No rush this morning. We’d left the roof blind open again overnight to watch satellites sliding between the stars and the occasional meteor moving impossibly fast. Now there were birds hopping about on the glass roof panel checking us out. Breakfast in the caravanserai was a splendid affair; pancakes with jam and molasses, fried egg to eat with bread, yoghurt, orange juice, tea and strong coffee.

Hamed said the only issue we faced with the remaining 100km to Zagora was a deep stretch of sand right outside the auberge, but he assured us we would be fine. And we were. Arnie taking it in his stride. We settled back for a straightforward desert day. The track began well; smooth and sandy with occasional fast gravel stretches. We stopped to climb the low dune we’d been following, covered here in black rocks, some of which had been used to build low walls at some point – animal pens perhaps. We failed to find fossils but the view made up for it. A vast plain stretching off to low hills on the horizon.

We made good progress initially and delighted in the desert road signs.

After an hour or so we spotted a mud building in the distance with flags out front – a gîte. A lad of about twelve watched us like a meercat at the crossroads. Were they open? “Oui, cinque minute” he said getting on a small motorbike and riding off to fetch someone to make us tea.

Yussuf, his dad arrived shortly afterwards. A genial, confident chap he made us all tea and sat with us, offering guided tours up to (and across) the Algerian border a few kilometres away. Another time perhaps.

It was a jolly twenty minute break and as we left, Yussuf gave us business cards for his friend, a well-regarded mechanic in Zagora who he said could look over Arnie after his desert adventures and make sure he was in good nick. Nice to have.

From here the track got increasingly difficult. It was rock and washboard with steep ridges; and hard to maintain any sort of momentum. Others had found it awkward too and made their own diversions which were often worse. But we knew we were slowly reeling in the point at which the track would end and we would join an actual asphalt road. About five kilometres or so from that point the track branched and we stopped again to consider a choice of two nasty looking options. Stepping down from Arnie I could hear a distinct trickling noise. I looked underneath and to my horror there was a stream of diesel coming from the tank, apparently from one of the welded seams.

My first thought was “gaffer tape” but there was so much fuel coming out that there was no way it would stick to anything. It’s a big tank – 195 litres and there were probably 120 litres in it, but less every minute… The only thing to do was get to Zagora as fast as we possibly could – and thankfully we now had the name and gps location of a mechanic courtesy of Yussuf. Our next bit of good luck was that for the first time in four days we had 4g. Philippa whatsapped the mechanic – Jaboud- with a photo of the ruptured tank. We were a 45 minute drive away and he said he would meet us on the road. We jolted painfully slowly over the last of the rutted track and when we got to the asphalt it felt like we were flying. I put my foot down with an eye on the fuel gauge needle. Zagora seemed perpetually thirty minutes away. A watched pot and all that but we were closing in and about twenty minutes away a guy in mechanic’s overalls waved us down from where he was parked by the roadside. “I am mechanic” he said as we stopped “follow me”. So we did. Five minutes further on another mechanic watched us pass and got in his car to follow us. This was service! Five minutes after that on the outskirts of Zagora, a third mechanic with a moped waved his phone at us. I pointed to the car ahead of us and he shook his head vigorously. We had slowed but not stopped and suddenly he was level with us on his moped waving his phone at the side window – which had a photo of Philippa on it. This was Jaboud who she’d been whatsapping. Meanwhile the mechanic in the car in front sensed something was up and got out of his car waving furiously at us. We left him behind and followed Jaboud all the way to his garage.

There they quickly got a bucket for the diesel leak and set about draining and removing the tank.

An hour later it was off, empty, clean and posted in the back of a taxi to go to a welder. Now we could feel relieved. We were placing Arnie in the care of people who knew what they were doing.

So, who were those other guys we wondered. Jaboud was cross “They do this all the time.” He said. “They know the track is bad and they wait at the end for people to come and they tell them they have a problem with their car – they do not even have a garage!” With the immediate crisis over, Jaboud had a careful look at Arnie and pointed out some other tweaks he thought would be useful. It turns out that his is the preferred garage for all the rally teams which come through this area and he is known for being one of the best mechanics in the region.

We could have stayed in Arnie on the forecourt but opted for the Riad next door. It was strange to leave our home and the crew worked into the night,

Reflecting on our experience, it occurred to me that the most important things we’d done over those four days was to talk to people. The hotel manager who warned us about the impact of the floods, the Bedouin on the moped who guided us to the track we needed, the French couple who helped us avoid the lake edge, and finally Yussuf who gave us Jaboud the mechanic. The Sahara is a desert and also a community it seems. We were were lucky to have had such an amazing experience of both. And, it turned out, we would need a bit more of that community spirit in the coming days.