Learning to live
Every story has a beginning, and this was the beginning of my love of travel. For one reason or another I hadn’t had the chance to travel until then, or at least not to travel the way I wanted to. My experience boiled down to simple trips around Spain and a few adventures like a school trip to Tenerife. But at last the moment had come: I was going on my first trip by bike. And the country I’d chosen was Morocco.
From the very first moment I was overwhelmed by the adventure. I had to box up my bike and check it in, something new for me, and every airport I set foot in seemed an incredible place. I remember Casablanca airport perfectly. Everything thrilled me, from passport control to the decor of the departure lounges for the flight to Marrakesh. It’s something I really miss: over time you get used to it and lose the ability to be impressed. I suppose the first trip, like your first girlfriend, leaves its mark.
In Marrakesh we met up with the rest of the expedition. We were in for a very early start: there were several hours of off-road driving to reach the start of the first stage. On top of that, the rain of the previous days had left the area muddy and there was a risk of landslides. A perfect way to start the trip.
The long transfer by 4x4 to the start dragged on forever, and we set off really late. The stage ran through a canyon, on a track beside a river, and was to take us to a pretty village in the mountains. But there was no time to lose: it was really late and night was about to fall. I had no lights, so there was nothing for it but to push hard and try to reach the end of the stage in daylight. And so I did: in the end three of us cyclists got there before night closed in completely. Behind us, lots of people arrived in the dark and very, very tired.
The village where we spent the night had a small hostel. And of course it had no shower; instead it had a small but very comfortable hammam. I have to admit that when I arrived, what I really wanted was a shower. But the hammam experience, my first, was worth it. It was a small room with mud walls, lit by the dim light of a candle. Inside, a tub of very hot water and a tap of icy water, to mix to taste. And, of course, lots of steam and lots of heat, almost like a sauna. I was wrong: I wanted a shower only because I didn’t know such a relaxing bath existed.
The night was cold, and it didn’t stop raining for a single moment. The next day we had to cross a pass over 2,000 metres high, and the weather worried us. The next morning, things looked bad. The way up was muddy and, although it wasn’t very cold, things were likely to get worse at the top of the mountain.
We started the climb on a muddy track, and it was the kind of sticky clay that wouldn’t let the bike move. It was so sticky that we couldn’t even push our bikes up, and the only option was to shoulder them and walk. A lot, far too much. The climb went on forever.
But the worst was yet to come. At the top of the mountain the temperature plummeted, the wind blew hard, the rain turned to snow and the ground was still impassable. The bike stopped being a means of transport and became a burden, and lots of people chose to leave theirs on the track so they could move faster and find somewhere to shelter. After a good while battling with the mud, we reached a shepherds’ hut. It wasn’t a home, but one of those huts where they keep the livestock. It was full of straw and looked comfortable; at least the walls would protect us from the wind. The shepherds invited us in, which we were enormously grateful for. The straw served as a blanket to warm us up and as a towel to dry us off. They saved our lives. After a good while, the weather changed. The wind dropped, the sky cleared and the sun came out. The calm after the storm.
By now it had got very late and reaching the planned destination was impossible, so we decided to look for somewhere else to spend the night. And, as usually happens on these occasions, the improvised situations are the most interesting. It was my first time in an Arab country, and I was about to experience its hospitality for the first time. As we came down the mountain, once again pushing the bike through the mud, someone invited us into a hut. We didn’t think twice and went in. It was a small hut, with two rooms and a stove. The woman made us mint tea, with lots of sugar. We guessed it was unrefined sugar, less sweet than the one we usually eat, because the tea wasn’t as sweet as you’d expect after watching her drop two huge lumps into it. They were a peasant couple, with a son, and little to offer. But they offered us everything. That hot tea by the fire was a luxury after such a hard day. That family taught me many things and, most importantly, rid me of prejudices. That day I stopped behaving like a cyclist and started behaving like a traveller. Or at least that’s what I like to believe.
We carried on down the mountain and reached a bigger village, a very pretty one, and found somewhere to sleep. Although the day dawned sunny, the swollen river made riding inadvisable, so we looked for another means of transport. Luck was on our side and the village lorry was available. So, onto the lorry we went.
We rode the lorry for a few kilometres, until we left the riverbed. When things improved we got back on the bikes, and in the end we had a lovely stage. A bit long, since we had to ride what was left of the previous day’s stage on top of today’s. Late in the day we reached Imilchil, a village with a pretty lake, a hotel and a hammam. What more could you ask for? The hotel was comfortable, though very cold, and the rooms were well stocked with blankets, but it took some nerve to get undressed and into bed.
The day dawned cold again. I hadn’t counted on this weather in Morocco. On top of that we had to cross the Atlas, over a pass that, so we were told, was pretty snowed up, and they weren’t lying. The climb was tremendous, very long and with lots of snow. Luckily the ruts left by the 4x4s that had gone before let us get over the pass without any trouble.
That day we were reaching the Todra Gorge, and I was really looking forward to riding through it. Unfortunately, a mechanical forced me into the broom wagon, and I went through that area well after dark. I’ll have to go back another time and see it at a gentler pace.
That night we slept in a village of no interest whatsoever; you could tell we were in a tourist area. But there were still two lovely stages left, now through more desert-like country. The next day we headed into rocky tracks, on the way to Zagora, nearing the desert through scenery that was getting more and more beautiful. The wind was blowing hard and the stage was tough; we went through several villages before reaching Nkob, where we spent the night in some lovely, comfortable nomad tents. Only one stage left: we were very close to the end and to reaching, at last, the beautiful Sahara desert.
The last stage was a slog. A strong headwind stayed with us the whole stage along the hard, stony tracks. The landscape was getting ever more arid and rocky. Little by little we got closer to Zagora, the gateway to the Sahara; the dunes and the sand were waiting for us, even if only as a token welcome. My first desert was now history. The trip had been worth it. Something had changed inside me: I had lost prejudices and gained wisdom. I had found my path.
