After crossing Spain and climbing the highest mountains in the Al-Ándalus area, the Toubkal mountain presented itself as a challenge but also as an excuse to explore a country in which Sonia and Eloi had not cycled before. They knew that the next step was to change continents, and Morocco’s Highest Peaks were just on the other side of the harbor. What they didn’t know was that they were about to cross a land that would surprise them to an extent that, at the time, they couldn’t even imagine…
Underneath the early morning fog that was shining with the gentle glow of the rising sun, the fields stretched out before us. With my hand finally free from its cast, it looked like the next adventure was about to start.
We had already tackled a traverse through Spain, climbing the highest peaks in the Al-Ándalus region. Now, the Toubkal Mountain presented itself as a challenge but also as a good excuse to cross a familiar yet unexplored country. Armed with nothing but a satellite map and hunger for the unknown, we set our sights on off-road trails and untamed paths to design a route. We didn’t know if we would find what we were looking for, but in less than an hour of ferry we would change from one continent to another, and we would head into a land that would surprise us to an extreme that, at that time, we could not even imagine.
Before the start of this journey, there was one thing on our minds that worried us: language. We knew communication would be key to truly experiencing Morocco. It is obvious that a few classes of Arabic, and a few days of practicing the basic concepts in the tent while we were crossing Spain, are not enough to have a good level of a language that, to begin with, does not use the same alphabet or the same writing. Still, with a few phrases under our belts, we quickly embraced the opportunity to connect with the locals and you can’t imagine their excitement when they saw us talking in their mother tongue.
We do not like the chaos of cities and Tangier was no exception. We wasted no time pedaling away, aiming to leave the hustle and bustle behind in search of quieter surroundings. And as for stocking up on supplies and water? Well, we figured we would find somewhere along the way – better to chase the smell of fresh bread without it being mixed with the smoke of cars that passed us at full speed. And with a grumpy Eloi because we didn’t have the bags full of treats to face the day, we started to leave the city behind to enter the Rif area.
We could divide the mountainous area of Morocco, from the Mediterranean coast to the Atlantic coast, into four large mountain ranges: the Rif, the Middle Atlas, the High Atlas, and the Anti-Atlas.
Historically, the Rif has always been a marginalized, peripheral region in which poverty and underdevelopment still persist. A large number of families survive thanks to the cultivation of cannabis and its smuggling, as well as the farming of wheat that slowly dries until the last drop of the little water that exists in the territory. A yellowish and dry landscape would become the tonic of the first days. The roads that on a map seemed gravel, had a new layer of asphalt, a pavement that contrasted with the traffic of donkeys loaded with straw. A gentleman on the reins bid us a cheerful and sincere “salaam aleikum”, his face a reflection of years of living through sheer determination and hard work.
We live in an area that receives a considerable volume of immigration from North Africa and the stigma borne of prejudice and ignorance towards Moroccans is as cruel as it can be. “Beware of Morocco, you know what these people are like.” Perhaps the “beware” referred to the fact that if we got distracted, we could easily be invited to a green tea accompanied by bread with oil and honey. Or maybe it meant that if we were not careful enough and asked someone to camp in town, the most likely outcome could be a bath with hot water jars and a shelter beneath the watchful eyes of curious families that welcomed us with open arms and a “marahba bikum hna”. I can’t help but wonder if the sentence “you are welcome here” is the same that our Moroccan friends hear when they venture into the unfamiliar lands of Spain through the Mediterranean Sea in search of a better life.
The days crept by in the Rif as the oppressive heat lulled us into a sleepy stupor. We often sought shelter in shady corners until the distant call to prayer, echoing from the nearest mosque, summoned a stream of men to worship and rouse us to action one more. It was a reminder: time to push on, time to pedal forward. We knew Morocco would test us and our first trial came with our entry into the Middle Atlas, where a biting cold and an uncharacteristic forecast of rain greeted us.
The weather wasn’t on our side, but we couldn’t let it dampen our spirits. In a land where there was no potable water and survival relied on mountain sources, complaining was not an option. Progress through the mud was impossible, and we resigned ourselves to stopping once more. A woman dressed in blue robes, with a child nestled on her back that was peeking over her shoulder with a smile, and a boy with a transparent gaze walking timidly beside her, stopped us with the warm greeting “Salam, labas?” And so began a conversation that led to an invitation into their humble stone home.
Poverty, though often romanticized through the lenses of the most expensive cameras, holds a harsh reality that no one wishes to star in. This family that took us in during two rainy days didn’t want to showcase their mud-covered children to the world’s gaze as this was a reminder of them scaling the mountain to go to the bathroom. We had our bags stocked with dried fruits and cookies from the market, and we quickly shared our provisions over sweetened tea and bread, a small offering in a world of scarcity. Raisins and peanuts were not part of a diet for a family that could only afford to trade milk for couscous, rice, and some vegetables. And amidst shared laughter, our hearts swelled as the youngest child rummaged through our bags in search of “zbibs” and “caucaus” marveled at the simple joy of having discovered a new world.
To understand how the population is distributed in this country, one must imagine a land where solitude is a luxury rarely afforded. While there isn’t a high population density as such, people are distributed in a way that no matter where you go, someone will appear at some point. The imposing and seemingly solitary High Atlas Mountains were no exception, and wild camping spots had to be sought out carefully. You could easily lose track of time in some desolate stretches, going hours without encountering another soul. But anytime we thought we were truly alone, and our tent was pitched for the night, someone would emerge like a mirage. Sometimes it was a shepherd, returning from a long day in the mountains with his goats trailing behind him, as surprised as we were to stumble upon a couple of cyclists in the middle of nowhere. Other times, it was the roar of a motorcycle that tore the silence, with three people clinging to its frame, crossing small hills and waving enthusiastically as they headed off, loaded with provisions, toward who knows where.
We were eager to enter the High Atlas, knowing full well what it entailed: gearing ourselves mentally for the ascent of Toubkal. But first, we had to make our way to Imlil, and we didn’t opt for the easy route. Pushing our bikes has become an integral part of our adventures; at times, it leads us to breathtaking descents and spectacular places where you would lose yourself for days, observing the awe-inspiring vastness and listening to the silence. Yet, there are other occasions where the exertion serves only to realize that you have made a mistake and that you will also have to drag the bike down while you cross your fingers with the hope of avoiding a tumble down the canyon.
We didn’t fall in any of the scrambles and we finally reached Imlil. Mohammed was waiting for us there, and the challenge of climbing the highest peak in Morocco and North Africa was next. At that time, we were unaware – and honestly, such distinctions do not matter to me – but the thrilled cries of “Vous êtes une gazelle, vous êtes la première” upon our descent from the summit indicated that we had done something remarkable.
This achievement started on a radiant morning, a welcome change from the trials of recent days, when we embarked on a dry and rugged path with the art of shouldering our bikes mastered. Along the way, we encountered entertaining stretches to pedal through, all under the incredulous gaze of guides, mules, and tourists who couldn’t believe our determination to pedal such rocky terrain. Before long, we reached the refuge where we would spend the night, watching how the clouds covered the summit and hid the trail we had to tackle the following day. While the forecast offered no reprieve from the relentless wind, it also promised a reassuringly low chance of precipitation, and this was, somehow, good news.
“Oh my God, what lies ahead,” I murmured to myself as the sun rose and I struggled to maintain balance through blocks of rocks with the bike on my back. Each step felt harder than the previous one, it was increasingly steeper and the wind was blowing stronger and stronger. Even the occasional breaks for chocolate cookies were not enough to suppress the question my mind kept asking: what am I doing here? Yet, with every step, we drew closer to the summit and abandoning had ceased to be an option. As I faced the final few meters to the peak, a smile was drawn across my face together with a wave of energy that filled my whole body. We had made it. And I had become the first woman to ascend Toubkal Mountain by bicycle.
With a thrilling descent behind us, we spent an entire day indulging in hearty tajine and couscous dishes, replenishing our energy for the journey ahead, and we left the town of Imlil as it could not be otherwise: pushing. The assistance I needed dragging my bike upwards, of an elderly man that was laboring alongside his mules, indicated that we were not completely recovered. While our ambitious Highest Peaks by Bike project, which started in Spain, had reached its successful end in Morocco, the endless desire to ride and explore burned within us. We still had to discover a bit of the Anti-Atlas.
Little by little, the large mountains gave way to a more arid landscape, where date palm trees, water scarcity, ferocious winds, and a scorching sun that dried you inside and outside, became the norm. Yet, amidst the harshness of the Anti-Atlas, some surprises were in store to make the challenges worthwhile. The legendary Old Colonial Road was one of those delights. Surely this name won’t ring a bell for everyone, but for a passionate cyclist unable to join the Atlas Mountain Race due to pandemic restrictions, riding along this historic route was a long-awaited dream come true.
Opinions on it were diverse – some riders considered it a torture, while others found it less grueling. A few traversed the whole stretch at night, never witnessing a single kilometer in daylight and missing out on the views entirely. Nothing can beat firsthand experiences and you have to live it to be able to describe it. Honestly, this was one of the most captivating, solitary, and magical roads we encountered on our journey through Morocco. It was also a rare afternoon when no one crossed our path, allowing us to soak in the calm of a starry night and a peaceful morning coffee undisturbed.
Stone walls, remnants of the French colonial era as the name suggests, stood as strong pillars of a road that has witnessed the flow of trade and culture along itself. Over the years, these structures have begun to crumble in places, leaving the road impassable for motor vehicles. However, for bicycles and mules – the lucky ones of the misfortune – the collapse of the road only meant no other vehicles to deal with, adding to the whole traverse an extra point of adventure. And I like that, a lot.
What I didn’t like that much were some situations we encountered during our time in a country that, whether we admit it or not, struggles with gender equality and lack of education issues. Being a woman in Morocco isn’t easy. The streets are usually full of men, and it’s rare to spot a woman seated on the terraces of cafes. From time to time, you have to dodge flying stones thrown by mischievous children, along with insults. On more than one occasion we found ourselves completely cornered by groups asking for handouts while they tried to grab anything that might have been left untied on the bike. Not in a threatening way, but rather out of an expectation created by the number of tourists that have been perverting a country for years: charity to feed an ego of false solidarity that only perpetuates a cycle of poverty and misery.
These situations are hard to understand in a country where we never felt unsafe and where a friendly hand or a slice of juicy and fresh watermelon was always within reach when we needed it. Despite not being the norm, these experiences are frustrating, annoying, they make you angry and sad and make you question why are you riding there. But then, you sit under a tree to rest and three completely different children appear with a glass of water, a plate of couscous with milk, and a smile that gives you the answer to the question.