I could have easily stayed in that charming little town at the foot of the Todra Gorge indefinitely. Sipping mint tea, savouring tagine, and simply observing life unfold in the serene confines of the valley felt like a dream. But my journey beckons me forward—I have a mountain range to conquer. These days have been nothing short of inspirational, and the wholesome meals keep my body brimming with energy. As I leave my cozy hotel with my loaded bike, a sense of strength and excitement surges within me, resonating through every cell. I crave more adventures and seek even greater challenges.
The beauty of my departure lies in passing through the Todra Gorge itself. This time, I traverse it on my bike, cherishing the chance to experience it on wheels. I pedal slowly, turning my head from side to side, like a satellite dish following signals from above. I want to absorb every fraction of this magnificence one last time.
Emerging on the other side of the gorge, the tour buses and Toyota Landcruisers vanish as if by magic. Stepping away from the tourist traps reveals the authentic essence of the place. It amazes me that with a mere 90-degree turn on the road, I find myself completely alone, savouring the solitude. It’s clear that the drama of the geography reaches its peak at the Todra Gorge, gradually fading to each side. However, as I venture into new corridors, I enter a new world Berber towns and villages. Their monochromatic blend harmoniously with the environment, almost becoming one with the ground they rest upon, save for the shadows projecting from the tiny adobe walls' windows.
Shortly after, I reach a plateau at 1800 meters, where for the first time, I experience the infamous hostility of the villages. As I cycle through, I hear the unsettling sound of stones landing dangerously all around my bicycle. I can hear the children and adolescents whispering, hidden behind the walls and terraces, clearly waiting for the time to come out and hit their target: i.e. me. Unlike the Ethiopian little monsters though, these kids are easier to intimidate. While the situation is tense, I find that wielding my bamboo cane actually makes them back off, and I'm grateful for the restraint they show. However, it's disheartening to be in such a situation, where I must rely on a defensive stance to preserve my physical safety, pretending to be someone I’m not, as it goes against the core values of my travels. I don’t enjoy myself this way, but all else equal, this is better than being stoned and end up with stitches.
In a state of awe and wonder, I alternate between the tranquility of the boundless plateau views and the tension encountered while riding across the villages. Eventually, I find myself at the base of the pass I need to get across to reach Agoudal, a familiar challenge for me. Having faced numerous climbs in every condition and fueled by the energy I bring since I left Todra, I conquer the ascent in less than two hours. Upon reaching the top, the breathtaking panorama catches me off guard. The nondescript hills that concealed the top of the pass during my climb now reveal a stunning sight. A series of canyons stretches out like multi-branched lightning etched into the earth's surface. Beams of light pierce through stormy clouds, painting the landscape with a dynamic display of light and shadow akin to an impressionist masterpiece. Thousands of superimposed layers of colour adorn each hillside, creating an enchanting sight that engulfs me in a multidimensional puzzle.
At an altitude of 2,700 meters, it's not the elevation that leaves me breathless this time, but the geological drama sculpted over millions of years by the unforgiving climate. In this complete solitude, I seek a rational explanation for such a supernatural spectacle. Yet, as my contemplation escalates, serenity overtakes me, prompting me to transition from standing to sitting, and eventually laying down on the stones. In the midst of this surreal moment, I surrender to the caresses of the sun and the gentle whispers of the breeze. Like a child, I succumb to a blissful slumber, drifting into the most wonderful nap I've had in a long time.
Awakening an hour later, the sun hovers close to setting behind the towering peaks of the canyons, casting everything in a warm amber hue. The mesmerising play of lights, shadows, and sunbeams piercing through the clouds continues, dancing with the whims of the wind. As much as I'd love to witness the sunset's grand finale, I find myself shivering, and a long descent awaits me on my wheels. Yet, the spectacle doesn't cease as I get back on my bike—it intensifies. The amber colour deepens and saturates as I cross the plateau. Along the way, herds of goats graze on the slopes, their bleating echoing through the amphitheater of canyons, filling the geographical depressions with their dissonant melodies.
Surrounded by this symphony of sensory experiences, I find myself less bothered by the frigid wind that mercilessly sneaks under my sleeves and pants. Thankfully, the several kilometers of plateau ahead give me the chance to warm up as I cycle on. In moments like these, I tend to upshift my bike, exerting more force than necessary, generating additional energy and speed. Yet, a few kilometers later, as the sun retreats behind the mountains, signifying its imminent disappearance, the official descent begins.
The body heat I generated during the first 3 km vanishes within less than 500 meters downhill. It's one of the many hard-earned lessons I've learned during my expeditions across the Tibetan plateau. Going downhill, no jacket can make up for the bone-chilling cold of the wind that permeates every crevice of my clothing. The increasing speed intensifies its penetrating force, seeping through seams and chilling me to the core. After covering 15 km and descending to the plain of the Agoudal valley, it's already late at night. My muscles feel as tense as rocks, and I'm shivering uncontrollably, making it difficult to hold the handlebars and speak without my teeth chattering.
Even as I cover the last 4 km of the valley to reach the guesthouse in the town center, I can't generate enough energy to stop shivering. Thankfully, upon arrival, I find a group of Spanish cyclists I had met earlier while cycling uphill during the day, waiting to share a warm, hearty meal. And with that, we bring a perfect day to a close.
Time travel
As I travel northward, Agoudal becomes the pivotal point where the High Atlas gradually gives way to the Middle Atlas. The landscape undergoes a transformation—the average height decreases, the snowy peaks are left behind, and, akin to the Anti Atlas, canyons give way to fertile valleys snaking through mountains and villages. On my journey towards Fes, I make the decision once more to veer off the main road, delving deeper into the heart of Berber life.
The alternative road I chose leads me on a journey through time as I leave Agoudal behind. The first "traffic jam" I encounter comprises a herd of donkeys, dutifully carrying a family's furniture as they move to another village. In this region, motor vehicle traffic is nearly non-existent, with the primary means of transportation being by foot, donkeys, and occasional camel caravans. Just like in other parts of Morocco's interior, both men and women appear rather elusive. Whenever I offer friendly greetings, I receive only hushed murmurs in response, especially from the women. Shyness, or I might even say, introversion, seems to be the norm here. While I can't help but miss the close connections I'm accustomed to with the locals, I also recognise the importance of embracing and respecting this more reserved aspect of the culture I find myself in.
Apart from these observations, I find great pleasure in watching rural life unfold before me. Though I am now far from the Sahara, the mountain climate remains arid. The Berber villages continue the trend, with their sand-coloured buildings seamlessly blending into the environment, rendering them almost invisible. The villagers that aren’t out in the valleys harvesting, remain indoors, their homes featuring thick walls and small windows that allow only a few sunbeams to filter through. Only children play in the streets, bathed in dust, as if they wanted to match the colours of the village. When they catch sight of me approaching, their eyes gleam like a lion's after locking eyes with its prey. Their glances oscillate between mischief and malice, contemplating the best way to provoke me. Before long, stones begin to fall around me again, and a few even attempt to snatch items hanging from my bike. Unfortunately, the tales shared among cyclists about them are indeed true. I'm left with no choice but to wield my bamboo stick once again as I pass through each village, using it to intimidate and protect myself. My sole satisfaction lies in seeing them frustrated for not daring to act upon their intentions.
After a couple of days winding through more valleys and villages seemingly untouched by the hands of time, I begin the final descent of the High Atlas. The speed of my descent plays a critical role in my capacity to absorb the environment. A slower pace allows my mind to savour the landscape's intricacies, the sounds, colours, and scents. It's an intellectual exercise of progressive and relaxed understanding. However, the decision to embrace this leisurely pace isn't always intentional—it is sometimes forced upon me by uphill climbs or rough-surfaced roads where there's no other alternative. And yet, I often find that the true reward lies in savouring everything at a slower pace, not to mention the pure bliss that comes with overcoming such challenges.
Unlike the ascent, the descent (assuming the road or trail is in good condition) grants us the freedom to choose. However, this opportunity to calibrate our speed presents us with a serious dilemma. On one hand, we can stick to a leisurely pace, adhering to the previous philosophy of savouring each moment intensely. On the other hand, we can deliberately plunge into a roller coaster of emotions, hurtling at high speeds. In this case, instead of savouring the landscape, we immerse ourselves in an adrenaline-fueled rush. At speeds exceeding 50 km/h downhill, time compresses, and our vision narrows like a tunnel. Our mind must simultaneously concentrate fully on controlling the bicycle and scrutinising the road, all the while attempting not to miss the beauty of the surroundings.
Over the course of a few hours, I lose more than 1000 meters of altitude, finally entering the Middle Atlas. Skillfully navigating the curves, I manage to strike a fair balance between the adrenaline rush of speed and the ability to absorb the environment that slowness grants me. As the road stabilises, the geography and colours undergo a remarkable transformation, almost making it difficult to believe I'm still in the same country. On the horizon, beyond the mountains, a cluster of storm clouds creates a captivating contrast framed by a rainbow—an arch at the end of the road. The sand-coloured aridity of the higher regions now gives way to vibrant green, defining the fertile fields. Throughout the days, I pedal amidst fields of flowers, transforming the landscape into a living Monet painting. The impressionistic beauty intensifies after each downpour, leaving a shimmering blanket of raindrops resting on the plants, back-light the sunset light.
I arrive in Khenfira with a sense of contentment, as I've longed for this moment. Finally, I secure lodging at Joel's home—a Moroccan young man who resides in Spain but is visiting his family. The night I spend with him and his family brings me immense comfort, reaffirming the presence of true hospitality in Morocco. It's reasonable to assume that in a country frequented by European tourists, locals may exercise a degree of selectivity when extending their welcome to foreigners. I hold no grudge against them for this. Nevertheless, Joel's parents are delightful, exuding the same warm glances as countless others who have generously allowed me glimpses into their private lives. The mother, in particular, graces me with the enchantment of a homemade tagine that will forever remain etched in my memory.
The following day, brimming with energy, I press onward to continue my journey north. Despite having descended a considerable altitude, I find myself traversing the undulating terrain of the Middle Atlas, albeit with less pronounced slopes. During this springtime sojourn, the mountains are adorned with a lush carpet of grass that flourishes abundantly. The intermittent rains that accompany me nurture this vibrant growth, faithfully marking each day of my expedition.
It's not by chance that, at an elevation of 1800 meters above sea level around Azrou, coniferous forests decorate the landscape, forming a picturesque backdrop to the journey. It feels like the outcome of an enchanting reverie, especially considering that just two days ago, I was traversing a region reminiscent of the Tibetan plateau. Now, were it not for the Arabic signage, I might easily mistake my surroundings for a remote village in the Chilean Patagonia. The confusion deepens a day later upon my arrival in Ifran, where I find myself questioning whether I'm truly in Morocco or in a quaint hamlet tucked away in the French countryside. Here, the rustic allure of the Atlas gives way to an air of elegance with its well-maintained streets and orderly 'maisons'. This medley of diverse settings and cultures stands as a testament to the remarkable geographical and cultural tapestry that defines Morocco.
On my final day journeying through the Middle Atlas, I find myself soaked by the relentless rain. Despite the downpour, I make a conscious decision to press on, determined to reach Fes without interruption. Arriving to a big city feeling exhausted, drenched, and chilled to the bone isn't the most ideal scenario. Particularly since such conditions might cloud my perception and lead to unmet expectations, causing dreams and idealisations to crumble and dampening the overall spirit. Of course, I'm not naive—I had anticipated that Fes holds a prominent status as a bustling tourist hub, both in the country and across the globe. Nonetheless, for some inexplicable reason, my mental image didn't quite align with the reality I encountered. The famed Medina, in particular, seemed to have transformed into a mere spectacle, an isolated 'island' tucked away in a distant corner of the city. Far less did I expect the sight of wide boulevards lined with luxury vehicles, vying for access to shopping centers and the convenience of McDonald's drive-thru.
It takes me nearly two hours to navigate the city until I finally reach the outskirts of the Medina. I arrive, grumbling about the chaotic traffic and the relentless weather, feeling like I'm about to freeze. I even attempt to avoid stopping at traffic lights, determined to maintain the motion that's keeping me warm, though the disorderly traffic doesn't always comply. As I pass through the perimeter wall of the Medina, I feel as volatile as a radioactive bomb, acutely aware that any disheartening incident could trigger an explosion of emotions. However, within just a few meters of stepping inside, I experience a profound shift, as if I've leaped into prehistoric times. This dramatic change has the uncanny ability to deactivate my agitation and bring a sense of tranquility.
Once I secure affordable lodgings, my mood stabilises, and I promptly decide to venture out and explore. Naturally, this serves as the perfect pretext to warm up with a soothing cup of mint tea. I pause to savour it at a quaint canteen nestled within an alley, offering me a vantage point to contemplate the urban spectacle of a bygone era. In retrospect, I find a silver lining amid the Westernised commotion that extends beyond the walls of this ancient Medina. Having ridden across the entire city, I've established a fundamental perspective that only accentuates the stark contrast upon crossing the Medina's threshold. And indeed, it's the interplay of contrasts that I find most captivating. It's here that I decide to linger for a couple of days, to truly immerse myself and unravel the essence of this unique place.
