Motorcycle Explorer November 2016 Issue 14 | Page 57

The next morning, before the sun was fully up, some
of the Frenchmen were already working on their
bikes, preparing them for the day. We set off after
breakfast on another day riding through the
mountains.
About midday, we came across a small village almost
hidden in a deep cleft in the mountains, the houses
built from the same rocks into which they were
nestled so that, from a distance, they blended in and
seemed to become part of the cliff face itself. In the
valley floor grew hundreds of palms, their dusty
olive green fronds shrouding the road in places so
that we seemed to be riding through a rustling,
shaded tunnel between the mountains. We rested
there for a while, walking into the dense thicket of
palms and seeing the intricate network of small
canals leading water to their fields, bright green with
new wheat, all with raised earthen borders to
contain the water. Women in brightly coloured
djellaba worked the fields - purple and lilac, red,
orange, yellow - so bright they looked like iridescent
beetles against the background of dun earth and
dark rocks, gentle-faced women who eyed us shyly
as we passed, slim-bodied and sleek of skin like
whippets.
Then the track began to climb up the side of the
valley, a narrow ledge of road cut from the rock that
zig-zagged its way up to above fifteen hundred
metres onto a high, wind-swept plateau. It was
intensely beautiful and, when we looked down on
the village from near the top, seeing the splash of
green from the palms, the small rectangular stone
houses, I had to pause quietly and absorb it, will my
mind to take and hold it like a mental snapshot.
Making our way down into another valley, we
realised that we had lost the KTM rider who often
roared off ahead on his own, exploring. We paused in
the sand of a dry riverbed and waited.
And waited...
Some of the outfit riders headed back the way we
had come, looking for side tracks he might have
taken by mistake; others rode on ahead to look for
him, checking in the dust for his tracks.
After a while they returned – nothing.
The 4X4 driver/mechanics settled down to do some
maintenance: petrol was leaking from the tank of
one 4X4 and oil dripping from the transfer box of the
other. They lay under the truck, removed the prop-
shaft and repacked the oil seal.
There was still no sign of the KTM rider. The
mechanic had sorted the prop-shaft so we rode on
until we reached the next village where again we
paused and waited for over an hour.
During this time, as always happens, we were
surrounded by little boys who clustered around the
bikes touching things; they climbed onto the
sidecars and were allowed to rev the engines, much
to their delight. A small group of girls, veils covering
their heads like young Madonnas, held back, smiling
shyly but turning away warily if we approached