After several days living within the bubble of Fes' medina, it's time to carry on. At this point, as I draw closer to the Mediterranean, it's not so easy for me. Now, more than ever, when I mount my bicycle, it serves as a reminder that I'm approaching the end of this chapter of my life in Africa. I need to make a conscious effort not to dwell on it and thereby avoid the distress it stirs within me.
My departure from Fes takes me on a lengthy ascent through the hills to the north of the city. Along the way, I discover yet another facet of this diverse place: its working-class neighbourhoods. Here, you won't find the broad boulevards, the McDonald's, or the shopping centers I encountered when entering the city from the south. Instead, the landscape is characterised by the typical housing congestion of the slums in the developing world. This urban panorama is a patchwork of half-finished houses and structures where the varying colours of each facade reveal the different stages of construction. Where walls meet, they expose their raw materials like cement blocks, bricks, or even the absence of a wall. The urban skyline can be distilled to the abstraction of an electrocardiogram's line. The rooftops trace the schizophrenic variation of its shape. They're adorned with countless unfinished columns, their iron skeletons exposed, and numerous satellite dishes reminiscent of dots in a Lichtenstein painting. Here, it's the laundry and linens of the residents, not flags, that flutter in the wind. Beyond, the Rif mountains frame this urban mosaic, infusing colour into the otherwise bleak landscape of poverty.
Once out of the city, I immediately find myself immersed in the rolling terrain of the mountains. The lush green that blankets the forested slopes and plantations reflects the climate I've been experiencing lately. Drenched and shivering, I attempt to warm up with each uphill climb, which, given the circumstances, I am thankful to say, are not in short supply. While I'm no longer in the Atlas range, these regions with their endless hills often accumulate more daily ascent than long mountain passes. For us cycle-travellers, this can sometimes be more challenging than the elevation itself. In the case of the Rif, the very undulations that lend it its charm also add countless meters of climbing to each day's journey. I must admit that I don't relish this as much as the grand ascents, but today, I must be grateful, because I have a torrential storm and a headwind to contend with. If not for these climbs, keeping me warm, I believe I'd end the day with pneumonia.
This is how I spend my first day in the Rif, confronting an invisible wall during the ascent, which at times appears nearly impenetrable. Today's rain is the kind I detest the most (as not all rains are alike); it's the windy rain, with drops that prick my face like needles. It's the kind of day where minutes seem to stretch into hours of misery. To make matters worse, despite now being in a region with higher population density, I can't find a single place to seek shelter and wait out the storm. It never ceases to amaze me how a place that seemingly has everything to be enjoyable, can turn into a nightmare when the elements conspire against you.
After struggling for hours, I finally reach the first town at the end of the day. Dejected and still shivering, my clothes cling damply to my body. As I peel off my shirt, I feel the water trickle from my neck to my toes. The shivers make it impossible to remain still. Unfortunately, luck is not on my side, as there isn't a single available accommodation in the entire town, and with my tent broken, camping hasn’t been an option in a long while. The only potential refuge is a restaurant at a service station, which I suspect will remain open throughout the night. There, at least, I'll have access to a bathroom and hot food, along with mint tea to summon warmth and hopefully stave off illness.
After such a trying day, any semblance of comfort is welcome, but the reality is that the night ahead proves to be a torment. The restaurant provides me with the ability to eat and avoid spending the stormy night outdoors without a tent for protection – no small feat. However, with the glaring lights and incessant noise, I found it impossible to sleep for more than 10 minutes at a time in the whole fucking night. My inability to lie down or even assume a moderately horizontal position has always been an issue for me. Trying to sleep sitting up with my head resting on my arms at a table provides no respite. Nevertheless, I decide to hit the road at 6 am because if I haven't slept by then, it's clear that sleep won't come now. As a consolation, I carry with me the energy from the hearty and delicious meals I enjoyed. Once back on the bike, at least the sun comes out to greet me from the horizon, promising a better day. However, the reality is that I'm virtually destroyed.
Peddling while fatigued is quite a challenging endeavour. The combination of physical and psychological exhaustion significantly heightens the difficulty of everything. Fatigue impacts the muscles and disrupts the body's internal processes and mechanisms. It also leads to a hypersensitive emotional state, obliterating any sense of humor and magnifying the impact of external stimuli on the senses. In simpler terms, this means that car horns and the roar of vehicle engines deafen me to the point of exasperation. Each honk encourages me to respond with a violent gesture. The daylight feels almost blinding, and keeping my eyes open requires a conscious effort. With each pedal stroke or sudden manoeuvre of the handlebars, I can feel my muscles groaning.
Fortunately, in my current state, I must express gratitude to the colours around me, with all the flowers shinning vibrantly under the clear blue sky. They help alleviate the general discomfort in my mind. The first olive fields I encounter on this journey emit a fragrance that perfumes my path, providing a stark contrast to the noxious fumes spewed by vehicles. The wind, meanwhile, has decided to cease its relentless slapping and now offers a gentle breeze that caresses my face. It's almost as if it's trying to keep me awake, allowing me to stay alert as I ride.
Today's conditions are an incentive to counteract my weakness but they are also the stimulus I need to continue peddling until I reach Chefchaouen. This involves making the final ascent to the town late at night, along a dark mountain road. However, when I arrive I find myself pushing my bike in search of accommodation through the alleys of this fairytale-like town. There is not a soul left wandering around at this time and the lanterns sway in the breeze, illuminating the characteristic blue of its walls. I’ve covered about 250 km in two days, I have not slept for 38 hours but I feel that everything has been worth it. Already in my room worthy of a Smurfs episode, I bury myself under the sheets until I fall into a warm, deep sleep.