Sometimes it’s not about the destination. Today is all about the journey. Easily on a par with yesterdays.
We’re currently pitched up on the Oasis Palmerie site on the outskirts of Zagora. Like many towns in the dry south it’s an oasis town. Swamped in palm trees. Surviving on what the local river provides. However, Zagora’s river supply is also dependent upon the monthly opening of the dam upstream at Ouarzazate. Irrigation from the many artesian wells is paramount.
Once again we have difficulty locating the way in. Stop to inspect the map more closely. From nowhere a smiley face appears alongside Mary-Ann’s window. He’s perched side saddle on his phut-phut. “Where you from? Where you wanna go? Follow me, I know that place” – we obediently follow, even though we have sussed out where we went wrong. Once there he hands over his business card. “Come visit my jewellery shop, just up the road?” It’s been a long drive. We’re not in the mood. “A demain” I reply. His contented smiley face, indicating “job done” sidle-saddles off. Yet another “friendly” Moroccan with a hidden agenda.
Earlier, the start to this morning’s journey is delayed. We take a short detour. Go visit the huge Atlas Studios complex on the edge of town. It’s amazing how realistic the sets are. So much detail. Ultra tough polystyrene comes into its own. When we get back to UK we’re going to revisit some of the films made here, just to see if we can spot some of this scenery. And to say of course “We were there”.
Then it’s drive time. Another day of spectacular views. Different to yesterday. This half, smooth tarmac. They’ve completed it. A mix of dead straight and curly stretches disappear into nowhere.
The type of road Clarkson and Co drool over as they let rip in their latest fantasy. Beastie on the other hand is happy at fifty. Then we go up, up up. Then Beastie is happy at anything over fifteen.
It’s a huge up. Laden lorries stagger slowly upwards. Some even slower on the way down. Beastie brims the top. Eager to find a pull in and catch breath. They’re in short supply. We want to snap, snap snap while we’re still high. We do. A large lorry is also parked. Cab hinged forward like a Monty Python head, just before it gets stamped on and squelched. Raspberries all round? I drop down. They look over to me. Concerned faces. “De l’eau monsieur?” I assume they’re thirsty and they’ve run out. It’s bakeing hot. Mid to high thirties. I hop back into Beastie. Reach into the fridge. Don’t realise I haven’t fully engaged the hand brake. Beastie’s three and half ton slowly edges towards a small wall with a considerable drop the other side. I’m oblivious. I’m in my “do-do-run-run-goody mode”. The first I know something’s up and what’s about to go down is when Mary-Ann frantically screeches “Brian, quick, quick we’re moving” Beastie’s too young too die. I fasten my cape and fly (scramble clumsily) over my seat and save the day. Three feet short. A bit like the Saturday Matinee. The caped crusader gets a slap on the wrist.
The ice cold bottle I hand over gets poured into the radiator. Oh. I miss-read the situation. What a waste. I go take a look. Looks like a mini Turkish baths. Steam hissing upwards, wasted water leaking downwards. I hand over a second, but this time a warm, 1.5 litre d’leau. Don’t think it’s going to do the trick. By the time we leave them to it, a couple of other lorries have parked up and hopefully come to the rescue.