11/22/2023 Bikepacking Morocco Day 106 : Greedily Gorging on Gorgeous Gorges

After selling me some food, the guy said, “Le Maroc est tranquille, non?”

“Je ne comprends pas,” I said (I don’t understand).

“Le Maroc est calmé,” he tried again.

Oh! tranquil… calm. “Oui,” I replied, gleefully understanding.

He grabbed my hand to shake it, but pulled me into an embrace like old bro-friends do. I’ve been getting a lot of manly Moroccan hugs here. As nice as they are, they’re a poor surrogate for Janet hugs. I hope she isn’t jealous, though.

Meanwhile, a small girl had been standing at the counter. In Arabic, she said, “peace be with you; god bless you,” then fist bumped her heart. The man smiled at her. “Welcome to Morocco,” he said. It was a scene out of a Moroccan fairy tale. I beamed a big smile and headed off to the next gorge.

I had spent the morning casually riding up the Ait Mansour gorge. Originally, I had planned to ride up and over the Anti Atlas, but last night I discovered another gorge called Igmir. I got a little greedy for gorges and decided to add on a second gorge today. I’m glad I did because both were equally, if not more beautiful than the well known Dades and Todra gorges I visited during the stint in the High Atlas. The beauty, though, was complemented by the relative absence of harassment. Just good and peaceful riding.

But the day wouldn’t be without some strife. As I was ascending from a tiny village, a man used his girthy body to successfully block the narrow road. “give me money,” he demanded in French. I replied, “why?” He put is hands to his mouth in the eating motion. I looked him in the eye, smiled, and then gently patted his protruding belly.

“No.”

An onlooking kid with a bike smiled and laughed at the pat-pat. Even the guy kind of laughed, presumably because he knew that he had made a weak case. I’m almost reluctant to tell you some of these stories, lest you get the idea I’ve become an ass (or maybe already was one). I’ll emphasize once again that I gave to hungry people in Spain, but so far here, I haven’t seen anyone who seems to fit that qualification yet. Plus, with everyone touching me and my bike, it seems normal to make physical contact with strangers. Daily, people jump in front of my bike with their hands out (or interlocked) to stop me.

Late in the day, I tried to escape two kids, but they were too fast. I gave up - plus I needed to stop for water. They surrounded me and started opening my bags, “what’s in here? A camera? Give me a phone! My brother has a phone and I need one too.” Their French was surprisingly good - with verbs other than “give me.” These kids couldn’t fool me, though, because thanks to my rear view mirror, I had seen them taking photos of me with their phones on the way to the spigot. Each time I turned around to smile for the camera, they would hide it, pretending like they weren’t videoing. This new level of impunity, though - opening two of my bags - has got to stop. Luckily, they lost interest when they saw sardines in one bag and wires in another.

So that should paint a picture of how and why I must journey for 30 minutes to select a wild camp. I’d happily pay the $5 for a wall to protect me from perpetrators… but I haven’t seen camping or hotels in the last 145 miles. The rules of camping are that it must be impossible to ride your bike to the site. If you can ride, then someone else can drive or ride. You must be seen by no one on your way to the site. Just as it is with flies, if one lands on you, many more will come quickly. I ended up finding a trash dump with a burning pile of trash. But rather than camp in the dump, I crossed it completely and camped on the other side.

Was the shop owner right? Is Morocco really tranquil and calm? Like most things in life, the answer isn’t always clear.