Tour de Morocco

My last day in the Dades Valley was spent galavanting through it...on a bike. To complete the 30km bike ride, it took me nearly 6 hours. I wouldn't go bragging that time to say, Lance Armstrong, but I'm sure it'd make my mom proud, nonetheless.

Mark, Gary (an English traveler we picked up in Marrakesh), and I began the ride with ease. We had a local taxi carry us and the bikes to the furthest point from Bumalne du Dades, at the top of a very steep hill. I found the initial leg of the ride to be quite comfortable as we coasted down into the valley, every kilometre whizzing past quicker than the first. As we began transition from easy cruising to a steady rise, the protests from my neglected calf and thigh muscles became thunderous bellows that echoed within the valley walls. By this point I was sweating so profusely that my clothes clung to my sticky body, my legs had now become a jelly-like substance, and I was dead last in our three man Tour de Morocco. And to top it off, we were only at kilometre 8 of the 30.

But as the old adage goes, "All for one and one for all!" Mark and Gary never once left me in the dust. Sure they stopped every so often to have a good laugh, but they never abandoned me. We pedalled on through the Gorge, admiring the red walls that rose on each of our sides, and the tiny streams that formed little pockets of life. We kept to the narrow gravel road that followed the winding path of waterfalls and rivers until we were made to cross the bridges that ran from bank to bank, and when lost, took our shoes off and waded through the rapids. After every hill mounted we congratulated ourselves with a moment to breathe in the new world that none of us could believe we were seeing. The mountains in the horizon, and even the ones that grew tall alongside us took on various textures, shifting from hard and jagged to rolling hills as we continued on through the valley.

As for the last 5 kilometers of our ride, well it wasn't any walk in the park. The rain began to fall in a slow pitter-patter rhythm until it gradually picked up speed, transforming into what I like to call, the best shower I ever had in Morocco. Seeking shelter wasn't an option for the Three Amigos; a bus that was to take us from Boumalne du Dades to Fez was due to pick us up in an hour and we were still miles from our hotel. So we kicked it up a notch (my body still hasn't forgiven me). There were dips and curves, twists and bends, and for some unexplainable reason, we seemed to always be head down with our teeth clenched as we battled another hill. By the time we skidded into town, we were water logged and our backs were covered in a thick layer of red mud that the bike tires had managed to spit up at us. With only 20 minutes to gather our bags, return the bikes, and hop on the bus, we were Code Red. So we delegated tasks. Mark was to get the moola, Gary the bags, and I, I was the lucky girl who got to return the bikes to the local guide's office. Just as I stepped into the shop, the keeper motioned me closer, resting an uncomfortable hand on my shoulder. You've got to be kidding me, I thought to myself. The guide was easily in his 50's, most likely balding since his early teens, and his teeth, good Lord his teeth, well the ones that still hung loosely from the gums were an unsightly black color and looked as if someone had pulled them all out and then jammed them back in completely ass backwards. Now I don't think I need to even start to describe this man's smell. Before I thought it could get any worse, out came the horribly translated marriage proposal. That was my que. I released myself from the man's creepy grip and high tailed it out of the shop and back onto the bustling street. There I found Mark awkwardly shoving Moroccan Durhams into his wallet while attempting to unload the various packs that Gary had strapped around his body. We had 5 minutes.

Once we finally made it to the bus station, we were told that the rain had flooded a few of the roads that the bus was scheduled to take and would have to wait until the weather subsided. Two hours later the Magic Bus pulled into the station and we boarded the coach, thinking our worries were long gone, not realizing what was yet to come.