Day 13: Nouakchott (Under Mauritanian Sky...)

I was not the happy trouper when daylight came that morning in Nouadhibou. I felt pain all over and was in search of pharmaceutical relief but gave up after the first pharmacist offered me Paracetamol and then a second pharmacists in a tracksuit with missing teeth and chains that made him look like a your local 'homeboy' gave me a cream for fungi infection when I would've been satisfied with a simple Arnica for the bruise on my knee. Certified homeopathic medicine of a wide level of distribution is popular only in advanced countries.

We deposited our motorbikes and baggage an hour before departure time, then headed off to look for breakfast. Le petit dejeuner was not available just anywhere. It seemed like each shop had their own purposes. A restaurant is a place to eat only for either lunch or dinner and there is no flexibility in between. We entered a restaurant and saw a woman cleaning potatos who just looked at us and then continued with what she was doing, not even bothering to ask why we entered, as though the concept of a door was not to define inside and outside, nor does the differentiation of spaces and what it implies exists. We ask if they could serve us and they just mention another name and indicated for us to walk further up the street. The cafe in which name I do not recall consisted of a small veranda as its facade, door covered in multicolored vynil bands that tiered down and the room was a 3x3 all covered in newspaper excerpts of soccer, basketball, Obama and Al-Qaaeda news. He served only baguettes with onion omelettes with possible addition of homemade mayonnaise and nescafe long coffee with or without milk powder. As we finished eating, the man and his boy waited for us outside.

The bus ride to Nouakchott took more than 5 hours and it felt longer. Before leaving Red kept insisting on getting information regarding the next step of our transportation from the capital to Rosso but he never got answers. So we parted without really knowing what would happen when we arrived. Red was worried about moving on our problematic and extremely slow rides in the Sahel nearing the time of the kidnapping of those Spanish tourists. He was however suffering the ride and would've loved to have done this road with the bikes. I was destroyed and thought that this intermezzo had right timing. It's not a joke to me the pain, I felt on my back. I was at that point quite concerned about my health and considered even abandoning the SH50 and continuing via public transport. The Aprilia was already at its end anyhow.

The road was beautiful. The dunes are much more persistent in this part of the desert but winds blew strongly. This road bears now a name of The road of Hope. The Japanese financed it, I assume as an exchange of a deal on fish exportation. It's kind of funny to think that maybe some of Japan's sushi come from Nouadhibou's bay. The comfort of a bus was not as rewarding as riding. First off, inside the vehicle you saw through square windows and not a full view. Secondly, you were inside looking out and not right in the middle. It was however very entertaining to see the people. Such as the frog faced Chinese guy with cactus hair who got annoyed everytime the door opened and sand would come in. He panicked everytime and trying to clean himself after. It was ridiculous! There was a lot of wind and theres sand at 360°!

We arrived in Nouakchott at 4.30PM and found that no transportation to Rosso exists and but it can be arranged but always with the price of an eye. There were little options and the owner of the shuttle service was actually advising us to go with the bikes assuring us that it was save. We decided to leave almost immediately, bid farewell to reason and perhaps mental sanity and headed out once more to ride ignoring previous fears of kidnappers in the middle of the desert. I took a pain killer and overcame my preoccupation for my own health once more..

Getting out of Nouakchott was not easy. We were running around in circles for sometime trying to figure out where to go in a city where indications on directions does not exist. We ended up in the periphery again with high traffic of motorcycles, cars, buses, trucks and horses. The conditions of the streets were dramatic because holes on the asphalt and sand was everywhere. The sight of huge trucks inclining and jiggling sideways along sand crated roads was quite impressive.. We finally managed to get fuel and headed out for a 200 km drive to Rosso and it was already 6.20PM when we arrived at city limits. We jumped from being worried about possible hijacking by Al-Qaeda to going on a Die Hard ride to the border Rosso at nightfall... Just insane, actually!

Maybe, finally, just because we've learned our lesson from the past days that at 30km off Nouakchott Red stopped at the sign of Auberge and we decided to stop. I'm so happy we did because it was one of the most beautiful places we stopped at where is a space of 1000 m2 you had 12 cabins and there was nothing else near this 'complex'. The whole facility was lighted by a small car battery and as night came, the stars where as what I generally see at sea. The complex manager, Achmed, was nice enough to place a mat and mattresses in the patio in front of our room and I felt like royalty while laying there watching the sky.

Day 12/part 2: Nouadhibou by Night

We've taken to drinking a lot of soda during the trip. The icy frizz and sugar gives a calorie boost needed especially because we weren't exactly eating or drinking regularly. Red tells me something that I've eventually witnessed during this trip which is in Africa you can surely find 2 things without difficulties: fuel and Coca Cola.

After the abrupt introduction at the border to 3rd world Mauritania, we parted off for Nouadhibou. We were lucky enough to have witnessed the renowned longest train in the world of Mauritania on the crossroad for the 2 cities. The ride was smooth I was sorry not to have dared once more to film this site as we actually surpassed the train of 3 kms length with our 50ccs. It was carrying iron.



The north of Mauritania is the point of the start of Sahel. Sands where more shifty and golden. There were less traces of sedimentary rocks. All these sights of dunes were laced with car carcasses and broken down houses made of stick and plastic. Once and a while you see that old mule in the middle of nowhere and you wonder how in the world it's still alive.

As usual we were late and time was of the essence in order to search for transportation to Rosso. We had laid out options, before we left for the this rally, to be escorted or shipped by cargo, but both proved to be insanely expensive. Prices ranged from 750 for the escort to 1650 Euro for the cargo ship. Running around this city that's divided in 2 parts: center and periphery, both about 1 km long, we managed to find a bus that would take us to Nouakchott for 35 Euros, bikes included.



Red and I settled in a campsite in center Nouadhibou. There were no chambers left but we happily accepted the option to sleep under a nomad tent. I thought of it as the most mesmerizing tent I've ever seen. There were mixtures of patterns that recalls christianity with colors of African spices, patterns of drawings that are of islamic theme and variety of colorful tapestry on the ground. While settling in I had a chat over Mauritanian tea with a tour guide named Fadel, a handsome Mauritanian with 4 wives who loves him but to whom he loves none. I ventured to ask if they were happy and with a convincing smile we stares at me straight in the eye and answers, 'Absolutely.' We had many laughs and spoke of the universal problem of unrequited love. He called me a liar when I told him that it was also a problem of mine. Fadel was guiding a group of french tourist in their 50s/60s. They were also in a rally from Paris headed for Dakar. The campsite had a pantry where the frenchmen were having tea after a days worth of drive. We had actually ran into this convoy at the border earlier. I loved the sight of a white bearded sympathetic man writing on 25 or more postcards short notes to his friends who were listed on sheets of A4 excel format. The campsite was also complete with terrace, where you could either relax or hang your washing to dry. Part of the terrace was gated and used as a goat house. In the meantime, Red was again on a soda run and came back with my possible reentry flight to Milan. And as I read the information, reality hits me with a bat on my back: time's running out.

This economic capital of Mauritania lives on the investments generated by the global consumption of fish in which Nouadhibou's bay is rich of. Freshened up we went out to see this city and wondered where did all that money go to? We met an Italian botargo exporter in the midst of the delirious commercial district. It was the second time we saw him after meeting briefly at the Mauritanian embassy in Rabat. He lead us to a 'foreigner's' restaurant where the food was not all that good but the view of the waitresses was pleasing to Red's eyes. The women are stunning in black Africa.

I was not concentrating. It wasn't reality's bat that hit my back but it was the cold shower that threw away a nerve on my vertebrae. I couldn't do anything, not even laugh without my back hurting as it felt as though my spinal chord was not completely intact.

Asking Naomi's double regarding where to get a massage lead us to Restaurant Hong Kong. It wasn't only a restaurant, it was Chinatown. This is proof of a place with moving economy. Where there's money, there's the chinese people working to earn a living. Behind the big building you had the quarters of 12 employees. Some playing Mah Jong and I heard a bit of karaoke too. My masseur came from Guang Zhou, spoke 20 words of Spanish but she had good hands and treated my with Eucalyptus Oil. After she had done, she then translated via Du Bai her diagnostic which was I've been under a lot of physical strain, I've been sitting too much, I need to drink more and I myself knew the art of massages.

The pain didn't go away but I had a brief relief.
That night it was my turn to be mosquito bait.

Day 12: Cap Barbas - Mauritanian Border

I woke up quite early just in time for sunrise. Seemed liked the end of the world had arrived and only few constructions remained erected in decay where each morning the sun creeps up to introduce just another day..




Fal from Tan Tan is the head concierge at Cap Barbas Auberge. He speaks only Arab and a bit of Spanish. Tells patiently the story of this project apparently not so much in the middle of nowhere since the village of Cap Barbas, with population of 30 families, has existed since the Spanish occupation of the Western Sahara. The 'pueblito', gas station and hotel runs on an electrical generator.



The Aprilia proved one more time to be at its limits and needed 2 changes of sparkplug right at the start before running at an anyhow slow pace. 130kms to Nouadhibou. 80 kms to the border. This last km of Moroccan Western Sahara showed more military presence with the passing mimetic vehicles and brothers of Red's beloved Gas 66. There were more presence of rocks carved by wind, your occasional mountain size heap of golden sand, military bunkers, military quarters and lots of rock sculptures.. It seems like thousands each and everyone made by some passerby which a kink to copy the previous sculpture made.

Our arrival to the border was filled with a triumphant air.
Everyone looked at us sideways and those interested asked questions and either didn't believe we did all of those kilometers from Tangiers or just thought we were nuts.

I'd do it again. Minus Aprilia.



Visualizza Day 12 in una mappa di dimensioni maggiori

It was already around 1pm when we finally finished the police checks to leave Morocco. Between Morocco and Mauritania there is a 4 km distance of disputed area, where you see only sand, rocks, the men in blue and car carcasses. It was the most difficult drive for me in all of the trip. Few trucks that waived their service at us for a crossover became a temptation. Scooters were not meant for off-road touring and I was only recently deflowered from my motorcycling virginity few days passed. I only had one fall at the beginning but it did its damage to my right knee. As the adrenalin kicks in we went on anyway and those 4 km really felt like forever to me. No broken bones this time.

It felt as though with the change of country there was an immediate change of temperature. The Mauritanian border was decorated by numerous burnt vehicles. The police office was a small room in a chain of offices with tin roofs that hasn't been cleaned for years. It was paradise for the flies. The officer wrote down our information translating the sounds in Arab. It was quite entertaining to see him try to write mine.. One officer was worthy of a photo there and then as he was and aging black man with whitening beard wearing seeing glasses still with the degree of stigmatism correction still attached to the right lens. The duties office was the most dramatic of them all. It was a hut made of wood and cardboards.

I waited for Red to finish with customs check quite a bit and noticed the difference in attitude of these Mauritanians compared to Moroccans. The notion of poverty as all of them either asked for alms or tried to sell something or was just there at the 1 square meter 'cafe' holding up their hand to signal me, as if their presence would not have been evident without this gesture. Men walked together in friendship holding hands and talked to me while hugging each other. The head of the border is a military man who asked me why I'm not Muslim since I'm Indonesian and didn't comprehend too well what I meant by freedom of choice. I speak bad french and he speaks french with an accent I couldn't well comprehend. He was also the local Imam (preacher) and was singing the 2 PM shalat on a megaphone from the back of a broken down van. I don't think its everyday they see 2 people, let alone an Asian girl ride a 50cc ride on these parts... many of these boys were keen on feeling my skin while looking back and forth from their palm to my arm... I asked why and they just added a smile to their vague expression.

Day 11: Dakhla - Capo Barbas (The Real Mirage)

Good Morning Dakhla...

I've never been so happy to sleep before midnight and wake up the day after rejuvenated. Red is made of something else and has the training and the endurance needed for these trips, so he went for a night out alone and run amok in town... while I rested after our adventure in the dark the day/night before.

Hotel Tahiti had pictures of French Polynesia on the walls which... killed me. But that's another story...

It's a National Holiday in Morocco but we were lucky to find shops open to fix the lights and buy the necessary rations in case we get stuck in no man's land that spreads out til the Mauritanian border. The only bummer was that the banks were closed so we had no chance in getting Euros or Dollars. Note that Western Union only buys but they don't sell..

It took us til 11am to finally get the lights fixed because no one sold the right bulb and when we actually bought a pair, they were the right size but with and odd fit that made them fall out anyway. Red crazy glued everything and we went on our way.

Dakhla lays on the point of a peninsula of sand and seas on the East and West. Just 10 km from the city you see this view of golden sands and blue horizons. The SH50 had a slow start, as though those 15 Lt of fuel in the tank and the constant strong wind that blew against us slowed it down. We didn't care for the troubles and just enjoyed the spectacle given by this peninsula.





And here, after starting-stopping-starting again, the Aprilia started to choke one more time.



It took us more than an hour to arrive at a gas station at the fork for El Aargoub then Red worked on the Aprilia until 3pm. We still had 310 km to go. The Aprilia ran at a fluctuating speed, sometimes 20km/h, then 45km/h, then 35 km/h, then 15 km/h. We had stopped 4 times to clean/change the sparkplug with Red steadily at the limit of his patience and I, simply placing my hopes on a machine that would regain its functionality and hopefully part again and again and again.... and again.

El Aargoub was a ghost village with 7 houses. After the check up past this village. It was a ride on 5 lane wide asphalt that was laid out without any sense but the possible promises of eventually making this reef side road a future real estate investment. Most of the structures were initiated but not finished and a kilometers of land were groped but not worked on.

I've felt after all this time of riding and sense of companionship given by the tablets that marked kilometers. On this road many of them had disappeared and for a very long time I had no sense of how far we were but just the knowledge that the sun was once again setting. We rode not only at the peak of a reef near by the ocean but further closely to the beach.

The dunes were made of loose sands and strong winds shifted them creating a soft golden mist in the air and covered in a brittle fashion the asphalt. This view against the light of near sunset was beautiful.

All rationed up, we had no fear of camping out but we headed out to arrive anyhow to the border by the end of the night. With very few passerby on the road, the calm of the ride seeps in. At some point, after a deep right curve, we saw lights. I was fibrillating. It was a curious light and though it should be a gas stop in the middle of nowhere. As we arrived, the gas stop was there and next to it a building in a U shape with a tent over the center courtyard where trees and palms where planted and it was metal gated between it's sage colored columns. Absolutely unreal...

We stayed for the night. Fed, warmed, comforted and were serene.

... all this apart from a 4AM interruption due to mosquito attack on only Red who by that time decided not to shower and was covered up by muscle anti-inflammatory gel, tiger balm and lotion all used to massage his hurting back. Followed by Red's conquest to master the pronunciation of the word Japan in 0,3 seconds.




Visualizza Day 11 in una mappa di dimensioni maggiori

Day 10: Laayoune - Dakhla

It was a hard test our passage of the first part of central Western Sahara. We are pratically doubling the travel distance we usually do daily. Those 550 km in a day made the change of latitudes pass in a faster manner. And though it seems like nothing extraordinary, I have to say that the beauty of riding is that you live your surroundings at its best and worst, and having to live that change so quickly was mesmerizing.

Leaving Laayoune with no certainty of getting to the finish line: Dakhla. Our stolen french map which lays out the possible stops at distances of more or less 120kms from one village to the other was a total sham because this track had 2 villages at a distance of 180 kms from Laayoune and the rest was no man's land.


Visualizza Day 10 in una mappa di dimensioni maggiori

Up to now the desert had been very kind to us. Apart from the chill of night that rose before reaching Tan Tan as a post rain effect, we've had no difficulties caused by moving dunes. The first 200 kms of ride was quiet. The desert show us a huge change from rich lands to what arid land would be but the view was mainly flat lands of big nothing then became fascinating, introducing us to what I hoped to see in the Western Sahara. After some turns that the sands would harden and amalgamate with rocks evolving into what seemed to me to be sedimentary boulders.. (a geologist's opinion is needed), it's seems with we were passing through some rock gardens on the moon. As the sun started to set the sky gave an amazing show..





Of course it was not all peachy and dandy.. it's too good to be true and is not the theme of this trip!!
Mid road during our orange juice stop at the unknown-to-us last stop before nothing, Red noticed that I had no lights anymore. It's not safe to ride at night, but we always did it anyway. After the sunset we really started to rush especially when realizing that there was absolutely no village as promised on the map. I luckily had with me a jogging light that we simply placed around the SH 50. Problem solved. Fill tank. On our way.

About 30km later during the last hours of nightfall in front of a passing truck, the Aprilia hits a small hole and its light went out... I don't have 2 jogging lamps for 1 head. So for the those 100 kms to Dakhla, with no promise of a village, I was at a 1 meter distance giving light to Red's path and he with a dynamo lamp aimed at the shadow my light was making against his motorcycle and body.

We arrived at a check up with both lights on because the Aprilia hit another bump just before the police booth and were relieved. Only to have the light die again while another truck was coming at our direction at a curve.

Dakhla was much more lively than Laayoune but oddly enough the Routard mentioned almost nothing about the city. After searching hotels indicated by the police, we didn't find it anyway and went on our own search and stayed at Hotel Tahiti.

Life makes funny jokes....

Day 9/Part 2: Laayoune (The Hotel of Horrors)

Laayoune is a military town and built to supposedly house the UN presence to finally resolve a solution to the Polisario movement in the Western Sahara that has long made the area a grim location. It's been more than 15 years and they've arrived to no conclusion.

The arrival, obviously at night, to Laayoune lead us to an immediate for a hotel and there was only one recommended by Routard. We went and was offered 2 rooms seeing as the receptionist, guy by the name of Jaeem, feared imprisonment if ever the police found out that the hotel placed unmarried female and male companions in a single room. I was heading upstairs to view the room when Red asked me if I in my opinion the red brownish color on the floor and walls of the staircase was blood or not...

As the enthusiastic receptionist took me upstairs, I couldn't believe my sight of smears on the wall, stair handles and drops every step or 2 until arriving at the first floor and finding a pool of coagulating fresh blood and smashed beer bottles on one side of the passage and more marks of bloody hand smears on 3 sides of this opening to 2 corridors. He told me to come towards a corridor as I was frozen with my mouth open and smiled and encouraged me to follow and watch my step. Then he realized he was going the wrong way and try to lead me to another corridor but by that time I'd already seen the first corridor with more pools of blood. I was gasping for air.

Room number 4 had a bloodied palm mark in front of it...

Then he tried to show me the bathroom and assured me that there was hot water...

I know that a good salesman accentuates the positive features of a product but, for the love of me, I can't get pass through this man who did not feel the need to immediately explain to me why the hell his hotel looked like a scene from The Shining. Now I feel for Wendy.. In the end, he explained that some guy got drunk and tried to commit suicide and then he tossed some bonuses to the negotiation of a 1 night stay which was that Red and me would sleep in 1 room, plus parking of the 2 motorcycles..
I don't know why the hell I said yes anyway..

Jaeem in the meantime organized 2 maids to clean the blood away and Red moved as quickly as he could to take pictures before the crime scene was wiped free.. after they've finished I reevaluated the concept of cleanliness in the western sahara.. come to think of it, I've never met a Moroccan housecleaner before.

Eating was not the first thing on my mind after admitting ourselves to the hotel of horrors but Red had to fill his stomach and I was not about to stay there alone!

We went to a restaurant called Riad Fez. The entrance was a huge wooden door and met with very wide promising stairs that rose up to a huge open space where one table had a distance of 5 meters from one another, there were gazebos, boutiques, a short of food corners, assorted goods booth, a fountain in the middle with goddess-like statues in different colors framed by elliptic shaped metal platforms that erected... nothing... Super kitsch. Supposedly of the elite. It was the first time we saw women running amok. In fact there were mostly only women.
The service was definitely unaccountable.. we were waiting for almost an hour to get served and then went away.

The best places to eat is where all the people of the town go to. In fact after asking a simple fellow at the cyber cafe, we arrived a restaurant that served a menu of meat, chicken or lamb with side dishes you couldn't choose from. You eat what you get and what we got was great fried chicken and fries, with side of lentil soup and salad. The place was filled with so much oil residue in the air that none of the flies around bothered us as they were already happy with what they found on the ceiling

We slept well nonetheless but I was under my mummy sleeping bag.

Day 9: Tan Tan - Laayoune (The Sparkplug Series)

The SH50 had a slow start this time. It is showing signs of deterioration much like the Aprilia. As a fact, the poor spark plug was full of rusty combustion residues of oil (as we are running on 2 strokes engines...), and in that moment Redreally appreciated japanese technology and engineers...



To do list for spark plug removing on scooter 1 and scooter 2.

Scooter one - Honda

1. take the dedicated iron
2. remove the spark connector
3. untwist the plug
4. brush it
5. put everything in place again

total estimated time: 1 minute

Scooter two - Aprilia

1. take the first dedicated iron
2. remove the plastic cover unscrewing two dedicated and special shaped bolts
3. remove the spark connector, taking care of the fact that the cord is really short, and u can easily broke it
4. take the dedicated iron for the spark plug, consisting of two separate tools not really "connecting" each other in the proper way
5. use the first to catch the plug and the second to twist is, but from UNDER the scooter itself as it's the only way to have more than 5 cm to work with
6. still, use the first iron to unscrew the plug when possible only by hand
7. remember to remove the first iron BEFORE the plug is completely out, otherwise all the things will be blocked by the suspension arm and u will have to reinsert the plug again
8. take care about not dropping the plug or the iron in the plastic cover under the motorbike, as u will need some kind of artistic moves to let them out, or remove the cover completely
9. try to use kind words invoking God and non halal beings.
10. brush it
11. put everything in place again

total estimated time: 20 minutes

And just remember that we needed to brush the plug 3 times a day (if lucky) on the Aprilia, and once over the whole trip on the Honda...

Bansai!!

Day 8: Agadir-Tan Tan

The morning in Agadir was slow due to the garage repair. We were lucky to find a bike shop right behind our hotel but waited a long time for the fix. The Aprilia has now a third sparkplug though by that time Red was sure that the bike would simply consume it and stop again. He was right.

We found had breakfast at a cremerie which didn't serve any cream we know apart from Moroccan Soup : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harira

We then parted, yet again late for Tan Tan. On the road, you would see the Argan trees and the acrobatic goats frolicking on top of them.



It was quite amusing to me to remember what was grown where considering that we were entering locations where crops were non existant. From Fez to Rabat there were oranges and artichokes, then pomegranate nearing the ocean. Around Oualidia were cauliflowers and cabbages then tomatoes after El-Jadida. The vallies towards Tan Tan showed signs of changes of our latitude. The argan trees flourished up until Bourzakane then you climbed up another valley and entered the valley of Guelmim which was a real beauty.Here were the first signs of the Sahara where the land was drying out. Roads was framed at a certain point by a dead tree each 25kms then by short bushes then just earth for a long time.

We left Guelmim at 5.30 pm with 120km still to go but this time with tools of survival eg. keys, a plastic tube and a metal brush. Just before we parted I noticed the low fuel supply on my SH50 but the indicator rose from half a tank to 3 quarters when I stopped. Only to have it lowered again after 5 kms of ride. It became dark at 6.30pm and I was nearing empty when we passed the first signs of civilization: the electric poles. I insisted we stopped for fuel even if by now with the tube we could easily transfer the fuel from one motorbike to the other as Red assured me seeing as the Aprilia burns less fuel.



I don't like to ride in the dark mainly because you don't see a thing and nothing is quite a sight to see. Apart from that, I don't fancy the humid cold of the desert night. But a ride becomes precious when in the dark due to its adventurous side and all the fatigue is paid for when you see on the horizon lights of your destination. I think we saw Tan Tan at 70kms away and it was a beautiful sight.



We arrived at the city gates welcomed by 2 giant white camel statues that freaked me out and welcomed by a police check, one of many long checks to come from then on. Red obviously made it crucial that we go back to the site to take pictures with the damn white camels....

Remember the fuel issue? At the pit stop it was only the SH50 that was filled with fuel and not the Aprilia. Upon our arrival Red was running on empty and I jumped at him for the risks he takes.

Hotel Sable D'or is decent and although our room had short bed sheets that I hate, was located on the internal side of the building where the only window was to the staircase for the terrace and was also humid as hell, at least the shower was hot and lots. Red place his smelly shoes as theft stop just in front of the window.

We only had time for a great (??) "something like" pizza in a strange place inside a "something like" commercial gallery (with all shops closed...if ever existed), always full of flies as usual.

Time to rest, tomorrow we gonna fight the desert dear folks!

Day 7: Essaouira to Agadir

I woke up slowly, as though my spirit was distant from my body. Red was disturbed by the passing of the third mule of the day and of course decided to bother me from my sleep. I was still quite tired from the trying ride last night in the rain. The prospect of a Hammam and massage or even just sleeping for half a day was tempting but it's not vacation of that kind. :)
We were at search that morning for a laundromat and found one not so -matic but was a pressing boutique that sold his services per kilo. It was a good deal considering it would take just about 3 hours.

It drizzled quite a bit also that morning. Seemed that the rain didn't want to leave us just yet but I loved that light rain effect on a port city that enhances the smell of the sea. In a way we were indulging ourselves with the knowledge that the wait would be lovely. Our breakfast contained 4 black coffees, 2 chocolate croissant, 2 almond gâteaux, 1 mocca millefille, 2 glasses of orange juice, 1 glass of avocado juice and lots of time. We took a relaxing walk around the wall, to the top of the sea front tower, in the back stables where the wood craftworkers laboratory/shops were and then off the the port. There is a wide opening, a piazza just before the port entrance where you see more seagulls than people even if the place was packed with tourists. Red remembered a corner where 5 years ago he took a photo of a man surrounded by seagulls that was later used for the cover of his ex rock band 'Baxaico'. That corner was right infront of the port where fishermen unload their catch and men clean them for immediate selling at the fish market at 5 meters away. Red then noticed a man surrounded by seagulls putting on a tarp coat and it was the same man from 5 years ago but he's not sure if the seagulls were the same. .
Essaourira looked like a city above the clouds that morning. We had a feverish torpor all morning. A part of me didn't want to leave. I had liked a little too much this vibrations on Essaouira.






As we took our clean clothes and prepared to leave, only when exiting from the hotel we noticed that the back tire of the Aprilia was flat. Seemed like everytime we decide to part there is always some problem before. Risking to be late again, we found a cyclist on another side of the walled city that changed the tire with a made in China original branded 'Sando' and immediately left.

The ride to Agadir was tranquil and we did a beautiful path of vallies of the coast entering to a path right next to the beach crowned by the valley on the other side. As day turned night we were riding accompanied by the lighthouse of Cape Rhir that was an entertaining addition to the road. The lights of Agadir were sighted about 55 kms away and by that time it was completely dark.



Around 35 kms from the city at a busstop of a small village Red rode over a puddle of water which as actually a whole 30cm deep and blew the recently changed Sando tire.

The people at the bus stop were quite helpful. They knew of the hole and evidently it was not the first time they see vehicles ride over it... Seemed like there were people there waiting just to see something happen.. I mean why don't someone do something about it? One man proposed we take the bus and put the motorcycles on it. Another had a better solution and called his brother with a van that later drove us to the nearest tire shop open. It was around 7.30pm and we took again our share of rain earlier and were shivering. The nearest shop is a small bike shop in a small village about 10km away where an old man could provide with a new tire but engineered a cover for the slashed back tire just sufficient enough so that we can ride again to Agadir and fix it the next morning.

Agadir is a modern city and a frequent reference of chic sea life. The hotels were big and new. And a cruiser was present at the port that night. We had a hard time understanding where the city center is found but managed to get information. While finally entering center, the Aprilia decides to die away. It couldn't start. And then maybe roared again after a wait of 4 minutes. We were looking for a hotel and struggling with the motorbike. That was on and off repeatedly. Even after we found lodging it was still a huge struggle to find a parking to guard the motorbikes.

Dinner at Snack Spot Bronx and bed.

CD photo (2003)

 Same man...same pace (2010)

Day 6: El-Jadida to Essaouira

The stress of staying in the city, stuck and waiting, was not generating positive energy. We were bickering continuously much like a couple with problems none wants to admit exists.

El-Jadida became a place of relief for both of us. Troubles with the morning ride did not generate any upset. It was just fantastic to start moving forward and not be stuck at one place. We were also amused by the Royal Hotel, beautifully decorated in classic Moroccan style, living rooms of divans or rattan furnitures, in the 4 meter wide corridors, with a semi transparent cube bath inside the room which is considered as accomodation with bath.

A walk in the Citadel Portoghaise proved wonderful when we stumbled upon a try out of the city's Gnaoua music association, in a consacrated church next to the cisterns of the old city. It was great to see the jam session of young Moroccans playing both classical and traditional instruments. It was a mix of Gnaoua, Berber and Moroccan Pop.



Left El-Jadida supposedly in the 'morning' and we stopped for yet another fix in Oualidia for the Aprilia that just does not want to move forward. Garageman Brahim is a certified mechanic that discovered that the continuous block on the sparkplug was due to the exhaust blockage and decided to open a hole to deliberate exhaust from oil, however it also means liberating it from a being a muffler.

So here we are riding into silent nothingness with a big red man on a scooter you can hear coming from 3kms away.



The fix took a bit too long and we had still more than 100 kms to do.
About 70 kms reaching Essaouira, it started to rain profusely and the Aprilia was revived by the augmented quantity of oxygen in the air. It still took us about 2 hours to reach the walls of the city, when we arrived there was much promise in this alternative town filled with psychedelic tourists but we basically closed our eyes and . . .commercials!!!!

Day 3-5: Fez-Rabat (Visa Trip)

Now just to be sure that no one gets worried.. We're alive!
Left you all with only Larache because the days after has been quite intense..

After the foot injury, we did a walk trial around Fez for a day and though apprehensive at first we continued on the journey.
Fez was gorgeous and the walk (or rather limping around in my case) was wonderful having Red show me how a person can be perfect in times of difficulties.






It was a relaxing drive to the capital of Morocco with good asphalt roads a long the way and views of the mountains afar. A smooth drive apart from my fall while stopping to ask Red when to get gas. Stopover at Khemisset for yet another shish lunch. A few kms before the city you have a wonderful downward ride of turnpikes while looking at the valley.

The entry towards Rabat was tranquil but traffic reached a height that we understood immediately that the city center was closing in. There were odd 'temples' made out of red earth that decorated the highway for the city. No real explanation to the reason of the presence of these small structures apart from maybe people's past time art while waiting for a freeride to enter the city.

Rabat center itself was chaotic. Thankfully we arrived early afternoon because to search good parking took us quite sometime. Indications were non existent.

We found however a place to stay in center city. Not realizing that it was the spot for good snail broth snacking. Red hadn't seen that the entrance to the 'hotel' was also storage to the many soon to be cooked snails. At times in the room we get a scent of this so called delicacy. I'm not against snail eating but I generally like it cleaned first then dipped in good french garlic butter or holandaise...

It took us the whole morning to get inside the Mauritanian Embassy door to ask for a visa and then a 2 hour wait from 8.30 pm to retrieve the passport: Treated like cattle and was amongst very beastly people but glad that it really took us only 1 day to get the visa and leave Rabat.



Rabat was not one of my favorite stops. It reminded me too much of Jakarta. Any big city in a non industrialized country, just a little bit too many people in conditions that a little bit less than decent. The kasbah was however very pretty and a quiet night walk melted all the stress away.



Left Rabat on a rainy morning. We didn't have the luxury of a bath the day before and one morning prep after another made us leave the capital only at midday. It rained since morning and continued to rain until the afternoon. The ride to Casablanca was in a freeway filled with cars. And there after less than an hour ride the Aprilia started to choke.We went on a search for a garage and found it almost immediately after asking 2/3 tire and bike shops. The repair man was quite thrilled to see a motorbike with electronical injection. The bike had a sparkplug that was burnt out and needed to be changed. Did so and arrived late in El Jadida because the fix lasted only for 1 hour.

Day 1: Tangiers - Larache (try out)

Arrived at Tangiers at 4.30pm and exited the port 2 hours later after a lot of waiting for the different parking lots of the ferry to empty, check at customs, paying insurance and this always with a flat back tire on the SH50 and under the rain.

We managed to find a tire shop of in space of 2x2meter sq, paid 3 euros and parted in the dark for Larache about 85kms away. Most part of the road is next to the Atlantic, where during the trip we were also hit by 35 knot wind from the West with rain, sand sprays, and to add up we also had our backpacks on our backs... Should I remind you that I've only done a ride of 6 kms in center Milan up to now.

It took us about 2 and half hours to arrive at Larache and by then I was freezing.
We stayed at a Hotel Malaga which reminded me so much of my childhood in Subang with my grandmother and father.
It was a particular New Years where Red and I cheered for 6 seconds for the change of the year over a glass of Coca Cola. Not that it was that important for me to celebrate but the absurdity of the situation was admirable. There was absolutely no one in the streets and the only party we heard at Restaurant Khay Ahmed, where they serve one of the best 'Pitititu' (Moroccan Satay) in the world, was from the television.
I was just happy to have hot water in the Hotel..

Day 2: Larache - Fez (the foot issue)

Larache is a small seaside village sprayed continuously by the tumultuous Atlantic wavebreaks. You smelled salt in the air. The medina is small but extremely typical. It was unfortunate that half of the stores were closed during this first day of the year.



Walking towards the south of the city you find a market place that extends itself to a full block outside of this simple narket building, relic of old portoguese civilization. Banana 1 Dirham. Peanut keychain made in China 10 Dirham. 30 pieces of wooden cotton buds 2 Dirham. Odd comparisons..



After our morning walk with provisions of oil and spray repair kit, we gear up to leave. Backpacks this time not on our shoulders but attached to the packs of the 50ccs. We part... and then I fall down. I had no balance due to the loose backpacks.
Rested for a while and spalmed Ketum (a type of Lasonil for sprains) and off we go towards Fez.

Lunch at Souk er Arbe dou Rabh (Kampung deket Purwakarta) then for the rest of the journey the back wheel of the SH50 starts to make noises. The wheel was eating up the its bearrings. Not a small matter considering that the back wheel can just break away at any give time..

We arrived close to 70 km of Fez, in the middle of nowhere, and the forsaken tire of yet again the same SH50 blows.... At that point, the first thought that came to mind was not 'Fuck me.' but 'Wow... this place is gorgeous'. We tried to fill the chambre with the emergency air filler but the tear was too big. Really at that point I was quite ready to call it a night and camp seeing as my foot was hurting quite a bit.

Luckily, Rachid and Aziz on a white van saved us and took us to Fez where Red for the whole trip did serious gymnastics and I practiced my arab and french with blacktooth Rachid and mumbling Aziz.
It might be the romantic in me but I saw one of the most beautiful nights ever. The rising of the moon itself was more than worth the trip. I suppose there's the navigator in me that is always looking at the sky to understand my north and south.
Rachid didn't really understand much and neither did Aziz. The only sure thing was that they were to take us to Fez and Allahamdulillah after that. Rachid however, insisted and I speak on the phone... HIS phone of course and on the other side of the conversation was his brother who lives in Milan, Italy. It was an odd conversation where none of us really understood why we were to speak to each other, apart from pleasing Rachid's wishes. His brother did manage to explain to Rachid that we needed a garage. :)



After 2 hours we finally arrived at Fez and Rachid took us to a bike shop/garage. A little kid by the age of maybe 8/9 started to work on the tire with Red's supervision. By then I realize that I couldn't put my foot down any longer.

To cut the story short. I went to the Hospital Ghassani at the border of Fez city, got an X-Ray, was diagnosed with frattures in 2 different spots on my left foot, got a soft cast and went away with a prescription to take for 7 days.

Met Red in Splendid Hotel and off to bed...

South West of the Port of Pesto, Foccaccia and Bellin!

Arriving in Tangiers in about 3 hours.
The trip on this not-so-much-a-joyride has been for me a new experience, though it's not the first time I took a ferry boat.
I didn't mind the food.
I didn't mind the odd sleeping positions.
I didn't mind hearing the engines though I miss that beautiful sound of just water, wind and sail.
I, of course, loved having 360° of blue, blue, blue.



However, very differently from helming your own boat, crossing the mediterannean for 2 days in community has only one issue which is being around people.

I'm definitely not a hermit and am experiencing a bit of culture shock since I'm not used to bluntly be viewed as THE WOMAN.
Human contact has always been for me the plus in my travels. I like to chat people up and talk about almost anything during trips. When you don't talk the same language, it's especially entertaining to actually arrive to monkey talk, using your whole body, to make people understand. However, on this boat I've actually encountered those who didn't even want to respond.
Is it my sex? Or are they just extremely shy that they have to turn their heads away?

Indonesia is the country with the largest number of muslim population. Maybe I haven't travelled that much in my own country but I surely have never felt differentiated in this manner and my father and his family are muslims.
Thankfully, the younger Moroccan generation are moderate in their beliefs..

Another unfortunate nuisance are the children who simply won't let me sleep in peace and their parents who do not know how to keep them muffled.

In the meantime, we've met other young Italians from Bergamo also off for an adventure in Morocco.
Red of course finds his group of motorcycle buffs and start chatting away about things I have no clue of. It's great to find young people enthusiastic about travels as much as we are.

In our minds possible adventures in impossible vehicles of the future.

The time of arrival has suffered delays due to current and winds. We need to find a garage that will change the busted tire of SH50 and head for Larache, a quaint seashore village on the Atlantic to stopover for the celebration of New Years..