Day Four
The Long Way Round
I woke up feeling terrible.
It wasn’t a hangover, though it wasn’t not also a hangover. But also it felt like something had lodged itself in a pit right above my stomach. I had to throw up. I didn’t want to throw up. I couldn’t even look at breakfast. I laid in my bed until the absolute second I had to get up and pack. This was not good.
I was also nervous about the day ahead. Boumaine Dades was just south of the Atlas mountains. The Australians were going to head into them. But I didn’t think we were prepared for the mountains. Kevin didn’t have his sleeping bag. There was no air in his back tire, there was no gas in Danny’s bike, and no money in my wallet – I’d spent all my money on our contraband beers. This wasn’t going to go well. We went anyway.
We left the hotel and sped down an increasingly windy road, watching the rock faces on either side grow higher and higher. Then we started to climb, our toy motorcycles wheezing and whining as hills rose and fell. At the top of a crest we saw a man selling trinkets on the side of the road. We motioned for “petrol”, and eventually sussed out that it was in a shack by the road about two kilometers away. Which seemed challenging. Were we just supposed to watch two kilometers tick by and then knock on the door of every shack after that?
We were discussing the plan, and whether or not we should turn back, when the man began frantically motioning for us to stay where we were. It wasn’t threatening, but it was urgent. We looked at each other as he disappeared into his hut.
Five minutes later, he came out with a toolbox. Apparently something was wrong with Kevin’s bike. The man emerged with a very large toolbox. He walked over and pointed to Kevin’s bike. If he expected us to look at the part he was pointing at, nod emphatically, and declare, “Yes, of course, how could we have missed that!” He was disappointed. His pointing was met with blank, confused, stares. So he shrugged his shoulders and sat down next to Kevin’s bike. He refilled Kevin’s back tire, which had gotten dangerously low. Then he reoiled the chain, which is a thing you are definitely supposed to do for sure. And then he did something else that I have no idea what it was. Finally, he dusted himself off and nodded his head. Good to go.
This whole trip, every single person we talked to was angling for our money. Some did it very politely, and by offering us a good service. Many tried to rip us off. But the few times we really needed help, and were very willing to pay for it, we were universally turned down. This man, more deserving than anyone we’ve met so far, wouldn’t take a dime. We pleaded with him, but he just wouldn’t do it. We “shukran”ed over and over, and headed up into the Atlas.
What followed was some of the most fun driving I’ll ever do.
one hundred and eight kilometers of dirt road, through what felt at times like an Epcot Center sized showcase of America’s national parks. At the start we drove through a windy, dangerous, beautiful gorge that reminded me of Zion in its red rocks and towering cliffs. We peered (and peed) over a mini grand canyon cut through the Atlas. We saw Rocky Mountain style snowcapped peaks in the distance.
And the entire time, we were never sure we were going the right way.
It felt a little better, because the Aussies were along with us for the ride. But still, a big part of me didn’t believe there would be a town at the end of this road. I wasn’t even certain we were on the right road. Sure, we could look at our maps and point at the road, but the highway that disappeared two days ago was also on the map. And we also had no way of knowing how far along we were.
The group started to spread out. A couple of the Aussies sped ahead, while another lagged back, her bike repeatedly and violently slipping back into first gear. Danny’s Granny was moving at a walking pace. But we didn’t really have any choice at all except to keep going.
Eventually, it started to get dark.
Nagging concerns turned into full blown fears. We started making plans to camp, figuring out how to keep Kevin warm. And then, in the distance, a dust cloud. A monkey bike screamed toward us – it was one of the Aussies who had gone on ahead. There was indeed a town, a couple more kilometers down the road. And better yet, they had already sorted the accommodations. All we had to do was get there.
We were saved! Danny, Kevin and I took off, each of us traveling as fast as we could to get to town. Unfortunately for Danny, his top speed was half of ours, so he was subjected to the wrath of the CHILDREN.
Whoever first came up with the idea of a zombie horde must’ve drawn inspiration from the kids in Morocco. Any time we’d come through, they would pour out and stand on the side of the road to watch us go by. Some would wave. Few would wave. Oh, how we cherished the wavers. Most would run by, motioning for us to stop and give them money. And then quite a few would actively try to cause us harm. They would play a game, trying to see how close they could get without us hitting them. They would throw rocks. They would try and steal our bags. It was harrowing.
And Danny got the worst of it. What would usually end up happening would be as follows: Kevin or I would be in the lead, and the noise from our engine would alert the kids, who would begin to take their places on the side of the road. The second person would go by, and act almost like a trial run. And Danny, puttering past on a bike with a top speed of a steady jog, would bear the brunt of the CHILDREN.
And this village was the worst of it. When I came by, they were already set up, and were getting aggressive towards me. By the time Danny arrived, he was shell shocked. “I punched a child!” he wailed. “She was trying to rip my jacket off of my body and I pushed her aside!”
It was a terrifying end to a long day. But there was Tagine, and a fire, and a bed with a pillow. Not much more you could ask for.
