So Much Kindness—Day 5 of Bicycling through Morocco and Spain.

From the moment we leave Nador, we are climbing. Up and up, through the dusty, arid land. This land is rough and mountains are stacked to the horizon in every direction, promising a physically difficult day.
The olive trees that dot the landscape grow out of reddish-orange gravel and rock rather than soil. There are some cacti and a few acacia-like plants, but not many.
Here and there, nestled in small valleys, between the hills, or perched on top of the rises, are small towns made of this rock, plus some cinder block and concrete, as if they too are growing from this land. There is nothing soft. The southern sides of the homes have no windows and on the north, only small ones, making cool, cave-like dwellings. They are stacked against each other in tight clusters creating shade seeking labyrinths.

But the people here, they create the color and the life. As we cycle, nearly every one we see gives us a big grin, an open-handed wave, or a thumbs up. We play leap frog with a few school buses and the young teenagers on them wave and shout out English phrases to us. “How are you?” they call, their eyes literally shining. They clap their hands together gleefully when we respond. Women walking along the roads smile and nod. Men put their hands to their breasts and give a small bow, “Salam.” Drivers toot their horns and wave. The energy flooding into my body from the warmth of these people fuel me as I struggle up and up.
As we reach the crest of a two-hour long climb there is a car waiting. I am a little worried because I had taken off my long, modest tights and changed into bike shorts at lunch (my bum couldn’t take riding without padding another minute) and my naked legs were flashing in the sun. (Nobody, nobody here wears shorts.) But rather than scold or correct me, the gentleman in the car thrust a plastic bag full of 12 oranges out his window, their leaves and stems still attached — freshly picked. He was grinning—“Here, here,” he said. “Good job!” and he smiled at us with twinkly eyes. Twain and I thanked him and immediately started peeling and eating the oranges. We ate three each, the juice making our hands sticky and our hearts full.

Now 60 miles later, we are in Midar. It boasts one hotel complete with hot water and WiFi, hosted by a smiling young woman who translated our conversations through her boyfriend on the phone from France: Arabic – English – Arabic – English. What else could we need? Morocco has won me over.