Stay Magical, Morocco.

The next part of the journey has been hard to capture, it’s like trying to take notes of the  film scenes that are projecting in the background of my head, but what is art if not a long essay of trying to capture life…or something? So, for you, and for me, I try….

What was meant to be a two day ride turned into six day journey filled with Amazinh culture, police escorts, bad encounters with men all set against other- worldly landscapes. 

On January 29th I wrote in my journal: 

The sun is actually hot. I am actually sweating. Possibly even burning. I’m at a restaurant outside of Agafay. A young boy goes by on a donkey. All day I’ve passed children working and I wonder… is it good for kids to maybe work a little? Is that an obscene thing to say? My cream pants are completely covered in mud and ripped from this morning leaving Marrakech. Despite that and the crazy traffic close to the main square it was hands-down the easiest capital city to leave of my trip yet. After weeks of not biking though I now feel woozy from the sun, lack of water and big emotions. A young boy just biked alongside me asking for money then saying “sex sex sex” and pointing at what I now realize was the topless mermaid sticker on my bike (from my first bikepacking trip with Kassia to Hornby Island). It feels wrong to tie some string over her exposed breasts, but it also feels wrong to have her front and centre in a Muslim country on my bicycle.

The next day I wrote: 

-woke up underneath an olive tree in my tent where I slept well and felt safe. I met the owner of the ”Honey Badger Cafe” the day before and told me it was safe to sleep here. His dream was to open the cafe in his village, he made a mean sandwich and still texts me weekly checking in and wishing me well. 

-stopped for Nous Nous (half/half) coffee at a gas station named “club Africa”. 

-I hated the busy highway and looked at my map and decided to veer left to a road that went underneath the famed Atlas Mountains to a town called Imantanout. 

-Found myself on Donkey trails along pink hills until literally two boys on a donkey help me cross a stream. 

-A man and his wife are cutting wood with a donkey who helped me cross the second river. He pushes my bike across, soaking his own shoes, and then guiding me across, my shoes stay dry. His eyes are so light it was like he had sunlight caught in his irises.

-On the other side of the stream before getting back on my bike, an old man comes up to me overjoyed and kisses my cheeks so many times that they’re left wet and slowly as he passes me gropes my chest before walking away. Ew. 

All I can do is continue on. 

-Red, rose, lime and yellow rock, sand, hills and mud houses 

-A man biked by me and invited me to his mother‘s house to eat in French. I felt strange but I could see her house from the road so I decided to try. He ends up leaving and I end up eating lunch with his wife of 22 and their her son Youssef who is a joyful little bean, jumping, making playful sounds and high-fiving and holding my hand. Kid after kid comes into the cement house to peer at me, the house that is completely empty except for the bedroom with the bed and TV playing strange cartoons in Arabic . 

Her best friend comes and we all eat on the floor with our hands from a shared plate of chicken and veg. It made me sad to see them in this little village, especially the 22 year-old. She did not seem meant to be there. She said she couldn’t read, and you could tell by the far off look in her eyes, she was somewhere else. I kept looking in the direction she was, wondering where it was. After we finished eating, the grandmother came in and said it was time to eat at her house. She smacks her lips in between her foreign words and she told me her husband had died by tilting her head to the side and closing her eyes and sticking her tongue out. She did this motion multiple times in a row. I did it back to show I understood. The entire family of eight sits to eat and our silence is broken by chewing and laughter when I meet their eyes. We ate a delicious Tagine of chicken and potatoes, carrots and homemade Hobz (bread=arabic). They ripped up a blanket and packed me many loaves, tucking them into my bike bag. Everytime my mouth stops chewing they tell me to keep eating. Another neighbour comes to offer me a third lunch but I say I shake my head no. They show me their goats instead, passing the newborns for me to hold that still have umbilical cords. I am impressed by the swiftness of the way that the woman catch the goats and chickens. The grandmother walks me and my bike out of the village and back onto the road, I try to give her money but refuses and she takes a cookie instead. I start cycling and turn around as the grandmother waves to me, surrounded by a group of young boys watching me cycle away.

-I call Kassia for morale. She helps a lot. 

-The Atlas Mountains come into view as I slowly ascend. At one point a group of kids get on their bike and are following me yelling “fuck you bitch! fuck you slut!” and I tell them, eyes narrowed, tone gruff, to stop. They continue to follow me and I ignore them. Eventually they get bored and leave. 

-As I finally pull into this random town I chose on a map, the energy is all wrong and I get the sense of unfriendliness, my instincts on alert. A man starts yelling and running towards me and speaks to me in English. 

“Where are you going?” He askes and I answer. “Imatanout.”

 “But that’s still 7ks away” he says.

 “I know. Dont worry.” 

“Come to my house!” My second invite of the day but this one feels different. 

“No, thankyou!” I start to pedal away.

 “My names mark!” He calls. 

Of course Mark lives in this town and knows that I’m about to go up a big hill and as I’m slowly making my way up it, he jumps out of a taxi cab in front of me and says 

“Where are you going?” 

“I already told you.” I say, angrily. 

“It’s not safe here for you!” Is the response from the reason I am feeling unsafe. 

I tell him “ok.” 

“Taken me with you!!!” He demands!

This time i shout

 “NO.”

He stands on the side of the road as I slowly bike away but now, of course, I do feel very unsafe, and I turn left into an unplanned village and ask a group of women if they know a safe place to sleep. One of them has a guesthouse, where I lay my reeling head of the days events to sleep safely and soundly as a thick fog rolls in and dogs bark in the distance.

In the morning i am alone in the house, preparing to take on another day. It’s a steep hill to Imantanout, the hills are gorgeous but it’s a big city again with a feeling I don’t jive with. I laugh at myself for all the effort it took to get here, just to head back down the mountain to the coast. Planning and route planning a slow burn for me. The terrain towards the coast is an empty desolate desert landscapes, like nothing I have ever seen before and it’s a long day of going up and down, up and down, up and down. I call some European friends on my bike to make the passage more fun as the sun beats down.

I stop for lunch just 1km out of a town where I buy juice and fruit and sit with my bike along the road in the shade of an Argon tree eating the bread thats already turning stale from the family the day before, dipping it into a can of tuna. A Berbere man walks off the highway and sits beside me. He is very old and is whispering to me in his language. I FaceTime one of my new Morrocan confidents and ask him to translate. He tells me this man doesn’t speak Arabic and he doesn’t know but is probably hungry. As I’m talking to my friend on the phone, the man strokes my bare arm with one long spindly finger like ET phoning home. I stand up and firmly say “NO. NOT OKAY.” I start packing my lunch stuff up and he begins to masturbate and grabs my lunch. I explode, yelling, “THIS IS SO WRONG. WHAT YOU ARE DOING IS WRONG. I KNOW YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING BUT I KNOW YOU KNOW ITS WRONG.” And I cycle away from the man. Stopping in the middle of the highway that he is now walking down the middle of in the opposite direction, but turns with a bit of a smile as I yell one last thing. “I HOPE THIS TONE STOPS YOU FROM EVER DOING THIS TO SOMEBODY AGAIN!” 

I continue on. 

The landscape changing from the desolate barren yellow to a fruitful electric green.  I stop at a fork in the road to check my map.  A man askes me where I am going, the 12th man of the day, of the hour, it feels like to do so. I hesitantly tell him and he pulls out his uniform from the back of the beaten up 90’s Volvo, it’s the po-po! His is name is Muhammed and he wants to escort me the rest of the way he says in French. Completely unrelated public masturbation that just happened. I was honestly thankful for the guidance. The steepness of the up and down hills were cranked up and he was like a coach i didn’t ask for, waiting for me with an impressed smile at the top of every one of them, as I slowly cycled up. We’d meet on the top and he’d drive down and up the next one, waitting on the crest. Many People stopped to happily chat to him and pulling up beside me on their motorcycles to talk to me. Including a confident 14 year old asking me for my number. Which I of course gave to him. (A little too old for ya kid is what I actually said). The sun hangs low and a family joins Muhammed at the top of the next hill to watch the one person specticle. I arrive, red faced, and they invite me in for tea, I accept. They radiate kindness and have trusting, curious eyes. They own the olive pressing mill in town and the workers, Muhammed the cop, me, and the sister and brother from the family share mint tea and cookies outside around a tiny table. They tell me if I like, I can stay the night with them. I weight my options, the alternative being another 30k’s and sleeping at the police station. I again accept. 

Their house is cement and big on the top of a rolling hill amongst fields of neon yellow flowers and the road passing by is a long steep incline I will eventually leave on taunts and beckons my entire stay. Mariam is my main host, she has a newborn that she slings onto her body or hands off to a coo-ing family member. Her and her sister are so sweet and make me feel at home. We speak a mix of English, French, and google translate. I take a shower and after they cover me in rose oil and spray me with perfume. Little do I know the peace is fleeting, as they have a yearly event of their entire family and village coming to honour their ancestors in the house. Soon there is men saying the Quaran in one room together in unison. Women cooking Tagines, fried potatoes, and couscous in humungous pots in the basement. I again am invited to eat in multiple rooms with multiple different groups of people. We sit together and try to communicate and often they laugh at me while I laugh at the ridiculousness of my present moment. I’m so full I have to decline invites. My best friend is a 7 year old named Wassil who tells me her favorite things are speaking English and colouring. We spent the day outside and I teach her how to make use watercolour paints and we run through the fields together. 

My new fam shows me a huge house sitting empty across the road. Teach me words in Amazinh and about their traditions and their faith. I end up staying two nights after they beg me too. At night they sit all together, the Quaran playing off their cellphones in the middle like background jazz. I sleep beside them, 12 women sardined together in the parlour room like a slumber party. Many coming in and out throughout the night, flicking the lights on, chatting. They have a whole empty house where everyone could have their own room across the street but this is the way they do it!  

I am still in awe of their generosity and how they just welcomed me, this random white girl off the highway, right in! Feeding me, even tried to clothe me multiple times, welcoming me to their ancestral event.  On the morning I left, as I gathered my things, one of the older women took off of her ring and slipped it on my finger. I felt sad to say goodbye and they kept asking me to stay or at least come back. I said my goodbyes but as I walked my bike to the highway, another police officer greeted me and got to have the best day of work, paid to escort me 20k’s, again, stopping at the top of every rolling hill and taking videos of me. At the end of his service he bought me a stale chocolate bar from Spain, 2L of water, some juice and said it was a wonderful experience for him to be my guide. I felt a little scared once he left but the day was uneventful really. An easy day of tire against hot asphalt beside fields of tiny orange, purple and yellow wildflowers. I continued to have bike problems and I called it quits and walked deep in some African brush where I camped under an Argan tree ( I always feel safest under a tree), just outside of Essauoria. The Snow Moon was full and as it rose I realized it’s the most consistent thing in my life right now, marking obvious chapters of the last few months. I lay awake all night as waves of terror run through me. If all that happened in broad daylight, imagine what could happen in the night? I spent the night imagining all the possibilities and thinking of scorpions and listening intently to the what breaks the silence of the night. 

I arrived early to Essauoria finally in the pouring rain and with an oncoming flu coming in and my lips looking botoxed from

cold sores. The family i had stayed with had a lot of obvious sick members, coughing and spitting and my system immune system after everything was level 0. I rented a cheap, dingy apartment, not wanting to stay in a hostel. Not wanting to talk to anybody. I just needed to feel and to sleep and be by the sea in the pouring rain.

A part of me doesn’t want to share some of these stories because of the way we already paint countries like Morocco with broad strokes in the west. We have ideas about these far away places based in others opinions and what the media says (and fear sells!) How often do we take the time to explore our assumptions? Break them down, consider “why do I think this?” Many moroccos have asked me earnestly “but what do people think of Morocco?” In a way that makes me sad. Both can be true. Morocco is full of constant contrasts. Some really shitty stuff happened to me and I find it hard at times to be here as a solo woman. People also take extra care of me as a solo woman and are generous and open their homes and hearts. I am in love with the community that is richly felt here and think often about Morocons living away from home and how hard you must feel the lack of that. If I stop on my bike for one second a car or person will stop to make sure I’m ok. Of course, like all country’s they got some serious problems with much suppression. But People are generous, they are open, they and especially the kids, deeply curious. I wouldn’t be able to continue on this journey if this wasn’t true. 

After a day of rest and going non-verbal, Tannum crashed on my couch. An old family friend doing basically my trip but backwards, from Morocco to Milan, where his brother is reffing the Men’s Olympic Hockey game. He had a recent accident that involved his face, a riptide, and a rock and he was a self titled “zombie face.” We hadn’t seen eachother in maybe 10 years but it felt familiar, and I saw flashes of the friend I knew at twelve years old from the lake as we hung out. He helped me through a ridiculous day of trying to fix my bike problems with motorcyclist mechanics and the craziest character in town, a man named Jad who is instagram famous for all of his cats.

Often he pedals around town with them on his shoulders feeding them from a can of Tuna. He is running for mayor next year, rents bicycles to tourists, has currently 9 cats living with him and in off season seemed to have nothing better to do then come along for the adventure, giving Tannum a bike and translating to the motorcycle mechanics my issues. We were quite the pair the three of us weaving around town and Jad waved to every single person. 

The fix the mechanic did was interesting to say the least, but hey, future Hannah is here to say it’s doing the job! I asked Jad if I could buy him dinner to thank him for his time and he agreed but said “the Morrocan way.” Jad took Tannum and I, weaving effortlessly through the Souks via our bikes to where we bought spices, a whole chicken, vegetables, preserved lemons and olives from the market and brought the bags to a resturant and said we’d be back in hour to eat. A very normal way restaurants do it here. We paid the resturant $5 do cook it, totalling the entire meal at about $10 (with leftovers for the cats). Jad gave us a Morrocan history lesson as we ate that was a bit hard to follow. Tannum went out partying that night (I went to bed early trying to recover from my cold) and he met people who knew Jad, said they love him, he’s such a nice guy, but they wouldn’t take history lessons from him. 

After more days than planned as Tannum and I both tried to let our bodies recorder, we parted ways as wind violently gust. (Essuioara is the place for windsurfing- the beach is full of them going in every direction, often crashing into eachother.) After some research before heading out I read warnings that police will often move campers along in this stretch of the coast (the police in Morocco are supposed to prioritize and protect tourists). My next destination was Imsouane (famed surf spot) so I chose a campsite in Tafedna 70k’s down the coast in the middle to stay, where I am officially the first person to arrive to their campground via police car. The third encounter with the police during my three weeks in Morocco. This one was the worst of the three, saving best for last. 

It was around 2 pm. I was cycling sluggishly along the rolling coastal road with my cold hitting hard. Thinking about how I keep being absolutely brain blasted since being in Morocco. To the point where im finding it hard to talk, hard to write. I was feeling it physically, the resource I usually can pull from low, but also I felt grateful to get on my bicycle and ride. My lifeline. My love. My campion. Despite all the frustration, i stubbornly want to continue on this adventure i have planned for myself and when I want sometning nothing can really stop me. I know this about myself. When a car pulled over, Interrupting my thoughts and a man hoped out telling me he was the police and asking where I was going. I told him about the campsite, he said it didn’t exist, I assured him it was real and he called somebody in the area to check. He said okay, but that it wasn’t safe for me to be biking there and told me he would drive me to the next beach town. Not wanting to argue with an officer of the law and feeling like total crap, I agreed. On the way, he told me about his life and that the beach we were going too was the most beautiful in Morocco. It was where he went to smoke Shisha and drink beers which is what he to love to do. He couldn’t have people seeing him do that in Essaouira where he worked. (It’s Haram in the Quaran). This was the first red flag, and it just got worse from there. Already a bit angry when I said I wouldn’t be drinking. “But I’ve never met a Canadian who doesn’t drink?” 

“I have drank before in my life I just don’t now.” I told him. 

“Today you will” was his reply.  

He drove fast around the bends and when I told him which direction I had biked from, he said he had heard of me and pulled up a document on his phone with my name on it. It rattled me to see my name on his phone, saying I was a female biker in the area. He continued to talk about how he had no control in his life. His marriage was arranged but he loved his kids and was a proud father, his son my age. He said his job was good but he had no freedom like me. He didn’t sleep, he had no autonomy. I asked him questions like did he have cats? Did he still write after journalism school? He sideeyed me, the whites bloodshoot, “I told you. I don’t have time.” 

The beach “town” he took me too was the most beautiful one I had seen my entire trip. Just one like of fishermen shacks in a cove that was a dead end of a steep road. One I couldn’t appreciate worth a damn because I was perched beside him on the highest terrace he kept saying they had literally built just for him. He quickly told me once we arrived I wasn’t allowed to leave. He said he would wait here till midnight and in the morning drive back with little cakes for us. “I will go to my campsite” I told him and his mood shifted dark like the incoming rain clouds. “I want you to stay here.” As he smoked a red paste of quality minty shisha and crushed back beers, he told me i was to be his queen. And it felt like up there, above endless rolling waves with the sun pooling down onto the coast, cutting through the sea mist that fell in sheets along the fisherman houses. He kept called me “Aïsha” “how do you like your new name?” He asked smiling as he puffed from the hose. “I hate it. I like my name.” I said back. He was even trying to take away my name now. He kept asking me to reconsider staying and then begin to coo “take me to Canada! Take me to the farm, get my hands in the dirt!” I almost had a full on adult version of a temper tantrum. I almost stomped my foot and screamed.I almost cried with frustration. I just wanted to ride my fucking bike. But I swallowed all of it whole, it was the police after all. I smiled, I played nice, I coo’d back and laughed sweetly. I said I had friends waiting for me, I had a plan, I couldn’t stay, thankyou so so much. Until finally he arranged for another officer to drive me to my site, and hugged me tightly goodbye as if whispering one last time to save him from his life, save him from himself. 

Morocco is teaching me how to have a “No.”  this journey as taught me of my dislikes, it’s given me strong yeses, firm no’s, and it’s all new for me. Learned through getting to know myself. I have grown up in a society, but also a family that strongly values beauty. Beauty that is seen as a weapon, an important skill set, because beauty is how you receive love, beauty is how you hold power, and for some years I believed it and then some years I pushed back against all of it like a wrecking ball against myself in the opposite direction. I am learning that true power comes from choice, and from knowing yourself, and when you know yourself, or take the time to try, that’s truly empowering baby. 

I planned to stay a couple of days and stayed almost a week in Tafedna, a gorgeous beach town recovering from a final knockout punch of the flu. Achy. Scratchy. Even Itchy. The transition to Morocco, moving quickly with high stressy times mixed with SUNBURNS. Yes. I repeat. SUNBURN. SOLIEL-A-LAKUM people for I finally found the god damn sunshine. Was all to much. 

But my journey has been blessed from the start, and I was lucky to be stuck in Tafedna, it fed my soul, and so did Walled and Abdullah who run the campground/farm. 

They gave me keys to the Caravan parked on the hillside after I said I like to paint and fed me Tagine every night and Moroccon mint tea with three bricks of sugar. They had more chickens than i’ve ever seen a person have, and cared deeply about their dream

of this little farm Camping oasis. They told me I was family, and they made me feel fed and safe. I spent alone time amongst the sand dunes and wildflowers cast in a constant film of sea mist. Walked along the hillside of line with Ancient argan oil trees. Awoke through the starry nights to donkeys calling out in the night with a sound like a truck backing up. Slowly, as the days passed, I felt a bit better. I cried as Walled and Abdullah fed me eggs in the morning and said their door was open anytime, they told me to please stop crying as it was making them uncomfortable. 

I have been travelling with a French family of mom, dad, two teenage sons who are on their bikes for a year and Basil, another Frenchy from Grenoble who is very sweet, paraglides, and is going the same direction as me. I now most days am speaking more French than English. On the route right now includes a man who had set out to complete the Mountain Atlas race (bikepacking race)  as a duo but his partner got extremely ill and they dropped out quickly into the course, so now he’s just spending his two weeks biking around, and a couple from Holland  is here too, they are fun and served an awesome pot of couscous for dinner tonight that we all added sometning too. Is this pot of couscous a metaphor? What a ridiculous group of people, all travelling in our own ways, yet similarly via bicycles in Morocco. Theres a famous bikepacking route that is split into two parts and runs the entirety of Morocco titled “Route of the Caravans” and I have found myself at the beginning of it, travelling in a 10 person Caravan, a self created roadside pilgrimage. 

Morocco is hard! The cycling is hard. In a way that’s making me miss and daydream about my life back in Canada. I feel waves of grief because here and now is what I dreamed of for the last five years of my life, this was the light at the end of my tunnel, what got me through hard times and what I stared up at the stars and thought about. Now thats it’s coming to end i feel sad and lost. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do next. I thought this trip would answer questions of my life back home but it’s filled me with more questions. I have community and friends that are calling me back but what is my purpose back home? I feel purpose everyday on the bike and I think it’s one my favorite thing’s about it. What will i do for work? Where will I live? I know it’s a privilege to have so many options and so much choice but I feel overwhelmed by it and choose nothing. So I guess I am calling on my community to help me, I am open and if you have any ideas, any suggestions in regards to a job and a place to live, please lay them on me! Help! 

In the interim, I am doing my best at staying present and doing what I came here to do, ride my fricken bike and be thankful for the long sweet ride! What a gift. 

My writing and my riding are metaphors for where I am at, and I am really fricken going for it! If you made it through this whole blog post i am deeply thankful, it took me weeks and long hours to craft, a gift for you, and one for me too. I probably won’t write another one for awhile. I am finding the silence and the stars at night to be quite mystifying and my goal for the next bit is to be present and follow the words of Mary Oliver: 

Instructions for living a life: 

Pay attention. 

Be astonished. 

Tell about it. 

I’ll tell you about it one day soon, but i gotta pay attention first. 

All my love & stay magical, 

Han