Pardon My French

Marrakech – Skhour Rhamna, Morocco

I’m sitting in the basement of a gas station/restaurant complex in “suburban” Skhour Rhamna. 

And I couldn’t be happier.

How did I get here? That’s the question, isn’t it?

Let’s start with this morning. Not knowing where we would land today, our thought was to get an early start. 

That didn’t happen. 

There’s this thing called jet lag. Makes 7 a.m. – our intended wake-up time – feel like 3 a.m.

We were lucky we woke up by 8 . . .

Upshot is that we didn’t start riding until 9:30 or so. Not an early start . . .

Really pleasant ride through Marrakech on the way out of town. Think we ended up cycling through the nicest part of the city. And, I have to say, the traffic in Morocco is generally well-behaved. Seems to move along at an orderly pace, with basically no honking – which, after Latin America – is a huge breath of fresh air. 

The fun thing about Morocco is the great variety of people. There are young people wearing Nike stuff (mostly knock-offs, but you get the idea), and Hollister. Old people wearing traditional garb. Women in hijabs and some in burkas. And no one seems to sweat it. Everyone just seems to go on about their business . . .

Okay, but that’s not really part of the story, now is it? Where were we? Oh, yes, we’ve just finished riding out of Marrakech. We’ve been following Organic Maps (kind of the generic version of MapsMe) directions – because Organic Maps seems to be the only mapping app that has biking directions for Morocco. 

We’re pretty happy at this point. The roads are really nice. Big shoulders. Not much traffic. Nice neighborhood.

But things can change so fast. Within a matter of minutes we have arrived at some strange dead end – with a maze of narrow alleyways in front of us. Seriously, it was literally like a corn maze. We head down one “street” – only to find a dead end around the corner. And when I say dead end, I don’t mean that the street doesn’t continue or there’s a one-way or something. No. There are literally buildings on three sides; there is really nowhere to go . . .

We try two or three more of these alleys – with the same result – and now Diana is becoming irritated. 

“Why are we using Organice Maps? It always brings us to places like this . . .”

Now, of course, I didn’t create Organic Maps. I have no vested interest in defending it. But the way marital relations work I’m on the defensive, and it feels like I’m being attacked somehow. 

“Let’s give it one more try. I can see the route goes right through here . . .”

And, sure enough, on the fifth try we make it through the corn maze, and win . . . and win a brand new, rocky-as-can-be, gravel road. Through a smelly old dump, with smoke billowing up here and there as little fires smoulder away. 

Three miles – and lots of unpleasant ripio – later, we find our way back to the main route. 

So now we’ve had a late start AND we’ve wasted another hour or so with our impromptu game of garbage dump orienteering. 

Let me back up for a second so that you have a little more context . . . 

Last night we figured out that there was a hotel in a bigger town at 45 miles – but then no hotel again until like 89 miles. Campsites? None. Well, I take that back. Diana found some note about a “wild” site by a river – but with garbage all over the place – at like 85 miles. 

Now, it was supposed to be pretty flat. And neither of us was super keen on going only 45 miles after so many days off. So we were kind of thinking of trying to make it 89 miles – with the backup plan of finding someplace else to wild camp if we had to . . .

Alright – now, with that context in mind, we’ve just made it back to the main road – N9 – which is a nice, pleasant, thruway that runs parallel to the main highway all the way to Casablanca. It’s all good. Except that what we didn’t think about was the possibility of wind. And, sure enough, the wind is right in our face. It’s not super overwhelming – but it’s enough to slow us down pretty good. 

So now it’s noon, and between the late start, the corn maze and garbage dump orienteering, and now the wind, we’ve made it about 19 miles. And we’re hungry. 

Or at least I am . . .

We see three cafes along the road and stop. It takes about two seconds to realize that now that we’re out of the big city communication is not going to be so easy; people here definitely don’t talk English and it’s questionable if they even know French – which is supposed to be almost an official language of the former French colony. With some improvised sign language we figure out that none of these cafes serves food – or at least they’re not serving food now. 

Another side note . . . Is it just me, or is it a total Muslim men thing that guys in these Arab countries are endlessly having coffee? There are, as far as we can tell, only men in these establishments. Drinking coffee. Or maybe mint tea. For hours . . . Not something I really understand . . .

Okay, so no food here – but the guys at the cafe manage to tell us that there are restaurants with food two kilometers down the road. We climb back on the bikes, and, sure enough, we find some restaurant-like establishments down the way. We see tangine pots at one station, and there are big pieces of meat – looks like lamb – hanging from, well, meat hooks at another station. 

But no one is eating . . . 

And it’s okay. We make it to the 45 mile town alright. But then the wind gets even worse. Every mile is a chore. We’re probably averaging 8 miles per hour . . .

As soon as we go to sit down, it’s this big thing. Several different guys converge on us to discuss this predicament. What predicament, you ask? Good question. Still not sure I know the answer to that. But it’s clear that there is one . . . (Our suspicion later was that it was just too early for lunch. People seem to start eating around 12:30 or maybe 1. Anything before that is, apparently, very perplexing to say the least . . .)

Diana is, of course, our chief communicator. Our best options are French and Google Translate. But service is not great in this town, and it’s not really clear that these people speak French at all . . . Nonetheless, Diana manages to convey that, despite the outrageously early time, we want food, and there is, eventually, agreement that we will have tagine and some lamb. One of the guys tells Diana that we will be eating his sheep. 

Okay, so that’s settled. A waiter guy brings us some tomato and onion salad and some bread. A good start. And tea. Even better. Diana loves the fresh mint, and I love the big sugar cubes. All good.

Soon there are more people arriving. And then the guy with the big pieces of lamb on the meat hooks starts firing up his operation. And within ten minutes or so some of the new folks around us are eating what looks like delectable lamb chops and stuff. 

It takes another ten minutes or so for us to realize that there is a problem here. Everyone else is eating. We’re not really seeing any progress. And then it clicks. The tagine is not for lunch at all. Those things cook all day. Who knows how long we’ll be waiting? 

So now Diana goes back into action. We want what everyone else is having. Forget the tagine . There’s another big pow wow. And eventually everyone is nodding. All seems good again.

But then another 20 minutes passes – and people are getting food all around us. 

Now, here’s another test of how well you know Dr. Liu. She is about to blow a gasket. Not because she’s hungry. She claims she could care less about the food. She just wants to get going . . . Time is a-wasting . . .

Some more lamb chops come off the grill. The waiter comes, loads up a couple plates . . . and brings them to a different table. 

Diana can’t take it anymore. We could be biking. We’ve barely covered any ground. And we’re sitting here, doing nothing . . . Her brain is about to explode!

”They got here long after we did!” she tells the waiter. 

Now, the waiter has no idea what the words mean, but he understands the language of angry-patron very well. 

He reassures us that we will have our food soon – and he brings us some more bread. Now, I’m happy about this – I always love some more carbohydrates – and this bread around here is pretty darn good. Diana is not placated. Because, again, she is not interested in the food – she just wants to get back on the road . . .

Well, eventually we do get our lamb chops. And they are very good. 

But now it’s almost 2 p.m. – and we’ve still only gone 19 miles. 

A slow start, indeed . . .

Worse, when we get back on the bikes the wind has picked up. 

There is no way we’re making it 85 miles today . . .

So the choice is: stop at 45 miles and stay at a hotel – or push on and hope to find someplace to camp . . . Now, Diana does not love wild camping because she likes to get her shower and have a toilet and a place to plug in the electronics and stuff. But she is also very much against a 45 mile day; it’s 152 or so miles to Casablanca and the idea that we wouldn’t make it one third of the way there on day one of our journey is kind of anathema to her soul. 

“I’d be okay pushing on,” she says. “There’s a small town with a restaurant at about 60 miles. We could eat there and then try to find a campsite after that.”

So that becomes our new plan. 

Finally, about 5:45 we see a gas station/restaurant place. We agree that we’ll eat here, but before we eat, Diana runs off to the bathroom. No problem – except that when I go to sit at a table there’s another big hullabaloo. People are pow-wowing again. I’m trying to convey that we will order food after Diana returns. But they don’t know English or Spanish, and I definitely don’t know Arabic or French. 

Eventually one of the guys – who, I think is a customer – gestures to me with his hands and beckons me to follow him. He wants me to cleanse my hands – a big Arab thing that we learned about on our tour yesterday – and he brings me to the bathroom. He even shows me how to do it (turn on the spigot and rub hands together . . . (I don’t think these people have a high opinion of the intelligence of Americans . . .)).

When I return, Diana is back and we eventually convince them that we want tagine – which is now ready because it’s late enough in the day . . . Takes a while to convince them to bring us two tagines – they seem surprised that Diana would want one . . . (I guess they assume women don’t eat?) But we eventually figure it out, eat dinner, and then begin discussing our camping options. 

And I’m proud to say that this is one of those rare instances where I feel like I actually make a contribution to the team. I want to ask the people sitting around about camping. Diana doesn’t see the point. But the way I’ve always seen it is that people actually love to help – we’re just giving them an opportunity to contribute . . . And if they don’t have any ideas, at least we get a read on how wild camping will be perceived . . .

We eventually type a note into Google Translate. Something to the effect of: “We are looking for a place to camp. Do you have any ideas for us?”

I show it to hand-washing guy. 

He’s confused at first, but eventually we have a big Google Translate conversation. He suggests a hotel 40 miles up the road. 

“Umm, not happening . . .”

Eventually he steps away – conveying that he will be right back . . .

When he returns he has another, much younger, guy, with him. Sala Hadine. (Actually the same name as the young biker we met who was heading to Alaska toward the end of our South America journey). 

This guy takes us into the basement of the place. It’s this giant, wide open space, with several side rooms that are filled with big couches. He knows some limited English and tells us that we can stay here. 

Somewhat amazingly, it’s actually pretty nice. Not a smelly basement. Clean. Has its own private bathroom, which is much nicer than the one upstairs – where I did the hand washing. 

We set up the tent – just for a feeling of privacy. 

And that’s how I ended up sitting on the couch in the basement of a gas station/restaurant facility – happy as a clam. 

But, of course, that’s not quite the end of the story. Because when we were wheeling the bikes around the building to the basement entrance, Diana noticed that there was a Hammam behind the building. Trust Diana to remember what a Hammam is. Our tour guide explained it to us yesterday – but, of course, for me, I heard the basic idea but wouldn’t have remembered the name for it in a million years . . . 

For tourists, Hammams are fancy spa-like places where you pay a bunch of money and they treat you like royalty – probably give you a foot massage or something . . . But there are also regular private Hammams for regular Moroccans. Not fancy – but a place to take a shower anyway. Or, I guess, a place for ablutions before or after intimacy or a place to cleanse before praying. But whatever, worked for me . . .

This is getting better all the time. Rather than camping in some random no-trees-but-lots-of-garbage spot “down by the river” we’re staying in a nice basement and now we have showers as well. 

We get the tent situated, gather up our stuff, and head over to the Hammam. But as we go in I notice that the picture on the sign shows a man – but not a woman. When we go in, I’m welcomed, but they tell Diana – in broken French – that she cannot come in . . .

So now – for $1 – I’m clean as a whistle after a nice hot shower, but poor Diana is still salty from riding all day . . . (And is probably going to be “salty” with me all night . . .)

One more thing . . . When I leave the Hammam, there are three peacocks wandering around. Or, to be exact, three peacocks, a big loud duck, and four chickens sitting in a tree. It’s like the twine days of Christmas. Except I guess it would be Ramadan in this case.

I would say this whole situation was very strange – except that it is super reminiscent of my Grandpa’s old motel – the one my brother runs these days. The motel is right across the street from the Duluth Zoo (now the Lake Superior Zoo), and was originally called the Duluth Zoo Motel. That name didn’t last long because people would always ask if they had to sleep with the animals. Which wasn’t far off – because peacocks were always calling their strange call, and wandering over onto the grounds of the motel. 

Oh, and one final commonality – the motel used to have a “club room” in the basement where they could do weddings and stuff – though I think mostly it was used for college parties my Dad would throw when he was attending the University of Minnesota Duluth (UMD – or, as my Dad and sister call it – UM DUM). 

Staying in this basement – with its club room feel, and its funny peacocks, is as close to home as I’ve felt in a long time . . .

So that was Day 1 of riding in Morocco. Not a boring day. And one more testament to the generosity of people the world over.