We got up with the sun and had porridge and toast for breakfast. Back on the road, it only took an hour and a half to reach the town nearest to Meski Oasis. We spent two hours there, buying some meat and veges in the market, drinking cafe au lait at a street cafe and getting some wine, bread and cheese to have for lunch at the oasis.

We left town and drove the 15 kilometres to Le Source Bleu du Meski which is a large and fertile oasis set down below the level of the surrounding plain in a gorge.

Meski Oasis, Morocco.

There is a good camping site complete with souvenir shops, a restaurant and a big swimming pool full of fish! The water for the pool flows out of the base of the cliff from a cave that the local women have turned into a grotto where they pray for fertility.

We sat in the sun and ate our bread and cheese and drank the fairly cheap-tasting wine, then spent the afternoon in various states of relaxation.

The ruined city at Meski Oasis, Morocco.
The ruined city at Meski Oasis, Morocco.

About 4:00 PM, pete, Rob, Linda and I crossed the river and walked up to the ruins of an old fortified town on the southern rim of the gorge. The fort dates back to medieval times and is a maze of narrow passages and rooms which are slowly crumbling as rain and wind takes effect on the mud and straw the entire fort is built from. We spent a fascinating hour clambering around in the ruins with the lowering sun casting intricate shadows over the crumbling walls. Several intact rooms and Muslim archways remain but most of the fort is just a mass of demolished walls.

Race Among the Ruins. Ferg in the ruined city at Meski Oasis.

We left the old town with its crumbling walls and silent passages as the sun was setting and crossed back to the camp through the irrigated gardens and date palm plantations of the oasis with a cold breeze behind us and the promise of a chilly night ahead.

Ferg and Linda

For tea, we cooked up a huge meal of steak, pumpkin, beans, spuds and grilled tomatoes washed down with a lot of Scottie’s secret recipe mulled wine.

Campfire Life, Meski Oasis, Morocco.


After a reasonably early breakfast, we left the frontier with only the most rudimentary look-over by the customs officials. By now, they were so used to us hanging around that they knew us by name!

Linda, Mike and Bron checked in at the Police Station to get their passports stamped then we drove out of town, stopping for water at a gas station on the outskirts.

The road was sealed but pretty rough with a lot of wash-outs from the recent rain and it wound through rugged hills of twisted and folded stone, brown and grey under the turquoise sky. A cold wind was blowing and with the sides rolled up it was pretty cold.

Alongside the road, shepherds moved with their flocks of sheep and goats amongst the rocks and small stream-beds where bits of grass and scrub for them to eat grew.

We made leisurely time all day, stopping at a small town at the foot of some rugged hills for cafe-au-lait and a sandwich then continued on across the plain.

Mid-afternoon, we stopped out in the middle of a wide, wind-swept basin surrounded by rugged hills and criss-crossed with little stream-beds, some of which were flowing. It was uncannily like the Mackenzie Basin [where I had worked as a shepherd back in New Zealand] on a winter’s day. We cut down some some old telephone pole stumps (the poles themselves had long since been pinched by the locals!) to use as firewood.

About 4:30 we stopped in another small town for coffees then camped the night about a mile off the road a bit further on.


After breakfast, Pete, Rob and I left the other 3 (Pullar, Russ and Jo have pissed off to make their own way and good riddance!) guarding the truck and walked the 5 KM into to town. We checked in at the Police Station where they stamped our passports with entry stamps then we went and changed money at the bank

The town’s shops had a reasonable selection of veges – spuds, caulis, carrots onions, etc – as well as such yummy things as Coke, yoghurt, chocolate bikkies and cartons of orange juice.

We had a snack at a cafe, then, laden down with goodies, we walked back out to our camp amongst the date palms at the frontier.

We cooked up baked beans for lunch over the gas cooker up in the truck out of the wind, then settled down to relax for the afternoon.

Scotty arrived back about midnight.


Somehow, in the confusion of borders and time zones out there in the desert, Tuesday November 14th, 1989, disappeared from my diary! The entry headings from the 15th onwards have been Twinked over and the dates advanced by one day. I suspect I did this later on, back in London when we were living at The Red Lion pub in Lambeth, the place where we worked for five months over the winter of 1989/90. Those adventures are yet to come. In the meantime, take a break for a day….our journey continues tomorrow!


DAY EIGHTY-THREE We were up before dawn to cook breakfast then packed up and drove off. The day was overcast and cold with a stiff breeze blowing.

It took about six hours to drive up to the border with our only stop being in a little town for coffee and cake to use up our last few Dinahs.¹

We got to the bleak Algerian frontier at 1:30 and sat round for 2 hours while the officials checked out our passports and currency declarations and searched the truck. One of the guards, as he was looking through our collection of books asked hopefully, “any sex?” 

About a kilometre separated the offices of Algerian Customs from the tents of Moroccan Customs. As soon as we pulled up a man asked to see the truck’s “insurance” and promptly pronounced it invalid. Scotty would have to take a bus up to the other Algerian/Moroccan frontier post at Oujda to buy some.

So, once again stuck in no-man’s-land between borders, we pitched our tents in the sand beside the road and spent a cold night. 

When scones go wrong!! Algeria/Morocco border.
When scones go wrong!! Algeria/Morocco border.

¹The Algerian currency is the Dinah.


DAY EIGHT-TWO After a tasty breakfast of fried spud, left over from last night’s meal of spuds, peas and frankfurters, we hit the road about 7:30. First stop was for repairs to the truck in a largish town, which took about an hour and which turned out to be no good anyway. The fault was in the oil pressure sender line which had a hole in it so when we stopped for lunch later on Mike and Scotty fixed it. 

Later on, as we neared a range of golden sand dunes, we stopped at a wayside shack that sold coffee and Limonade (lemonade). A little old lady with a face like tanned leather, dressed in bright red and green shawls, laboriously made us coffees and fussed around about how much we all owned, all the while keeping an eye on some ragged children playing beside the road outside.

Bogged in sand.

Half an hour on form the café we pulled off the road to look at some sand-dunes and got stuck!! The sand-dunes weren’t even very interesting , certainly not worth getting stuck for  for, but there we were!

It took about an hour to dig and sand-mat¹ it out and it was another experience, like getting bogged in the Congo Jungle, that no African trip would be complete without. 


We camped the night under a full moon a few miles further down the road.

¹Sand-mats are narrow steel panels, about two metres long and with round perforations in them. They are laid under the wheels of a stuck vehicle to spread its weight out over a greater area than the mall surface area of the tyres.

Hands-on Adventures. Sand-matting in the Sahara.
Hands-on Adventures. Sand-matting in the Sahara.


DAY EIGHTY-ONE The morning was bitterly cold as we had breakfast and packed up the truck. We bounced and jolted our way along the rough track stopping every now and then for piss-stops or to take photos. At about 9:30, with the sun up and warming us, we stopped at the top of a small rise beside the petrified remains of huge trees from a long-dead forest¹.

Petrified wood in the northern Sahara. (Photo supplied)

It was an eerie and mysterious place, there in the vast, empty desert, pieces of what had once been towering forest trees similar to those we had seen in the jungle. The grain and knots of the wood was faithfully preserved in stone that wind, sun (and passing tourists) were reducing to sand. In a few thousand years, not a trace of the forest will remain.

We moved on from the petrified trees and later in the morning we stopped at a wind-swept mill pumping cold, clear water into a tank. The windmill was set amongst the nothingness of the desert with only sun and wind to keep it company. The water was good.

Around lunch time we drove into a small town and had lunch at a café before pushing on northwards, once again on tar seal which Mike reckoned would last until London.

That night, we camped in a quarry for the first time in ages, stopping just before the sun touched the horizon. Scotty and I watched its passage out of sight: a shimmering ball which disappeared in less than a minute, leaving only the blue haze of dusk behind.

¹ For a description of how wood becomes petrified, you can read my story Forest of Stone, on my other blog, Travel Writer Life, about a petrified forest at Curio Bay on New Zealand’s South Island. Although the story is about a different place, vastly different to that forest we saw in the Sahara all those years ago, the processes which created the petrified wood are the same.