I bought a bag of toffee-covered
peanuts and offered my bag to a pass-
ing man who had caught my eye. He
accepted some and told me he had
spent five years in Brighton working
as a plumber. He liked English people
and invited me to join him later that
evening for some wine because some
of his friends were coming round
to play music. Later I was whisked
into another world in his steep little
terraced home as Moroccan drums
were ‘singing’. No other instruments
were used or necessary, the drums
made the melody and song with their
rhythm.
The day I got a puncture thanks to
the sharp end of a discarded screw-
driver was the worst. The rain was its
heaviest, my paper map of Morocco
had turned into pulp in my pocket and
my luggage was all but floating away
at the side of the road as I took out the
rear wheel and fitted a new tube. Had
it not been for the help of some lovely
Moroccan chaps, I think I would have
burst into tears and gone home with-
out the bike. I was supposed to be en-
joying myself and I wasn’t. Then I fell
off the bike during a tight turn which
normally would have been easy. The
steering had become sloppy and wob-
bly at low speed. It was the last straw.
I stayed nearby in an initially un-
inspiring village between Fez and
Meknes, dried out and cheered up
due to the warmth of the people there
and the last of the sherry from Jerez.
The Enfield was put in a dry room,
watched over by a lad whose donkey
had won ‘the prettiest donkey’ compe-
tition at last year’s village fête.
I had my skin all but scoured off at
the adjoining hammam by the lovely
bath-attendant who thought the loud-
er she shouted at me, the more like-
TRAVERSE 77
ly I would be to understand Arabic. I
stayed in Nzala Beni Ammar for five
days waiting for better weather which
didn’t come. I heard reports of orang-
es rotting on trees, and washed-away
roads and bridges. I explored the fan-
tastic nearby Roman city of Volubilis
together with other bedraggled, um-
brella-carrying tourists. A local teach-
er visiting the hotel café invited me
to talk to his students. I washed the
bike, read books and wrote letters but
finally made the decision to leave the
Enfield in the care of the ‘pretty don-
key’ owner and spend a while explor-
ing by bus until the sun came out.
A significant birthday was ap-
proaching and I wanted to be warm,
dry and doing something special. I
headed for the Sahara with a bottle of
wine. I was going on a camel ride. The
more touristy and tacky, the better.
Joining in with some other tourists, it