WHEN you crawl into bed around 2am with no real idea where you are, chances are it has been a pretty dramatic night.
If you happen to be covered in mud as well, those odds get even shorter.
The events of our evening on a hillside somewhere in Morocco – still not sure quite where, but we had spent the day driving from Agadir, having been politely escorted away from removing any more firewood from land which just happened to be opposite a royal palace – will live long in the memory.
We got quite royally stuck and spent the best part of six hours digging Nala out of the ooze which much of Morocco has become in the face of record rainfall, which has even followed us into the Western Sahara.
But let’s rewind a bit first. There’s more to this tale than just a stuck truck. There’s goats in trees for starters.
That’s goats. In trees.
A couple of the cook groups are starting to feel doomed as they have been hit by downpours pretty much every time they have even thought about setting up the kitchen around the truck, a fate which befell one of them the moment we pulled into our bush camp somewhere near the port of Essouaira.
This one also had the misfortune of having our cook group making our debut on fire duties as Martyn and I fought manfully not to be overshadowed by Martha’s efforts to get the fire burning amid the deluge.
Burn it did as the rain rolled away long enough for us to spend an enjoyable evening around the campfire and, by the time we rolled onto the sea front at Essaouira (another of those Moroccan towns with a vowel surplus), the sun was starting to peep out.
And it stayed out all day, providing the perfect (and very welcome) backdrop to a hugely enjoyable day exploring the medina, old fort and fishing port which comes with a relaxed, Mediterranean vibe we were more than willing to be lulled into.
After a session throwing a ball around on the beach – boys will be boys – the first dips in the sea on a glorious afternoon and a successful outing for our cook team on a spectacular clifftop bush camp find (amazing how a string of sausages can get people excited), there was even talk that we had outrun the worst ravages of the weather.
The weather was certainly not at the forefront of our minds as we hit the road down the coast to Agadir.
We were on the hunt for goats. In trees.
Sightings have become one of the highlights of this trip’s passage through Morocco over the years and we had started looking out for them the previous day as we entered the area which is home to the argon trees they scale for the nuts used to make oil for cosmetics, soap and cooking (as we were told in a tour around a women’s co-operative marketing the stuff).
Sat up front, tour leader Joe was certainly on the lookout, racing to the back of the truck with the simple shout: “Goats. In. Trees. NOW”.
It was just one goat in one tree and by the time everyone had found their cameras and fought their way off the truck, the intended photo model had beat a hasty retreat to the ground and anonymity.
But we didn’t have to wait long as some of his cousins had the good grace to not only climb into trees, but do it right next to the road so we didn’t even have to clamber off the truck for the perfect photo opportunities.
Another of the must-sees ticked off the list, we headed to Agadir and a distinctly unofficial campsite by the beach for the night.
If only the next day had gone so smoothly.
It all started simply enough and was shaping up to be a largely unmemorable day on the road, eating up the miles before we headed into the disputed Western Sahara region.
There had been a welcome stop to stretch our legs with a walk down to and, in some cases, along a surf beach to check out some stone arches carved by the elements, while a selection of cheesy music over the truck speakers had prompted plenty of singing and dancing. Yep, let’s call it dancing.
But we were still on the road as darkness fell, previous camping spots falling foul to the conditions and sitting underwater as we passed.
Eventually, we discovered a campsite up a mountain track and started heading uphill – only to grind to a complete halt.
As Steve (our driver and, after his efforts over the next few hours, hero – just don’t tell him that*) and Joe weighed up the situation, we gradually drifted off the back of the truck to do what we could to help.
And immediately discovered how easy it was to sink into the soft slop which hid just beneath the top layer of sand – in my case, before having a chance to follow the first instruction to go barefoot.
We did what we could, be it diving in with shovels, inserting or removing sand mats (metal strips to provide some grip under the wheels), holding torches or just handing stuff to people who appeared to know what they were doing.
Over the course of the night, we attracted attention from the locals, including the mayor of the local town, who offered advice (not all of it useful) on how to remove Nala from her predicament and to extract a sand mat which had lodged itself under the front diff and had Steve popping up from all sorts of places under his big yellow truck.
Of limited use, we set up a temporary kitchen on the solid ground so agonisingly close up the road to rustle up some pasta and meatballs or vegetarian ravioli as our fire-lighting lessons came in very useful.
Finally, as we huddled around the fire for warmth, Nala roared back into life and shot backwards out of the quite substantial hole she and our digging efforts had created and we leapt into action, loading up the kitchen equipment and retrieving the sand mats in a hurry to get off the hillside, out of the cold and to wherever we were sleeping for the night.
As we piled back onto Nala, comparing just how much mud we managed to have all over us, all seemed sweet until Martyn opened his mouth: “Don’t get stuck again”.
We promptly did, reversing the last section back to firmer ground, and the newly-packed away sand mats and shovels were quickly back in action – thankfully this time with more immediate success.
Monsieur Le Mayor led us down the hill and the race was on to get the tents up in the growing wind and set ourselves up for the night to grab a few hours sleep ahead of another long drive day.
Tired, cold and muddy, yes. But we signed up for an adventure and these are the days which we will talk about in the months and, hopefully, the years ahead.
Besides, we had goats in trees.
Who cares about a bit of digging after that?
* Steve has now read this and held his hand up for being the “stupid bastard” who got Nala stuck in the first place, although he offers the defence that he was acting on advice from the locals. Who now have a bloody big hole in their driveway.