We were still perhaps only a third of the way to Zagora on a track that had become increasingly uncertain but this was the only major riverbed crossing and we could see where the track continued through the scrub. It had been well used in the past with long ridges set hard in the mud. There was a last bit of damp sand to cross and we did our route-marking again, walking back and forth to minimise the risk. There was no more mud and after a moment of heart-stopping hesitation Arnie flew along the riverbed and up onto the bank. We’d made it across the Daoura riverbed.

The overgrown track was no easier to follow.

We had to stop frequently to see where the different branches went; sometimes petering out, sometimes heading straight into narrow dried arroyos, far too treacherous to attempt. We were gradually narrowing the distance to the next track we needed to join but there was always a recently formed dried river channel in the way. Or a damp river channel that would grab us by the wheels.

A couple of kilometres away on the slope of the hill next to the track we needed, there was a small mine in operation. Our drive was punctuated by occasional explosions like shellfire. We got slightly bogged down in some deep sand and rather than risk getting in deeper by powering through, we stopped and got the sand ladders off again.

A lad of about 16 wearing a t-shirt and trousers deeply ingrained with grime appeared out of no-where with a big smile. An explosion like a tossed hand grenade created a puff of smoke unnervingly close behind him, but he didn’t flinch. He almost grabbed the shovel from me, grinning all the while. Together we got the sand ladders in place and I drove out. He beamed and I gave him some Dirham for his help. With a salute, he ran back towards the mine and vanished in the scrub.

So we were on our way again, making slow progress for half an hour or so and leaving the mine behind us. The route we needed was tantalisingly close but infuriatingly inaccessible. Every option seemed to end in some sort of obstacle, or just end.

When, mystified, we walked the paths ahead of us to find a route we noticed a figure snaking towards us on a moped. He stopped and leant on the handlebars, watching me pace over the various track options. He was a distinctive looking man; sun-darkened skin, thick black eyebrows and a bold moustache. He was dressed in desert colours with a pale green turban. I made my way over to him and we salaamed cordially. His name was Hamid. In French I said we were heading to Tafraoute several hours away. Did he know the route? Yes he did. And could he lead us to it? Yes he could. But he looked sceptically at Arnie “Quatre quatre?” he asked. Yes a 4×4. He nodded and led me on foot through the maze of river channels, small dunes and rocks to a well used sandy track which he pointed to. “Tafraoute!” he said pointing west. All we had to do was get there in Arnie.

Hamid pedalled his moped until the little engine started and we followed him in Arnie as he skittered through the sand. There was one hair-raising gulley to cross and Arnie charged through like a pro. Hamid watching astride his bike looked impressed. “Quatre quatre” he said again, nodding appreciatively. We’d reached the track to Tafraoute.

I gave Hamid a large chunk of Dirham for his help. He was clearly pleased but also “Essence..?” He asked, tapping his fuel tank and looking at Arnie “Non, gazoil, desolé”. I said. Diesel was no use to him. He shrugged. We shook hands and he rode off on a virtually invisible track perpendicular to ours. “To where?” we wondered. Soon he was a dot in the distance and the buzz of his engine faded into silence.

I put some more air in the tires in anticipation of a track that would be more gravel than sand.

This felt, again, like we had broken the back of this awkward route and we pushed on. It was easier going but not quick. Sometimes littered with rocks, sometimes a washboard surface that rattled our fillings. It’s easier to drive fast over washboard but harder to stop when the inevitable gulley appears. We knew of a caravanserai auberge a few hours further on – “Kemkem” which seemed a good place to aim for. Rising from the sand ahead was another old building.

A settlement perhaps? A taste of civilisation? No. It had been an auberge once but was now derelict and abandoned.

We pulled in to the courtyard and made ourselves lunch. Inside the main building there was bright paintwork still welcoming travellers.

After a rough morning it was great to relax for a moment but also we both now felt to be properly on our way. An hour or so further on, a lone tree cast its shade over a parked Land Cruiser surrounded by a large flock of sheep and goats. A shepherd was moving them through.

We went to see if the travellers needed any help. They were an elderly French couple having a smoke break and clearly knew the area well. Where were we headed? “Kemkem”. They were going that way. Would we like to follow? Sure why not. They set off in a cloud of dust at breakneck speed. We followed at an ever increasing distance until they were out of sight. But a few kilometres further on we came to a semi-derelict village and spotted their car parked outside a walled auberge. They came out to beckon us in for tea with their friend Saïd who owned the place.

The couple, Arlette and her husband “Gigi” lived in Morocco and ran a humanitarian organisation setting up schools in remote villages. They knew the region intimately and were concerned that the recent flooding had widened a local lake and might our route impassable. They would guide us around it.

Which they did, taking us through a broad plateau and keeping the lakeside track at a safe distance. Eventually having set us on the right course Gigi and Arlette stopped to let us catch up and say all we needed to do was follow the track straight to Kemkem. They were going elsewhere. We gave them our heartfelt thanks and they rocketed off across the desert again. For us too it was a fast and beautiful drive across the gravel plain, our shadows lengthening in the late afternoon light, a column of dust billowing behind us. We followed a long slug of dune which rose and fell gently beside us. The walls of the old caravanserai appeared in the distance, looking out across the plain.

We closed the gap and there was one last stretch of deep sand before we arrived at the gate. Hamed, resplendent in blue robes and turban ushered us in to the small courtyard and brought us tea, as gangs of twittering birds chased each other around us.

Later we had lentil soup, tagine and fruit outside (thank you Fatima), ignoring the chill desert air for a chance to savour this special place under the evening sky and reflect on the past few days.

It really seemed this time that our misadventures were behind us. Well, not quite…