Day 62

When you look up at the night sky you may be lucky enough to see the dusky band of the Milky Way, with pole stars dotted sharply against an infinity of darkness. Such delights I recently enjoyed while lying on the desert floor at night in Merzouga, staring up with calm and clarity.

Yet, something unfortunate happened yesterday, and now when I look across this empty guest lounge, I see something comparable to an inverted Milky Way stretched across my retinas. It looks like a grainy band of ink splattered across my vision, with a few key dots of thicker ink, or blood.

A retinopathy tear is such a sad thing and a reminder of how fragile my health is. Yesterday was a longer day, we covered many miles and yet, through sun and sand and bumpy trails, we did not stop for a rest and sustenance. I occasionally drank water from my bladder, but it seems that it was not enough.

We got back and showered, I was exhausted and my back was achy so Wiggy kindly gave me a back rub, which turned into exercise. After this, possibly because of the angles, I noticed the small trickle of blood, beginning to blur the vision in my right eye. My body has been tired for a few days actually. So today, we do not progress our journey and instead rest in our hotel room in Ait Baha. 

Two days ago, the ride to Ait Baha was 200km long and extremely windy. On the bikes, we watched twisters spiralling up into the air, defined by desert dust. Yet, occasionally they did not carry a clear outline and caught Maloo by surprise. She’d be disrupted from her linear passage, her front wheel would change course, and her back wheel would drag. Ahead, if I’d see a thin blanket of sand pushing across the road, I’d drop a gear to gain centrifugal force, slow slightly and change my lean angle before entering the clashing wind currents. 

The wind followed us all day in varying levels of force. I’d find my body tensing up, my hands gripping my bars and my shoulders balling forwards when the gusts hit. I know a large part of my tense shoulder posture, my locked arms and even my Dupuytren’s contracture is linked to how I ride. 

We stopped for petrol and refreshments, then hit the road again. Along a straight stretch with less wind, I heard Wiggy calling over coms, “look at the monitors!” I’d been focusing on the dust movements in the distance, but by the side of the road, just past the gravel hard shoulder, were remnants of glass that shimmer in the sun and large blocks of plastic. CRT (cathode ray tube) monitors, according to Wiggy. Vintage computers monitors, square and heavy in shape. But along the stretch we travelled down, there were dozens of them. Was this created from extreme high speed fly tipping, a different monitor thrown out every hundred meters? Or have we missed some sort of illegal stress busting Moroccan hobby; chuck your old monitor out the boot of your 4×4? 

As we approached town, the sun was setting and sat at a perfect position to shine through our visors and bypass the shield of our peaks. Through the shops and houses of Ait Baha, the golden sunlight beat through the gaps between buildings to temporarily daze me. Then into the wonderfully twisting roads leading to Todgha Gorge, in and out of shade and sunlight we rode.

It took time to locate our accommodation, but we arrived safely to find a musical cat, a tasty tajine, and a bed waiting for us. 

We chose Ait Baha as a base so we could ride between the tourist attractions of Todgha Gorge and Dadés Gorge. Unfortunately, this splendid day had some unexpected events and as you know, ended with a blood tear in my right eye. 

Early in the day, we approached another secluded settlement in the High Atlas mountain range. The squat earth houses blended into the orange and tan mountains surrounding them. The sound of our noisy engines alerted the children of the village of our presence. At one end of town, they ran up to the road and waved with delighted faces. Some used the rev your engine hand gesture, and many extended their hands for high fives. Depending on the child and their aim, some seemed to have made a sport out of trying to slap your hand as hard as possible. Although, with the speed of our motorcycles and our leather gloves, surely this is causing them more pain than us? Wiggy spotted one boy trying to do this with a stone in his hand! So, with my damaged Dupuytren’s hand, I soon decided I’ll stop returning high fives. 

Most of these children had poor aims and poor coordination, even still, a few tried to throw things. Stones, bits of brick, and bizarrely a palm leaf, but it just flopped to the ground after the child dramatically arched his arm to launch it. According to Wiggy, stones were once used to ward of evil spirits. Get back to the West, you wicked witch? Sadly, a few of these kids also held up their middle fingers at us. One boy ran onto the road and with malice in his face, stuck out his middle finger and chased after the bikes! To this I slowed down, tuned my body and looked at him, he stopped running, his face changed, and he looked concerned. I shrugged and rode on, at this his finger rose again.

On our gorges tour, we stopped on a few occasions. And each time children would magnetise towards our bikes. Most were sweet and curious, they’d point at different things on the bike and were keen to rev our engine. But before setting off again, the same communication was always exchanged. Dirham, money, index finger rubs the thumb, and if no positive response was received, food, hungry, with a gesture of fingers touching the mouth. 

So, as you can a see, there is huge variety in the way tourists are perceived here. We spoke about this with our host last night. 

Wiggy said, “we’re just seen as cash”. 

Our host said, “this is true, particularly in the tourist areas, yet, genuine Moroccans are warm and generous and will offer help and food without an expectation of return”. 

We travelled over a variety of roads on our gorges tour yesterday. From Todgha Gorge, up to Agoudal, down to the famous Dadés gorge with its steep hairpin passes, and then back across to Ait Baha. The most outstanding and unexpected part was the R704. We were travelling along a brand new tarmac road, and then the road began to narrow and became very dusty. Ahead, a Belgian camper van blocked our path. Wiggy road onto the gravel verge to get past and spoke to the driver. And past the camper, the tarmac road had ended.

“I’m unsure how much gravel there’ll be and think I should turn back”, the driver explained. We passed and wished him luck.

The road was a sandy gravel track, with occasional large and sharp rocks scattered across it. At first, I was tense and fought Maloo as she bumped and skittled across the rocks. My shoulders, arms and hands grew tight and fist pump began to set in. So, I pulled over, had some water and breathed. Time to go again, and now I was beginning to settle into the flow of the track. A good job too, as the rough terrain continued for another 30 miles and the sharp hairpins that I’d spied on the map this morning, were part of our trail! The first one I paddled through, which was difficult as my feet can only just touch the ground when I sit on Maloo. Then I tried steering and balancing Maloo with my weight, then I tried standing. Getting her moving slowly before tipping into the steep downhill hairpins was important, one time I missed this trick and had to use my rear brake, which made Maloo skid. But Maloo was perfectly happy even if I was not, and every time I was in doubt, she auto-corrected perfectly. 

 I pick out the stones and clumps of dirt stuck in the soles of my shoes. Dust makes grey the black leather of our motorcycle boots, and covers our riding gear and lenses. In our hotel room, the metal bed frame is not grounded and the crisp white sheets and fleecy covers create a static build-up. Climbing into bed is hazardous, touch the bed frame and get a nasty electric shock. I reposition myself, hear a static crackle and see a little leap of blue light. Switching out the lights, I lean across to kiss Wiggy, and a shock passed from his lips and mine. 

My eyes eventually close and between the specs of straggly phosphenes, my retina tear is visible. In a few days time the blood will disperse and cover my vision like a veil of sand, and later still, it will look like a tunnel covered by spider webs. I fall asleep and dream that I’m a swashbuckle pirate. A hooked claw replaces my Dupuytren’s contracture hand and an eye patch hides my retinopathy teared eye.