in chefchaouene a tall fellow with a huge smile sells me a bicycle for 100 euros and i start rolling with friends caitlin and francis, who are on a two week holiday bike ride across morocco.
the freedom of cycling
being able to stop at any roadside curiosity
a horse walking in circles, pulling a huge millstone, grinding olives.
we fill a bottle from the vat and begin the pleasant experience of eating bread saturated with olive oil.
we roll through the countryside, up and down hills, leaving a wake of staring eyes and an exchange of greetings.
"bonjour!"
"bon voyage!"
"asalam alaykum" with the response "alaykum asalam" (peace be upon you, be upon you peace). groups of children running after us or cyclying alongside us with smiles of wonder.
i was thinking that the roadside exchanges were very brief and would have liked a longer exchange with the moroccans. the opportunity came when we were looking for a place to camp amid agricultural land. we followed a dirt lane away from the road and were discussing the few options available to us amid the coming darkness when El Mktaa came from his house and invited us to eat with him and spend the night there. this had to be inferred from his friendliness and his gestures to follow him with our bikes. my arabic had got to the stage where i could ask about prices and buy things in the market but could only leave me nodding reflectively when el mktaa showed us round the polytunnel banana plantations, giving arabic explanations from time to time. francis and caitlin got by admirably with the word "mezyan" (good) which responded to the buckets of water they warmed for us to shower, the glasses of sweet mint tea and the platter of lamb tagine and warm bread they served in a simple room with carpets and cushions. a television set was the only adornment. el mktaa's two brothers and various sons ate with us (no woman here) and it was confirmed to me that eating with the right hand is the only acceptable way of participating in the comunal dish. twenty-year-old mjid made a valient effort to communicate several things to me, and mostly left me nodding reflectively. "ma fhamtsh" (i don't understand) was the phrase most often on my lips but i thought i managed to discern questions such as "how much did my bike cost?", "how much would a car cost in scotland?" and the fact that he would like to go to spain to work. what i do remember were his searching brown eyes, and his desire to ask questions which i could not answer.
the next day mobile phone numbers are copied down but unlikely to ever be used, when face to face communication is so limited and based on gestures. Mktaa showed me his identification documentation and i understood that he wished me to take a note of the address. it occurred to me that he quite posssibly did not know how to write. i read that the adult literacy rate for morocco is 56 per cent. not knowing how to read is a major disadvantage when it comes to educating oneself about the world, commented francis, - the only way to learn about the world is through passively aborbing the television images. it made consider how good it would be help educate people one day.
we spent christmas day singing carols in the rain cycling up a big hill then rolling down to the city of fez. francis and caitlin were short of time before their return flight to london left from agadir on the coast, so we took the bikes on a night bus to marrakesh to save a few hundred kilometres. marrakesh is hustle and bustle and palm trees and a huge part of town given over to the market. we spent the morning hours in a quiet plaza drying out everything in the warm sun, being served mint tea by an old woman who first asked how much i would sell my waterproof jacket. i hesitated a while and her daughter said: vous comprendez le francais? ma mere rigole avec vous. we are now far enough south to escape the winter rains and cycle happily into the atlas mountains - a more relaxed note to people's behavious there. less badgering us to buy and more van stopping at the summit of the 2,100m pass to sell us oranges for 20 cents a kilo; also a dutch driver pulling over to give us a bottle of coca cola. the colours are intense: blue sky and red red earth. twisting road, rocky gorge, the snowy plateau of Jebel Toubkal not so far away. prickly pears - the fruit of the cactus - opened with caution to avoid the spines, mixed with honey. also little roadside pomegranates, slightly sour tasting but the body knows they are good and wants to eat many. must be full of vitimin C. always snacks of dates and figs and olives and olive oil with bread and a beautiful bean soup brewed by our camp fire. one night we roast chestnuts and caramelise the figs on sticks and francis makes little ape grunts to show his appreciation of the scene. soon we are all giving each other little ape grunts (these are the sounds francis would make if here were born thousands of years ago, i say) and also barking like dogs - many sentiments can be communicated via the tone of the bark - howling gleefully when rolling for 30km down the other side, past a cascade, into the argan trees - which the goats can climb to reach the upper leaves.
two more days of rolling in the sun and we have reached the sea. jumping into the rolling waves. they have aquired vigor from their atlantic trajectory. they impart energy to the tumbling human body.
new year's eve is roasting vegetables on the embers, hidden in the trees of the natural park.
the first day of the new year is soaking up more beach in the morning and then seeing francis and caitlin off at the airport from where they must return to cold london. "why not continue rolling down the west coast of africa?" francis is not genuinely serious.
one of the porters in suits at the airport wants to buy my bike for 500 dirham (50 euros). i say: yes, it is a good bike. maybe i will call you but for now i want to take a trip up into the anti-atlas.
more mountains.
i also want to be able to communicate better in arabic.
the freedom of cycling
being able to stop at any roadside curiosity
a horse walking in circles, pulling a huge millstone, grinding olives.
we fill a bottle from the vat and begin the pleasant experience of eating bread saturated with olive oil.
we roll through the countryside, up and down hills, leaving a wake of staring eyes and an exchange of greetings.
"bonjour!"
"bon voyage!"
"asalam alaykum" with the response "alaykum asalam" (peace be upon you, be upon you peace). groups of children running after us or cyclying alongside us with smiles of wonder.
i was thinking that the roadside exchanges were very brief and would have liked a longer exchange with the moroccans. the opportunity came when we were looking for a place to camp amid agricultural land. we followed a dirt lane away from the road and were discussing the few options available to us amid the coming darkness when El Mktaa came from his house and invited us to eat with him and spend the night there. this had to be inferred from his friendliness and his gestures to follow him with our bikes. my arabic had got to the stage where i could ask about prices and buy things in the market but could only leave me nodding reflectively when el mktaa showed us round the polytunnel banana plantations, giving arabic explanations from time to time. francis and caitlin got by admirably with the word "mezyan" (good) which responded to the buckets of water they warmed for us to shower, the glasses of sweet mint tea and the platter of lamb tagine and warm bread they served in a simple room with carpets and cushions. a television set was the only adornment. el mktaa's two brothers and various sons ate with us (no woman here) and it was confirmed to me that eating with the right hand is the only acceptable way of participating in the comunal dish. twenty-year-old mjid made a valient effort to communicate several things to me, and mostly left me nodding reflectively. "ma fhamtsh" (i don't understand) was the phrase most often on my lips but i thought i managed to discern questions such as "how much did my bike cost?", "how much would a car cost in scotland?" and the fact that he would like to go to spain to work. what i do remember were his searching brown eyes, and his desire to ask questions which i could not answer.
the next day mobile phone numbers are copied down but unlikely to ever be used, when face to face communication is so limited and based on gestures. Mktaa showed me his identification documentation and i understood that he wished me to take a note of the address. it occurred to me that he quite posssibly did not know how to write. i read that the adult literacy rate for morocco is 56 per cent. not knowing how to read is a major disadvantage when it comes to educating oneself about the world, commented francis, - the only way to learn about the world is through passively aborbing the television images. it made consider how good it would be help educate people one day.
we spent christmas day singing carols in the rain cycling up a big hill then rolling down to the city of fez. francis and caitlin were short of time before their return flight to london left from agadir on the coast, so we took the bikes on a night bus to marrakesh to save a few hundred kilometres. marrakesh is hustle and bustle and palm trees and a huge part of town given over to the market. we spent the morning hours in a quiet plaza drying out everything in the warm sun, being served mint tea by an old woman who first asked how much i would sell my waterproof jacket. i hesitated a while and her daughter said: vous comprendez le francais? ma mere rigole avec vous. we are now far enough south to escape the winter rains and cycle happily into the atlas mountains - a more relaxed note to people's behavious there. less badgering us to buy and more van stopping at the summit of the 2,100m pass to sell us oranges for 20 cents a kilo; also a dutch driver pulling over to give us a bottle of coca cola. the colours are intense: blue sky and red red earth. twisting road, rocky gorge, the snowy plateau of Jebel Toubkal not so far away. prickly pears - the fruit of the cactus - opened with caution to avoid the spines, mixed with honey. also little roadside pomegranates, slightly sour tasting but the body knows they are good and wants to eat many. must be full of vitimin C. always snacks of dates and figs and olives and olive oil with bread and a beautiful bean soup brewed by our camp fire. one night we roast chestnuts and caramelise the figs on sticks and francis makes little ape grunts to show his appreciation of the scene. soon we are all giving each other little ape grunts (these are the sounds francis would make if here were born thousands of years ago, i say) and also barking like dogs - many sentiments can be communicated via the tone of the bark - howling gleefully when rolling for 30km down the other side, past a cascade, into the argan trees - which the goats can climb to reach the upper leaves.
two more days of rolling in the sun and we have reached the sea. jumping into the rolling waves. they have aquired vigor from their atlantic trajectory. they impart energy to the tumbling human body.
new year's eve is roasting vegetables on the embers, hidden in the trees of the natural park.
the first day of the new year is soaking up more beach in the morning and then seeing francis and caitlin off at the airport from where they must return to cold london. "why not continue rolling down the west coast of africa?" francis is not genuinely serious.
one of the porters in suits at the airport wants to buy my bike for 500 dirham (50 euros). i say: yes, it is a good bike. maybe i will call you but for now i want to take a trip up into the anti-atlas.
more mountains.
i also want to be able to communicate better in arabic.
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