The Day of Playing Dangerously

Rabat – Afriquia Gas Station, Ouled Marwane, Morocco

Two big events today. Or, rather, one big event and one series of small but related encounters. 

Let’s begin with the encounters. 

We started the day riding out of Rabat. That was fine, but nothing too exciting to report. Just biking out of a bigger city . . .

But as we head north, and into more rural areas, things became more exciting. 

It’s Saturday, and there seem to be kids everywhere. Hanging out by the side of the road. Hanging out in the road. Playing soccer in the road. Riding their bikes. Just being kids. 

A few things really stuck out for us. First, there were very few, if any, parents around. The kids just seemed to be managing themselves. 

Second, the kids were actually around. We were talking about what this would look like in America. Empty streets. Because all the kids would be off at karate or KUMON – that childhood-robbing leg up for the elites – or band practice, or soccer practice, or at the art museum, or at a dozen other self-improvement appointments. They definitely would not be outside “wasting their time” hanging out with the other kids who had nothing scheduled. 

Of course, this isn’t quite right, either. Because what I’ve just described isn’t really our whole country. It’s just the upper-middle-class kids. Bike through less well-to-do areas and there probably would be kids hanging out . . .

Anyway, we were glad they were around because the kids were pretty darn fun. Let’s start with the two brothers we saw this morning. I think they were going someplace and their parents were not giving them a ride. Which makes sense. Because, really, I don’t think most of these families have cars. They might have a motorcycle of some kind. They might have a cart and a donkey. Or they might not have any real means of transportation. So, yeah, they were probably tasked with figuring out how to get wherever they were going themselves. 

Kind of a long back story we’ve come up with – especially considering we only saw them for a second along the side of the road before we decided that something interesting was maybe going to happen. 

I need to back up for a second so that you understand the whole context here . . . We’ve been biking through this town for a few minutes, and there’s this 4-wheeler type vehicle with it’s cart area completely filled with vegetables that’s riding beside us. It’s obviously faster than we are, but there are speed bumps about every 200 meters, and the 4-wheeler has to slow down at every speed bump lest all the vegetables go flying everywhere. So I’ve been having fun taking pictures of it with my new-fangled camera-glasses things.

So we’re going along, when we see the two kids – one a few years older than the other – along the side of the road. I don’t know if they were trying to hitch a ride, but when they saw the vegetable cart they started running out into the road. It was interesting enough that I turned the video feature on. 

And, sure enough, it was interesting. The older one catches the cart and jumps into the back. The younger one gives it a good shot, but doesn’t quite make it.

I’ll let the video tell the rest of that story . . .

The fun part is that something like this would never happen in our part of the U.S. 

Okay, we keep going. And the road keeps getting more and more rural. Going through tiny little towns – barely big enough to have a mosque even – which means, in Morocco, that they are pretty darn small . . . 

At first we barely even notice that there is anyone around. But then groups of kids start materializing. And they are so excited to see us. 

“Hello!”

”Bon Jour”

”How are you?”

”Hola!”

And there was probably some Arabic versions of “Hello, how are you?” as well – but I’m a little ashamed to admit that I really don’t know much Arabic at this point . . .

They are running out into the road and sticking their hands out. We are, of course, slapping them five. 

They are clearly not afraid of strangers. 

They are not shy.

And the girls seem every bit as engaged, and engaging, as the boys. 

And it’s not just one crowd of kids. This goes on and on. Groups of kids all up and down the road. It’s like they’re calling each other. “Yeah, there’s two Americans biking down the road. Cheer them on!”

Except that is definitely not happening, because we’re biking in real time through town, and the kids don’t seem to be glued to their cell phones – if they have them at all – anyway . . .

After a while, one particular young boy decides to join us biking. Omar. Omar is probably twelve or so. He’s obviously a skilled biker. He actually had to wait up for us. Then he’s showing us how he goes no-handed – which he does for quite a while – talking to people he knows along the side of the road as we go. Then he’s doing a wheelie until he overlifts and is running along with the bike until he hops back on. 

Omar knows about as much English, French or Spanish as we know Arabic. That is, basically none. But this is what I love about sport. We are communicating nonetheless. We’re riding no-handed together and sharing our love for our bikes. We’re laughing and enjoying the moment. 

Omar probably biked a few miles with us before he decided to head back. Again, how many middle class American parents would let their kids bike off unattended with complete strangers on a road where cars might be going up to 50 miles per hour? 

So here’s what I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking that the rates of childhood depression and mental health issues in Morocco are about a millionth of what they are in the United States. The kids don’t seem to be staring at their phones all day. They are out playing with their peers – in real time and space – not on TikTok or Instagram or something. And they are not trained that the whole world is out to get them and that they should avoid talking to anyone who is not a close family friend. And my sense is that kids that grow up in this type of environment are going to enjoy better mental health. Would love it if readers could find some statistics on this . . .

Okay. The other happening . . .

We start getting toward the end of the day and we’re pondering where we’re going to put our heads down for the evening. Remember, we’re in a very rural area. There are no hotels around. And, sadly, there are no campgrounds either. 

It’s not that big of a deal, though, because everyone is so nice and helpful around here that for sure we can find a place to camp. But there’s another problem too . . . We don’t have food, and the pickings for grocery stores and restaurants seems pretty slim as well. 

Like, none. 

Well, that’s not that good. It’s one thing to go without a shower. But going without a shower and dinner – that’s not cool . . .

We – or, let’s be honest, Diana – eventually figures out that there’s a gas station ahead – an Afriquia Gas Station – and maybe it has a cafe/restaurant attached to it as well. We decide to go there, grab dinner, and then head down the road to find a place to camp. It’s not actually on our fun kids road, it’s on the highway that runs parallel, on the other side of the train tracks. But no big deal; we find a tunnel under the tracks and we pull our bikes up the hill to the station. 

It’s perfect. It’s almost like the COPEC stations that Diana loves back in Chile. Restaurant. Convenience store. Bathrooms. There’s even a shower building. And there’s a big parking lot off the back with picnic tables. Looks like a perfect place to set up a tent. 

New strategy: Camp here. 

We – or, rather, Diana – asks the people at the convenience store if it would be okay to camp and if we can take a shower (the shower building said to ask about showering). 

“No!”

There is no discussion. There is no: “here’s an idea for you . . .”

Just: “No!”

No camping. No shower. No nothing. 

Hmm. 

Time for a new strategy. 

We decide to head over to the other side of the highway – where there’s another Afriquia Gas Station and restaurant. Also, that’s the ocean side of the highway – and beyond the gas station are the dunes – that presumably go over to the ocean. Maybe we can camp there? 

But who to ask?

Well, there are some sheep grazing in the dune area. Where there are sheep there is usually a sheep herder – a shepherd, if you will . . . And, sure enough, we find a shepherd. Super nice older man. As soon as we approach he offers me some bread – which magically comes out of this bag thing he has. I give him a date because that’s all I have . . .

We ask about camping behind the Afriquia in the dune area. Again, language is an issue. But he manages to convey, in no uncertain terms, that he doesn’t think we can camp there. He suggests that we camp at his place – and he points down the highway. After a bunch of back and forth we tell him that we will get dinner and then come back. The problem is that where he’s pointing is the wrong direction – and it’s down the busy highway . . .

After dinner – remarkably good for a gas station – shish kabob and tagine and salad and stuff – we decide to just push back onto the “Kids Just Want to Have Fun” Highway (credit to Cyndi Lauper . . .) that we’ve been on all day. People are so nice along there it should be easy to find a place . . . I mean, it won’t be as nice as staying near the Afriquia, with bathrooms and coffee and stuff – but we can make anything work for a night . . .

So now we’re heading out. But somehow one of the gas station attendants at the Afriquia intuits that we need a place to stay. Again, no common language. So he starts with some sign language – two hands against his cheek – meaning, I think, sleep. Add in a searching look for a question mark and he’s got a complete sentence: “Do you need a place to sleep tonight?”

”Yes,” I nod.

He shows me a place behind the car wash building where there’s a little piece of grass beside the road. 

More sign language: pitched hands for a tent. 

“Yes,” he nods. And then manages to convey that this is a space that is not covered by the security cameras – so we can stay there. 

But by this time there’s a Moroccan pow wow forming. I don’t know if it’s just Diana and me, or if they happen all the time – but I love these pow wows. The purpose always seems to be to help figure out our problems for us. 

Pretty soon an Afriquia security guard – wearing a full security guard uniform – approaches. 

“Hmm, this isn’t going to be good,” I think . . .

”Okay to camp here?” I ask, in our sign language-y dialect . . .

Surprisingly, his answer is not “No.” Instead, he is showing me a different place to camp. Right below the big neon Afriquia sign in front of the building. He conveys that this way he can keep an eye on our stuff and make sure nothing happens to us. 

Soon we’re joined by yet another security guard and they’re helping us with our bikes and our bags, and they’re even helping us set up the tent, and advising on where we should lock the bikes. 

So now we’re sleeping under the Afriquia sign. It’s not real quiet. It’s not real dark. But there’s a bathroom nearby. And our security guard friends will be watching out for us all night. 

The only caveat . . . They only work until 7 – so we need to have the tent packed up by then. 

Should not be a problem – because it’s early and there’s not a lot to do at the Afriquia Gas Station on a Saturday night . . . It’s not like we’ll be out dancing until 1 a.m. . . .

Tomorrow? On toward Tangiers. We won’t make it all the way – but we should be able to make it to a town with some other lodging options . . .

Oh. One other thing I wanted to report. We talked to this other guy – Jelal – who brought me some water when I was out. It took Jelal about two minutes to ask about Trump. He gave us a big thumbs up and conveyed that Morocco loves Trump. 

Then he tells us that he really wants to go to America. He’s trying to convey something else – we think he was trying to say that he wants to work in America. And he’s telling us that he can’t get a visa. There’s no way to tell him that his hero, President Trump, is maybe not the best option for him if he wants a visa to work in the United States. 

But, man, our informal survey is pretty one-sided. People in these foreign countries love Trump . . .

It’s weird.