I fought the dunes and the dunes won
Now I know why the military
wake-up cry, the sounding of a bugle to
summon all in camp, originates in French,
"The Reveille." "Bonjour, Les Filles!" in
the dark was our 4 a.m. welcome to the day,
every day, sung by the managing Director,
founder and creator of the all-women Rallye
des Gazelles in the Moroccan desert. She
would sing it in repetition, beyond our
bivouacs, as if extended to the hills in
echo, while walking amongst our tents to
make certain we would soon be up and out to
greet the desert as bright-eyed as she. She
is a woman who looks more at home on the
pages of a French fashion magazine.
Waking was hard to do when
sleep was already a necessity from a
jet-lagged arrival. After a few more days
of this routine into which I had dared throw
myself, sleep soon became an ever more
elusive luxury. Frigid night air blanketing
me on a bed of rocks, and strangers as one's
new bedfellows were not ingredients for a
restful repose. I would painfully roll over
in my small tent, trying hard not to disturb
my navigator and newfound friend, France
Guérer, who was snoozing right next to me.
After our morning "alarm," there was a mad
scramble, blindly trying to find my
headlamp, to better see my way to the
outdoor bathrooms and sink. Then came the
only real waker-upper- a cold splash of
water on my face!
This was the start before the
rally start. If lucky, there might be time
enough, or water enough, to shower. More
often than not, there would be no ample time
for other than disassembling and packing up
one's tent, collecting the truck from the
mechanical impound, and stealing a bite of
breakfast all in time for congregation and
the daily briefing.
Hey, what about that
breakfast? Croissants, breads, and freshly
fried Moroccan doughnuts were savoured by
all! Coffee poured from ornate urns was a
godsend! Apart from the cigarette smoke, the
restaurant tent was a large and comfortable
atmosphere.
All
the added smoke would have been more
suitable for rock stars on stage, which need
to perform in a cloud, and less appropriate
for such an energetic and fairly athletic
sport as this. Welcome to another culture.
Each morning began with this
gathering ritual, to ready and excite us the
day's challenge ahead of driving the
Moroccan landscape, in search of that
elusive checkpoint flag. What were the
reasons or the method to this madness?
Many journalists were there
to write about the rally, its history, its
purpose and its daily adventure. They flew
in to see for themselves life in the bivouac
(tent camp). I knew in my heart that to
truly experience the Rallye des Gazelles,
you had to do it. Those who did not, would
never know whole-heartedly know its impact
upon a life, the path (or lack of) on which
it takes you, and the direction and
redirection down entirely new roads which
one comes to know only while under its
spell. The writing comes after the
experience.
It was grueling. Accurate
navigation was essential and I relied
heavily on France Guérer, my Quebec based
experienced “Gazelle”. Her meticulous
nature made sure we found our checkpoint. I
listened intently to her direction. Compass
in hand, I watched her calculate angles and
distance. When I felt lost she would gaze
at the landmarks, a large mountain or
lakebed, and figure out perfectly where we
were.
Mon Petit
Chameau Canadienne
The start of the rally was
emotional. Just less than a week earlier I
had arrived in Lyon France to pick up my
rental Rally truck. My 2004 Mitsubishi L200
looked tired and I was not satisfied with
it. Choosing a name for him was tough and
finally we settled on the Moose, our petit
Chameau (camel).
It did make the trip to the
port city
of
Sete where we would have our grand send off
– after a full day of mandatory
administrative and safety matters. Our
decals were stuck on, our medical interview
held. We picked up our safety equipment –
from sand rails to a SarSat device in case
of emergency. The GPS that we couldn’t use
but let the organizers know where we were
was installed. A weeks worth of French army
rations, NATO approved, was tucked away in
our tool chest, along with a full medical
kit, water canister, and obviously, a tool
kit.
As the wind kicked up I had
my first taste of sand. For the next two
weeks, I would grow accustom to that
flavour.
The French
and their fashion flair
The two day ferry trip to
Tanger, Morocco flew by as we prepared our
maps in between the meetings scheduled.
There was excitement and trepidation in the
air. The second evening had stormy seas and
the majority of passengers were ill. At
dinner there were more empty seats then
filled and I was left to entertain myself.
I could only think of how perfectly
fashionable the French are. The rally vests
we were given at the start were the same
shade of lime green as many of the Gazelles
faces. Lucky for all, the seas calmed for
our early morning disembark to the wonderful
country of Morocco.
The next day and so were busy
with sponsor events and parties. There were
winery tours with traditional Moroccan fair
to feast on. Music, dance and happy faces
greeted us every where. There was
more driving but still on paved roadways.
As we left out hotel in
Meknes the unthinkable happened. As we
crested a hill the putrid smell of clutch
and the loss of power meant we would not be
making it to the bivouac for our Prologue.
My fears with the quality of this rally
truck were proven as we coasted down to a
local, rather primitive garage to replace
the “embrayage” French for clutch, a word
not normally spoken in day to day
conversation.
To give credit to Jugand, the
4 x 4 truck rental shop, we would not be
charged for the part and would be reimbursed
for the Moroccan Dirhams we had to give for
the shop use, tool rental and the extra help
two locals offered. For three hours, Guérer
and I enjoyed the local village which lucky
for us was large enough to have a bank we
could exchange some much needed money.
This
don’t look like Cannes, Toto
After ten years of school
French my vocabulary was still limited.
With Guérer being a Quebec native I was
fortunate to have my own translator. The
Russian and Nigerian teams weren’t so
lucky. While the organizers provided a
translator it still was hard to comprehend
what we were in store for. The other
Gazelles that could speak some English were
kind; the others that could not, were
indifferent. It added to the isolation and
loneliness we Anglophones felt.
The Rallye is French and that
is not a fault. There is a beauty to it,
camaraderie, and a sense of European flair.
Over the course of the competition I watched
teams help each other to a great extent –
something I’ve never witnessed before in a
motorsport competition. It was an unwritten
rule to stop no matter what to help any
other team and over the course of the
competition we helped and were helped by our
fellow “ Gazelles”.
Each morning as we were
allocated the letter group – A,B, C, or D we
would be handed our sheet of logistics:
Longitude, latitudes of the first
checkpoints. Each had to be found in order
and with the corresponding letter to your
group. At times our excitement of seeing
the red flag was short lived as it was a
different letter groups checkpoint not
ours. In this case we could recalculate our
position from their information and turn
towards our flag.
I’m so
Piste off
Sometimes there would be
hours before we would see another team. We
would be some where in the vast Moroccan
landscape hopefully close to the
checkpoint. If we were lucky we would find
a “road”. On the map it looked promising
but in real life it was a rugged donkey
trail marked by a mound of rocks.
Hopefully it would bring us closer to where
we needed to be but more often then note it
just bled into other “roads’, trails or
rugged pathways. The drive would jar our
innards. All aches and pains were forgotten
when that glorious checkpoint was in sight.
Please Sir,
can you move your donkey?
The terrain was challenging
enough to drive through – constantly
changing. More times than we want to admit
we were delayed by a herd of goats, sheep or
the passing of a herd of dromedaries, the
“one humped” camel. The donkeys would gaze,
unimpressed with us Gazelles as we drove
by. Nomads living in makeshifts tents would
wave and smile.
Making a
mountain out of a molehill
I did not see any mole hills.
The landscape I viewed was breathtaking.
Jean Pierre Berthet, sporting director of
the rally, constructs the course in
October. He admits it must be challenging –
and don’t I know it. But he also wants each
Gazelle to experience the beauty of the
Moroccan landscape. He is keenly familiar
with it – having an extensive background in
driving through it.
Driving up close to a
checkpoint only to realize there is a 1000
metre mountain in your way, or sand dunes
that are larger than your house – there are
better ways to spend a day.
As I nibbled on my French
army rations – NATO approved. I daydreamed
of being home. The isolation is getting to
me and I’m trying hard to focus on driving.
The sand is one thing and today we navigate
a bed of purple volcanic rocks. The camel
grassed covered sand mounds are hard to
snake through and give us a bumpy ride. In a
perfect world the 15 kilometre drive would
be straight at the needed degree. Any twist
or bump in the way could throw us off our
path and make the final destination a ways
off where we needed to be.
I think I
took a wrong turn at Albuquerque
In the middle of now where –
with nothing in sight some how we would come
across a nomad. Within minutes a child’s
face would be pressed up against our
window. “monsieur, une stylo”? (SP?) They
would ask. A pen, shirt, anything would be
appreciated. At one checkpoint an old woman
was offering a dead lizard in exchange for
clothing or food. The look on my face must
of shown her that I neither was hungry
enough to eat it or desperate enough for a
souvenir of that kind.
Rock and
Roll.
I wish our truck had a CD
player. After not crossing paths with
another team or any form of wildlife – human
or otherwise, the solitude was getting to
me. The landscape changes drastically.
The smooth drive on a dried up lake bed
to the slow crawl over the large purple
volcanic rocks. It takes all my
concentration. Guérer whispers to herself
as she calculates our route. I watch her
take out her compass yet again some how
losing her third ruler in the process. This
would become a joke between us. Precision
and correctly interpreting the maps would
make today’s checkpoints almost seem easy.
That confidence was short lived.
I fought
the dunes and the dunes won
Sand has its own dynamic. In
the morning it’s hard and easily driven on.
To “surf the dunes” meant driving along
those with flat tops. From each angle we
could see other dunes of similar shapes and
sizes. Like a mouse in a maze we would
slowly make our way through our labyrinth.
The trick was to have adequate power to get
to the top. There we would be teetering
perfectly to let gravity take us down
gently. Driving on sand was like skating –
beautifully smooth.
By noon the sand heats up and
becomes soft and menacing. It doesn’t just
grab your tires it attacks them leaving you
stuck. We shovel enough sand to build a
beach. We inflated a special balloon that
lifted our truck out of its predicament.
Sand rails gave us the much needed
traction. While gone was the bumpy ride the
sand would still shove the vehicle, trying
desperately to capture the wheels. On level
surfaces a constant speed and a sawing
(gentle move back and forth) of the steering
wheel would help us make it through – most
of the time.
The day of the dunes and we
found ourselves lost and stuck with just the
similar look of gigantic sand hills for
kilometers. Our thoughts of finding the X
checkpoints – those that are harder but
offer more points, fizzled. It was hot and
frustrating. Paranoid about deflating our
tires too much we both thought this was the
end to our day.
The GPS unit in our vehicle
has three buttons. Red for a medical
emergency, our hearts were broken but we
were still fine. Blue, for a phone, whose
purpose was for the organizers to contact us
for such safety issues as driving too close
to the Algerian border and lastly the Green,
mechanical button for assistance. Guérer’s
hand shook when she pressed it. Our eyes
welled up with tears. Our strong showing on
the score board would be history.
Life’s a
stage
We hit the first checkpoint
easily on stage four. The next one would
prove to be difficult. We were not alone in
our efforts as more and more Gazelles in out
letter C group were having difficulty
finding our target. Those few that did we
heard after did so after watching a press
vehicle leave the pass. Instinct brought
those teams to the checkpoint and their
kindness showed us the way. By that time,
we had little time to find the rest. Those
that did not find the checkpoints had the
option to sleep out in the desert and try
again in the morning or return to the
bivouac and attain more penalties. The
choice had to be made.
I hated driving in the dark
because the danger of ruts and holes in the
ever changing landscape. Smooth rocks of any
size were easy to inch over. The sharp
edged ones I avoided not wanting to use our
two spare Kuhmo tires. The dried up lake
beds gave us a smooth drive but we were
cautious as an outcrop could surprise us any
time.
Winning was never what we had
in mind. Starting eighth overall the third
day in proved we had what it took. The
dunes took that confidence. We ended up 29th,
out of 67 [from website] disappointing, but
respectable. We tried our best. The
dedication the Gazelles had was inspiring.
Teams lost their luggage and supplies as the
drove. One team rolled their vehicle after
driving too fast for the conditions. In
each incident they continued thanks to the
help of fellow competitors, French
organizers and the talented mechanics.
Our 2004 Mitsubishi L200 (the
Triton as it will be called in Canada when
it becomes available later this month)
survived with no more bumps or bruises then
before. The alignment was off thanks to some
good rock crawling. It meant the steering
wheel had to be pointed to 2 o’clock to go
straight but I got used to it easily. There
was not anyone could do until the truck was
safely returned to the 4 x 4 rental company
in France.
During the rough times we
always we blessed by the kindness of
others. Our fellow Gazelles, the local
people and the organization, worked so
tirelessly to make things run smoothly. Thee
lack of direction and from the Canadian
organizers would of made this rally
unbearable if it were not for my navigator
Guérer. Her checklist made sure I brought
the necessities. She advised me on what to
expect in beautiful Morocco and she
navigated towards it. She taught me what
being a Gazelles was all about.
The reason
for being
As the Gazelles drove, the
rally sponsored medical caravan would make
its way to the remote southern villages.
Seeing about 250 patients a day, the
doctors, pharmacist and nutritionist would
treat the poverty stricken locals. During
our morning briefing we would hear tidbits
about the previous day’s accomplishments we
help support.
At the end we dusted off as
best we could and danced under the explosion
of stars in the desert sky. In the morning
we would drive to the city of Essaouira for
the awards presentation and gala dinner.
Our final sand run would be a short drive on
the beach to the cheers of the locals and
organizers. It was emotional to know we did
not quit and went to finish this grueling
rally. The journey now would be going
home.
Over the course of the three
weeks away I cursed, cried, and swore I
would never do this rally again. It drained
me physically and mentally pushing me to all
limits of my being. The next sand I would
see would be on that Carribean beach, I
vowed. Then why am I already planning for
next year? It is simple: Je suis une
Gazelle
