A gale is battering the temporary immigration offices at the Moroccan border. It's threatening to tear off pieces of corrugated iron and rip plywood doors from their hinges. On the other side of the street to the offices, past crowds of people running for shelter across the tarmac alive with whirls of dust, stands the Fazer. It's parked in the shelter of the most precarious Portakabin toilet block in the history of the Moroccan Immigration. Just then, a sail of tarpaulin slides off the roof and begins to pull heartily at the prefab privy. From a place near the front of a 30-minute long queue for passport signing, my heart starts racing. I look from the precarious building to the line of buffeted people stretching out behind me. What's more important: saving the bike from being basted by digested paella and tagine, or keeping a place in this God-forsaken queue?

Just as the decision is made that another thirty minutes waiting is a small price to pay for not having to clean the contents of other people's pants from the nether regions of the Fazer, the immigration officer finally beckons. She takes the passport leisurely, calmly setting it open and reading through a hastily scribbled-upon form. She looks up at my face, strained with the desperation of the situation, and smirks knowingly.

            “You need the toilet? It's across there.” She's pointing at the teetering tower of refuse. Oh look, some idiot has parked his motorcycle underneath it. “Thank you. You can go.” With a grin, the lady hands back the passport, stamped and ready for Africa and I bolt across the road to save the Fazer.

Four days ago, the same bike was getting a much needed power wash as we flew down the A38, late for the ferry from England's Plymouth to Spain's Santander. As the FZ6 had been utterly reliable for the last 16,000 miles, I thought we could make things interesting. Let's see how a 3,800-mile round trip to the Moroccan Sahara Desert affects its chances of passing its next MOT.

The journey down through Spain had been stunningly lacking in congestion, but with a population less than that of the UK in an area twice the size, that's to be expected. The Spanish government has played its Euro Millions cards right, and unbroken EU gold standard tarmac greeted the bike's eager front wheel in every direction. Drunk on this biking paradise, we'd searched out the windiest of roads, from the Picos de Europa to the olive groves of Andalusia, and squeezed every last degree of power out of the Fazer's 95bhp workhorse lump.

But now Spain is old news. After the close call with the prefab privy, it's time to say goodbye to the land of normal toilets, stable currency and predictable driving styles.

Stretched before us lies Morocco: a playground of lush forests, majestic mountains and frozen oceans of sand. Route suggestions courtesy of Nick Sanders aside, there isn't much of a plan. The only map is a single page pull-out from the guide book and the hour-long ferry ride from Algeciras to Ceuta has given me just enough time to get sidetracked by the section describing venomous insects. With thoughts full of deadly scorpion stings, we roar out into Africa. The destination? The desert.

One hour later, Morocco's N16 coast road starts carving a magnificent path between land and sea. Riding this knife edge south east we're treated to a succession of smooth curves that yo-yo the bike around promontory after promontory. Above, tendrils of cloud charge from mountain to ocean. The pavement turns towards the hills and we start speeding past locals on donkeys. They look pretty surprised to see a leather-clad lunatic on two wheels this far from the tourist trail.

Darkness descends. It looks like Chefchaouen will have to provide a bed for the night. A bout of heavy bartering later and a basement room is agreed upon for a bargain price. Just as owner and customer shake hands, a proper BMW adventure bike rides up. Its moustachioed owner advances towards us.

            "Ah! I thought you were Nederlands. But you are English! English are a few crazies."

His name is Richard and he comes from Germany. He has some sizeable luggage including three pairs of shoes and a spare rear tyre. Does he want help carry his stuff to the room? "No! I have a motorbike. I like to be independent!"

Over a dinner of flatbread and tagine, he tells me he works for Triumph - Triumph ladies' undergarments. I ask him about the perks of the job. "Ah, selling bras is like selling anything else really. They come in, they go out. In. Out. In. Out. It's just business."

The next morning, Richard and I go separate ways. Rain is sweeping its way inland from the Atlantic. Confident the Fazer can outrun a little rain cloud, I head east on the N2 to Issaguen. But before long we rise out of the calm valley and lose ourselves in thick cloud. The road traces a high ridge in a maddening medley of turns. This might be a heavenly ride with a clear sky, but right now it's an intense challenge to make headway. Without warning, gusts of wind shove the bike into the other lane and into any potential oncoming traffic. I keep the revs in the gutter, low second and third gears, and the cloud mists up my visor until the only thing distinguishable from thick grey fog is the Fazer's digital dash with its measly speedo readout.

The centre of Issaguen isn't paved, and a mass of beeping taxi cabs and 4x4s have churned the main crossroads into a no-man's land of craters, mud and half-buried rubbish. Finally the cloud has lifted and a celebratory mint tea and slice of local cake is punctuated regularly by offers of marijuana. This area of Morocco is where nearly half of the world's cannabis is grown. We are deep in the Rif.

The afternoon is spent ignoring men, boys, and toddlers all trying to sell me the best of Rif kif. Cars beep like crazy in small towns, and upon drawing level with the bike, shouts of "You smoke?" can be heard over the grunts of my underseat exhausts. Confident youths wave me down in every lay-by. "These kids've got big balls," I think. "Big balls of weed."