A few hours after leaving Tan Tan, an immense force seizes control of the bicycle. It's an utterly unexpected moment, leaving me bewildered for a few minutes as I struggle to comprehend what is unfolding. My legs now simply follow the pedal rotation, applying nothing but a the most gentle pressure. It's as if I'm descending a hill, despite actually going slightly uphill. The air hangs in silence, I’m in a void, while I become a fluff, drifting through space. There exist superior, unseen forces that have taken over. Suddenly, a revelation strikes me like a lightning bolt hitting an antenna, unearthing impressions long buried in the cemetery of my memory: I have a tailwind! I cannot recall the last time the wind and I were allies. Today, after months of enduring the relentless torment of its malevolence, it chooses to be my saviour and stand by my side. I sense wings on my bicycle, and an overwhelming excitement surges within me, threatening to unleash tears of joy, relief, and ecstasy. Today, I finally feel liberated from the invisible prison that has confined me since my departure from Dakar. Today, I am reborn.

With this radical turn of events, I embark on my journey through Morocco, the final country in this leg of the trip across Africa that has already been going for two-and-a-half-years. As I pedal through the streets of Ifraen, a myriad of emotions floods over me, keeping me on edge. It marks the beginning of the end of a chapter that I am well aware will have forever transformed my life. It's a blend of joy, satisfaction, and a sense of fulfillment, yet the mere contemplation of it all stirs me deeply, causing a lump to form in my throat. That's why I shake my head, grounding myself in the present moment, for the truth remains that I still have numerous kilometers and countless adventures ahead of me before I reach the shores of the Mediterranean.

The backdrop that now surrounds me is the silhouette of the Anti-Atlas, the southernmost portion of the Atlas mountain range. It serves as a natural barrier, dividing the Sahara desert from the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. It has been ages since I last encountered such dramatic scenery, causing me to forget about the valleys, rivers, and mountains, not to mention the vibrant array of colors and captivating shapes that come with them. The sheer act of rediscovering these visual stimuli fills me with exhilaration, motivating me to pedal with renewed vigor and a positive mindset.

      Unquestionably, I had also forgotten the climbs, which had been supplanted by relentless headwinds in recent months. Although they have yet to be steep, my days are now spent in a gradual ascent. However, nothing feels like a formidable challenge anymore, considering the hardships of the preceding months. Meanwhile, it's the burgeoning richness of the surrounding environment that truly captivates me. Slowly but surely, I find myself entering a corridor flanked by hills that progressively morph into majestic mountains. Along their slopes, the first traces of vegetation timidly begin to emerge. Clinging to these hills are the villages, with their modest houses blending seamlessly with the arid tones of the surroundings, almost vanishing into the landscape. Conversely, within the narrow valleys, brimming with date palms, the earthy browns, ochres, and reddish hues of the buildings create a striking contrast against the verdant backdrop. If it weren't for the distinctive Maghrebi vernacular architecture, characterised by houses resembling miniature fortresses, with their stout adobe walls and square windows, I could almost believe I had been transported to the northwestern region of Argentina.

In every village I pass by, I eagerly seek the usual interactions with the locals, but to my dismay, it proves more challenging than anticipated. These introverted communities primarily confine themselves indoors, with only a few individuals scattered across the neighboring fields and plantations. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of women toiling in the harvest or gracefully carrying baskets of fodder atop their heads for their animals. However, beyond these fleeting encounters, I encounter nothing but averted gazes and a palpable effort to evade me, particularly among the women. It comes as a surprise and disappointment, for I am accustomed to engaging in casual conversations wherever I venture. Yet, in this region, not everyone seems inclined to welcome outsiders with open arms. Luck does not seem to be on my side.

Guelmín is the first relatively sizable city since I crossed the border. Whether it's the idyllic weather or the favourable wind, everything I lay my eyes upon appears stunningly beautiful. I'm drawn to the austere architecture characterised by clean lines, rectangular structures, and pastel hues devoid of sharp contrasts. The orderly streets, coupled with their impeccable cleanliness, command my attention. It's been quite some time since I've encountered such pristine surroundings. Moreover, I don't experience the oppressive atmosphere of a police state that pervaded Western Sahara, which is understandable given that I'm now in a recognized and legitimate country. Here, I immerse myself in the enchanting facets of North African culture, observing men engrossed in hours-long conversations over tea and indulging in the aromatic delights of shisha. On the other hand, the local shops never cease to astonish me with their remarkable assortment of products. After the trials and tribulations endured to reach this point, everything seems surprisingly effortless in Morocco, to the extent that I worry about the risk of becoming bored.

Following Guelmín, the route leads through several mountainous villages. Despite the increasing beauty of the surroundings, I continue to encounter the same sense of aloofness experienced in previous towns. As I pedal along, contemplating whether these people are inherently conservative or simply shy, a man offers me a warm greeting from the terrace of his house. My heart leaps with joy, and when he gestures for me to join him, I readily accept. Within minutes, the metallic rings of the gate squeak, and the creaking sound of aged wood accompanies its opening. Beyond the threshold, I find Hassan, his face adorned with a curious smile. It becomes evident that his command of French is limited, prompting him to beckon me inside with his hands. Brimming with enthusiasm, he leads me on a tour of his home, introducing me to his wife, who swiftly leaves, and then to his mother. Ascending a staircase so narrow it can barely accommodate the width of a tiny person, and with steps designed for one 2 metres-tall, we ascend three stories until we reach the terrace. From this vantage point, bathed in the radiant sunlight, I marvel at the picturesque village and the shimmering valley that stretches before me. I could easily lose myself in the breathtaking panorama, but Hassan's mother guides me back down to a rear barn to showcase her cow. It has barely been twenty minutes since my arrival when Hassan's wife emerges from the house, gracefully carrying a silver tray. Upon it rests a teapot that reflects the world around it like a mirror, two breads of Frisbee proportions, and a tantalising tagine that sets my taste buds aflutter. The surge of emotion threatens to make my heart burst. Nestled in the shade of one of the walls, I relish the tastiest lunch I could have ever imagined, basking in the delightful courtyard that surpasses any of my fantasies along the way.

Hassan's village is followed by a string of others. Although I never encounter a similar display of hospitality again, I can't label these places as inhospitable. Gradually, the corridor through which I traverse grows narrower, reaching a point where the village houses line the edge of the sole route. There is a profound stillness, devoid of both traffic and people. As the sun sets, only the rocky peaks are bathed in a warm, amber hue reminiscent of honey, while darkness blankets the path on which I cycle. After several days, I arrive in Tafraoute, a town nestled in a basin, surrounded by towering mountains. From the minaret of the central mosque, the muezzin recites the final adhan (call to prayer) of the day, its melodious echoes permeating the empty passages of the town. In that moment, I experience love at first sight for this enchanting and fantastical place.

The following morning, my first instinct leads me to the terrace of the little guest house where I am lodged. As I step outside, I am instantly dazzled by the breathtaking vistas that unfold before me. The encircling wall of mountains surrounding Tafraoute basks in the radiant sunlight, while the sky above remains immaculate. I find myself enclosed within a fortress, where the harmonious ochre tones of the urban landscape blend seamlessly with the natural environment. Directly ahead, the minaret of the central mosque stands prominently, encircled by a maze of alleys bustling with commerce, tea houses, and eateries where the vibrancy of social life thrives. My gaze wanders, attempting to absorb every bit of information presented to me. The mosque boasts exquisite architectural intricacies, while the urban skyline is punctuated by three or four-story buildings crowned by an array of hundred’s of satellite dishes. Down below, people traverse the maze-like alleys, moving from shop to shop, engaging in transactions, and pausing for friendly conversations. The tantalising aroma of spices wafts from the bustling markets, enveloping and invigorating my olfactory senses. The temperature strikes a harmonious balance during the day, wherein one can bask comfortably under the gentle sun rays, while a light coat suffices in the shade.

The determining factor that influences my decision to linger in a particular place over others is how rapidly I assimilate the habits of a stable life without conscious effort. Put simply, when I discover a location that strikes the perfect balance between comfort and sensory stimulation, I instinctively embrace it as if I have always belonged. Tafraoute is one such place. In no time at all, I uncover my go-to shop, my trusted bakery, the tea house where I find solace, the restaurant that becomes my culinary haven, the section of the market I frequent, and the alleyways that I enjoy the most navigating. Another defining aspect is the identification of a specific spot within that place, where I choose to spend the majority of my day simply existing—breathing, rejuvenating, absorbing the surroundings, and contemplating life. In this instance, it is the terrace of my humble hotel, nestled in the very heart of the town. It is difficult to fathom how effortlessly one adapts and how arduous it is to pick up your stuff and leave from these rare locations where the stars align, evoking an unmistakable feeling of being home.

         I spend only a few days in Tafraoute, aware that if I were to stay longer, I might unknowingly lose track of time and extend my stay for months. Fortunately, as I venture forth from the town, the breathtaking views quickly compensate for my hesitation. The ascent towards the High Atlas unfolds before me in no time. Villages cling to the mountainsides, seamlessly merging with the textures and hues of the surrounding landscape, embellishing the very anatomy of the scenery. My cycling pace becomes inversely proportional to the incline of the climbs. Forced to move in slow motion, I have ample opportunity to immerse myself in the beauty that envelops me. It's akin to savouring a meal with unhurried delight, relishing the magic of each flavor. Sunsets astound me with their fairy-tale palette, casting ethereal hues upon the undulating contours that stretch until they vanish into the distant peaks within my field of vision. With every passing day and ascending altitude, the nights grow colder, yet simultaneously clearer as I reach the 3000-meter mark. The customary black expanse of deep space transforms into a pale blue canopy adorned with shimmering stars. Lacking a tent, I am at the mercy of the elements, sleeping outdoors on an inflatable mattress, cushioned by a bed of stones. I find myself curling up like a caterpillar inside my sleeping bag, seeking warmth not only because the temperature plunges to 0ºC, but also because the moon shines with such intensity that it hampers my slumber. As the nights grow chilly, I must don my clothing within the confines of my sleeping bag, to avoid freezing. However, upon opening my eyes, poking my head out, and being enveloped by this immense solitude, my senses are overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of the moment.

Unfortunately, I continue to struggle to establish the connections I desire. I cannot discern whether it's a prevailing sense of apathy or an underlying shyness, but in over 10 days in the country, I have yet to encounter the kind of warmth and hospitality I experienced with Hassan and his family. With regards to the local women, it becomes apparent that their reservations primarily stem from shyness. One afternoon, I halt my bike by the roadside to approach a group of young girls who are joyfully singing atop a hill as the sun sets. As soon as they catch sight of me, they hastily turn their backs and conceal their faces in embarrassment. They giggle and steal fleeting glances, but it becomes evident that my presence makes them uneasy. Consequently, I retreat, allowing them to resume their singing undisturbed while I listen from a distance. This disheartens me, as it is these local customs and traditions that captivate me most in the places I visit. Unfortunately, my encounters with men yield no better results. Even the imam of a village mosque disdainfully denies my request to spend the night sheltered within its confines. This is an unprecedented occurrence, something I have never encountered in any other mosque throughout my travels in the Islamic world. While these incidents do not entirely mar my experience, they do impede the human and spiritual connection I yearn for with Moroccan culture.

  The route I have been traversing since departing from Tafraoute is unquestionably breathtaking. I cannot deny its magnificence. Despite being a major road, it still retains its rural charm, with minimal traffic that doesn't pose much of a disturbance. However, having my experiences of the past, I can't help but notice the difference. Interestingly, whenever I find myself yearning for the challenges and nostalgia of those remote roads, fate seems to answer my unspoken desires. It happens almost seamlessly, as if I had anticipated it all along. 

Soon after, during a pit stop at a tea house in Tazenakht, a gentleman suggests that I take a shortcut to Ouarzazate. Shortcut? My eyes widen with excitement, as that term usually implies rugged dirt roads and hidden villages. Not only that, but he also mentions that by taking this route, I can save 30 kilometers. The only caution he offers, which I scarcely register amidst my burgeoning joy, is that the road is unpaved. That's all I need to hear. I am sold. No further information is required. This is the path meant for me.

  I savour the last drop of mint tea, emptying the silver pitcher with satisfaction. It's as if this elixir fills me with renewed energy, readying me for the quest to discover that secret shortcut. Luckily, it proves to be an easy find, just a mere 2 kilometers away. Soon, I find myself pedaling in utter solitude, relishing the sound of gravel crunching beneath my wheels. I proceed leisurely, navigating the undulating terrain, winding along the dry riverbed wedged between canyons. It feels like stepping into a natural geology museum, where the rock walls encircling me exhibit a captivating array of layers, each a testament to the planet's enigmatic history. 

However, the tranquil museum stroll soon transforms into a relentless battle on wheels. The inclines become steeper, mercilessly challenging my resolve, while the loose gravel causes my wheels to slip, intensifying the exertion required. As the afternoon wears on, the temperature drops irreversibly. As expected, the so-called "shortcut" stretches longer than anticipated, and nightfall finds me still immersed in this geological marvel, a sanctuary of natural sciences that beckons me to experience the physical sensations of primordial eras.

Now enveloped in darkness, perched on a new rocky ledge overlooking a canyon, I inflate my mattress once again, preparing to sleep under the open sky. Seizing the opportunity, I retire early, hoping to drift into slumber before the luminous allure of the moon steals my sleep. My own personal television, akin to the nightly broadcasts of the past months, presents a magnificent spectacle of millions of stars, a celestial programming of unrivaled quality due the unpolluted sky, far surpassing even the Saharan night skies.

    At 5:45 am, still half-asleep, I emerge from my sleeping bag and get exposed to the moonlight before it slips away, hiding beyond the canyon's edge, behind a towering mountaintop. The fleeting illusion of returning to sleep vanishes as that very peak bathes in a golden hue, kissed by the first rays of the emerging sun behind me. Typically, I go about my day without haste, but with each passing day, I find myself increasingly motivated to reach towns where I can relish in delicious yet affordable meals. Perhaps it's the months spent subsisting on meager fare that ignites such fervour within me to once again revel in the pleasures of food. Whatever the reason, today, the prospect of satisfying my culinary cravings takes precedence. With that in mind, I hastily pack my belongings, bypassing the ritual of heating water for my morning coffee, and head straight towards my destination, hopeful to find a welcoming tea house at the end of this shortcut.

The stark contrast between my envisioned reality and the actuality could not have been more pronounced. As I endure the arduous three-hour ordeal of navigating my way out of this geological museum, I ponder the inherent subjectivity of what we cycle-travellers often label as shortcuts. In truth, more often than not, these supposed shortcuts demand a much greater investment of time and effort than their longer, more conventional counterparts. Yet, a wry smile graces my lips, for the reality is that despite the hours of pain and exhaustion, I derive a peculiar masochistic pleasure from such endeavours. Finally, as I emerge from the canyons, I find myself standing at the very gates of Ouarzazate. Though the shortcut may have consumed twice as much time and triple the effort, it undeniably delivered me to my destination. It's a mere 9 am, and the entire culinary industry unfurls its welcome mat before me. Nestled in the heart of the city, I secure lodging in a delightful guesthouse, surrounded by an array of traditional restaurants and charming tea houses. The immaculate sky casts its radiant sunlight upon me, making me feel renewed and reenergised. Having filled my daily quota of exercise, I find myself content, fulfilled, and poised to indulge in a well-deserved respite, during a few blissful days of relaxation.