Let’s just start by saying that we had the most perfect rainy, windy, mountainous, breathtaking bus ride ever from El Jebha to Azla yesterday. It was all of 68 miles and worth every one of the 14 dollars it cost for two people and bikes. I spent the whole time staring out the window at the Mediterranean, far below, hearing the rain and the wind rattle the bus as it swooped up and down and gleefully exclaiming how happy I was to be sitting on that soft seat.
Today we biked west from Azla to Tangier, against headwinds all the way, and into the ancient medina of the town, a maze of endlessly looping alleyways, with barely a slit overhead to allow daylight in. It sits high on a hilltop overlooking the Straights. Ships pass east and west. Spain is right there. There are cobblestones and tile work and fortress-like ornate doors leading into alluring inner sanctums. There are small shops selling crafts, beautiful handmade wool rugs and buckets of spices, incense, soaps, herbs, shoes, clothing, and silver. A labyrinthine maze of color, scent, sound, and people.
Tomorrow we leave Morocco and head to Tarifa and Gibraltar. I have had such a tiny sampling of this country, but I am left amazed at the variety I have seen. The people (and landscape) differ dramatically from region to region in dress and appearance. When I think about all the variations I would see if I stayed here and just headed south into the heart of Africa, it is truly incredible and to think I could—one pedal at a time.
I didn’t write last night because I couldn’t. My body had turned to a gelatinous bag of exhaustion—not to be too graphic. We had started happily enough cruising along the coast, envisioning a beautiful ride, swooping along the coast, kissing the Mediterranean from time to time and riding up and down the headlands. We didn’t realize that there were several mountain ranges between here and there.
When I say mountains, I don’t mean hills. I mean four separate ranges each between 1,800 and 2,700 feet with many significant rollers between. All told we probably climbed 14,000 feet. We had to cross each valley and then climb each mountain on the other side, down to sea level, and then back up again. Sometimes 1,300 feet, sometimes 2,700 feet. We did this about ten times.
As we cycled, we passed through a very rural section of Morocco where women wore large straw hats over the Chadors and young children rode mules up steep red rocky hills carry ten gallons of water. The land was terraced and what sparse crops as could were eked out of the ground. Endless groves of olive trees, bounding tidy plots of tobacco, occasional almonds and some gnarled junipers, all struggled to cast a touch of shade here and there and their green contrasted sharply with the reddish-orange clay soil. The settlements were few and far between and built out of clay bricks from the surrounding soil or cinder blocks. Each one did have a mosque though, with brightly colored minarets pointing to the heavens.
On and on we went, and, truth be told, it all became too much. Near the end of the day, we crested a range and looked down into the next valley far below only to see in the distance our road climbing back up again, which we discovered later to be 2,700 feet. I started to lose it.
I truly do not think that I have ever been so physically challenged. The only way I made it was by promising myself that I never had to do this again. I told myself that I could quit, that my days of bike touring could be over. One pedal, then the next. Tears in my eyes and a ragged catch in my throat. I could not speak. My nether regions were on fire. Finally we reached the top of our climb and coasted — for 10 miles, down to a seaside fishing town—El Jebha. Even coasting was painful.
We ate like wolverines, hot bowls of bessara and plates of calamari, and slept like hibernating bears. Last night, over dinner, we refused to speak of our plan for today, but now, as the day has dawned rainy and windy, we have decided to take a bus—to cross the next 50 miles of the coastal mountain range because there is no reason for further self flagellation.
Traveling in an Arabic country is fascinating, but it is a bit like watching a foreign film with no subtitles. I have many questions and no way to ask them. The people are so varied and the way of life, very different from anything I have known. There are very few women visible anywhere, not in the hotels, restaurants or parks. There is no toilet paper or sheets on the beds. There are more cats than I have ever seen anywhere—packs of them. Mules are tied to trees here and there by their fetlocks, looking dolefully out upon the land, awaiting their next task. Everyone is kind and typically treats me like an exotic and odd bird. No matter how exhausted I am, I feel very awake. And let me just tell you how soft this bus seat is….
We wake at dawn to a call to prayer emanating from the tower on the Mosque, right outside our hotel window. The Arabic song is deep and sonorous and reminiscent of a didgeridoo. It bellows from bull horns and bounces off the hills and throughout the town just as the sky is beginning to lighten. It is strangely comforting and makes us snuggle a little deeper under the covers as we listen to its mystical sound.
If I had known what the day ahead of us was going to entail, I might have heeded the call and prayed myself, but, sadly, I did not.
Today we climbed up and over the Rif Mountains to the Mediterranean coast. I had never heard of them, and perhaps did not take them seriously enough. The road wound up and up and with every meter of elevation came another knot of wind.
Yes, the wind. The force in this world that brings me most to my knees. It is the divine ego buster. “You think you are tough?” It seems to say, “Take this.” “You think you are so strong? Let me ratchet it up a little more.” By the time we were in the final rise of the mountain range, we were both walking. Gravel and dust blasted us from the rocky hillsides making it impossible to look up. If we tried to bike, it pushed us over. I had to pee, tears flooded my eyes. “You should have prayed,” the wind seems to taunt. I staggered and wove and several times was forced to spread my legs and take a gust like a line backer taking a hit. My arms ached. My ankle screamed. When we thought we couldn’t take anymore, we saw a sign indicating steep uphills ahead for the next 1.5 kilometers. The wind grew even stronger. Finally, after several hours of staggering, we crested the range and looked down at the blue Mediterranean far below. The view was absolutely magnificent. Yes, it was worth it.
Last night, before bed, we enjoyed Moroccan mint tea. It has become our nightly ritual. When we asked for the bill, we found that our cafe mates had paid for us. We thanked them and they went on to tell us that they had never seen any Americans in their town before. In fact, the only foreigners they had seen were a family from Finland several years ago and a solo Japanese man on a bike about 30 years ago. It is strangely refreshing that there are still parts of the world that we have not overrun.
Tonight, we sleep in Ajdir, on the shores of the Mediterranean, the fortress Peñon de Alhucemas — another disputed territory held by Spain since 1559 — just a few hundred meters offshore. We take a brief dip in the sea before heading back for mint tea and bed.
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.
It is 3 o’clock in the morning and we are on a seven-hour overnight ferry ride across the Mediterranean Sea. We chose the cheap seats and feel as if we are spending the night in one of Dante’s levels of hell. It is okay though; we are all in it together.
The man in front of me is snoring. Not cute kitten-like purrs, but loud, nasal, elephant seal-like bellows. Every now and then the noises must wake him, and he gives a few loud SNORTS! And then it starts again. Another next to me is watching the absolutely most annoying Arabic sitcom on his phone at a high volume, featuring a host with a showman’s booming bravado and piercing brittle, staccato, canned laughter.
My husband Twain, is lying across the three seats that do not recline above me in a semi-fetal position and trying to will himself to sleep, while I lie on the floor where his feet should be, using our panniers as a bony mattress to keep my body off the dirty floor. They are jutting into my kidneys and ribs in a most uncozy way. My feet are sticking out into the aisle and I pray no one steps on my broken ankle, but I am too tired to care enough to move them.
Other passengers have lain velvet blankets on the floor, wherever they can find an empty patch of space and have covered their heads with shawls. I envy their obvious expertise. Nobody has turned off the lights. A small child nearby cries “Ayuda me, ayuda me!” — over and over between his barking croup-like coughs. His mother tries her best to pacify him, but he is just too tired. We all are.
When we finally disembark and make our way through the border crossing to Morocco, we are bleary eyed to say the least, and all of my defenses are down. We weave our bikes in and out of chaotic traffic, focusing solely on predicting what the drivers’ next moves might be as they swerve and lurch to sudden stops with no apparent rhyme or reason. Both French and Arabic fill the air as people call to one and other over the din of the traffic. The smell of market stalls’ fare (raw meat, hanging from tenterhooks, piles of fruit, stacks of fresh bread and pastries) and diesel gas make my head spin.
Nearly all the women we see are dressed in Chadors, and as I stand on a crowded sidewalk, watching our bikes and waiting for Twain to change our Euros to Dirhams, I feel positively naked in my biking tights and short- sleeved shirt. Someone calls me “Snowy,” another “Silver.” We find an inexpensive hotel on the bustling main drag, graciously shown our room by the host Mihmoun, where we are overlooking the streetscape’s mayhem. After I change into something less revealing, we go to fill our bellies and step in to the closest cafe, “Dar Abdesalam.” We are served mountains of foods, on plate after another, squid, shrimp, pastries, paella scooped from a dish three-feet wide, full of flavors I have never tasted with names I have never heard. Every one of my senses is saturated.
Now, finally, I lie on the bed of my hotel room. My eyes are begging to close, but I still want more, so I keep the window wide open. The smells and sounds of the market drift up. I know I won’t last long.
Tomorrow we head for the western hills to explore the quieter side of Morocco and probably won’t have WiFi. Google doesn’t recognize the place names anyway. We have a paper map. We are bike touring the old fashioned way.
I couldn’t sleep last night. My mind was tangled in all the sadness that the world is going through right now. The violence, the environmental calamities, and the political landscape left me nauseous. I lie awake for a while feeling selfish for taking these trips and writing such fluff. To top it off, somebody commented on this blog, basically calling me out on my narcissism. It is true, with such suffering, who am I to traipse around the world “exploring.”
There are so many horrors and atrocities, that they could bury any of us alive, but I can’t focus on them all the time or I wouldn’t make it, none of us would. My hope is to tell stories of the beauty in the world and the people that inhabit it. The connections, the variety and the fortitude keep me going. If I didn’t focus on these things, I think I would drown and what good would that do? So, forgive me my levity and selfishness.
Spain is made for cycling, there is no doubt. Despite our clunky, mule-like rented bicycles, that made us feel like out -of-shape middle-aged couch surfers every time a peloton of bicyclists blasted by (okay, maybe it wasn’t just our bikes) we were enraptured by many of the varied landscapes we past through and how much the country has designed their road ways to not just accommodate but prioritize bicycles. Cars need to give cyclists 5 feet (1.5 meters) of room EVEN OF THEY ARE PEDALING SIDE BY SIDE! It feels so safe. And everybody seems to ride; for much of the day there seemed to be more cyclists than cars.
Over the last two days we have cycled 120 miles from Grenada to Almeria, stopping for the night in the small coastal village of Calahonda. We climbed up and over mountains skirting the snowy edge of the Sierra Nevadas, the Alpujarras, and then down to the coast with its tall, rocky promontories and sweeping views. Up and down we rose and fell, from sea level to cliff top, again and again. We ate the juiciest and sweetest oranges that I have ever tasted, which we found fallen from a tree on the roadside. Our butts became sore and then very sore. We were starving, we were sweating, we were exhausted and it all the while we felt like the luckiest people in the world.
Now we sit in a cafe waiting for an overnight ferry that leaves at midnight to take us across the Mediterranean to Melilla, a Spanish enclave in Morocco. From here on out we are making it up as we go along. I am excited and, truthfully, nervous. I will be the “other” there, in a way that I don’t think I ever have before and it is something that many others feel all the time.
Last night, the noise in the bar around me bubbled up, crescendoing and falling like the all waves of humanity that have come before and then tumbling down in never ending murmurs of agreement and disapproval. I have no idea what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. All stories are the same in the end.
“We don’t have your bikes.” My eyes are tearing and my face feels spongy. “Que?”
“Don’t worry, they will come on the next plane, maybe 5 o’clock.” The woman at the help desk smiles at us appeasingly. “We will deliver them to you.”
I am so tired from an overnight flight that landed us at 3 o’clock in the morning our time that I can’t really absorb this information, and through the fog in my brain, I just want to believe her. It is just a minor inconvenience, and all will be well by this evening, after a wee nap. So, off I wobble.
And it is indeed a wobble. Have I forgotten to tell you that I broke my ankle? It is ancient history though—nearly three weeks ago. I have crutched, booted, and limped my way since then and have found that bicycling is the most pain feee method of travel. Soon enough.
But guess what? Two days later and still no bikes. They are stuck in no man’s land, the purgatory where lost luggage circulates, round and round on conveyor belts or, worse yet, in dusty storage rooms with flickering neon lights, cheek to jowl with all the other lost causes. Maybe in Madrid’s sprawling airport, maybe still in Boston. None of the helpful folks at Iberia can venture a guess. My husband conjures the final scene in Raiders of the Lost Arc, where the covenant is stored in a vast warehouse with other anonymous crates.
But, let’s put that image aside. Let’s picture instead the Alhambra that I limped through while waiting for them to appear today.
I have never seen such majesty; the towering fortress walls, the vaulted ornate ceilings, the intricate tile work and the perfectly symmetrical gardens—so many cultures and histories colliding and building on each other here that it really puts a girl’s lost bike in perspective.
Or picture instead the city of Granada, full of sneaky cobblestone alleys and winding passageways that snake through the hillsides. Homes are nestled against steep slopes and some people even live in caves! That is where we stayed last night, an ancient Gypsy cave dug into a hillside and now finished with white-washed ceilings and walls and plumbing and a wee bit of electricity. Gypsies here are proud to be called Gitanos because their culture of strength, family and artistic expression is celebrated. Their music is everywhere.
Or if not that, just picture the Flamenco dancers who seem to rise from the earth here. Stomping and twirling and clapping with more passion than I have ever seen anywhere. They are reminiscent of the bower birds that David Attenborough features in his nature documentaries. You can’t look away as they dance with a furious passion what can only be called life, stamping and clapping and wailing, accompanied by a solo guitarist.
So, tonight we finally gave up on the good people at Iberia Airlines and rented bikes, and they are fine. A bit gomby perhaps, but they might just do the trick. If I had an awkward little sister, who needed wide tires and a sturdy frame to feel safe, this would be her bike, and I’m borrowing it to climb the Alpujarra mountains and pedal from Melilla to Tangier. It wants only a cane basket on the handlebars.
It is certain to be a different kind of adventure this time; a little Pippi Longstocking, a little Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, a little Around the World in 80 Days. I am excited to see what tomorrow brings.
It is time to go. My panniers are packed, the house tidied, the bike shop locked and our passports in hand, and while I am definitely excited for this next adventure, it is now that I always become most homesick. I yearn for both worlds—the cozy, familiarity of home and the eye-opening, startle of bike travel. On Wednesday, I will board a plane to Granada, Spain. The first night, I believe I will stay in a cave, sans spiders. A nice cave. From there my husband and I will bike for two days, south to the Mediterranean and cross on a ferry to Morocco. We will pedal along the coast from Melilla to Tangier. We will camp or stay in hostels depending on what we find. At that point, my husband will head home and based on how I feel about the idea of biking solo as a female in Morocco, I will decide whether to head back to Spain and make my way up through the snow covered mountains to the French border, or turn south and cycle down the coast of Morocco to Casablanca.
I am a bit wary about traveling alone in Morocco, because I have heard many stories of women getting harassed, but if I have learned anything on these adventures—it is that you don’t know till you go. Fear is tangy and delicious and floats to the top, making it hard to pay attention to rational thought. On this trip, I will plan my route as I go and make decisions based on what I find, not something I dream up from my living room.
I am excited to experience a culture so different from my own. To see the tapestries, taste the flavors and hear the languages. At the risk of sounding corny, these trips feel like awakenings, and it is time to wake up again.
So, I am almost ready to get up off the couch and peel back this cozy quilt which is covered with a delicious patina of dog hair, baby spittle, sticky Christmas candy and popcorn and see what is out there. Problem is that today, I love this nasty old quilt.
Perhaps that is part of it. To miss, long and yearn is its own pleasure albeit a painful one.
My face is peeling off, literally. I stare into the mirror and watch as my cheeks pucker, redden and scab, and wonder if this is a time-lapse of old age. The Ghost of Christmas Future. I have always felt young in my body and if asked how old I feel, I would say 35 or so, but not today. Today I feel 95. A veritable crone.
I am in the midst of giving myself a Fluorouracil facial peel at the recommendation of my doctor, as a penalty for all the fun I have had in the sun over the years, and it is not going well. I guess the truth is, I am a bit of a baby and a vain one at that. To add to the torture, I had thought that it was a great idea to sequester myself alone in a cabin in the woods in midcoast Maine and take the time to do some deep introspective writing, which is smacking strongly of naval-gazing. Lonely, naval-gazing. It is hunting season as well, and I don’t feel safe inside or out.
I have been alone before and have often enjoyed it, because it was novel and gave my brain a chance to settle, but not this time. This time I miss my family, I miss my granddaughter, I miss my friends and I miss my home. In fact, I miss them so much, that I started to second guess my decision to go on a solo bike tour this winter. Why would I choose to leave, if home is full of so many things that I love? Why choose to adversity? Why choose loneliness? Then I looked in the mirror again.
“Because, you old hag, adventuring is your fountain of youth. It is how you remember who you are without responsibilities and routines that have worn creases in your brow. It is how you remember who you are when you aren’t looking in mirrors, but rather looking at the stars and the hills and into the faces of people whose lives are so distant, but so similar to your own. It is how you regain perspective. It is time to wake up and get your brain synapses firing and your muscles aching. There will be time to be still”
So, I am listening to the Baba Yaga in the mirror, because, although ugly, she is wise. I will leave January 10th and return February 17th. I have rethought my route again because, I want to be open to what feels best. This time I don’t have a goal, just a hunger to explore another culture. Maybe I will go south in Morocco to Casablanca, maybe I will head north in Spain to Barcelona. I know there will be a lot of hills. I know it will be beautiful and I know I will meet incredible people who will remind me of everything important. Other than that, my bicycle and I will make it up as we go along.
Seems like I will spend my life seeking a balance between connecting with what is right before me and staying connected to the awesomeness of the bigger world. It is a duality; to love the sigh of my granddaughters breath against my neck when I rock her to sleep and to yearn to sample the spices along the Moroccan Coast. The smallest things and the biggest world.
The acorns snap and pop under my wheels as I pedal back to Lighthouse Bikes after giving a cold, damp bicycle tour to some customers from Texas. We just visited three lighthouses along the coast of South Portland, Maine, in a late October drizzly sleet. They were great sports and said that this was the weather they were here for. They oohed and aahed at the sites and exclaimed about what a great time they were having, even as the hail bounced off the seaside docks.
I, on the other hand, found myself distracted by my red, raw, stinging fingers that were seeming to begin to freeze to my handlebars in the biting wind. I repeatedly thrust them, one at a time, into the pockets of my rain coat while trying to maintain control of my bike with the other. Despite the discomfort, I was trying my best to exude an air of enthusiasm and fun. Luckily, given how beautiful this area is and the attitude of the guests, it wasn’t too difficult. Besides, I knew I had only one more week of tours left and then the season would shift. No more leading trips; it would be time once again to make my own adventure. There are two parts to this one.
First, next week, I will be traveling to a secluded cabin alongside the Kennebunk River and doing some unlayering of the past years. It sounds a bit melodramatic, but my plan is to hide away and complete a facial peel to rid myself of years of precancerous, sun-damaged skin, accumulated from endless, sunny days of adventuring, and as I do so, also peel away the busyness of life and start to write another book. I like the poetry of it—the symmetry. As my face shall go—so shall I. Layer by layer, lesson by lesson, story by story. Maybe creating something presentable, if not beautiful.
I will probably be lonely, most likely afraid, and surely horrified as my face scabs and peels—because I am vain and it is Halloween season, but I want to see my way through this and find what is there underneath worth sharing.
When I am finished, I hope to turn my attention to another bicycle trip. This time following the route of Hannibal and his elephants as they made their way north through Spain. I will start in Granada, Spain, dip into Morocco, pedal along the coast to the Strait of Gibraltar and then head north to the Pyrenees—as far as I can get in 6 weeks.
My husband will join me for the first leg through Morocco. We will travel together for the first two weeks. He seems a bit wary of following my “fly by the seat of my pants” bicycle touring style and is diligently poring over maps and consulting those who have gone before. It is fun to watch him, but truly, also difficult to realize that this trip will be different because of the compromise involved in planning and traveling together. I have gotten pretty used to my independence. His companionship will be great, but I have learned that I need both, so I will continue on the second four weeks solo.
It feels a bit misdirected to focus on stories of adventure, beauty and growth right now when much of the world is suffering. These are really confusing times, but all I know how is that these expeditions consistently give me hope and remind me of the good that exists. Hopefully, feeling that, and sharing it is worth something.
