Dizzying high to devastating low: From the High Atlas to the squat toilet

We get an early start to attack the Tizi n Test. The climb is very long but not very steep. So, we call upon granny and start eating away at the kilometres. The road winds past mountain villages with little traffic. It's turning out to be a really nice relaxing ride. Michèle is concentrating on the road and overcoming her vertigo. Frankly, I'm little pissed off at Lonely Planet for their exaggerated description of this mountain pass. It is by no means treacherous.





A ways up the hill we bump into Walter, Virginie and Elio.

Michèle comments: My vertigo is better described as "vertigo after effort". I don't feel any ill effects if I were to drive up the dizzying heights in a car, for example. But the effort of hiking up a mountain or cycling up a mountain pass, that can bring it on. This day, however, I was determined not to let it get the better of me. It helped having Walter, Virginie and Elio as company as we pedalled our way to the summit along the 30-kilometre winding climb.



At the top we spend the night camping in an unfinished building that belongs to an existing restaurant and guest house. The restaurant charges three times the price for a tajine that we've been paying.
- Seulement 100 dirams (about 10 euros) mon ami.
Walter argues with the guy, saying that a tajine does not cost 100 dirams. But the guy keeps telling us that he makes it better than everyone else. I guess we'll never know if that's true.





After a shitty nights sleep (I don't know, maybe it's the altitude) it's a 30 km downhill to the valley below. The other side is much more impressive and a bit more dangerous since you are going much faster.



It's very easy to get hypnotized by the view and to veer off the road. OK, so maybe it is a little treacherous on this side, especially if you are holding your camera in one hand.





Michèle comments: About that movie clip of the descent, I am sooooooo very glad that I was ahead of Benoit on the road and completely unaware of what he was doing. The descent was freaking me out enough, with its hairpin turns on a road of crumbling pavement and huge potholes and very rarely with a barrier. Yes, the way down did feel treacherous. If I had known that Benoit was filming his descent with only one hand free to brake, I would have lost it!

The road flattens out and takes us into the valley. At the bottom of the hill we branch onto a main road that will take us to Taroudant. Walter, Virginie and Elio have gone ahead. They have to be at the Mauritanian border by mid November. We won't be seeing them again and we wish them the best of luck in their travels.



It's hot and dusty. We roll into several non-touristic towns where we feel completely out of our elements. Every single person we pass gives us a unemotional stare. A wave is all it takes to draw a hello. These towns are bustling with activities with their souks and lack of traffic regulations. The heavy sun, dust, and burning oil from poorly adjusted engines makes it hard to breathe. Some of these towns are quite dismal. Half-finished buildings with rebar sticking out of them. Dusty open fields, littered with garbage, doubling up as a soccer field. Some of these people will spend their whole lives here. We are just passing through.

We buy some fruit for next to nothing and head out of town. At a shady spot it's time for a break. A young women with a child slowly drifts over. I wait for the usual request ... money. But instead she starts crying. Holding her baby and kissing him on the forehead. Feeling awkward we pack up and leave. She never ended up asking for anything. We never ended up offering. At that moment life felt so cruel. Not sure if it was a well-acted ploy, but some of these towns have all the ingredients for a dismal existence. How lucky we are to be vagamonde.

The dismal towns are left behind and we arrive in Taroudant. A compact city surrounded by a medina. It is bustling with activity. There are dense souks and shops. Streets that would normally be pedestrian have all types of vehicles whizzing by you. There's more money here and people are not as aggressive. You pay Moroccan prices like everyone else and there is no need to bargain. We end up staying in a cheap hotel for two days and run some much needed errands. Michèle comments: In Taroudant, the people on the street weren't all men for a change. The hotel where we stayed was run by women. There were women in the cafés, women on bicycles, some with their heads covered, some with their hair blowing in the wind. It didn't matter what they were wearing. I was just happy to see them.

It's time to head towards the town of Aït-Baha where we know there's a hotel. As we pedal out of town, I can sense something is in the mail. I'm not feeling well and I start to regret leaving our hotel room in Taroudant. The map shows several secondary roads to Aït-Baha. We end up going on several wild goose chases trying to find them. Towns get poorer again. At a cross roads this guy comes up to us with the usual questions that lead to the usual request ... money. Since we are eating a snack we offer him some. He says all he wants is money. We all want that I felt like telling him. Besides, this guy is well dressed and he has a cell phone. Time to go. Another small goose chase and we're on the right track. At this point I'm feeling like shit. Gastro imminent. We won't make Aït-Baha tonight.

At a road side convenience store, we ask if there's a place to stay for the night. The guy opens a door besides the shop. It's an empty rundown apartment. He says we can camp there for a small fee. It's cleanish and there's a toilet. I'm going to need it. We set up, order a tea and nibble on some fruit. About an hour later we get a visit from a sketchy looking official. He barges into the apartment, has a quick look around and asks for our papers. We go sit outside where he writes down the information. His writing is so bad that I wonder if he's literate. At one point I even tell him that he's missing some information. When he's done he looks up at me and says with an annoyed looking smirk:
- Y'a pas d'problème mon ami (No problem my friend).
There better not be because I'm going to be busy on the toilet all night. The guy finally leaves and the man who rented us the apartment says:
- T'inquiète pas, c'est mon oncle (Don't worry, that's my uncle).
With that done, it's time for the intense chills and chattering teeth. Of course, a third world sickness would not be complete without lining up to the squat toilet about ten times during the night. This is fucking great!

To be continued...

Morocco shock and our ride to the High Atlas

Our journey to Morocco started with a taxi ride to the Edinburgh airport. On arrival I hand over my visa card to the driver.
- No can do he says.
- We were told we could pay with credit card I replied.
We have no cash of course. That would make things too easy. So, I run to the bank machine and take out another chunk of money, run back, and pay the driver.

The flight went without a glitch. I really like Ryanair! At Marrakech airport we wait one hour and a half to clear customs. It's packed with people because three flights came in at the same time. The queues are disorganized and there is a minimal amount of customs officers working. When it's our turn, the officer is in such a bad mood that he doesn't even look at us or our passports. He aggressively bangs a few stamps on some random page and motions to get on our way. Fine by me. After we get our luggage it's time to hit a bank machine. When we find one it's not out of order, but it might as well be because it's not spitting out money like it should. Thank god I took out money in Edinburgh. By the time we come out of the airport it's dark and riding is not a good idea. Besides we don't know where we're going.

Our host gave us vague directions that we're supposed to give to a taxi driver. With a price negotiated, we give to the driver the vague directions to where we're supposed to be staying. The taxi ride takes us to a non touristic suburb. The area is dark and run down. We have no clue where we're going or if the guy will meet us. I have to admit I was a little worried. Turns out the guy is there like he said he would: Sigh of relief. We pile out of the taxi with all our stuff and right away I feel a bit of a tension towards the amount of stuff we have. More on that later. There's an American couple staying with him. All of them help us carry stuff in. Huge contrast to the Butters apartment in Edinburgh. Our host's place is very small and our stuff takes up a lot of space. Anyways, we are tired and it's not long before we head to bed.

In the morning, we head down to one of the local restaurants for breakfast. Our host and the American couple head of somewhere else for breakfast and he tells us that we would not like the food they're going to go eat. Strange, but whatever. Sitting down with the locals we wait for our food. Being in a non touristic area we get strange looks from the patrons. It won't be the last time. It doesn't take long before a street vendor singles us out. He throws socks, underwear, and a bunch of other junk on our table. At one point he even waves a bra in front of Michèle. I try to be a good sport. I grab one of the underwears and do a little dance. The whole restaurant laughs. I laugh too but it will only take a few days for this sort of behaviour to piss me off.



That done, it's time to put our bikes together and go for a ride to get a feel for the Moroccan traffic. We are surprised to feel much safer than in the UK. Even though they drive fast and aggressively, Moroccans are very aware of other types of vehicles on the road. We head back to our host's place, happy about the ride and that the bikes are in good condition. But the conservative nature of this country shows it's face. Not thinking twice about storing the bikes in his place, he gets upset as we bring them in.
- It's not allowed he tells us.
We have to take them downstairs and lock them in the garage. There is a guardian there who looks over the bikes and other vehicles. Night and day. I reluctantly lock them up and remove anything that isn't bolted down. Back upstairs, we try to dampen the situation. Our host explains that people in the building are quite conservative and that many of them don't like him. He tells us it's because he is unmarried and that he always has foreigners staying over. Some of them young pretty girls. He claims that many married men in the building are jealous of that. Well, we got a taste of the culture shock we were looking for.

Not feeling super welcome but still grateful for the hospitality, we head out the next day towards the town of Asni. The road is busy but we are glad to be back on our bikes. The sun is shining and it's hot! A shock to the system, we end up stopping in the shade every 3 kilometres. The Atlas mountains off in the distance are approaching slowly. As you pedal forward, the mountain range looks like a humungous tidal wave. With the palm trees in the foreground and the shining sun glistening off the snowy peaks in the background, I imagine myself Laurence of Arabia shouting "take no prisoners!". At one rest stop I look over to the bikes and notice that all the inner tube caps are missing. Somebody stole them the night before when they were locked up in the garage. No big deal really, but it puts Michèle in a bad mood. We were reluctant to lock them up in a garage but we were told that there wouldn't be any problems. Turns out there was. I'm just glad the bikes didn't get stolen.



We follow the road and slowly deepen our familiarity for this country. As a tourist you are categorized and labelled around here. One nuisance are kids between the age of 5 and 10. They find it fun to run beside you yelling "stylo monsieur stylo". I don't know which idiot started giving these kids pens but I'd like to have a few words with him. Pedalling a little harder is all it takes to out run them and a few hours later we get to Asni. There, a guy leads us through a chaotic souk to the town hostel. The cheapest and crappiest yet. Michèle comments: That first day of real cycling in Morocco wasn't sitting too well with me. The overwhelming heat, the annoying kids (always the young boys and never when an adult is around), and discovering that our valve caps were missing, were all making my mood deteriorate. Some of the little fawkers even threw rocks at me (they missed) as I was pedalling a bit behind Benoit. I haven't encountered rock-throwing kids since, although one day some men at a cafe threw rocks at the kids to stop them from chasing us! It was hard to stay cool that day: I was guzzling and guzzling water, still feeling thirsty. That night in the clammy room at the hostel, I dreamt that I was taking care of someone's houseboat and with it their two goldfish in a bowl. Note the water themes. The bowl tipped over spilling the fish with it. I was trying desperately to get the fish back into the water. When I woke the next morning, I thought, aha, that is what I feel like here, a fish out of water.



Despite a good days ride we are a bit mentally drained from all the preparations and the strange situation encountered in Marrakech. At one point I tell Michèle that we need a vacation from our vacation. So, the next day we decide to stop at a nice guest house for a few days to get our bearings. My main worry at this point is the Tizi n Test. A 30 km climb to a pass at 2100 metres. Lonely Planet describes it as treacherous. We've never done a climb that big and I'm afraid that Michèle's vertigo will prevent her from doing it. But at the guest house, we talk to a few locals who ease our worries about the climb. Feeling better it's time to relax with our first tajine. Something we will be sick of eating after about a week.



Michèle comments: A couple of days into our trip and I am noticing how much Benoit and I stick out like sore thumbs. It is 30+ degrees in the sun and all the men are in long pants, long sleeved shirts, sweaters and jackets. We saw a guy walking by wearing a down jacket with a fur-lined hood. At least the hood was down. We felt awkward wearing shorts. Going out to eat in a food stall or café, we would be the only couple in a room full of men. It would make my day to see a Moroccan woman sitting at a café sipping a cup of tea and watching the world go by. One night at the guest house, I dreamt that I was going into a women's washroom, except that in this one the ceilings were so ridiculously low that I had to bend way down to fit in. Speaking of trying to fit in, I went to the Saturday souk in Asni wearing my fleece jacket and black leggings under my shorts. I was sweltering hot! "It is winter," sniffed Mohamed at my comment at long sleeves and pants in this heat. "In the summer we wear shorts."



Time to hit the road again. For the first time during this trip, we meet up with cyclists travelling long term. Walter and Virginie are cycling down to Dakkar with their two year old son Elio. Right away we have a million things to talk about. One of them is the Tizi n Test. They're going to be doing it on a tandem with a two year old. OK, we're not so worried anymore. Funny how some people's worries are completely overlooked by others. For example, at one point in time we were thinking of doing the same trip as Walter and Virginie. However, we did not want to spend the money on malaria pills and more vaccines. When I ask them if they have all the right meds for their trip they wave it off as pharmaceutical hype. They have no vaccines and no malaria pills.





A few more kilometres and we're in Ijoukak where we stayed at Gite D'étape Chez El Mahjoub across a little river. Mahjoub is a really nice guy and his place is nicely set up. He is an avid mountain biker and he eases our worries about the Tizi n Test so that it becomes negligible. My next worry is that Michèle is not feeling so good and not eating. This is unfortunately the start of something that will bother us for several weeks to come. More on that later.





The big day has arrived. The start of the climb is at our feet and the Tizi n Test is high above our heads.

To be continued...

The last wee bit of Scotland

We come out of our hostel hibernation to find that the Isle of Skye is blue! I can't believe my eyes. There is not a cloud in the sky. It's hot and we are in shorts and T-shirts. Michele comments: this beautiful blue sky day just happened to land on my birthday. I couldn't have asked for a better gift. Especially on Skye, and in October, because in this place the running joke is that the weather doesn't change much from season to season except that the rain becomes horizontal in the fall and winter.



After a day's ride, we pitch our tent behind a house. It always feels a little weird at first when you're not sure if you're allowed. But being in Scotland, soon enough someone comes up to ask us if we need anything. She tells us there's been a bit of a disaster. Her husband drove his tractor down to the beach at low tide and left it there to go fishing. By the time he got back the tide had claimed it. The top of the tractor slowly vanishing from sight. She tells us that she'll be back in the morning with a wee kettle. In addition, she brought us yogurts and sausage sandwiches. Too nice, just too nice.



In the morning we pack up and head out. There's not a cloud in the sky and it's throwing our minds for a loop. But despite all that I still feel physically drained and I end up pushing my bike up every hill. With this nice weather, morale should be going up but it's not really. I do my best to stay the course. The ride takes us to Portree where we investigate two hostels. We pull up to the first one. It's closed for the day but the caretaker pops his head out of the window. This guy looks like he's had too much sex with 20-year-old women trying to find themselves. And he's an asshole too! Even worse than the Milton Keynes hostel caretaker. After being welcomed with open arms everywhere we camped in Scotland, this guy tells us to move our bikes because we're actually on private property.



We head to the second hostel. The weather is still stunning. Something that is extremly rare in Scotland. But in the hostel there are two annoyed looking dumpy chicks curled up on a couch watching some stupid romantic comedy. For some reason, going off on a rant about how pathetic they looked in contrast with the beautiful weather put me right back on track. Morale shoots way up and I am no longer tired. Giving the finger to the two hostels, we head out for some of the best cycling we've done so far.

At the bottom of a steep descent is a campsite that is closed for the season. Hence free. Later on, Martin shows up. Martin is someone we met at a hostel. The next day we all go hiking for a few hours. It's nice to be off the bikes and use some different muscles. During the hike, a distressed cow can be heard in the distance. The lamentations are such that we are not sure if we should go investigate. Doing so would mean trudging through boggy terrain for several hundred metres. Good thing we didn't. It turns out that the lamenting cries are actually coming from a rutting stag. I really don't want to be perceived as a challenge to the harem of a six point buck. Although getting chased by a deer with blue balls would make a great blog post.



But horny deer are not the only thing making noise in the area. The whole mountain range is a race course for the air force. Jet fighters wipe by us at no more than a 100 metres from the ground using the mountains as slalom poles. These guys better not screw up because it's game over in a split second.



That night we spent our fourth night wild camping. The grease is accumulating and smells are getting exotic. We need a shower soon.

The five glorious days of sunshine are over. It's back to the shit weather. My patience for rain has become negligible. I feel that I never want to see rain again. So, we decide to stay at a family run hostel. Not too eventful. At one point, everyone is in the kitchen preparing dinner. I'm talking to one of the owners about fishing. He says that he went today but didn't catch anything. Doesn't matter he tells me. He has fish in the fridge. As he opened the package, the worst rancid fish smell permeates the kitchen. I look up at Michele with a "what the fuck is that smell" look. I have to leave the room but the smell doesn't seem to bother the guy. The fish is thrown into a pan and the rest is history. I'm pretty sure he wasn't sick that night but I almost was just from the smell.

Back on the bikes we stumble upon a beach where free camping is O plenty. There's nothing there except a few abandoned caravans. We have a look around for a spot with no sheep shit. Slim pickings. Michele comments: I am so sick of seeing sheep shit, it isn't funny. Always a pile of those dark brown pebble-like turds that look like chocolate-covered almonds (but don't eat them). It was everywhere. But especially it seemed to be exactly where we wanted to set up our tent.





Two older fellows come up to us and point to another spot down the road. There are two caravans there, very close to each other, which they claim are abandoned as well. So, we pitch our tent between them. It's sheltered and there is no sheep shit. Soon after night falls, a car pulls up to our beloved spot. We are toasty warm in our sleeping bags. We hear foot steps outside the tent. It's not long before hellos start bouncing back and forth. We get out of the tent to explain that we were told that the caravans were abandoned and that we are really sorry to be bothering them. What we get is the classic Scottish response.
- No problem at all.



Turns out that they've been keeping their caravans there for the last twenty years. They know everyone in the village and they're a bit annoyed that we were told false information. We chat and joke around for a while and they even offer us the other caravan for the night. Already set up we declined but we should have accepted because the night was pretty cold. In the morning, while having coffee, the man who told us the fib walks by. We tell him that we must have misunderstood him and that we thought he had said that the caravans were abandoned. Right in front of Michael the guy replies:
- Yes, they're both abandoned.

The sun is shining. Yet another lucky day. That's what I'm calling them now. Not nice days but lucky days. Doesn't matter really because this is our last cycling day. The route takes us past Eilean Donan. The mother of all Scottish castles were Mel Gibson delivered his (multiple Scottish accents???) Irish accent in Braveheart. Michele comments: Eilean Donan castle had a special significance for me. Years ago, when I was miserable at my job, I placed a picture of that castle on the front cover of my research notes. You know, as inspiration for better days to come. So it felt pretty amazing to be right there in front of it and on a fantastically sunny day too. Several hours later we arrive at the Plockton hostel. Not to eventful except that we have to be in the hostel tool shed in order to get internet. Being several metres away from the hostel, we can piggy back on an unsecured network. We could do all this outside but I'll give you three guesses why we can't. The first two don't count.



The hostel lounge offers a nice view of the now snowy mountains. The days are short and cold. Since we have given up cycling we catch a train to Inverness where we spent one night in a bizarre hostel. This place had cameras everywhere except the dorm rooms and bathrooms. All feeds are displayed in a mozaic on a plasma screen which no one pays attention to. No light switches either. All lights are activated by motion sensors. Michele comments: The kitchen was filthy too. I went to dry my hands on a tea towel, and came away with my fingers covered in something greasy. Shudder. The next day the staff tells us that a high school will be staying there. We decide to bail to the next hostel. Alright, I'm really getting sick of writing about hostels. It's on to Edinburgh by train of course.

In Edinburgh, we were taken in by John and Jane Butters who gave us much more than a place to stay. They took us to a concert one night and a play the next night to give us a view of the city that you would not get if you were a complete stranger. During the day we went shopping and got our stuff ready for the flight. In the evening they entertained us with their great dynamics. Like the time Jane was saying that in her career as a nurse she never once saw a doctor spell inoculation correctly. All the while John was trying to politely cut in by telling her to please stop because the conversation was terribly boring. We want to thank you for opening your door to us. We greatly enjoyed staying with you. Michele comments: I second that! Loved the jazz, loved the night at the theatre, loved the chance to chat with touring cyclists such as yourselves.



All our Scotland photos are here: Scotland 2010

To be continued...