In the dim morning light, a glance down at my watch confirms it's 6:30am. We broke camp and left Dakhla (Morocco's southernmost town) an hour ago. I ease my grip on the handlebars and take in a deep breath. The wind drying my face does little to relieve the anxiety I feel as we ride south to the notorious Mauritanian border. Lisa is tucked in behind me, her single cylinder thumping a steady rhythm.

Clinging precariously to the northern tip of Africa, Ceuta is the last Spanish enclave in this vast continent and the point from which our Moroccan adventure begins. At the border, it's late November and 100 degrees. We park in the shade, and Lisa has to remain behind, guarding the bikes, because, under Moroccan law, wives are still regarded as 'property'. The officials won't deal with her. Visiting the row of low beige offices, I collect an assortment of brightly colored immigration documents and start the process, which is surprisingly fast in this far-flung outpost.