15. Dog Days.
18.02.24 – 28.02.24 : Tangier – Marrakech
Bouncing between boulders as big as oranges I began to question if this was the main road between Tangier and Fès, two of Morocco’s major cities. My gut-feel was no. As you know already, I’m bone idle when it comes to route planning. Technology takes the lead. Technology, in this case, had led me right into the perilous wilderness of the Rif Mountains. I was less than half a day into what will eventually amount to more than 200 days of riding in Africa, and I was facing the hardest terrain I’d ever tackled on two wheels. This didn’t bode well. As one particularly chossy section of track sent me flying from the saddle to land hard, tangled in Madonna, I vowed to change my ways. At the next available pocket of wifi, I’d perform a forensic examination of the road ahead and eliminate any routes that gave even a hint of scenic. If I were in Wales, I’d take the terrain in my stride, relishing the challenge rather than trucking along the A5. But, as we’ve established, this is Africa. And here, that sort of naivety doesn’t wash.
But, despite its challenges, the route was scenic. Mountains carpeted in dense greenery rolled endlessly over the horizon. It was something straight from Jurassic Park. Unfortunately, the wildlife followed suit. Prehistoric-looking creatures, scorpions. A commotion up ahead had caught my attention. Three women stood in a circle around one of these terrifying beasts – whose tail was raised and claws were snapping – taking it in turns to pelt it with rocks. This seemed a little barbaric… but, then again, I wasn’t too keen to tango with one while pitching camp after dark. I nodded my thanks to the women and quietly decided to ride a little further than planned that evening, eager to put some distance between me and its lair.
My colleague Jack was endlessly ribbed for his squeamishness when, after one particularly lively office party, he mistook a champagne cork for a mouse, screamed, and jumped – with surprising agility – far from its reach. Now, as I was reattaching some bags that had shaken loose from the relentless chatter of the road, I empathised. As a thistle brushed my sock, I too screamed, jumped a mile, and promptly dropped Madonna. This wasn’t particularly grateful of me. Madonna, you see, had been coping with the terrain remarkably well. She’d been at the limit of what’s possible on a bike, all while hobbled with an extra 30kg. The difficulty is, Madonna is harder to push than she is to ride. So, when the terrain becomes so tough that riding isn’t an option, I take a brief trip up Shit Creek.
My second morning of riding saw me spend a good deal of time in this neck of the woods. These were the first real hills since the Pyrenees (sorry, Doug) and I was out of practice. Despite its colonial history (or, perhaps, because of it), Morocco doesn’t sing from the same hymn sheet as France when it comes to mountain roads. Steady gradients are few and far between. Saying that, I’m not sure the definition of road stretches to what I was riding. I spent several hours taking two steps forward and one slide back as I battled with the climbs. The sun beat down as morning wore on and I quickly began to melt. I swore at nothing in particular and even tried to cry – a burning mixture of exhaustion and despair hot behind my eyes. I quickly abandoned the effort, partly because crying wouldn’t get me up the hill – let alone down the continent – and partly because I couldn’t spare the moisture. By the time I’d returned to tarmac – several hours after casually detouring from its safety – my exhaustion had me delirious. As I hauled Madonna up and onto the road, I met a shepherd herding his flock down the same path I’d just left, the first person I’d seen all morning. He stared at me, at the ground, back at me again, and we both burst out laughing, bent double.
It always astounds me, when cycling, just how quickly the wind of fortune shifts. I’d ridden little more than 30 kilometres and I was approaching four hours in the saddle. Besides this, I hadn’t passed a town all day and I felt dangerously close to a bonk. But, as if by magic, the universe decided it was time for my luck to change. I passed a small village school and spotted a man with a food stand, swarming with children. I couldn’t distinguish what he was selling; I just knew I needed it. I stuck out like a sore thumb as I waited, and was clearly the source of much amusement to the gathered masses. The man skilfully cut small chunks of baguette, sliced them lengthways, and spread them with a thin omelette-like substance before adding a squirt of mustard and ketchup. These small parcels were served with a bottle of alarmingly orange liquid. He was a master of his craft and churned them out at an impressive clip. When my turn came, I asked for one – whatever one was – at which point the man pulled a whole baguette, cut it in half lengthways, and jammed it to the brim with the cocktail of fillings, much to the amazement of the crowd. I tried to hand him a note, which he refused, and instead drew me a bottle of the mystery juice which, to my delight, was ice cold. He touched his chest gently and, with a knowing nod and a smile, sent me on my way. My gratitude brimmed and I returned his gesture before pedaling off to find a quiet spot to feast. Little did I know, this was just a taste of the Moroccan generosity I’d feel that day.
A little further, as my legs – heavy with the day’s work – hauled me up the last metres of the last major climb of the Rif, I heard a shout. Hey bro! Want something to eat? Something to drink? Still clouded by the relentless touting of Tangier, I rode on. But a little further, instinct told me to turn back. This turned out to be one of life’s better decisions. Ismael lit up when I pulled over next to his shop. He promptly gave me a cool water and a thick loaf of Khobz bread stuffed with tuna and cream cheese. Again, my request to pay was met with a touch of the chest, a nod, a smile. Instantly, I knew Ismael was one of life’s good guys. Before long, I’d let go of the 20km I’d planned to ride that evening, and accepted an invitation to stay with him that night.
As it turned out, the invitation came hand in hand with an entire roll of red tape. The whole town came alive with the task at hand: to record, as thoroughly as possible, this, The Visit. The police chief of the area was called and informed of my intention to stay. I then had to present my passport to the head man of the village. Pictures were taken and duly sent to various officials. We then took a trip to the police station where Ismael presented his papers, acting as my sponsor. Ahmed, the police chief, then proceeded to call incessantly for the next hour or two, requesting various pieces of information about me, my trip, my marital status, and so on. Talk about belt and braces. I asked Ismael if this was standard practice. He replied that I was the first tourist to visit Kmstach Dyoor – literally, 15 houses in Darija; no prizes for guessing why – in a year. There was no standard practice.
Once the bureaucrats had been satisfied, we were able to relax. A very happy evening passed in a dreamy haze; we played pool, drank tea, and cracked sunflower seeds outside his shop as various friends, cousins, uncles and animals came and went. Sebsis were prepared by the local shepherds and smoked ceremoniously as they squatted, talking for a while, before disappearing into the dim light of dusk. Ismael danced around his shop – like Wonka around his chocolate factory – plucking packets from shelves and slapping them down triumphantly for me to try. Husband and Wife, he’d say as he produced yet another typical Moroccan snack/drink combination. Ismael had learned English from Netflix and took great pleasure, as he put it, fighting with the language. In turn, I had a tussle with Darija and lost. As darkness fell, he closed up shop and – despite my indulgence in countless matrimonial combinations – we arrived home to a feast prepared by his wife, Selma. His mother joined us and I did my best to recite the Darijan phrases I’d learnt, much to her delight (or amusement, I wasn’t sure which). Ismael’s younger brother, who was preparing to study in Lithuania later this year, was particularly excited to practice his English; it was the first time he’d had the chance to speak to a non-Moroccan. We listened to Frank Sinatra, at his request, and sunk into the cushions on the terrace.
In the morning, Ismael and I woke to watch the sun rise and took some rounds on the punchbag – which I can only assume he’d named English – before breakfast was served. He then loaded my bike into the bed of his truck and gave me a 20km headstart on the day’s riding, before circling back to open the shop at 9am. To top it all off, he sent me on my way with a bag packed full of high-sugar Husbands and one suspicious Wife: a highly radioactive energy drink called Sting. My loyalties in the realm of Energy, and the modicum of respect I have for my body, meant I paid this particular gift forward, further down the line. The snacks, however, were essential fuel for the road. After all, despite the head start, I still had to close a 150km gap that day to reach Fès.
I arrived in Fès that evening and immediately felt the chasm between the pure hospitality I’d experienced from Ismael and his family, and the packaged processes of semi-organised fun that unite hostels the world over. There was a rich tapestry of travelers staying at the hostel, all on their own journeys (that just so happened to track a similar 5-stop course). I was reminded that the gift of traveling by bike is being forced to tread beyond the well-worn cobblestones surrounding the guidebook landmarks. The thin line you track might just scratch the surface of a country, but it scratches the surface of a whole country. Unfortunately, while this sounds nice in principal, traversing the whole of a country also includes encroaching on the patrolled territory of the world’s worst animals. Dogs.
I’d like to begin by saying that I’ve spent a good deal of time with some wonderful canines over the years (many of your dogs, in fact) and I’d like to discount these good dogs from the following tirade. Got it? Ok. Here goes.
Dogs can, for want of a better phrase, fuck off. If every dog were replaced with a cat – or better yet, an octopus – the world would be a quieter, less bity place. I’ve been at the mercy of these ferocious creatures near constantly since I entered Morocco’s more agricultural region south of Fès. I’ve named this predicament Dog’s Law, and it rests on three axioms. (i) Every farmhouse that can have a scary dog… will have a scary dog. (ii) Every scary dog that can chase and try to bite you… will chase and try to bite you. (iii) If this chasing and attempted biting can happen on a hill, when you’re totally out of puff, with no way to outrun 50 kilos of pure muscle and teeth… you get the picture. On the worst of my dog days, crossing the Middle-Atlas, there was a thick fog resting on the mountains which left me drenched. Add to this the killer combination of undulation and dehydration and you have one unhappy chappy. Then, if you liberally sprinkle this situation with a cacophony of invisible barks that grow ever louder until unfriendly beasts burst from the cloud beside you to snap and snarl at your heels, you have me: cortisol red-lining, on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
At one point, midway up a particularly vicious incline, I found myself in a Mexican standoff. For 20 minutes I stood hurling insults – and then rocks – at two dogs who refused to back down. I’d dismounted and was standing behind Madonna who I used as a shield. I could tell she wasn’t impressed by my cowardice. By the time I’d exhausted my arsenal of obscenities, the only remaining option was to slowly walk backwards up the hill until the dogs, who followed, decided I was far enough from their turf to consider it a victory. For the competitive cyclists out there, slipping backwards in cleats while dragging your bike in front of you is a sure-fire way to lose your next hill climb event. Descending beneath the clouds offered the slightest concession. At least I could now see the buggers. By the time I reached Khenifra, I’d been reduced to a rambling wreck, spitting bile – out loud, I might add – about the pointlessness of dogs as a species, and fantasising about the array of weapons I’d like to carry to really show them who’s boss. Not particularly RSPCA of me, I know.
What do you do when you’ve become an amorphous mass of jangling nerves? Seek divine intervention, of course. I called the Shifnal Vicar (my dad, for those in the dark) while I devoured a taco and sucked down several litres of water. He has a direct line, you see. It must have worked… beyond Khenifra the canine harassment subsided. However, word must have reached the top about my insidious thoughts along the way, and I paid for the relief of a ride free of dogs with some kit-related karma. Madonna suffered her first major mechanical. Just as I’d cracked under the pressure of the dogs, she took a similar turn.
As I woke on the final day of riding to Marrakech, I noticed that hairline fissures had appeared in her back rim, around the spoke-nipples (at this point I regret the extent to which I’ve anthropomorphised Madonna… cycling jargon draws questionable parallels). This was a serious issue. My wheel had become a ticking time bomb that could explode – quite literally – at any point. I was able to limp her through the 140km to Marrakech, but time will tell just how she’ll fare. There’s a slim chance the stars will align and I’ll be able to source a replacement wheel, but that will require the help of some angels. Luckily, after my eager recruitment drive in the pub over Christmas – and thanks to an uninhibiting brandy or two – two such angels are booked in to join me in Marrakech. Let’s hope they don’t arrive empty-handed.
I understand the wanting to cry from exhaustion and frustration - which you would do if you weren't too exhausted. Adelante!
💪angels cone in many guises - steer clear if those Mad Dogs 🐕 xx