Perched atop the Canarian clouds

In the last post, we were on the ferry from Laâyoune and Las Palmas was off in the distance. Now we are ready to get off the boat. So, we head to the car deck to get our bikes. They're still there and in one piece. After almost suffocating from the truck exhaust, we get to the customs line up. It takes forever. Thank god we were able to eat the night before.

With all the bureaucracy done, we get our stupid passport stamp and roll into Las Palmas. The place is spotless. Every store we can think of is within a 10 minute walk. We wander around, looking for a place to park our asses and stumble onto the main beach. It too is spotless. Not a speck of garbage in sight. There's even a sand Zamboni combing it every morning.



Every hundred metres, there's a shower where you can wash the sand off your feet before you put on your shoes. There's even a woman getting completely naked to change into her bikini. Nobody cares. As we push our bikes on the promenade, herds of kids run past, not even giving us a glimpse. Our anonymity is back.

We spend three days in Las Palmas, running errands. One of them is to hit the local marina. The next leg of the trip will be heading east. We have this crazy idea to catch a ride on a sailboat to Greece or Turkey. Having a look around, we find that we are not the only ones. There are at least three posters of people trying to do the same thing. But for us, it's a bit of a long shot. Most sailboats are going west to South America or the Caribbean. On top of it, we have two bikes. We can always dream I guess.

Gran Canaria has a wide selection of free camping spots. So, we decide to hit the road to check them out. Gran Canaria is extremely mountainous. By now, that should set off warning bells, but it didn't. We should have left at six in the morning. But instead, at noon, we start a 35 km climb. The ride takes us through windy roads and into the clouds ... and eventually above them. With the night approaching fast, we are concerned that we won't make the campsite in time. We push on and the road keeps climbing like the Tower of Babel, all the way to the heavens. With 4 km to go, it's all systems stop. These are times where you need a gift from the gods. Wouldn't it be nice to have a large, empty van. Sure enough one drives up 5 minutes later. The guy agrees to take us the rest of the way. Both our bikes fit in perfectly. We don't even have to remove our panniers. The rest is a big feeling of relief as we roll into the campsite. Muchas gracias Maximo Ramos Talavera for giving us a push up the hill!

Michèle comments: Our delay in setting off that morning was partly due to making a stop at the Cabildo (government) office to get a permit for the free camping. These campsites are in nature park reserves on the island. While Benoit watched the bikes, I went in armed with only a smattering of phrases in Spanish. I tried to ask for an open permit for all the campsites on the island, but it doesn't work that way. It is kind of like reserving a hotel, where you have to specify dates and the particular camping area. Oh and another thing, you cannot have a permit on a major holiday or the day before the holiday, e.g., December 24, 25, 31, January 1, 5 and 6, the latter being the Fiesta de Reyes. Finally, I was able to get a pre-Christmas permit for the closest camping area to Las Palmas that is not for caravans only, and a post-Christmas pre-New Year permit for the next closest. It was kind of sad after all that effort with obtaining a permit to see the beauty of these nature park reserves marred by the presence of a gazillion cigarette butts and bits of broken glass. It makes one wonder who these people are who think, "What will I do this weekend? Oh I know, I'll go into some remote pristine nature spot and smoke a ton of ciggies, butt them out on the forest floor, whilst smashing some bottles."

In the morning, the sky is clear and the island reveals itself. We are up about 1700 metres. The view is stunning. It doesn't even look real.



However, it's was only for one night. Even though these campsites are free, you do require a permit, which seems to be rarely checked. Anyways, we headed back down part of the way to a town called Tejeda. There, we meet up with Jana (who we actually met in a hostel in Las Palmas) and Ian.



We all spent Christmas in the hotel restaurant and finally had the few too many drinks I've been longing for.



A few days later, it's back on the bikes. Being anonymous again and camping up in the mountains is giving us a chance to reflect on things. The big issue of the last six months was that Michèle had to leave the Schengen area. We thought we would figure something out, but instead, we got propelled the wrong way. The idea was always to go east, but up to now, we've been telling people that our world trip is more of a zig zag. We've been going more west than east. There is a general feeling of aimlessness. Something tells me that this is contributing to the travel fatigue. Even here, it is lingering. Just the other day, for no apparent reason, I felt that I couldn't go on. That living this way is stressful and pointless. Barely able to do 20 km, we pitch the tent and head straight to bed. We have a two hour nap, wake up, make dinner and head right back to the tent. We end up sleeping another 12 hours. In the morning, our tent perched on top of a cliff, we look out at the open ocean, more than a thousand metres below. Off in the distance is the perky nipple you wouldn't see in Morocco; Tenerife's highest peak. Stretching 3718 metres straight out of the ocean. Then, the conclusion comes to me. Time to get back on track.



Michèle comments: Our original plan was to start in the UK and then just keep cycling east across Europe, through Turkey, and beyond. We first got off track when we decided to start our trip in Iceland. For that, I blame the outrageous prices of flights from Canada to the UK at the time. The cheapest flights that we could find had a stopover in Reykjavik Iceland. Then Benoit said, Why just stop over in Iceland? Why not cycle in Iceland to start? And it was as if a bright light came on in both our imaginations. Unfortunately for me, Iceland is part of the Schengen agreement. Each day in that magical country was ticking away at my allowed 90 days of every six months. Our time cycling in England, Scotland and Morocco (all non Schengen) was more than enough to "reset" the visa clock. Now that we are in the Canary Islands, which are part of Spain, which is part of Schengen, my 90 days of this next set of six months has been ticking away.

So, it's four days of camping in the clouds. The majority of the time was spent enjoying the view from our spot that looks out onto a ridge stretching out to the sea. I followed the ridge all the way to the end. At one point it's sheer cliffs on either side and all you can see the ocean one kilometre down. The view is mind blowing and unobstructed.



Michèle comments: I knew very little about the Canary Islands before arriving. Mostly I had heard about crowded resorts and naked tourists. But like most places, the tourist trade can mask the truth of a place. On the island of Gran Canaria, for example, the tourist mecca is in the south. So we have stayed in the north. I have also heard that cyclists use the Canary Islands as a training ground: when it is winter in Europe, they come to ride up and down the mountain roads. As you might have guessed, those cyclists are not riding heavy bicycles with steel frames and loaded down with panniers. On our approach to Tejeda, a village way up in the mountains, we even saw some cyclists getting off a bus with their bicycles so they only have to ride DOWN the big hills! I like seeing cyclists on the road, and I wave to them with a cheery "¡Hola!" as if they are friends. Some smile and wave back. But the ones wearing logo-covered spandex often just look annoyed.

These four days of camping seem to have realigned the planets. We now feel focused. The idea is to go back to Las Palmas and find a cheap apartment where we will stay for a month, rest and get organized.

Final pedal push in Morocco

In the last post, we were back on our own and it was time to leave Smara. Not hearing great things about the road to Laâyoune, the decision is made to take the bus. Good thing we did, because soon after our arrival, Michèle was sick again. Throwing up several times during the night. This would have been a nightmare if we were camping in the desert.

Michèle comments: I don't know why I got sick again, so violently and so suddenly. We were trying to control what went into our stomachs: carefully selecting food and preparing it ourselves, but I guess there is only so much one can do. I didn't want to fall victim to germ phobia, suspecting every handshake I made and glass that I touched. I guess it will remain a mystery.

You know, it's so fun to complain. So, one last culture shock then I'll shut up ... for now. When we get to Smara, the hotel reception tries to hit us with a double economy. Quoting us ridiculous prices. We knew the real price, because the army guys at the relay station told us how much the hotel costs. My patience for this sort of behaviour ran out in Marrakech. We eventually get the right price. A stressful exercise after cycling 102 kilometres. As we start to bring up our stuff, the guy asks us for our passports. I give him a long hard stare and say:
- Not now.
When we get to our room, we are informed that there is no shower anywhere in the building. That's alright, Moroccans go to hammams. There's one around the corner the guy tells us. That's great. Then I ask him if there is one for women so that my wife can get cleaned up after cycling three days in the desert. He gives me a confused look, smiles and shakes his head. No he says. Out of respect for Michèle, I don't go to the hammam. We end up having a cold sponge bath in our room using our wash basin. The 20 minute hot shower will have to wait.

Michèle comments: During those last one hundred kilometres to Smara, I started to look forward to staying in a hotel and having a real shower. Then I remember stopping myself and thinking, Don't count on anything, keep your expectations low and you won't be disappointed. But it didn't work, I was still disappointed.

The next week is sort of strange and uneventful. But before that sets in, we still have to go through three passport checks before getting to Laâyoune. Because of us, the bus has to wait 15 to 20 minutes every time. On our way into Laâyoune, one can see traces of recent civil unrest. Car carcasses burnt to a crisp, stores gutted by fire, windows smashed. Lots of UN vehicles. Most of them shiny new SUVs, parked in front of Laâyoune's nicest hotel. Some of Fela's best lyrics run through my head.

Michèle comments: I especially remember seeing the front of an office building, the kind that is all silvery-blue mirrored window panes, with every one of the windows broken. We had been watching the news about the civil unrest way back when we were recovering from illness in Tafraout. I think it all happened on a Monday, but was reported so much on the news that it seemed like it was happening every day.

Well, it's carved in stone. We are going to the Canary Islands. After getting our ferry tickets, we head out of town towards our final passport check. About 30 km later, we get to Foum El Oued where we will spend a week relaxing and waiting for the ferry. There's only one per week. On the way, I finally get to see fields of dunes. Probably not the best the Sahara has to offer but fields of dunes nonetheless.



Foum El Oued looks like a ghost town. There isn't a single tourist here. Like there was a loud bang and all of them left in one go. The town looks run down and abandoned. There's one café shop that has WiFi however. This is where we went every morning to surf the net. The rest of the time was spent moping and checking out other abandoned stuff.



Michèle comments: Foum El Oued was an eerily quiet place, yet I kind of liked it. There was a long beach with huge crashing waves. No-one at the beach except a few fishermen. We spent so much time at the WiFi café that the brothers running it knew us by name. The younger brother was trying to help us to learn some Spanish before hitting the Canary Islands. Our pronunciation was all off, though. Benoit tried to ask for huevos (eggs) and was handed a lighter. When I tried, the guy pointed questioningly at some plastic cups.

Slowly running out of Dirhams and not wanting to take out more Moroccan money, we decide to camp for our last night. Foum El Oued has a campground. It is deserted. We are the only ones there.



At the campground, we befriend a cat. In Morocco, cats and dogs are semiwild but are treated well. Only tourists get rocks thrown at them. The cat is loving the petting session and becomes very friendly with us. So friendly that he won't go away. When it's time to get into the tent, not finding a way in, the cat jumps on top of it. Tearing a hole in it. I end up chasing it around the campground, throwing my boot at it.

Michèle comments: That cute little purring kitty turned into a demon with claws. Our delicately-meshed tent didn't have a chance. We still have a piece of tape over a hole in the mesh, not knowing how best to repair it.



Well, it's time to leave. The ferry ride to Las Palmas would take about 10 hours. After jumping through the hoops and getting our exit stamp, we board the ferry. But just before, a Moroccan official takes one last look at our passport. "Welcome" he says, even though we are leaving. We are the first ones on the ferry. The boat is quite small. Small enough to make it very bumpy if the seas are rough. We get settled in. Around ten o'clock, when the boat is supposed to leave, I fall asleep to wake up two hours later to see that the boat hasn't moved. People are still piling in. Around the ship, there are the usual notices of thing you are not allowed to do. One of them shows a drawing of some one sleeping on the floor. There is a big diagonal red line through the drawing. This doesn't seem to bother anyone. By the time the ferry leaves, the place turns into a large bivouac. People are camping anywhere they please. You literally have to step over people to move around the boat.

We head up to the restaurant for some dinner. The ferry company is Spanish. So, it's only logical that the restaurant takes Euros, not Dirhams. Unfortunately for us, we have no Euros. But we do have a credit card that doesn't work. They never seem to when you need them the most. Great, no dinner. But the guy in charge of the restaurant, the one who told me my credit card doesn't work, comes over to our table to tell us not to worry about it. He gives us a huge plate of food with two beers. Thank you Armas restaurant guy, we would have starved without your help.



We get a few hours of sleep. The air conditioning is cranked so high that we freeze our asses off all night. In the morning, it's a wakeup call to prayer programmed on someone's cell phone. Confused by the orientation of the boat, most of the faithfuls are pointing the wrong way when bowing towards Mecca. But outside, where it's warm, I sit on a bench to get my first glimpse at Las Palmas ... and first world comfort.



Michèle comments: My stomach has just barely recovered from the pukefest and shitting through the eye of a needle of the past few days. I am looking like I am ready for some first world comfort.



For all our Morocco pictures, click here.

Smara, Sand and Solitude

In the last post, we were at Tan Tan Plage. Relaxing while we wait for the wind to be in our favour. If you look at statistics, the wind in this region is predominantly from the north. Which, going south, would be great for us. But it never seemed to switch direction. When it died down, we decided it's time to go.

The next morning, bright and early, we pile our stuff on top of a Range Rover. Our aim is to get back to the intersection to the road to Smara. Michèle comments: Philippe had convinced the rest of us to hire a Range Rover taxi for the twenty kilometres back to the turnoff. His argument was that we had already cycled that section of road on our way to Tan Tan Plage (El Ouatia), and knew it to be busy with traffic and uninteresting views. He also said that we needed to experience the modern day equivalent of the camel. We were hesitant, but in the end he convinced us. The first twenty minutes is spent taking dirt roads to avoid the police check point at the entrance of the town. I'm guessing that our driver is not allowed to take tourists or he just doesn't want to give the police their cut. In Morocco, palm greasing seems to be as common as in Quebec.



At the cross roads, a mild confusion changes the direction of the ride back towards Tan Tan. The reason is El Mosem. This is where camel wranglers from all over the country, and neighbouring ones as well, converge for four days of camel races. Unfortunately, it doesn't start for several days. However, there are still camels to check out, as well as our own police escort. But whatever we do or wherever we go, we are always "Welcome".

Michèle comments: We were invited for tea in one of the tents. Soon after we sat down amongst the carpets, cushions and huge framed photo of the king, a police guy drove up on an ATV, parked it in front of the tent and joined us for tea. He kept the engine on his ATV running the whole time. "Batterie faible" (weak battery), was his excuse.





The festival has brought a shit load of kids out for a thrill. As we pass several of them, we receive a shower of rocks. This is the last straw. I set down my bike and explode in a sprint. Something I haven't done in years. For the last six months, my legs have been conditioned to push hard in slow moving circles. The result is total collapse. My legs completely give out and I end up falling forward onto the ground, getting all scratched up in the process. Doubly pissed off after looking like an idiot, I get up and try again. This time it's a little better. I start giving chase down a lane. One kid is carrying a younger one and running in a panic. I'm guessing they didn't expect a foreigner to start running after them. When I catch up to him, the kid is in tears with fear in his eyes. Lucky for him, I can't find it in my heart to deliver the boot in the ass I had been dreaming of. Being irate and thinking illogically, I realize that I can't even remember which ones threw the rocks in the first place. I head back to the bikes to bandage up my scratches.



Too late to start the ride to Smara, we spend one more night in Tan Tan. The hotel is dirty. I try not to touch anything except the clean sheets on my bed.



In the early morning, I can hear someone praying outside our room. The man sounds like he's having an orgasm every time he utters a prayer. A few minutes later, it's all drowned out by the sound of world music. This is how Philippe wakes us up. Today, we manage to leave early. Finally, we are ready to hit the road to Smara.

Heading south, we push against the mild head wind. It's quiet and there is no traffic. Yesterday's rock throwing incident, and my reaction to it, has left me mildly disturbed. I am glad to be in the desert where there is no one. After a few hours, we stop to check out a herd of camels.



Two guys show up and it's "Salaam Alaikum" all around. They don't speak French, English or Spanish. They get their point across that they would like one of our water bottles. You would figure that someone who's lived their whole life in the desert would at least have water with them. We give the guy a bottle and he points to one of the camels. Like a cretin tourist, I volunteer to ride it. Camels are huge and this one is not too happy to be led by its nose via a large piercing.



After a five minute ride, the camel kneels so I can step off. As I do so, it decides to stand back up. Being half way off I have no choice but to bail. The result is a hard fall right on my ass. Being a Brooks user, more ass pain is not what I need. More on that later.



Later that day we get to the one and only town of this ride, Abteh. There is nothing there except another passport control. These officers must be bored out of their skulls. But, because of the contraband gasoline being brought in from Western Sahara, the greasy palm is all worth it. Western Sahara benefits from tax exemptions on gasoline. Probably to entice Moroccans to move down there. Anyway, it doesn't concern us. After the greetings and the smiles we are on our way. Several kilometres down the road, we stop for the night for the best wild camping we've ever done. The spot is about 100 metres from the road, but it looks like no one has even been there. There isn't a speck of garbage. We are out there on our own. There are no billboards displaying what we can and can't do. No camping permit, reservations or fees. No over-motivated university student, out on a summer job, telling us we can't camp here. Just the stars, the open desert and a nasty viper bite if you're not careful. How cool is that. Words can't describe.



In the middle of the night, as I crawl out of the tent to go piss, I look up. A humungous shooting star, so thick that you can almost hear it, travels half way across the sky. It was like witnessing god arch-welding the heavens. I stop for a few seconds and make a wish. May we get back on track and travel across the planet like we planned.



In the morning, it's more world music at 6 am. It's breakfast and go. After cycling several hours, we arrive at a series of six gas stations. All of them within six kilometres. This is where the bootleg gas is coming from. And yes, there is another passport check. But before we hit that, we stop at the first station because there is a restaurant. We eat and then it's time for a nap. Because of all the garbage, there is a staggering amount of flies. This makes it hard to sleep out in the open.



Max is not his cheery self. Stomach problems. We decide that it's best to spend the night at the gas station. There are rooms at the back for the employees. One of them is vacant. Max, Michèle and I shack up in the empty room while Philippe stays with one of the employees.

In the morning it's more world music. But this time there is an extra treat. Philippe hands us each a bottle of hot water for an improvised shower. Still pitch dark, we hurry to get it done. We don't want to confuse the staff by letting them see us naked.

Michèle comments: That shower under the stars was one of my favourite moments of the ride to Smara. I called it "one point five litres of heaven". Another favourite moment was watching the sunrise from our desert wild camping spot while sipping a cup of coffee. The guys had left to scramble up the rocks for a better view. I was alone. Me, the desert, the sun, and coffee. Fabulous.

After coffee we pedal 2 kilometres to the next passport control. When we pull up to the small shelter, there's no one there to greet us. A few minutes later, an officer stumbles out, adjusting his cap and uniform. His face tells a tale of deep slumber, which we interrupted. Now the poor guy has to copy information from four passports. That's OK, looks like there is a lot of time to sleep around here.

20 kilometres farther, there's another gas station. This time there's really nothing there except one dog and a guy smoking. You can't even get gas. We don't stay very long and when we head out, I leave behind some of the contraband cigarettes we obtained in Guelmim. We were told by a merchant that we would need cigarettes to trade for food when we got to the Sahara. Normally, this would set off warning bells in my head, but this guy was very educated and spoke 5 or 6 languages. We talked with him for quite a while and he managed to get through our warning system. Conclusion, we bought a carton of cigarettes for twice what it is worth. On top of it, nobody even wants these damn cigarettes because they're crap! The final result is that Philippe started smoking again and I now crave a drink so that I can social smoke. Hence the saloon experience in Guelmim (see previous post).

It's back to the open desert. The road is really great because there is no traffic.



Around lunch time, we get to a relay station where we are greeted by army guys with nothing to do. They invite us to chill out and set up a lounge area for us. As we prepare our lunch, they tell us all they do is sleep and drink tea. At some point, one of them shows us an unexploded tank shell. Philippe looks nervous. Unfortunately, no pictures allowed. This tank shell is a reminder that we are in a politically unstable area. The guy reassures us that it's not active. A little uneasy, I ask him if the area is mined. Apparently, Western Sahara has a large number of unexploded mines. Don't want to step on one of those while I run to the desert with urgent bowel problems. Again, he reassures me that there is none in this area.

Michèle comments: This experience stands out for me as one encounter in Morocco when we didn't feel like someone wanted something from us. The military guys were generous without a condition attached. They even gave us gifts for the road: onions, carrots, cans of sardines, and a steel drinking mug.

After trying to nap with the flies again, it's back to the road. We pass through some amazing desert scenery which many people would call boring. Flat sand fields as far as the eye can see. The emptiness is euphoric. Off in the distance, the horizon blends with mirages, giving a sensation that there is a sheer drop off. The horizon no longer looks straight. You get the illusion that it is coming and going just like a wave in the ocean. With a tail wind, we fly down the endless straight away. The dashed lines on the road looking like a giant ticker tape.



At the end of the day, 102 kilometres later, it's another routine passport control. Half an hour after that, we arrive in Smara having done some of the best cycling I've even experienced. From the solitude and emptiness, we fall back into our freak show persona. Being a non touristic town, we get the usual annoyances which I've complained enough about.



Smara is where the fellowship broke. Philippe announces that he will be taking the bus to rejoin his family in Senegal. Max will be staying one more day. Then, he will cycle back to Guelmim and head west. This was really a treat for us. The first time we've cycled with other people during this trip. There was a real feeling of team work. Now, we are back on our own. Both functioning as one unit, we already feel the solitude. Michèle comments: The fellowship broke and with it some of our spirit. We'll miss you, Philippe and Max!

To be continued...