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Tanger Day 197

“Huh… was that a guy standing on the edge of that roof holding the power line off that telephone pole in one hand and an orange extension cord in the other?” I blurted out loud whilst riding down a main road in downtown Tanger. “Yeah I think it was. Was that a little kid on a mountain bike hanging on to the door handle of an old mercedes that just went tearing past in the center of a tight cluster of cars?” By the time I saw the group of donkeys roaming through an empty lot untethered and unattended I was already at the point of just accepting what I saw instead of trying to make sense of it.

My introduction to Morocco was perfect. The security screening getting off the ferry was a joke. As the passengers hoisted their luggage into an X-ray, that I very much doubt worked, I simply walked right past all of it. The few employees that were on duty were busy carrying suitcases and took no notice of me. I got through security unchecked but I was not to get passed the group of men surrounding the exit. As I walked up to the doors three men crowded around me asking me questions of where was I going, how long will I be here, etc. At first I thought they were customs, but soon realized they were tour guides trying to solicit their services. “You want to go to the desert?” one man shouted at me as I hopped on my bike and rode out the doors. “Where are you going?” another shouted.

In Tangier I found myself trying to accomplish two things at once. Stay alive and get the hell out of this city. Normally I am pretty just lumping these two things into one, but here in Tangier I was not able to do so as easily. For one thing there aren’t really any controlled traffic intersections here in Morocco. They are just more like areas where your chances of survival are severely reduced. Watching five people run in different directions through a mass of scooters, donkey driven carts, heavy trucks, and taxis left me questioning my understanding of physics.

I rode late into the night to make up for the time on the boat. I slept in a dirty concrete shelter on the side of the road. From my observations it seemed as they were used as bus stop shelters, but this was just speculation.

Day 198

I woke up to a man pooping directly behind me. Another first!

I rode through villages built with rocks and clay, cinder block and rebar, and tin and rope. It seems as though there was a push for development that was halted before they could finish off the buildings. Now all that stood were ugly grey skeletons of apartments littered with trash and reeking of sewage. Even though unfinished they were inhabited by some poor family.

Everywhere I went I was stared and gawked at like some kind of freak show. Men tried to wave me down to direct me into their shops and restaurants. Some even ran out into the streets at me trying to make stop.

Day 199

Woke up in a sugar cane field.

The day was filled with many smaller adventures similar to the day before. More stares, more proffesional con men taking my money, more important lessons about Morocco learned, lots of cycling.

Rode to Rabat. Slept on the beach in a place that reminded me of Helm’s Deep.

Deathrace 2000 aka Day 200

Surely I am alive to write about the events of today by the grace of God and his angels, or if not then by sheer dumb luck.

My legs now functioning completely independently from the rest of my body were pumping like pistons in a Mopar 440 big block. Whatever was in that tea that I washed down my second helping of tashim with wasn’t going to let them stop until sometime the next day. Due to a slight misunderstanding they had tried to give me something much stronger that they embarrassedly hurried off with when they realized that I was asking for tea. Wrong hand signal I guess.

After following a young guy on a moped through a whirling mass of cars, busses, trucks, donkeys, and motorcycles in a double intersection, more or less with my eyes closed in sheer terror, I was now headed in the correct direction again. The waning moon had yet to make it’s appearance tonight leaving everything, that was untouched by the dozens of headlights, pitch-black. I was in some sort of insane overdrive, my throttle stuck wide open and one propeller belching smoke it was a white-knuckled ride into the unknown.

The heavy lorries weren’t so bad. Half of them will give me the courtesy of blasting out my eardrums with his airhorn before he tries to smear my guts all over the highway. When I hear the horn and there’s oncoming traffic I either jump in the ditch and watch the giant convoy of steel and rubber tear through the place where my soft body was just occupying or I clench my teeth and squeeze my handle bars till all the color drains from my face as huge whirling wheels scream past and graze the bit’s that hang furthest off my bike. I consider that polite for what I’ve seen so far in Morocco. It’s the busses that I was constantly praying to God to save me from. They have a different strategy entirely that I think I have figured out. You see they figure that if you’ve survived on the road in Morocco long enough to make it this far then you know well enough to get the hell out of their way. No horn, no revs, no nothing. Just the grill of a giant bus, that now represents the face of death to me, coming up on you at speeds you’d have never thought busses could reach. Occasionally it seems as though they acknowledge your presence by swerving a little the the left.

To give you a better idea of how completely nuts these busses are picture this; a fleet of busses from the 80’s retired for valid reasons somehow got into the hands of the Moroccans. Sometimes they have both bumpers, the front door is always busted and hanging off the bus like some sort of pedestrian/cyclist dismembering device, and the door to the engine compartment is always open to let the poor beast dump out a thick cloud of black smoke that smells like burning rubber. They are always so packed with people and chickens that you can only get on when someone gets off. To get off when the bus you wait till it goes slow enough and you jump out running (I don’t think I’ve ever seen them come to a full stop no matter how packed the intersection they’re blasting through is or how many cars are coming straight at them). And most importantly they only have two speeds, bus stop speed and “wide open, oh my god they’re all going to die”.

So while I’m praying that one of these busses does not go by I am trying my best to keep my wheels to the right of the white line and to the left of the canyons they call potholes here. Looking down at the road in front of you ALWAYS means that when you look up there is going to be a car in the wrong lane coming straight at you at top speed. So if you don’t like seeing this sort of thing it’s best you not look up at all, thank god that it missed you by mere inches, and brace for the next one.

So there I am horns blasting, cars and trucks swerving around horse driven carts, mopeds with no mufflers tearing past, an occasional bus of death tearing past it all, my legs completely numb, my eyes fixed on the nothingness ahead,

The night ended at a gas station where I happened upon two men in an adjoining restaurant who happened to speak english. I had stopped for water and bread and ended up eating a really nice meal. My server introduced me to them to aid in communication. After a lot difficult conversation they told me I could sleep in the restaurant for the night, “welcome to Morocco” the big man said with a smile. Still a bit confused as to what connection these two random guys had to the restaurant and how the fact that told me it was okay to sleep here I said my thanks and goodbyes to them as they disappeared into the night.

Upon seeing the bathrooms that were located in the neighboring restaurant I was forced to consider the state of the health regulations that I had up until then rested better not thinking of. There was no toilet paper anywhere, only one toilet worked (and wouldn’t you know it wasn’t the one I chose), and there was no soap… huh. “Maybe the food handlers here don’t use the bathroom.”, I thought to myself reassuringly. “Wait no, that’s not reassuring at all.” I understood better now why they eat only with the right hand here…

The fact that I was pulling out a sleeping bag in the middle of this restaurant seemed normal enough that the old guy closing the place up took no notice of me. After sliding all the tables and chairs up against the doors he seemingly vanished into thin air. It didn’t take long to see why he put the tables against the doors as there were a pack of dogs trying to get in. With no idea how I was going to get out of here the next day, or rather how anyone was going to get in to let me out I just had one little problem. I had to pee.

My day had started off interestingly as well. I woke up on coast of Africa soaking wet and freezing cold. The temperatures had dropped in the night and condensation had formed on all of my things, including my sleeping bag. As I was drying them out in the rising sun I was approached by a man who spoke english. After a bit of small talk he switched gears and started to inquire of my sexual preference. No rest for the weary.

Day 201

Today I was still quite tired from the day before. I had gotten in about 130 Km and slept for about 4 hours. On top of that I had some ferocious headwinds beating my already destroyed legs.

After getting just past Settat I was waved down by a man. Though a bit wary of him I decided to stop and see what would happen. Best decision I’ve made in Morocco thus far. His name was Ahmed, and he was a farmer that lived in a community of about 4 families. They took me in, washed my hands and feet, fed me, and gave me a place to sleep. They were infinitely patient with me despite the fact that I spoke niether French nor Arabic, and took time to teach me a few important words.

SItting in a small room with some awesome Moroccan ladies I helped them with the different steps of the long process of making Coucous in the traditional fashion. The huge quantity we served about 20 people who showed up later that evening. It was mostly men that came gathering in the large community room to sing and pray in Islamic fasion. Ahmed, who regularly came into to give me glasses of this strange tea I had drank to much of a few nights before, took me into the community room to observe the customs of Islam.

After a long night of drinking tea which they called “Moroccan Whiskey”, singing, and eating couscous, they all filed out and Ahmed showed me my bed.

Day 202

After saying good by to Ahmed and his family I set off again for another crazy day in Morocco. The first village I came to was called Kemisset. This village was comprised of a familiar cast of faces from the night before. Almost all the men who worked at the different shops and stands were at Ahmed’s last night. They gave me fair deals on the fruits and vegetables I bought and one insisted he buy me a coffee.

The next event happened about 20km after this where I was waved down by a man selling chickens on the roadside. He insisted that I take some photos of his chickens. Of course after I do this he demanded 20 Dirhams from me.

What else could happen today? Hmm… perhaps being harassed by a prostitute while trying to eat lunch, biking 160km, getting chased by a three legged dog, crashing by bike on the road in the dark, getting lost in Marakesh to be found by a man who demanded 100 Dirhams for his help, watching Back to the Future 1 with Arabic subtitles, and being dressed in a night gown and tucked in by an old arabian man…

…welcome to Morocco?