelling. With a pedigree like the Tenere, I knew I was going to be safe. The earlier versions of this bike dominated the Dakar rally and the worst I expected to come across was a little sand and a few rocks. I ummed and ahhed at the garage, but once I took off down the road on my brand new big bike I just couldn’t believe it. Years of having bike pictures pinned up at my desk and on my laptop, hours of daydreaming and hoping and there I was riding down the motorway on MY bike! There is no feeling like it. My first motorbike was an event up there with all epic firsts and it was a relationship I will never forget.

With the bike done, I had to start thinking about what I’d need to take with me. Essentially, it would need to consist of all the usual bits and pieces; something to sleep in and under especially as I was gaining a roommate later on in the form of my girlfriend Hayley. I took great pleasure in organising my bike to become trip ready. I went for soft luggage as it was cheaper, which worked perfectly fine, the specific contents of which will be revealed as the tale progresses.

I’ll cover one part here; the ‘brain’ of the bike, the tank bag. This was my office and main hub. In it I had my important documentation and electronics. I ran an adapter up from the battery so I could charge my iPod and in the clear plastic part at the top I had my maps and compass. I got by perfectly fine with just these two navigational devices, so you can stick your GPS up your bottom (I couldn’t afford one). Honestly though, I loved just looking at the compass and knowing that as long as I was headed east, or west or where ever I needed to be, it didn’t matter. The road was the adventure, the direction the only important guide. Once the bike was all loaded up it looked a treat and later on with a bit of mud splashed here and there, I couldn’t help but swoon.

So there I was like a flustered astronaut all geared and booted up, frantically looking for my keys, with my mate Neil astride his Tenere no doubt wondering if he’d chosen the right partner to drive to Africa with.

 Chapter 3 – Commence Wobble

Big events often don’t feel real once you’re in the thick of it, but riding down the motorway towards the channel tunnel with the bike fully laden and my mate in the mirror, it felt real alright. After convincing myself I’d lost the only set of keys for my bike, I was pretty jittery on those miles to the coast, but also full of excitement. So much time spent saving up, waiting and hoping and I was off.

For those interested in this type of expedition, I’m sure you can imagine the feeling. Universally though, it was a feeling of blissful gratification. I had earnt this, in every sense of the word. It was a personal victory for me just starting it, so I knew whatever followed was bonus after bonus.

Waiting in line to head through the channel tunnel’s first checkpoint I took the opportunity to call my loved ones and check I’d fastened things down properly. Then it was through immigration and down the ramp onto the train. I loved that part; it’s a unique thing driving a bike onto a train. We were directed to drive through the carriages up to the front and park up, remembering to duck the emergency exit signs on the ceiling. The carriages are essentially steel cuboids minus the seats and people, which would have made interesting obstacles to weave around had I drove onto the wrong platform. Before I knew it we were under the channel and chatting to the collection of overland bikers who were heading off in their own directions.

They looked so clean – this was not to last.

Touring bikers are a community constantly on the move and it reminded me of my gypsy ancestors. I like to think my desire to travel stems on some genetic level from those roots. My Dad’s interest in our family history unearthed a link to the nomadic people of a culture long since diluted in modern society, and through his investigations I have taken pride in the influences they have given me through the years. I like to think I’m carrying a torch of some kind; not in the same manner of course, but with perhaps the same spirit. Continuing with this metaphor, carrying the torch of hereditary nomad has always felt right. I feel a great sense of purpose when I’m heading off somewhere purposelessly and I will do all I can, for as long as I can, to enjoy this feeling.

Suddenly the carriage is bathed with light as the train emerges from the tunnel, filling the window with French countryside. The train stops and at long last my continental trip begins! In the wrong direction! We found ourselves in the centre of Calais after going around in circles for a bit but that was ok; we needed cash, a wee and a map check. Once these were achieved, we set off in earnest. All I really remember was the excitement of it all as we flew down the motorways, pleasantly surprised at how considerate the French are with regards to motorcyclists. They move aside to the point of leaving the road and driving in the rough.

After a few hours of cruising and settling into the rhythm we stopped for fuel and met Benoit. Benoit was headed south on his ancient Kawasaki, which was having issues with fuel. The issue being, it was squirting everywhere out of the bottom of his tank. In the spirit of generosity, I kindly agreed to store his excess fuel in my tank while we sorted out his leak. For the record, I did try to reimburse him but he wouldn’t have any of it. My opinion of the French was growing higher and higher. Once we cured Benoit’s leak we set off south again. We parted ways and after a long day of riding (my concept of long was about to change) and with the adrenaline starting to wear off, we thought about where to sleep.

Benoit and the leaky Kawasaki.

Naturally (and in fact properly) we had nowhere in mind. Where ever it was that the night crept into the sky too much, we stopped. That style, like most of the routines on the trip, was refined over time. That first night we were lucky. By the time we stumbled upon a particularly elusive campsite, it was dimpsy at best and energy levels were low. With just enough time to set up camp and reminisce over the day’s events with a few beers, we laid our heads down for our first night on the road.

Of course, I didn’t sleep in a tree; I had to bring everything I needed with me. At the rear on the luggage rack I had a dry bag which contained my tent, sleeping bag, roll mat and clothes. This was my bedroom and it was limited in space, but that wasn’t a problem. However, just like all shared bedrooms, once I rendezvoused with my girlfriend that space disappeared quickly. On more than one occasion I found myself trying to pull a bra on to my feet in the darkness of our tent. But to her credit she brought a tiny bag; I was very proud!

The small hours of the morning brought a tremendous thunderstorm, the likes of which I have never experienced before. The thunder cracks were loud enough to make the ground shake and rumble; but I’m one of those people who love a good storm. However in a tent, I had my love shaken. We woke to a swamp instead of the lush lawn we set up in, making packing up a bit more interesting than usual.

The morning gave me the opportunity to get out of my system something I thought I’d do more of during my journey, drive on the wrong side of the road. After about 200 metres Neil sped in front to slow me down thank goodness. It woke me up that much was certain, and put an end to my subconscious thrill-seeking. France seemed to speed by in a blur of baguettes, an excess of cheese and a sore arse (from the seat). Before I knew it we were looking up at the foothills of the Pyrenees, and I was excited.

I love mountains, and most of my excitement for this journey was wrapped up in the prospect of zooming around alpine bends and standing proud and epic upon the summit, wind in my eyebrows and the bike standing majestically beside me, like a thoroughbred steed sure of its purpose in life. However, for the time being that would have to wait as time constraints meant we needed to take a tunnel right through the heart of the mountain range. In order to meet up with Neil’s wife and my mate Geri in time in Morocco, we needed to get a shifty on through France and Spain. She protested this as she didn’t want us to rush, but it was no bother at all. The three of us had spoken at length during our time together teaching in Korea, and we all wanted to get together to enjoy this adventure.

My body was beginning to inform me in subtle ways about how it might react to riding such long distances. As mentioned previously, my derrière was certainly making itself known, but my hands were aching too as they went through the process of strengthening up due to constantly operating the brake, throttle and clutch. I was pleased with how smoothly the bike ran at high speeds and was quite the comfortable chap after a few hours. So the plan was to get down to Morocco as quickly as we could. I didn’t mind as I knew I’d have opportunities to slow down later on in the trip.

I spent more time over mountains than under I’m pleased to say. Don’t ask me how I took this picture…

Spain however, was knackering. It’s a pretty big country, go have a look on the map.

We drove the lot of it in a day. I was youthful in terms of long distance riding, I had all the enthusiasm in the world but that day was exhausting. The intense heat bearing down on us in central Spain prepared me well for Morocco, though I’m happy to say we did most of that country at a more leisurely pace.

One section of Spain stood out though, somewhere north of Córdoba, perhaps three hours out. After half a day of long, straight highways we’d had enough and decided to go off the trail as we’d made pretty good time once emerging out of the Spanish side of the Pyrenees tunnel. It was a beautiful stretch of road twisting and turning through forests, small villages and over streams. I was pretty confident on the bike by now all loaded up, so I really enjoyed throwing it into the bends and thoroughly getting rid of my chicken strips with a proper lean on. Unlike a nippy sports bike though, just because I had thrown my body weight over to the other side of the bike, didn’t mean the bike followed as quickly. I felt like a sailor on a boat, flinging myself over the edge of the bike and hoisting its weight up to follow with my arms. There’s a knack to it as you have to plan your cornering in advance of what you might normally, but I loved the feeling of getting better – remember I’d only had my licence for a matter of weeks by this point.

After having some fun on the twisty roads we got back on the highway and edged closer to Córdoba, where we were aiming to stay the night before heading down to the Moroccan ferry. We found a nice little hotel right next to the Great Mosque of Córdoba. It would be the last time for a while that I’d sleep in a bed.

Chapter 4 – Adventure Yes!

The first thought I had upon opening my eyes was, I’m going to Africa today. I think everyone who goes to Africa for the first time feels the same way. What is it about the place? Adding to my excitement was the fact that I wasn’t about to enter the great continent solely by plane or boat, I had brought myself there on a motorcycle. We collected our bikes from the hotel’s garage around the corner and loaded them up knowing that all the bits and pieces of gear we had brought were about to serve their purposes. It felt right knowing that each item of gear was needed and had a reason to be there. I felt right to be there too and the feeling was fantastic.

The wheels were moving again with Algeciras the next destination and from there the ferry. Before I knew it, we had the bikes strapped down in the main hold and were on the viewing deck watching as the Rif Mountains transformed from the background to the foreground, Spain and Europe the reverse.

The Rif mountain range announcing our imminent arrival in North Africa.

We drove off the ferry and after converting some money, headed towards the immigration gates. Immigration with a motorcycle is a slightly strange affair. The bike becomes a mute companion who you feel you have to cover for as quite naturally, it can’t speak for itself. It had its own papers and needed the right to be there as much as me. So when we both rolled into Morocco proper it was hand in hand, so to speak. For a couple of weeks after Morocco I spent a fair bit of time on my own zipping around the Alps and I don’t mind telling you I talked to my bike. I still do; “That was a bit close huh boy?” or “Don’t worry fella I’m going to get you some new oil soon”. I imagined travellers of a long gone era upon their horses, talking to them in much the same manner. The bike was carrying me, even nurturing me as I learnt more about the world around me and myself in the process. So you’re damn right I say thank you to my bike each and every time it gets me somewhere safe.

Full of excitement, Neil and I sped immediately up the hill from the ferry port straight into a gun stroking policeman who gestured us to slow down. The kind fellow simply wanted to admire the bikes and advise us on the best direction. It was at this point we decided that perhaps we ought to have a direction. Chefchouen became our goal for that evening, an evening which was fast approaching.

We had maps to give us an idea of the mileage, but no real idea of how long it would take. One thing that did excite the pants off me was the last thing the policeman said: “This road, very difficult. But for your bike, no problem. Adventure yes!”

Yes indeed my good man, yes indeed.

An adventure it was at that. We wound our way across the ridgelines, swooping valleys stretching out either side of us and a beautiful sunset punctuated the clouds in the darkening sky with orange and gold. I was in Africa. One awkward shuffle through a rough village of sideways glances and we found ourselves belting down a sealed road with Chefchouen firmly set in our sights.

On the Rif mountain range, looking back towards the coast.

We didn’t want to drive at night, especially in a new country with hardly any idea where we were going, but we had no choice. Eventually we were ascending again and mercifully after a long day and night of riding, found our first camp site in Morocco. Fortunately the gates were open and a friendly young man showed us to a spot where we hastily set up camp.

I brought all the basics I’d need for camping; the left pannier held my kitchen and bathroom. This consisted of a petrol stove that I admired far too much and a turkey baster my stepmother gave to me as an ingenious remedy to the issue of how I could extract fuel from the tank without getting it all over the place. Next I had some metal military-style pans to cook and eat out of, a knife and fork, a mug for some brew and vodka when I could get hold of some and a cloth and washing liquid to clean up. That covers the kitchen and jammed next to that was a toilet bag with all the items a man could need on the road; a piece of glass to shave, moustache wax (heavy duty) and Brasso to clean my teeth with.

Once camp was set up, dinner was the next order of business, so we gingerly stepped into the ornate, blue cafeteria of the campsite. 15 minutes later we were tucking into the first of many tagines (a stew filled with meat, olives and vegetables) in Morocco, sinking a well-deserved beer and enjoying the hospitality of the most vivacious kitten I have ever had the pleasure to remove claw deep from my inner thigh.

The blue streets of Chefchouen.

Our entrance to North Africa had been fast paced and mostly under the shroud of darkness. It’s a special thing to wake up in a new country, surrounded by new noises and sights. It felt like I had been airlifted overnight from the little hotel in Spain to this Moroccan camping ground. I was buzzing. Chefchouen is high up and has commanding views of the plains below and mountains in the distance. That, along with my excitement to head south into this new country, was a powerful motivator in the morning.

We had the vaguest of routes really, head as far south east as time and nerves would permit until we hit the Sahara, swing west and end up in Agadir to meet up with Neil’s wife Geri. Our triumphant trinity at Agadir would be the penultimate checkpoint of a rather large triangle beginning in Chefchouen, stopping next in Merzouga in the south east, onwards to Agadir, then concluding the triangle back where we started at the ferry port on the north coast of Morocco. As we didn’t fuss about with a GPS (I now own one – amazing tool), we set our front wheel towards Fes as the first checkpoint for the day.

Instant regret descended on us when we reached the hectic, monstrous traffic outside of the city. Direction came our way in the form of a rather acrobatic chap on a blue scooter, who for his own entertainment (and ours), performed various feats involving his limbs whilst traveling at unsafe velocities.

Our amusement was quite evident and the three of us had the most bizarre conversation while dodging lurching trucks and lorries. Finally, our flexible friend caught on to our increasing anxiety and took it upon himself to lead us around the outskirts of the city and put us on the right road south east. Not however before taking us to the dodgiest looking alley to conduct payment for his guidance; a pack of Neil’s smokes.

Chapter 5 – Sahara and the Road South

Thankful to only lose some cigarettes and not our minds we pressed south, the call of the Sahara getting clearer and clearer. If I had to sum up the Sahara in a sound, I’d have to choose the inside of a hyperbaric chamber: Total silence. But I’m getting ahead of myself. We were still a fair way off, heading south with the desert town of Merzouga fixed firmly in our sights. Overstretching expectations of distance is common with motorcycle travel and that sun plummets quickly when it gets tired. We rolled into the town of Ifrane having spent a gorgeous day of riding through the Middle Atlas mountain range following our ricochet off Fes earlier that day.

Looking back across the central plain as we ascend the Middle Atlas mountain range.

The highlands were a welcome relief from the dust and heat of the lower plains. In those areas I saw green steppe, pine tree forests and little pockets of Berber culture in the form of shepherds’ tents. I remember getting a kick out of waving at the young shepherd boys tending to their woolly sheep in this juxtapositional environment from the rest of the country. I imagined I looked like some kind of obnoxious astronaut, flailing my arms wildly as I passed by. The reality is those kids have seen a million European bikers wave at them, but it was my first time and I loved it.

One of many Middle Atlas stops to enjoy the fresh air.

Sheep weren’t the only wildlife we saw up there; a troop of monkeys were posing for some tourists and I wanted in. After a few snaps we ended up in a bizarre campsite in Ifrane which was modelled after Disneyland, with plenty of Aladdin thrown in. It was practically deserted and I think the manager was bored, as he gave Neil and I the tour of the main building’s lavish interior.

The next morning, rejuvenated with a sleep in temperatures not comparable to the surface of the sun for once, we set off for the desert.

It started suddenly; blurred vision, extreme lethargy and an inability to talk. It was as if my entire university experience was condensed into 15 minutes. Lacking any form of electronic communication, I conveyed my predicament to Neil by overtaking him and pulling into a petrol station. He correctly diagnosed my malaise as dehydration, getting me to empty my backpack water bladder dry and what I think was a gallon of Gatorade.

None of this sounds particularly dramatic, but when you’re driving a motorcycle heavily laden and falling asleep on it, things have a tendency to get nasty. Apparently, if you sweat constantly without replacing your fluids this can happen, who knew. My armpits looked like an anime character crying, which was the result of wearing heavy bike gear in blistering sun. The bikes never skipped a beat, but I on the other hand am an Englishman. Neil has South African heritage, so appeared to have a higher tolerance to it than I, but my god was it hot.

Finally after an incredibly long journey we reached our most south-easterly destination, Merzouga. This funny little place exists seemingly to cater for tourists as a departure point for camel treks into the desert. It also serves quite nicely as a place to collapse from exhaustion, which is exactly what happened. Like always, we rolled into town not knowing where we were, where to stay and in the dark.

Our bikes attracted attention no matter where we went and soon enough we were met by a helpful chap on a quad bike who knew a hotel we could stay in. Imagine for a minute a town that looks like a Wild West era ghost town and you’re getting close. In what can only be described as an outer body experience, we drove across the desert along a camel track to a solitary light in almost complete darkness. I say outer body as I wasn’t so much living the moment as playing it, remotely, like a computer game.

Literally plonked right in the desert.

Out of the almost syrupy blackness my pixelated reverie was broken by the outline of the hotel. Hotel? I thought. More like The Canyon of the Crescent Moon complete with belly dancers and snake charmers. My imagination gave way to the reality, which happily was very comfortable. The hotel we arrived at looked like an Arabic medieval fort with high spiked walls made of mud and a large wooden door. I was unsure about what we would find inside (our saviour and three wise men perhaps), but to my surprise we came across a glimmering swimming pool, surrounded by reclining chairs and small palms. Surrounding the pool were the rooms, each adorned with Tuareg accessories and artworks. Continuing our habit of imposing ourselves on long-closed kitchens, the staff presented us with the obligatory tagine and olives and even went out on the hunt for cold beers. We rested back into our reclining seats, clinked our beers by the pool and let it all sink in; we had driven to the desert on our motorcycles.

Once again we had arrived somewhere in complete darkness and as a result, I had no idea of my larger surroundings other than the sand under the tyres. The next morning I slowly pushed back the heavy wooden doors to be greeted with a blinding surge of light. My eyes adjusted and in doing so, revealed a sight I will never forget. In front of me was the dune of Erg Chebbi, a dune so large it has its own name. 150 metres tall at its highest, it ranks up there with the Great Wall of China and Angkor Wat as one of the most incredible sights I have ever seen. If I needed any more reminding as to where I was, to my right sat three camels looking every inch what you’d expect; chewing in a rhythmic and circular motion and if tasked to move, would likely respond with the enthusiasm of an adolescent sloth with a penchant for horse tranquilisers.

Erg Chebbi, a name not unlike the noise I made upon seeing it’s size.

I get very excited when I realise I’m right in the middle of a dream. I was like it in Japan, on the road to Tibet in China and boy was I like it there. I had to sit down for a minute and just look at it all. For me, moments like this are worth living; total silence, the Earth and its magnificent beauty. Once I had my fill, thoughts moved back to the road. No matter how tired you might be or how pretty the place, the heart is greedy and yearns for what’s next. So on we pressed, westward our heading.

It was at this moment we decided not to try and drive across the Sahara. Probably a wise move.

Chapter 6 – Twisties and the Westward Road

The push to Agadir on the west coast was punctuated with only one significant stop, the epic Dadès Gorge. Located about half way between Merzouga and Marrakesh, this fantastic canyon features classic switchbacks and inclines with incredible views. Having driven in a straight line for hundreds of miles, it was great to throw the bike into some corners. On the subject of throwing the bike, I didn’t spend the entire trip upright. It was my first big bike after all, big being the most appropriate adjective. The Tenere is a tall bike and even fully laden, a 6 foot (ish) bloke like me is on tip-toes. So in times of tiredness where the thought of pulling the bike up on its centre stand was too labourious to imagine, I’d simply fall over. I would choose the most populated spots to do this too, which to counter the embarrassment meant a merciful bystander would help me back up.

It was during this stretch to Agadir that I saw the highest temperature in Morocco, 50 degrees Celsius. It’s a testament to the bike that it didn’t seem to mind and pulled itself along without any indication that this inferno was making a difference. I on the other hand responded far more predictably and in full bike gear it was very nearly intolerable. I actually learnt a lot about tolerance during those long, hot miles. Your bar gets tapped higher and higher when exposed to extreme circumstances and I found out that my ceiling for heat tolerance was far higher than expected. My whinge threshold however was much lower, much to the chagrin of my companions I’m sure.

Hot and arid, but undeniably beautiful.

Being so inexperienced with mechanical affairs I was grateful for the bike’s endurance and build quality. However, I did bring along gear to be used in the event of a problem. To see me hold tools is akin to an Amazonian tribesman handling a mobile phone for the first time, but I’m learning. In the right pannier I had my garage. In it I had a jumble of items which I feared I might have to use, but fortunately never needed to. I was fortunate that luck was with me, with regards to common issues like punctured tires (not a single one) and fortunate no serious problems occurred as I had barely any idea of how to use half of the devices, let alone where on the bike they should be used. I had faith in my ability to bodge and if I were to come across real problems, I knew I would have to rely on the aid of others. But that’s what I wanted in any case, as I’ve experienced such help on my previous travels and it’s something I believe is an important (if not always constant) part of travel.

Finally we rolled into Agadir, which appeared to be more touristy than any place we’d visited up until that point. It was welcomed though, as the convenience meant we had a place to properly recharge after the long miles from Chefchouen. It was here that we met up with Neil’s wife Geri, who was very excited to join in and get some miles under her belt. She’d been present for every drunken chat Neil and I had slurred to each other regarding the trip, adding more than a few inebriated ideas and suggestions herself. It was great to all be together and to regale her with our exploits up until that point.

Our first destination altogether was Essaouira, which we journeyed to past the gorgeous coastline of Taghazout and the surrounding area. The surf looked really good and more than once I resisted the temptation to leap off the bike into the waves. I’ve been back to Morocco in-between returning from this trip and writing this up, so I feel like I’ve seen most of the important places. But if I were to return, I’d like to see more of this coastline. Essaouira dates back to antiquity and looks like a set from Indiana Jones. The city is surrounded by high walls and ramparts that look like something out of The First Crusade and in the harbour, blue fishing boats bob up and down as if they are trying to peek over the sea wall.

The ramparts around Essaouria.

On arrival we discovered that it would be impossible to drive the bikes into the city’s old streets and that they would need to remain outside the city walls. We enlisted the services of a gentleman with a luggage barrow and made our way through the labyrinthian streets of the old town. Eventually we arrived at our accommodation, what appeared to be a small riad (traditional Moroccan house) from the outside with a modest wooden door. Upon entering though, the space opened up into a beautiful atrium festooned with gorgeous Moroccan drapes and the smell of mint tea and dates floating through the air. It was a wonderful introduction to traditional Moroccan culture. The markets here are quintessentially Moroccan and walking around the tiny stone streets never got boring. I was on the hunt for a bracelet for my girlfriend Hayley, which in itself was an adventure I’ll never forget.

Once I’d settled on a shop, I was treated to the customary mint tea, thrice poured, and sunk into the culture as it engulfed me. Another highlight of our stay here was a fish dish, where you chose your meal from a varied selection of freshly caught seafood on ice and they grilled it there and then. With a few squirts of lemon and a beer or two, we were contented.

One of many side streets within Essaouira.

After a couple of days in Essaouira we left for Marrakech, which greeted us with all the standard welcomes we’d come to expect from the larger cities in Morocco; a delicious concoction of spice, colour and intensity. I had my 27th birthday in Marrakech, which is always an unusual treat to celebrate another year on our spinning globe surrounded by new and interesting sights and sounds. We stayed in another beautiful riad, complete with central atrium filled with bird cages, beautiful dark wood staircases and silver tea sets. It was here that I had a rather amusing and awkward experience.

We’d booked ahead and it was understood that Neil and Geri would have their own room of course, and I’d have a bunk in a communal room. No problem, I’ve done it dozens of times in many countries. I sauntered into the dorm to be confronted by the surprised and terrified faces of about half a dozen young women, in various stages of preparation for a night out. My first instinct were I not happily involved with Hayley would have been to raise an eyebrow, twizzle my moustache and produce a bottle of bubbly from behind my back. Instead I opted for an awkward backwards walk out of the room, almost tripping over a tortoise that had been glued with sequins (really). I informed the women through the door not to worry and that I would secure another room for my stay. I’m not entirely sure they heard me though, through the cacophony of giggles and cackles that accompanied my departure from the room.

An atrium within a riad.

The next day, Neil decided that his rear tyre needed replacing, so we asked the helpful chap who ran the riad to take us to the nearest garage. For some reason I decided to go along too, following Neil and our guide riding pillion. We wound our way through the outskirts of Marrakech’s medina when suddenly, Neil took a turn straight through a heavily populated market alley. Surrounded on all sides by people of all shapes and sizes, we wove our bikes through the crowd. Perfect cones of spices interspersed shoes, clothes, food and all the usual accoutrements of Morocco with colour as I tried to process where I was and what we were doing. It was amazing, like a very slow, sensory-overloading rollercoaster at Morocco World, if there ever was such a place. I distinctly remember hearing “Yala! Yala!” and just about everything else you could imagine in such a setting. Nobody seemed to mind the motorised addition we contributed to the wonderful chaos surrounding us, although if I were to attempt this in my local pannier market in Plymouth, I doubt I’d go unnoticed.

Marrakech marked the end of my trip to Morocco, as I had another deadline to meet Hayley in Venice in two weeks. I bid farewell to Neil and Geri and wished them well for their own journey north to the Spanish ferry. Having had a few days to chill out, I was super enthused to get going and experience the second half of my trip. My plan was simple; go up a while, turn right for a bit, meet up with the lady then head down through Italy. This is more or less how it happened incidentally and indeed surprisingly, if you’ve gleaned anything at all about my planning skills from reading this tale. That journey, while linking to this one, is one I will write up separately as it includes an interesting angle from my partner (and her memory is far superior to mine).

So ended the first half of my first long distance motorcycle journey, and it certainly didn’t disappoint. I hit the road again, excited for the people, places and experiences I would see next. Morocco had provided everything I had wanted from a long distance motorcycle adventure and much more besides. Indeed I had travelled far, been very high, a little low and in my own way, measured some of this world. I couldn’t wait to measure more.

Sean Dixon.