We are our own biblical parable – the blind leading the blind through the valley of rally, our promised land the finish flag some 200km distant. Right now that seems an inconceivable distance. We look up and everyone has scattered like seeds – not a single puff of dust on the horizon. Where the hell has everyone gone? One-minute intervals we went off at. And now no one. Mike regroups, and to be fair the navigation is at once simple (you have a route book and GPS beacons to reach) and fiendishly difficult (no maps, and often no roads, tracks or signs of humanity). And Morocco is calamitously huge and empty.
After that, God knows the chronology. There was a patch of low sand dunes, the kind you can nearly see over. That went on for a while, and then we found a gap in the mountains, went up this big valley popped up onto a ridge, came back off it. Nearly turned back, then carried on, lost our way, found it. We climbed a pass, drove in circles a couple of times, came across a pair of lost bikers, there was hard clay, ground waves, big rocks, small rocks, black rocks, scrubland. We did 60mph, we did 5mph. I work out that vegetation means water and water means uneven ground. I learn that the hard way.