Touareg Rallye was in full swing. I
missed my own motorbike but buses,
trains and taxis are another way to en-
joy cultural differences and I always
incorporate public transport into any
trip. In Morocco large old Mercedes
cars are used as taxis. You don’t get
one all to yourself, though. They op-
erate on the ‘it goes when it’s full’ sys-
tem, ‘full’ meaning four at the back
and three in the front. Quite a squash;
if a door was to burst open, everyone
would pop out like corks from cham-
pagne bottles.
I body-surfed at Sidi Ifni on the At-
lantic coast and rescued a little boy
who had gone out too far into the bay.
He’d lost a fin; was screaming, not
laughing, not waving, but drowning.
In this slightly surreal town, al-
though discreetly dressed, I was ap-
proached by a respectable-looking
Moroccan gentleman as I was cross-
ing the road.
In perfect English, he stopped me
and asked, “Would you be interested
in having a relationship with me this
afternoon?” He was so polite in his
request that I couldn’t help but reply
in the same manner and heard myself
declining with an amused smile as if
he had invited me for afternoon tea at
the Ritz. I couldn’t possibly have taken
offence!
Another invitation occurred when
a devout nineteen year-old student
of Islam totally swamped in black in-
cluding gloves, invited me to stay with
her and her mother at a tiny village
one night when I found there was no
hotel. I had remained on the bus from
Sidi Ifni, wondering where it would
end up. Its final destination was the
driver’s home! I was, once more,
humbled by the hospitality offered to
me, a complete stranger. All three of
us slept together in a tiny room and
a cold wash in an outside trough in
the morning preceded a breakfast of
fermented goat milk, local bread and
herb tea.
You can learn so much from
travelling on buses and trains. Not
only did I have a six-hour conversation
about international politics with a Mo-
roccan gentleman on a night bus, but
on the crowded train from Marrakech
back to my bike I learned what large
elderly Moroccan women wear under
their outer wrappings.
The compartment was stifling and
as we were all women, we helped one
lady who was clearly suffering from
the heat. I held a shawl up to the win-
dow for privacy whilst she unpeeled
jackets, several woollies and vests with
help from the other women. I was en-
vious when I saw her fluffy fake-fur
leggings which would be lovely un-
der leathers in cold weather. Her hair
was hidden by a skull-cap which in
turn was covered by the end of the big
shawl which went all round her body.
As we neared Fez, rooftop satellite
dishes were all turned in the same di-
rection, just like praying Muslims fac-
ing Mecca.
I made my way back to Nzala Beni
Ammar. Reunited with the bike, I felt
I’d seen and done enough for this time
and was looking forward to French
cuisine instead of the tapas of Spain
and couscous of Morocco.
Morocco was a great surprise. I
didn’t feel I was in Africa but it is cer-
tainly exotic with two coasts; the At-
las Mountains; rivers and gorges; the
green, lush hilly north and of course,
the dramatic desert to the east and
south. But as with most other places, it
is the people who make a place memo-
rable rather than the scenery.
I had thought of catching the ferry
back to Spain and riding over the Pyr-
enees to France but a German fellow
biker told me there was an overnight
ferry to Sete in the South of France.
The weather had improved and, giv-
ing my thick jumpers to the hammam
lady who’d tried to scrub off my skin,
I rode as fast as possible to catch the
once a week boat. Falling and slith-
ering through mud and riding along
flooded stretches of road with deep
hidden potholes which tried to catch
me out, I made it to Tangier in time.
TRAVERSE 80
The Enfield and I looked a
dishevelled pair as we waited to board
the boat. French Land Rovers joined
the queue. They were also covered in
mud, but had additional sand from
frolicking on the pistes and dunes.
Their owners wandered over to ad-
mire the bike which is a passport
to any number of social invitations.
This was no exception and during the
three-day voyage, I made friends and
was invited to stay with a couple on
their luxury hotel barge on arrival in
France.
Three weeks later, having helped
them pamper a group of earnest Amer-
ican personal chefs on their unbeliev-
ably expensive holiday floating along
the Canal du Midi, I left (with new bike
insurance) to explore France.
For a while, I had been that person
who sets out the deckchairs, plumps
up the cushions, prepares the vegeta-
bles and does the cleaning and wash-
ing up. I did it for fun and relished
the cordon bleu food, the best local
wines and a generous tip! Another
unplanned delight brought about be-
cause of my Enfield.
I am a victim (or slave) of whim
and circumstance upon which I rely
to make decisions. Something usually
happens to form a basis for a plan. So
when my other daughter said she was
flying to Lyon for a short meeting in a
week or so, it gave me somewhere to
aim for from my location in the histor-
ic city of Carcassonne. The vines were
greening up in warm sunshine. I ruled
a line to Lyon on my map.
The journey started on a beautiful
road with light traffic. I wondered why
the few motorcyclists I saw stuck out
their legs as they passed me. I waved
or nodded UK style but often received
this greeting in response. I soon got
used to it and did the same.
The wobbly steering became worse
and riding up the beautiful and dra-
matic Gorges du Tarn was even more
interesting due to slow speeds and
multitudinous twists and turns. It was
like trying to steer jelly. I saw villages