Bikepacking Western Africa

Even though I prepared a ton, I’m feeling a bit unprepared with so many equipment problems. Yesterdays mud nearly depleted a pair of new brake pads; thousands of feet descended in the grit. You know about the ground pad from yesterday (it still works, thankfully, so I am trying to stay relaxed and baby it for the next four months. Grateful for Gregg Bone’s repair suggestion if it comes down to that). A new malady appeared today – my brand new satellite communication device died after working for 1.5 days. I raced around Algerceras looking for a store that might sell something – even a Garmin InReach. Nothing. I thought long and hard about this: people used to travel without these. I do have some hyper-remote 60-120 mile desert sections planned on dirt… I was most looking forward to these sections… but I might reconsider. Maybe. Meanwhile, I am working with BivyStick to express mail a replacement to Fez.

It then became a race to catch the boat. It left in 30 minutes, and the guy in front of me was not being allowed to buy a round trip ticket from Spain to Morocco and back. It seemed like he wasn’t registered as a citizen of the EU. They looked him up in the computer and as the clock ticked away, they guy behind the counter finally figured it out: he was typing “ñ” instead of “n”. The guy insisted his name had “ñ”, but whatever: the computer disagreed. I swear that for every minute computers save from our lives, they waste two.

On the ferry, there is a little window where you need to get your passport stamped. This is convenient because you don’t have to do it when you arrive. It’s also inconvenient because there is one guy and 40 people. I started timing and at the rate he was processing people… about 1 person every 6 minutes, it seemed unlikely there would be time to get to everyone during the short crossing. The man only claimed to speak French and English, but he didn’t really speak English. He got hung up on the purpose of my trip. I had written “Leisure” on the entry form which was a BAD idea. I tried to explain that this means “Tourism”, but even with my French and English, he got stuck on that, much like my computer gets stuck on repeat saying “you have entered the wrong password”

Disembarking from the boat, it didn’t feel like a new continent… but THIS is Africa! I headed straight to the bathroom and inside saw two sink looking things. One near the ground, and another higher with water valves. Unsure if either of these were urinals, I took the safe bet and found a sit down toilet to pee in. I’m going to have to learn a lot here, but peeing in a possible sink isn’t going to be how I start.

The ride began into a fierce rainy headwind. It felt impossible to absorb everything; I was on sensory overload – which is exactly what I was craving from this trip… non stop mental stimulation. It is stressful, but once I have time to process it all, I think I’ll be glad I did this. The first thing I noticed that stood out was the adolescents by the side of the road. When I waved, they would wave back – but with enormous smiles that made you think everything is right in the world. Since when are adolescents so friendly? The kids were friendly too; one kid rode alongside me, maybe trying to race. He swerved about, though, making me think we would clip bars. All I had was “Bonjour, ça va?” I’m kicking myself for listening to these podcasts where the woman just gossips about her friends. That isn’t coming handy when I need to tell the kid he has a cool bike, wanna race? I’m overjoyed that today went well because I had read stories about kids throwing rocks at cyclists in Islamic countries. One kid did ride his bike following me and pantomiming my exaggerated movements while standing, but it was all in fun.

Even the adults are friendly; an old robed man put down his decrepit wheelbarrow just so he could smile and wave as I went by.

Once I got to town, it was dark, and I had to navigate the chaotic streets. This is something I enjoy when traffic is slow or stopped. I love darting between cars and people constantly changing direction. It’s like riding a technical mountain bike trail that moves around beneath you.

I decided to buy a local SIM card. I’m using GoogleFi as an eSim, and that makes life really easy – anywhere you go in the world, your phone just works with your home number… but it is expensive and I wanted to try the experience of getting a SIM here. English to the rescue, I can’t really do much French I am finding as I stumble over words. It took nearly 2 hours; a slow tedious process and the “system not working,” but I persisted as the guy got his buddy to come help (first they had to give each other big hugs). I kind of feel like a cold American amongst these warm and friendly people.

The guy at the hotel was equally jovial. He couldn’t stop smiling and we chatted for a while. He was older than me, but his mannerisms were like a teen. He was so intent on making sure I loved Morocco. He was bummed that my wife didn’t come. He carefully studied my route map and said it was a great route. it was super late and I’m still in my bike clothes, he said, “you want to go, don’t you!” I liked him a lot, but was also desiring a shower… I can already tell that everything in Morocco is going to take a lot of time…. Good time, though, so I need to embrace that and maybe think more about the journey and less about the destination.

When the tall slender man in a blue suit took me to my bicycle, he must have noticed my swift movement. He said, “don’t worry. There is no hurry. I can wait here while you pack your bike.” A sincere smile accompanied his words; again and again I’m being counseled by smart people to slow it down a bit. I feel like a dog that just wants to keep running after the ball – even when exhausted. And exhausted I was… well not for the first 3 hours which were accompanied by a tailwind, a sugar buzz, and coffee… taking me to a lovely, but deserted beach with ease…. But then the climbing to the mountains began amidst furious headwinds. I hunkered down and plugged into the wind.. and into my French podcasts.

Everyone here seems to speak a little bit of Spanish, a little English, a decent amount of French… and lots of Moroccan Arabic. The only two words I understand in Arabic so far are “Salaam-Alaikum” (peace be with you and Gods mercy)…. And a word “inshallah” that sounds like the Spanish “ojala” which means “god willing”. It is now a race to learn French and my speaking has already improved today. I would pull over repeatedly as I thought of things to say in French and speak them to my phone to “test out”. Sure, I can get a hotel or coffee in French.. but the key to a more rich experience is going to be to engage with the people, tell stories, and make them laugh (the later has proven to be the easiest of the three).

After lots of physical effort, some walking (because of the wind, not the hills) I got happy, saved by the mountain scenery. There seem to be 3 things that are hardwired to the happiness receptors in my brain. Seeing Janet, coffee, and beautiful scenery. The day was turning out to be good, with the objective of visiting “God’s Bridge”. In our travels, Janet and I have come to dozens of God’s bridges…. I wonder if it bothers God that he needs all these bridges, while his son can just walk on water. Regardless, I’m glad God left these bridges around for us to hike to.

It turns out that this was a pretty touristic location. My opinion on touristy spots kinds of flips when I’m alone in a foreign country. I end up liking touristic spots a lot more because there are other people interested in the same thing as me mulling about. And so I ended up hiking with a guy named Omar from the desert of Morocco. I’ll be dammed, he had worked on building the (now) highest dam in the world in Tajikistan. It’s now bigger than the formerly biggest dam in China. I asked if they had a competition going on with dam size… anyway, by the end of the hike (which ended for him once the slope turned 35 degrees upward) he decided to give me his phone number so I can look him up in 800km. He lives right along my planned route, so I’ll be looking forward to seeing a friendly and familiar face in a week or so. I decided to stop “early” (meaning before dark) and got a hotel room for less than $20 USD. Why not?

One thing you should be careful of is a hotel run by young men who are not dressed in suits. The smiling guy took me to the room, and quickly picked up the trash and fluffed up the pillows. I learned how to ask for a towel (“serviette”) in French (Janet will laugh at this one, because it sounds like asking for a “napkin” in Spanish). The room probably looks good in my picture.. but because I’m still doing the upside down eating thing, I had the opportunity to become closely acquainted with the variety of unique, but squished bugs inhabiting the floor. A god day.. and good night to you!

I’m not normally the type of person who goes to see cities for attractions (or one who climbs 1,500 extra feet for such privilege), but I decided to go to this one. I rode through the narrow blue alleys, took some photos and videos, thinking this was nice.. until a robed figure came talking to me in Spanish. He looked like a hooded character from Star Wars, and if he would have had glowing yellow eyes, I wouldn’t have been surprised. “Be careful, be careful” he scratched out, grabbing my seat bag. “Be careful of the wet roads!” He continued. I slipped away from his grasp like a fish and decided that was enough of the blue city.

A couple complicated searches for low carb food revealed that although I’m not yet in the Sahara desert, I have already reached the food desert. Soon I was off to the open road… I turned off on a one lane mountain road and about this point (3.5 hours into my ride), the rain finally let up.

Whenever you cross an international border, there is always a “grace period” where near the border you retain some of the elements of the former country that help ease the transition into the next. The grace period for Morocco ended right as I turned up the mountain road. After lots of beautiful and peaceful riding, I saw a man up on a hill, kind of yelling at a family or two down below. One of the kids looked bored with this discussion and he wandered around me while I was filling my water bottles. I wanted to know what the “fight” was about, so I asked the kid if he spoke Spanish. “No”. English? “No”. French? “No”. He was fluent in “no” in all 3 languages, so I bid him farewell.

Next I saw a cyclist ahead of me. Marcos from Italy was touring, burdened by enough water to fill an aquarium of sea turtles. And a turtle he was, riding about 1/4 my speed. We settled on a French dominant hybrid of Spanish/English/French and spoke in 3 word sentences. He has been on the bike for two years mostly in the Middle East and India. He had a good sense of humor. When I asked if he also had water in the container on his downtube, he said “no, it’s spaghetti”. (You know, being Italian and all) Actually, it was tools. Later he asked my age; I told him and then he wanted me to guess his age. I said “60,”. No. “62?” No. He was 50. Doh! Men, here is some advice: if you have a gray beard and you are 50, don’t play the “guess my age” game. Actually, women, same to you… if you have a gray beard….. Anyway, He has no blog or website; I’ve lost connection with him, even though he was a fun guy. I love the connected way I travel, but I secretly admire these truly off grid people taking their time with bikes prepared for the apocalypse.

Further along, i was coming down a hill and saw two young guys parked on the side of the road overlooking the valley. For some reason, I suddenly thought, “I need to talk to more people.” As a guise, I pulled up somewhat close to them and took a picture of the scenery I wasn’t really interested in. Right away, one of the guys walked up to me and started talking. I said, “do you speak Spanish?” He did.. in fact, he was pretty fluent! It was great to have a real conversation! Jonas has worked in a flower factory in Spain for 10 years. He is here for 2 weeks visiting family. When I told him my name was Brian, he said excitedly, “Are you Muslim?!” I said no. He said, but “Brahmin is a Muslim name!” He then continue that Islam is the best religion. I asked why and he said, “because it is easy”. Easy? I pushed him to explain that one. He said “easy. The rules are simple. You don’t kill, you don’t steal, and when you are talking to your friend, and he walks away, you don’t talk to another friend.” I thought I was losing that in translation, but asked him to clarify… and yeah, that is what he said. Anyway, I really did feel “called” to stop and talk to these guys – the first time so far – I normally consider this kind of stuff divine intervention… but was it God or Allah who drew me to them?

Further down the road, I could tell that I was now really in Morocco. The road turned to a muddy potholed mess. 3 boys rode up alongside me on bikes and started chatting. I tried my 3 languages again, but nothing. So, thinking, “what the heck,” with one hand I pulled my phone out of my pocket and clicked over to my translate app. I had downloaded Arabic for offline use and as we dodged potholes and cruised along at 12 mph, I spoke to my phone, “what is your name?” Each reported their name gleefully. Then they got down to business. I held the phone towards the kid nearest me and he leaned over his handlebars, to speak to the phone, dodging potholes and mud puddles at the same time. My phone quickly explained to me, “Money. From my heart.” My enthusiasm for our fledgling conversation dropped; I said to my phone, “i only have a credit card. I am sorry…. From my heart.” The three kids solemnly accepted this, and simultaneously fist-bumped their hearts briefly riding one handed before turning back. I saw lots of heart fist bumps today.

I didn’t like the content of that exchange, but at the same time, I was gleeful that I could have conversations with everyone now! if I could manage this while riding a bike, no problem while stopped! Upbeat and excited, I pulled over to talk to the next guy who waved me down, but we got by with French.

Not long after, though, I saw a pack of 40 kids come running from behind a house. I knew I couldn’t handle that many kids, so I accelerated. They came running, saying all sorts of things, but smiling and laughing and running alongside me. I picked up the pace and they began to thin out breathing hard. I felt relieved and slowed down a bit once I ditched them… only to find them coming again – they knew a shortcut through the hill! I sped again, but this time they were grabbing onto my seat bag. I accelerated like Marty trying to get the Time Machine to 88 mph. By the time the last kid let go, I saw on my GPS that I was ascending at 5000 feet per hour. These kids would have even given Sepp Kuss a run for his money…. Literally… and now I know where that expression comes from.

…And then it happened. Click-tap-tap-crack. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw that the front runner kids were now throwing rocks at me. Crap! Yup, the stories I heard were true. Luckily, I was so fast that they didn’t manage to hit me or my carbon frame. I wonder what will happen to Marcos tomorrow? Thank goodness Janet was not there.

Now, I decided to hurry. I pushed hard on the pedals, flying over the muddy road. I had seen a hotel on the map, but it involved a steep hike a bike up a dirt road at the end. Fearing kids now, I did worry about being swarmed, but it was dark and I snuck up to the friendly place. It’s really just a house, I think, but it works; I’ve got 3 beds for $12 and a place to stay out of the rain if it comes back. I want to tell you more, but even with 4 bars of LTE, there is hardly internet here. I think the bandwidth is probably being saturated (even though I can only see a few lights around the lake below).

Photos majorly De-rez’d due to saturated data.

Last night, I arrived at a house after dark, and the owner did not speak English, but his son did. He introduced himself as, “I am Ahmed, I am an engineer.” Like the hotel in Tetouan, they just wanted to make sure I was happy. I am getting used to expressing that I am happy. Very happy (and I sincerely was elated after the near miss with the kids’ rocks yesterday). The place was beautiful, overlooking the lake. Perfectly quiet and the kind of rest I love.

Departing today, rode a bit until I came to a cafe where the man had to light a fire with tissue paper to get the water hot. I went outside to the crumbling pavement – expecting little. It was time to call Janet right after she finished driving home. When the call connected, it was pitch black and she was outside checking out the garden. Delighted she made it home safely, I realized that she is going to have to buy some decaf so we can continue our virtual coffee dates; her bedtime is my morning. As we spoke, I heard all sorts of mechanical noises coming from inside the cafe. 20 minutes after ordering, the man miraculously brought out the strongest, tastiest little espresso I’ve had on this trip. How did it do it?!

Further down the road, I saw an intriguing scene; There were a bunch of men surrounding bloody carcasses splayed all over the hood of a pickup truck. I kept pedaling… but a few minutes later turned around to ask what the heck was going on.

I pulled up and acknowledged them, trying my various languages to engage them. One guy named Yahya spoke a few words of English, and slow enough French that I could ask him all of my questions. He said that they can hunt rabbits, pheasants, and ducks for these next 3 months. They camped out last night and now they stuff the insides of the animals with eucalyptus leaves to help preserve them. They will drive fast with the bodies spread all over the truck and the wind will help preserve them. As he told me all of this, he put his arm around me like we were long time friends… that huge smile the whole time. His face very close to mine. At least you don’t have to worry about drunk guys here – no one drinks alcohol, which I really like. Being so close, though, I worried I might have bad breath. If you saw us talking that way, you’d probably see my body language just slightly tilting my head away. I was a little uncomfortable being so near to a stranger, but in another way, I kind of liked it. This is how the guys here interact with each other… warm, friendly, smiling, and in your face. I try to imagine what it would be like if we were this close at home.

Each of the guys had something to say. One guy asked me if I spoke Russian. I said, “no, why?” He said that he was studying Russian. I asked, why? For work? He said “because it is cheaper!” I THINK he said he had lived in Russia to study, and that living in France is too expensive. In a few minutes, we were all best buddies, so they asked me to pose with some of their critters… and I’ll share a couple of these photos with those of you who aren’t squeamish. Each guy came to me separately and said, “welcome to Morocco.”

Another theme seems to be concerns about money. Elsewhere, a guy told me that “if you don’t have land here, you don’t have anything.” He claimed there are 800,000 Moroccans working in Spain. Without papers is better because you don’t pay taxes, and apparently in the last year, Spain has become quite amenable to this situation. Once I left the National park, the land became mostly cultivated with olive trees. People were working, plowing the land by hand or with animals – and beating the olives out of the trees with sticks onto a cloth tarp. I think about the above, and my friends who want to be “conscientious buyers” at home. Which is the “right” choice: , should you buy locally to minimize CO2 emissions? Or, should you support the way of life for 85% of the people who smiled and waved at me today?

The smiles… I can’t get over that. When someone smiles like the people here, I just inherently like them. And if they aren’t smiling, but have those crow’s feet that make them look like they are smiling – even when they aren’t, just as good. Why would anyone want to have crow’s feet removed?

The kids on bikes are my favorites. After what happened yesterday, I realized that you can’t throw rocks and ride at the same time. So far, almost all of the kids have been great – though I did narrowly avoided another round of rock-throwing today. Anyway, I stopped to talk to one kid because his bike was making a horrible noise. I thought, I’ll fix his bike for him; I have tools. We used the phone translate app (which by the way isn’t helping as much as I thought – I think Moroccan Arabic is different from Arabic). Anyway, the kid explained that he put this plastic bottle on his tire on purpose – so his bike would sound like a motor. He’s the first “motorized” biker that didn’t bow his head and say, “I know, I’m cheating..”

You guys know I wanted to avoid the cities, but I decided to go to Fez anyway. I somehow fell into the maze of narrow, noisy, and crowded streets. At first it was exciting, but then it became overwhelming- I felt lost and claustrophobic. The GPS didn’t work well in the tight quarters. I finally found my hotel with the help of 3 little kids. I felt like Indiana Jones slipping out of the street from the bad guys – exiting the chaos of the street, down a narrow alleyway, and suddenly though some doors where a polite man was offering me tea… one moment being touched from all angles, the next sitting on some pillows and rugs, surrounded by colorful patterns sipping mint tea.

It didn’t end there either… 3 broken ATMs (never found a working one) and a ton of wandering trying to find a low carb meal made for a very late finish. I finally got a guy to make me some kind of meat. I had him add in half a spleen (you read that right) because, hey, he had it there… and it sounded nutritious. Fingers crossed 🤞

Today on the road, I met another cyclist named Omar. He had a Scott bike, and I asked if cycling was popular here. He said “no,” and that he was able to get this bike from the USA only because he works in customs. They is now a factory in Morocco making “s***” bikes, so Morocco taxes imported bikes heavily to encourage people to buy locally. I asked him if kids threw rocks at him, and he said, “no because I have a Moroccan face.” He made a grisly bear form with his face and arms to demonstrate how I need to approach the next pack of kids.

I met Mohammed today. Not THAT Mohammed. Mohammed is kind of like Santa Claus in the US. Every store or mall has a Santa Claus impersonating the real guy up North… and after I met my 3rd Mohammed impersonator today, I decided that one could hedge their bets and say, “nice to meet you, Mohammed,” instead of asking for a name. This Mohammed went straight for the real question: “What do you think of the war between Israel and Palestine?” I was sitting on the curb, and jumped up quickly – curious to know what he thought. I haven’t read the news enough to understand what is going on. I had noticed in Spain that all the graffiti I had seen pertaining to the matter was pro-Palestine. Also, I had seen two Spain protests (also carrying the Palestinian flag). He was a teacher, and he refused to let me cheat with my phone translate app. Even I understood the French coming out of my app, but he said it wasn’t good. Either that, or he was afraid that my phone would record him having an opinion on Israel/Palestine. He took an ambivalent stance. “It is bad that the Israel attacked the Palestine.” “It is bad that the Palestine attacked the Israel.” True to form, he corrected my mistakes in French as I unsuccessfully tried to dig deeper into his opinion, or anything about what is happening. What is the stance in the USA, I wonder? I’ve heard that the US gives more money to tiny Israel than any other country. Is that still true?

I’m on a fast track to learning; many of you probably already know this stuff, but others can learn along with me. Those super narrow and crowded streets in Fez I told you about? That is called a “Medina”. It sucks for getting anywhere quickly; today I learned that the idea was to protect cities from invaders. Before drones, I could see this being a very successful strategy. Speaking of Drones, they are illegal in Morocco; I decided not to chance bringing mine to this country that is about the same size as California. When I entered Morocco, I was about the same latitude as Nacimiento Ferguson road on the Cali coast. Now my latitude is the same as San Clemente, CA. Did you know It is actually possible to ride your bicycle from Spain to Morocco! Spain has 5 exclaves in Morocco, and one of them is Ceuta – so I could have taken the boat from Spain to Spain and then ridden across an international border on the African continent. Ceuta is tiny; I’ll post a screenshot.

With the latitude as a frame of reference, it maybe isn’t too surprising now to see some of the photos I’m posting today. I’m slightly guilty of thinking Morocco was mostly camels and desert (though there will be a lot of that up ahead too). Today felt like i was riding through the campus of some Ivy League school in the fall. While we are comparing Morocco to the West of the US, did you know that Morocco was the first to recognize the US as an independent nation?

Morocco still has me a little surprised in that once you’re on the paved roads, it is more developed than I had imagined. Morocco, Guatemala, and Belize all have similar GDPs per person… but Morocco so far feels more well-to-do. So far, there has been much less trash on the side of the road (see my photo for bags of cleanup). I am guessing that the Southern portion is going to be the other side of that balance. By the time I (arguably) leave Morocco, my latitude will be that of Guadalajara, Mexico.

I’m riding uphill When I catch up to a man on a horse. We are going the same pace so we strike up a strained conversation in French. I’m trying to ask him about where his going and such, when I discover he speaks Spanish pretty well. Now we have a real conversation going; I’m trying to be polite, asking about his family, and complimenting him on his horse (though I read yesterday that you need to direct all complements to God here because otherwise, people will want to give
You the thing you are complimenting). I’m not sure how you would direct a compliment about a horse to God, but when I get time, I will think of a way. He said he works for the park, up ahead. We are doing well, riding side by side, when he says, “would you like to ride my horse?” I joke, “yes, and you can ride my bike to the desert for me!” He said I would need to exchange for a camel, and dismounts. I hop on the horse. Instead of riding my bike, he pushes it along and guides me on a short trail towards a clearing with a dead fox. I mention the fox and he says, “let’s take a picture of you on the horse”. Before I hand him my camera, I’m already starting to get the idea of what this is. Next he guides me, pushing my bike to an area with guys selling stuff. I dismount and an another guy shoves small tomatoes in my had so I can feed it to the monkeys wandering around. Yup, I’ve been duped, and I have the photos to prove it.

I handed over enough money to buy 5 cans of cat food in case he was into that. I didn’t feel good about it, but I feel like the true value in my payment is the story, not in the posed photos. I just want people to be “good”. Good people make me so happy and those are the people I want to thank with my money. Ironically, they are also the ones who are least likely to accept anything in return for their pure kindness. But now you have this story, and I have reminders on my phone – not to trust everyone. Sometimes I think the “bad” stories are the most genuine ones. Hopefully that doesn’t make me sound like a cynic. I appreciate many of you recently sharing your own stories, even if they aren’t always glamorous.

Women. Up until today, whenever I have approached a woman in Morocco, she lowers her eyes and goes to fetch a man. Today was different, as I rode into the Middle Atlas, I was now amongst people with a different culture. I stoped by some women and children getting water. The women had a lot to say this time; no men around. I pulled out my phone and handed it to her. She spoke vigorously into it, shaking a bit as of she were casting a magic spell to turn my phone into a butterfly. She pointed down the hill. The message in English was something about going with a brave heart. I interpreted this to mean that she thought I was brave to ride down the hill. We did some more back and forth with lots of peculiar results. I have the phone set to automatically detect the language of the speaker and to play back the translation immediately. So as she vehemently spoke her next verse, I peered over her shoulder with horror. The phone thought she was speaking English, so I could read the words “sexy porn” on the screen. Terrified, I grabbed the phone from her before it translated this sentence out loud in Arabic. I pushed all the buttons as fast as I could, trying to prevent the phone from speaking – saying “no, no, no” in case something came out. Luckily, 50% of the Moroccan population is illiterate, so she didn’t seem to read the Arabic that had already appeared on the screen.

For the last 8 miles of my ride, I gained a new friend. As I was riding by the lake, a dog had been with two men, but he came running towards me in a friendly way. He then ran alongside me. 8 miles is a long time on these roads, and I kept wondering when he would turn back – but he didn’t. I started to like him and talk to him. If I were ever to travel with a dog, he would be the one.. I even worried about his welfare when other barking dogs came. Now he is at my camp with me and making me feel safer. I gave him a can of sardines and he devoured it. There was a temptation to invite him in to the 3 person tent, but he isn’t very clean and has sardine breath now. I am feeling super sick all of a sudden. I’ve taken my 3rd Cirpo, but in the last hour, something hit me hard with some pretty severe outcomes. It’s cold and I was camped under the road – not far from a tiny collapsing shack. Little did I know, but people live in there. Without lights. It was creepy and they probably heard me and were scared. They shone a flashlight my way. Hope my puppy friend keeps me safe.

Uploaded between bouts of vomiting. Ugh. Now I have vomit splashes on my socks. Not too good right now.

In the morning, my new buddy Mila (named by my sister for “miles,” because Mila is going to be doing a lot of miles!) was faithfully waiting outside the tent. We split the next can of sardines 50/50, and I used the empty tin to give her an entire bottle of water. I can see why people love dogs. After having been chased by so many mean dogs, you can quickly forget that there are loving dogs out there too. She never begged; always patiently waited. We set off, and I found myself lingering on the downhills waiting for her to catch up. A pack of dogs came to attack her and I turned back to defend her. I started to think of ways to carry her downhill. She easily outpaced me on the ascents. What am I doing? I really liked her, but having a dog means no hotels and difficult border crossings. I said good bye to her at the top of each hill… just in case. She caught up to me while I was drying the tent on a downhill, but after 2 hours together this morning, we had our last goodbye. 😞.

So, some of the mystery has been solved about my Arabic app. For the last 36 hours, I was amongst the Berber people of the Middle Atlas. Anything I told you in English about what was said during that time was just pure coincidence! This explains why “what is your name?” works, but nothing else made much sense. The “Berbers,” who prefer to be called “Amazigh” are not a homogeneous group of people. They actually have 4 languages that can’t be understood between each. They have a variety of cultures, living in different places, and they are NOT Arabs. Their bloodline is actually from Stone Age people of Northern Africa. The people I met in the mountains spoke nothing other than their own dialect, meaning that of the 5 languages I have available in my head or pocket, body-language was the only one that worked. I wish I knew what the kids were saying; one girl came running towards me down a steep hill with her hand up. She said “shoes, shoes”. That is all she said over and over. Did she know one word of English and want shoes, or is this a homophone in her dialect? People live a hard life in these mountains. I have included a photo of some of the houses. I have a rough idea of how hard it is after freezing last night, and trying to find water that wasn’t contaminated with laundry detergent. It is not densely populated, but there is always someone somewhere. If you think you are totally alone, stop and study the landscape. If you are good at “Where’s Waldo” you will see the men, blending in with the rocks, guarding the sheep. In the rest of the world, cellular phones and YouTube have revolutionized the monotony of shepherdry, but here the only entertainment is a guy in red on a bicycle trying to say, “salam alikalum” and waving back with a big smile.

Still suffering bouts of nausea, I did my entire ride on half a can of sardines and the first 7 hours on one bottle of water. The other bottle I had given to Mila. Parched, I got to a dusty town and tried to take the easy way out to water: a gas station. There I met Mohammed, an English teacher. After some conversation, he showed me his bike – a Trek with a belt drive and generator hub. Wow. He said, “I bought this for $1000USD it was stolen in America from some hard working man. It is bad, I know. All the bikes in Morocco are stolen from hard working Americans.” At least he was being honest. He spoke soft, excellent English, and when I told him about my freezing night last night, he said, “you can borrow my sleeping bag. It is 5 Celsius”. I said, “but how will I get it back to you?” He said, “life is not important.” “What does that mean,” I asked. He explained, “I am Muslim, and material items are not important. This is how it is for Muslims.” He invited me to his house to get water, which i purified just in case. He invited me to stay a few nights… and I wavered. His dad is bedridden with Alzheimer’s, and I worried about painting a brown Picasso in his toilet. I came close to saying “yes”, but decided to ride onwards in the tailwind.

The scenery changed from mountains to desert, and I really just wanted to get a comfortable place to recover my insides. A guy named Rashid found me and before taking me to a hotel, he happily gave me the Cliffs Notes on Berber people, which I posted above. After much chat, he suggested we have sugar free tea tonight. Hence the abrupt ending to this post. Good Night!

I crouched with the generous road workers who had invited me to tea, and we began to talk via the phone. They understood everything I said translated into Arabic… but the words coming back to me were like poetry from one of those songs where you think you know the words, but really, you’re just making it up. I figured the thick treacle was safe to drink; the cloying sweetness would prevent bacterial growth like a wasp preserved in sap for a thousand years – I took a sip.

Our conversation was fun, perhaps more fun for me, as I laughed each time I rendered a translation. The mention of God universally appeared.

One of the men told me that he had hurt his eye, and I replied that I hope god helps it heal quickly. My tea party companions seemed to like that. It seems you can’t go wrong with mentioning God.

They offered me bread and more super sweet tea. Siri must have done a good job explaining diabetes, because they solemnly acknowledged this, looking a little disappointed that is was only going to be a partial party.

Later I texted with them trying to exchange some selfies that we had taken. The reply was a few voice recordings. At first I thought I would use my spare phone to translate.. but then I remembered that my favorite Mohammed had offered to help me in any way. WhatsApp makes it easy to forward the recordings, and he came back quickly with a translation. “Are you the person on the bike? I don’t understand the photo you sent. If you want, you can come later and I will show you the cafe where I work.” 🤔?? Wait, these were road workers!?

Later I decided to ditch the popular Merzouga route and take what I thought would be the “road less traveled”. Indeed, it was less traveled by cars. The desert scenery was fantastic. Along the way, I saw many kids always running out to see me. Some would give me a high five, while others would practice their limited French with me. Everyone seemed to know the following nouns: “pen, candy, gift, phone, and money.” The lone accompanying verb in these cases was “give (me)”. I have considered buying some pens, as I sometimes hear “stylo” shouted before the running child appears. I day-dream about these kids using these potentially gifted pens to become gifted A+ students. Would you carry pens to hand out, risking perpetuating the demands?

One group of kids, who did not belong to the high-five clan chose to throw a couple of rocks my way, all of which missed by a large margin. I decided to turn around and ask them why they did this. As soon as I made a “U”, they ran away. If I see these kids again, it may be in the 800 meters at the 2040 Olympic Games. It definitely won’t be in the Shot Put event.

I abandoned the route to the famous dunes at Merzouga because I know of some other dunes along my route, and this new route promises an additional gorge. Plus, I have to admit that I have a little aversion to “constructed experiences” that you pay for. The two things to do there are rode a camel to a tent in the desert… or ride side-by-side dune buggy vehicles. It’s not that I mind paying the money; I guess I prefer the element of surprise. The price I pay for this, though, are these staccato conversations where I sometimes don’t know what is going on, or I use my left hand (the poo hand) to make a gesture, or I don’t give God enough credit for what is happening here. Sometimes I wish I had a tidy and cohesive story for you that wrapped up into a neat little package rather than these sloppy bits and pieces.

A little bit of continuity came at the end of the day. You may have seen a comment on my Strava from a Belgian named Thibau VdB – he happened to run into Yuwen W in Spain. Janet and i happened to meet Yuwen in Spain, and she knew of Thibau. The whims of the space-time continuum seemingly have decided that Thibau and I should now meet in real life – and by chance, that is exactly what happened this evening! So I will end writing here and go out to chat with this young Belgian.

It started on a high. I had talked to Thibau for 2 hours last night, and another hour this morning before leaving. He is an insightful 26 year old national champion runner from Belgium (sub 4 minute 1500m) who was inspired to bike tour by his uncle. They did 3 tours together so far, and when his Uncle went home from Spain 4 weeks ago, Thibau kept going. Describing himself as “not a cyclist,” he is enjoying this tour immensely; doesn’t do big miles and takes rest days. From my point of view, he is “doing it right,” too. For example, yesterday he met a guy in those desolate mountains, and rode backwards 30km, ending up going to class with the kids for 2.5 hours in the morning. “Why not?” He said. “I couldn’t come to this hotel at 11am!” He described the kids as being very shy in the classroom – even though they were sneaking looks at him. He showed me a picture of 15 smiling kids and said, “I can’t post this; none of them are smiling.” I disagreed, they looked happy… and then I recognized some of the kids! One of them had spoken a couple of words of English to me in the street, asking for money.

As part of our conversation, I told Thibau that I was going to “go to Africa”. (This is what Moroccans say to me when I say I’m going past Mauritania. I always come back with, “but THIS is Africa..”. They say, “you’re right, but…”. They don’t consider Morocco to be Africa.) Thibau asked poignantly, “Are you looking forward to it?” An excellent inquiry. I thought about his question for a while. Finally, I responded, “I am looking forward to everything except for people asking me for things.” The last couple days, I’ve realized that saying “no” to hundreds of kids per day really wears on my conscience. Thibau and I then talked about the kids. He claimed that none of them have asked him for money, and none have thrown rocks. I said, “I could believe it because some of the routes I took were quite different – but we did this exact same route today, and I must have been asked a hundred times for pens, and candy”. He told me one time a kid asked for money and he said, “no”. How is it possible that we are having such a different experience? Being Belgian, Thibau is fluent in French (which I envy, and PS, did you know Flemish is the same as Dutch?)… so surely he would understand what these kids were saying! If you look at the photo of how he towers over me, you couldn’t say that he looks like a local – especially with his heavily laden bike. Meanwhile, today when I continued down the road, I was met with no less than 400 requests for candy, pens, and money. But let’s get back to that in a moment.

Thibau had some good questions. He asked, “Will it be hard for you to go back? I mean, I feel like Morocco has changed me. I am a different person now, and when I go home it will be hard.” He has been here 3 weeks. I quickly replied, “no,” but thought about his question all day. Should Morocco be changing me? Should this be a profound experience? Am I not feeling changed because I’m too connected to home? Thibau said he only calls his mom once a week; his dad less. Or is this something deeper… the wisdom of youth. Often we credit our elders with having deep wisdom, but looking in the opposite temporal direction, maybe there is something to be re-learned from those younger than us. Between interruptions, I thought about this question all day long – trying to unveil why I didn’t think this trip has changed me.

And interruptions there were. I thought I was the first clever person to see some topo lines on a map and identify a good cycling route. I learned today that I am just following in others’ pedal strokes. Despite the very remote nature of the desert course, kids would come running towards me – sometimes from seemingly impossible distances, they could always head off my bike. Hands out, a cross between a high five or a “gimme,” they would stand in the middle of the road using every French word they knew. “Donnez-moi un bonbon! Cadeaux! Stylo! Une photo!” They ran alongside me demanding. If I had emptied all of my bags and filled them with candy and given each kid one piece, I’d have nothing left before I finished. The desert looks empty, but the kids appear from everywhere. How did this happen? Today I developed a theory when some of the kids suggested a photo in exchange for candy or money. People who have come before me give the kids candy, and in exchange ask for one of those adorable photos – because the kids here are beautiful, fit, and healthy. Certainly Instagram worthy! Alternatively, I could be like Thibau and go to class with the kids for a couple hours, play some games with them, and come back that evening feeling like a changed person. You can probably already tell which path I admire more…. Yes, a 26 year old made me think a lot today.

Let’s interject some positivity for a moment here. On a long seemingly deserted section of road today, a teen in a long robe stopped me. While I dread the children, I’m really beginning to love the teens here. He said his name was Redwane, and he spoke some English. He explained that he worked in the mountains with “metal” (I think he meant mining). He smiled the whole time, and I had to know: “Where are you going? What are you doing way out here waking?” He said, “I am studying.” He held up a piece of paper torn from a notebook with several handwritten lines in Arabic. “I study while I walk. I like to walk in the mountain,” as he pointed up to a rocky cliff with no trail that I’d have difficulty navigating in the Sierra. Yes, he really walks up there to study. I loved his peripatetic studies, and told him I listen to French in one ear while cycling, humbled by his ambition.

So you may remember at the beginning of this discourse, I mentioned trip changing events. Near the end of the day, 4 women and 4 girls were walking in the middle of the road towards me, each with a huge bag of green shrubbery on their backs. They were all beautiful and smiling, but as I rode towards them, they ran towards me as if there was an emergency. They barricaded my path with their bodies and I stopped. One of the corpulent women was holding a baby and they surrounded me quickly – each had been eating a piece of fruit, and the redolent fragrance of sticky peaches filled the air. “Dirham! Dirham!” (The Moroccan currency) they chanted, their sugary hands grabbing towards me and my bike. That is 16 hands (18 if you count the baby). They were all smiling and laughing, but I retreated backwards as they pressed forward. The smiles looked like Halloween witches with the fruit stuck to their faces. I rushed backwards, difficult with my injured Achilles. This was too much, I darted away, shaken and full of adrenaline. Yes, my friends, laugh if you want, but a group of girls scared the crap out of me today.

I can handle the severe pain in my Achilles, the saddle sores, the long miles, the climbing, the rocky trails, the challenges of finding healthy food, the vomiting and sick stomach, the heat, the cold, the diseases that I have vaccinated for, the rain and wind… BUT… being swarmed daily – even by beautiful women – and being nearly yelled at “Vous plus riche donnez-moi argent!” And the like all day long is really testing my resolve. This is the hardest aspect of the trip for me by far.

This afternoon I went to get groceries and was called over to chat with a ~30 year old named “Zack.” He was just sitting on a patio, and roped me into a conversation about rock climbing; a popular tourist activity in this gorge. His English was good, so I sat with him for a while – a little warily, always having to decide with whom to invest time. A conversation with a friendly local is a very positive experience… but it can also just be a fake out to lure you into some trickery. If it is the later, then you know that part or all of your conversation wasn’t sincere. We talked rock climbing and of his dreams to go to the USA. “It is hard to go to the United States on a visa. It is easier to marry an American woman,” he said. I momentarily pondered how I could help him here.

Several women were picking up sacks behind me, and he pointed out the white wraps the women wore around their bodies. That means they are married. “It’s easy to tell!” He happily joked. Right at that moment, a young woman sans-white-wrap came and sat down beside us. We said “السلام عليكم” to each other, and then they quickly spoke between themselves in Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. He then said to me, “See, she is not wearing the white! She is looking for an American husband. Are you married?” I explained that I was, and he laughed. Overall, it was a jovial exchange, and I enjoyed his company for over 45 minutes. He said he wants to go on a bike tour with me, so I invited him to ride tomorrow. “No, next time you come to Morocco, we will go together.” The woman eventually left the table to go sing in the kitchen and live another day free of white-wrap.

According to the Koran, Muslim men are allowed to marry non-Muslim women as long as their brides are “People of the Book” — Christians or Jews, both of whom recognize Abraham as their spiritual forefather, as Muslims do. A Muslim woman, however, cannot marry a non-Muslim man unless he converts.

Quite the double standard.

Online, I also read about a movement where men would wear the hijab to be in solidarity with women who are forced to do so (i.e. Iran). In Morocco, law does not require women to wear Hijab, but almost all women I see do. 🧕

When I see people, I don’t automatically know if they identify as Berber (Amazig) or Arab. The majority of the people I have talked to have called themselves Berber. Clearly, there isn’t homogeneity within these groups, let alone between them. The main unifying factor might be Islam, but that seems to have diverse interpretations on how strictly it is followed in each region I visit. I’ve wondered about my interactions with women; you will notice I have only talked to a few. Contrary to my expectations leading up to this trip, though, women walking on the side of the road will almost always acknowledge me with a wave. Usually a smile, and sometimes a “السلام عليكم”. I imagined it would be more of the downturned eyes and scurrying away like I saw in some places in the North.

That’s it for today!

Lukas is on an ambitious project to cycle to Togo, and when he arrives, he wants to test people there for type 1 diabetes by stabbing their fingers and making them bleed. He’s probably not going to win the popularity contest, but he is doing something good. He is raising money to help get people treatment, because in countries like Togo, Type 1 isn’t usually diagnosed; more often, the afflicted simply die of unknown causes from a condition that is 100% treatable. It’s an ambitious project for sure. Daily, I think about how a tiny raindrop of liquid means the difference between life or death for T1s. This is a link to his Instagram if you are curious about his project:

https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cxw2L5xNnzm/?igshid=MWMzODhndHNmZjk5Zw==

I really hope to meet Lukas in real life and I admire what he is doing. Hopefully he will still be in Togo when I arrive.

Rather than pummel you with stories about the hardships of being stoned, I’ll tell you about my emergency beacon saga. I arranged with the manufacturer to express ship a replacement 8 days ago. The device arrived in Morocco, but it has been stuck in customs for 4 days. I called Morocco UPS today, and the problem is that my name was not put on the package, and so I cannot pay the customs. This means that I need to have the shipper pay a fee to put my name on the package and then I can pay the fees. “This process should take just a few weeks,” the kind man said. At the moment, I’m at the place where the package was supposed to arrive.

I thought hard about this today. In 1492 when Columbus sailed the ocean blue, even the Queen (let alone his poor mum) didn’t know his position. Fast forward to today, and if the King of Morocco (Sidi Mohammed bin Hassan al-Alawi) felt so inclined, even he could flip on Strava to see where I have been galavanting around his country. Actually, I hope he does so he can tell Baba Nwel (Arabic Santa Claus) to give the rock throwing kids lumps of coal this Christmas. On second thought, make that soft coal. Strava would be a good fit for the king with the crowns and all.

Anyway, you have probably gathered: I have decided to push on without the emergency beacon. I have already spent enough money on shipping* to buy an entire village copies of “How to improve your aim.” Cellular reception has been good so far, and I’ll keep laying breadcrumbs on my tracker page from my phone when it has reception. I am aware that reception won’t be guaranteed due to frequent power outages in future countries on my list, but I’ll try to let you know ahead-of-time before I go into remote zones… like maybe tomorrow?

*update: I was not charged for shipping. Thanks, Bivy.

Every day, I feel like a child. I speak French like a child, can’t read like a child, stumble like a child with my weak Achilles, and I speak mostly to children. I am going backwards. Any day now, I am expecting my gray hairs to turn back to black.

As I exited the small grocery store with a can of mushrooms, a can of sardines, and a tiny nugget of expensive cheese, A woman and her son approached me close. Both made sad faces and the woman made the universal symbol for food by bunching her fingers together and tapping her mouth. Here I was, with food in my hands, and these poor people were hungry. Of my 3 items, I decided to offer them my can of sardines. The woman wagged her finger, “no.”

I should have known, a modern young mother; she must be worried about the BPA in the can or maybe the mercury content of the fish. I reluctantly held out the small piece of cheese towards them. This was to be my main source of calories tonight, but I was thinking it would be rude to offer the mushrooms. The mother wagged her finger again. No.

What, are they dairy free too?!

Here the son took over and pointed through the clear refrigerator doors behind me – at a 1.5 liter bottle of coke. The mother nodded in approval.

Hunger is no joke, but this looks more like a drug deal to me than hunger. If I ain’t eating sugar, kid, neither are you!

This gave me an idea… when kids ask for “Bon bon” (candy in French) I offer up a can of sardines instead. So far, I haven’t managed to give any out to my little trick-or-treater friends. Morocco is suddenly getting better as I learn how to make it work. If people are actually hungry, I can help them.

Speaking of making it work, I changed my route again today, and had a pensive and peaceful jaunt through the mountains. I have been brightening back up on Morocco. There are so many things to like about bike packing here. This rocky but quiet route gave me time to think.

But not as much time as you might think. I’ve become quite a busy correspondent, having added nearly one Moroccan per day to my contacts list. I stop riding periodically to reply to messages from some of the good people I have met along the way. Remember that young teen named Redwane that I met walking alone in the desert? I had asked him what he is studying, and he replied with this:

“Of course my friend,I study the course of poetry from the Abbasid era to our time, which has undergone a relative change in terms of content and form. As a weapon that the Arab tribes used to raise their value”

Ok, buddy! (I’m making the airplane flying over my head gesture since you can’t see me). I asked some more questions, and then shot his very polite replies to my friend Josh in Pennsylvania for decryption. Josh is a professor of Arabic philosophy. My 7UP can trick isn’t going to work here.

This brings me to my point for the day (yes, today has an actual point).

In Spanish, there is an adjective for our word “polite.” That word is “cortez.” It lives in the dictionary, but I’ve never heard anyone use it in a real-life sentence. Instead, in Spanish, to say someone is polite, you say they are “educado,” which means “educated.” It’s the same in Portuguese, “educado”…. And guess how you say polite in Arabic? “Maudib.” I did some research on this today, and “Muad'dib” means “a person who educates.”

I’m now riding along, juxtaposing Redwane with his slightly younger colleagues. The kids in these towns don’t need aid-workers who come and toss them pens, candies, and balloons like a rolling piñata. What they really need is a Muad'dib. A teacher. Pens, candies and stupid gifts are cheap and easy. Being a teacher, especially a good one: That is hard, and it’s a vocation I increasingly admire.

So, when a kid threw his shoe at me today (and hit me in the back) I turned around with the hopes of teaching him a lesson. He bolted up the dirt hill alone – wearing only one shoe. The other kids stuck around, ratting him out with their fingers – as if I needed to know which one was guilty. The kid vanished over the top of the hill. Man can these kids run. Today I failed as a teacher. But I commend all the teachers (and homeschoolers) out there. This is tough work. I call you Muad'dib.

Along the mountain-desert course, I found a few alcoves that were assembled from piles of rocks. Sheltered below, a jug wrapped in a wool blanket for evaporative cooling – with little cups nearby for drinking. Who left this? Morocco has Trail Angels leaving water! I got an idea. I left some money on top of each jug, even though I only took water from one of them. Daily, I’m presented with the opportunity to give, but here, the shepherds could probably actually use the money – unlike the acquisitive kids living well around the tourist spots. Plus, by leaving the money clandestinely, no one will associate the gifts with a tourist guy riding by on a bike.

How to give right; it swirls in my head all day. If a child makes a sullen face, IS it REAL? Do they deserve my foreign aid? Or do they already have a Palace Divine in their own back yard where they practice throwing rocks, hurting the innocent trying to drive them out? To whom should we give? It’s tough to navigate the complicated path of charity, giving, and foreign aid.

Sorry if I am talking too much about these decisions and charity and giving. It’s a big part of my journey, though.

Midway, I saw a low tent and pulled over to a place marked on the map as a “Gite”. A slender young man came to meet me. He said his name was “Brian”. I was floored to be meeting a Brian-brother out here in the middle of the desert, but we worked it out laughing: “Brahim” sounds an awful lot like “Brian” – even when you say it over and over.

Normally, I don’t accept prepared food, but I liked the vibe of this little tent in the desert. In our cobbled French and Arabic, he agreed to prepare a “Berber Omelette” – “tres chaude” (very hot) at my request. He rolled a propane tank down the hill to a covered kitchen, where he worked a bit with a young woman to prepare a meal. Out came the sizzling omelette. The omelette was spattering bubbles of aromatic oil all over the clay dish in which it was served. “assez chaud?” (Hot enough?) He asked with a big smile. “Oui! Oui! Je suis très content!” Later he came to show me some satellite maps printed on paper of the route I’d be doing. He only knew a few words in French, but we had great success this time with my Arabic app – probably because he knew to speak Arabic Arabic instead of Darija. He said, “it is an honor to have you here coming to visit”.

The name Brahim comes from “Abrahim” – it means “Father of Nations.” I hope that he fathers good people like himself.

I dig deep to ride the rocky trail to get to a place with food before dark. Just before dark I got to the pavement and found a smal stall by the side of the road. I asked for 3 cans of sardines by showing him one of the cans that I already had. He brought 3 different cans and I said I would take them all. This is when thing derailed a bit. He called his two friends over to help. Even though the prices had been written on a piece of masking tape on the boxes, they peeled them off and began to seemingly discuss the prices of each can, taking a few minutes per can. The friend would then tell me a price in French. On can was 6 MAD. The next can was 9 MAD. The other one wasn’t assigned a price, but all three were going to be 150 MAD together. I’m not the best at arithmetic, but I think there was a problem here. I decided to reject that very expensive 3rd can, and then they said, “no, no, ok”. All 3 cans for 18, which actually sounds reasonable. I agree to that, but they talk some more. I’m starting to notice these two helper guys with rotting teeth have very bad breath. Actually, it’s 20, he announces after a bit. I get my 20 out. It’s 25 now. Ok, I pull out my 50, hoping to escape the odiferous maw. 25 seems to be ok; he makes the change, and gives me 22 in return for my 50. I look him in the eye, and he finds another 2. Welcome to Morocco!

🇵🇸

The younger bespectacled woman looked to be in her 30s. She looked like a black mother of Jesus with a baby blue head covering. Her name was Dariya, and she smiled brightly trying to say something. I pulled out my phone, and as soon as the older women saw it, they recoiled rapidly as if I were wielding a light saber. They bumped into each other like clumsy new born puppies, somehow managing to maintain the balance of the objects on their heads. I’ve noticed this almost every time I withdraw my phone… and I know why it happens: the camera. I always make slow movements and hold the phone flat in my palm as I show it – at attempt to signal that I’m not trying to steal a photo – but the reaction still happens.

I would love to bring you photos of these people and their attire. The men and the women all have such unique dress. In each town, the women dress very differently… but more on that later.

I held my phone towards Dariya so she could use the translator. She grabbed my flattened hand with the phone and pulled it close to speak boldly into the microphone. I resisted the temptation to jerk back. When would she realize that men and women aren’t supposed to have physical contact in public? She didn’t let go until she finished speaking. Just to be safe, the next few times, I just handed her the phone… but I realized that not everything you read online about Muslim culture is correct. (I think it is safe to assume they were Muslim, as all were wearing the Hijab). This makes me feel better, because a big mistake I keep doing is pointing with my finger and also using the thumbs up gesture. I read online that this means “up your butt!” – so I was a bit relieved to see Brahim also giving me thumbs up yesterday… (and, no, you snarky commenters, he wasn’t trying to say “up your butt, Brian”).

Dariya concluded our conversation with “May God bless you; happy to meet you; God bless you”

Speaking of yogurt, now that I know the secret code for “carbohydrates” I always get the sugar-free stuff. Each time I withdraw the yogurt from the (rarely cold) fridge, a big ruckus ensues. I was warned three times today alone, “n'y a pas de sucre!!” (No have sugar). This became story-worthy when one guy today rushed out from behind the counter, grabbed the yogurt from my hand in a panic, and replaced it with a sugary one from the fridge. “Sucre! Sucre!!” He exclaimed. What is it with these people and sugar? I swapped it back and showed him my finger stabber as if that were an explanation. He nodded in understanding. Perhaps this is also why the Rubiks Cube woman returned my yogurt cup – maybe she wanted the sugared kind.

Powered by yogurt, I met another Mohammed (not joking) on a bike. He rode alongside me; he was moving quickly and asking questions. In minutes, we were in a pack of school children – all riding their bikes to school. There were bicycles everywhere today! Our co-ed peloton consisted of 20; I got the feeling that Mohammed was showing off his “new friend” to his classmates. They were all friendly, using the few polite French words they knew. Then we came to an incline, and Mohammed said something that sounded like “see Bob!” I had no idea what that meant, but he gave me the Lance Armstrong “look” and I knew it was race time. He narrowly beat me to the top with my 80% effort. Ahhgh, Achilles. Whether it be my niece and nephew on the slip and slide, or Moroccan children on bikes, kids really know how to break me to pieces.

I’m not exactly sure how the school schedule works here. Sometimes I see kids in school. Other times, across the street from the classroom where I see kids studying, boys are leaning in the dirt, playing with bikes. I stopped to help a kid named Ali with his broken derailleur. I know that some of my audience isn’t familiar with bicycles, so let me anthropomorphize the condition of this machine: This bike would be a cancer survivor who decided to do one more parachute jump, but as he did, he had a heart attack on the way down because his chute didn’t open. He happened to crash in a mine field, and in spite of several exploding on him, he managed to crawl to a town, and became this kid’s bike. I surveyed the patient, recognizing that there were a lot bigger problems than just a broken derailleur, but I gave Ali my tool to work on it. He quickly figured out the screwdriver part, but I had to put the pulleys in and thread the chain correctly through the assembly. I went to my bike to give him a replacement nut that I saw was missing, but then they found the original in the dirt. Upon completion, he jumped up, magically rode a brief circle, came back smiling and asked me for a Dirham for helping him. Ok, it wasn’t all good today, but I’m glad I kept my spare nut now.

Further South, the dress changed. You probably already know what hijab 🧕 is; it’s a general term for the covering over the hair in the Islamic world. In this Southern reach of Morocco, I began to see the more strict “Burka” This attire makes a woman look like she is piloting a tank. You know there is a little person inside because you can see two eyes peering out the thin slits like a periscope. Because they look like artillery tanks, you don’t expect them to be friendly, but plenty of these obfuscated women waved at me today; I have no idea if they were smiling.

All in all, it was a great day. Hot and dry. My only complaint is my Achilles, which continues to nag… and the omnipresent wind from the South West. Historically, wind should be coming from the North, but apparently Qebui didn’t get the memo. 4th night camping under starry skies.

Thanks to those who have written me personally about Algeria. To assuage your concerns, even though I can see their land from here, I’m not crossing that border. It may surprise you, but Algeria and Morocco have exactly zero open land borders since 1994. This is from the aftermath of “the sand war.” People can find all sorts of things to fight over, huh? In spite of this rivalry, I did have quite a bit of interest in visiting the Northern portion of the country (the South is mostly just unrideable sand dunes like I’m experiencing here). An American can request a visa for $250 USD, and it seems like if you get the visa, you should be able to travel independently (without a tourism operator). Even though I have been amongst Muslim people for over 2 weeks now, I continue to be interested and curious in learning more. You will notice I haven’t mentioned much about the various permutations of the religion yet – I’m still working out my thoughts. Anyway, Algeria was on the list, but it slipped down a little bit when I learned that they banned the Barbie movie. I’d been meaning to see that.

Today is a good opportunity to talk more about the ride instead of the people. I spent almost the entire day alone in the desert – pushing my bike through deep sand in places, but also happy bumbling around at a rapid 10 mph over washboarded and rocky tracks. It’s only been 15 days, and unbelievably, I’ve done less than a third of the miles I have planned for Morocco. The subsequent miles promise to go faster once the terrain gets flatter (and hopefully the winds come from the typical North/East).

So far, I can recommend Morocco as a bike touring destination; the drivers are good and even paved roads are usually empty. The drivers have a penchant for driving in the middle of the road. This is perfect when they are coming from behind, though a bit less desirable when meeting them head on. The majority of people have been friendly and welcoming. Morocco’s economy benefits greatly from tourism, and you can see that many people are doing well “enough” – though it could always be better. Many locals know this and treat tourists very kindly. In the epicenter of each touristic spot, the kids are well behaved; it’s just the surrounding “sphere of influence” where I encounter the problems. Conversely, tourism is practically non existent in Algeria – quite likely due to the fact that their economy is supported by oil money. For this reason, I suspect I would really like it there a lot.

You have a multitude of route choices until you get to the Sahara – and you can “choose your elevation” based on the temperature and time of year. November is turning out to be a good time here with night temperatures of 30-45F. Day time temperatures are 80-100F – but it’s a dry heat, so tolerable by me while moving.

Cycling is “easy” in Morocco in some ways. Lodging – ranging from camping to luxury accommodation – is available in many places – even tonight in a seemingly remote corner of the desert, I can “camp” in a so-called Berber tent with water and they will serve me food. I say so-called because Berbers are not ONLY nomadic people. Did you know that Ramesses II, the third Pharaoh was Berber? Interestingly, the Berbers were originally Jews or Christians, but once they were conquered by the Arabs, they converted to Islam. There are about 35 million people who call themselves Berber, the majority live in Morocco and Algeria with a 2/3 1/3 distribution respectively.

“Berber” comes from Greek and means “barbarian.” Like many historical names nowadays, there is a trend towards using the name “Amazigh” which means “free man” – probably referring to the nomadic roots of these inhabitants of Northern Africa. I had a pie-in-the-sky idea that I would meet some “real” nomads in the desert and join them for tea in their tent. But guys, it’s 2023 and you gotta fake that stuff now. The real nomads are probably distanced from anywhere I could ride a bike with 2.1” tires. But that is Ok. I’m going to have dinner now at my luxury camp in the desert, look at the stars, and enjoy the Pink Floyd music emanating from the tent of the only other family here.

But back to the isolating part of bicycle touring. I don’t mind this too much, but I notice it all the time. You ride your bike for hours every day – sometimes mostly in solitude. Once you arrive at the destination, you’re often too tired to do the main attraction. At the Erg Chegaga dunes, the two things to do are to sand board down the mountain, and drive around in an ATV. After a long day of pushing a bicycle through sand, the idea of walking up a sand mountain to slide down doesn’t have that same type of appeal. I’m OK with that. The isolating part is that after these trips, people ask, “did you X, Y, or Z?” It’s nice to have some “common ground” to discuss… but no, I didn’t do the ATV, the camel ride, or the sand boarding. “Well what did you do then?”

Well, how about I tell you what I did today!

I started in the cold morning, pushing my bike through sand for two hours achieving nearly 9 miles in that time. Breathing was measured and through clenched teeth to avoid inhaling the flies which were taking lots of little walks around my face like it was an amusement park for flies. They wandered around the edges of my mouth and eyes. Dozens of flies would ride on my body as if I were some sort of desert-fly Uber. No, they don’t leave tips – just annoying tickles. Public Service Announcement, flies: You have wings. My land and sand bound body is not the best way for you to get somewhere. Every time I stopped, I became fly headquarters. This led me to wonder: does every cubic meter of air have 50 flies buzzing around, waiting for me to arrive? Do these flies follow me after I swat them all off and ride away? How do they universally appear just one second after I stop?

I saw no people or cars for many hours. Then, on the horizon, a slow moving motorcycle appeared. Something was moving up and down on the motorcycle… it was Fabian – on a bicycle! My third cycletourist encounter of the trip! The first words out of his mouth were in English, “That was just some of the best riding I have ever done in my life.” Fabian was one of the very few people I’ve met while traveling who I immediately knew I liked a lot. If we lived in the same town, we would be best friends, seeing each other every day. I liked His glowing and happy demeanor. He said he was from the Dolomites, born of Italian and German parents, “but that’s a long story, so it’s all I’ll tell you now.” We talked and talked, and on several occasions, he apologized for his bike-nerdery. I guess he didn’t know who he was talking to. Luckily, he has a WhatsApp. I think that he too has a good section ahead of him.

Many hours later, I met two men waking 3 camels in the desert. One man spoke a few words of each French, Spanish, and English. He tends to “chevre” 🐐 (he went “baaaaa” to make sure I knew that word). He sometimes takes tourists on the camels too. He asked me if I had seen the other cyclist (Fabian). Wow, that was hours ago! If you think pushing a bike through the desert is slow, camels are slower. They seemed like they were truly equipped to be out in the desert for eons, and judging by the wrinkles on their faces, perhaps they already had been. I’m starting to look like that.

Finally, a cell phone tower appeared on the horizon, meaning civilization was ahead. In town, I had a great time chatting with the owner of the only open store in town. Many men came inside to get in on a part of the translation business with the stranger – each helping with whatever words they knew. The shop owner got right to business: “What do you think of trump?” The men all leaned in to see my response, suddenly intensely quiet. I gave a thumbs down, reflecting not only my opinion, but what I also thought was a safe bet. Wrong! I bet most of you guys don’t know this, but there is maybe kind-of a country just South of Morocco called “Western Sahara.” I say “kinda” because Morocco thinks this land belongs to Morocco. Other countries recognize the independence of the Sahrawi people who live there. Guess who recognized Western Sahara as part of Morocco? Mr. Trump. And Biden is trying to reverse that, which is why the guys on the store eagerly gave Biden a thumbs down! We all laughed; it was in good fun. But now I know that I’ll be safe giving Trump a double thumbs down after I cross the next border!

All in all, this was a great two days of very challenging “riding”. If I were to do it again, I would come back on a full suspension, coil spring fat bike and ride the sand instead of the rocks. Of course, I think that because that’s exactly what I did not do. The desert is always browner on the other side.

“Oui!” I reply, and he reaches into the big plastic bag to produce a round bread that looks like a personal pizza crust – without any topping. He slaps it on the dusty counter, squishing at least two flies in the process.

“Autre chose?” He asks.

“Oui, 200 grammes d'amandes,” I reply.

He digs his cracked hand into the bag of almonds and measures them carefully on the scale; approximately 200 grams worth.

This is how I get my food each day, over a counter top. If you use hand sanitizer, you’re going to need to bring the Extra-Strength stuff to Morocco. It’s the antithesis of Spain, where customers were not allowed to touch the produce – you had to find an assistant to don gloves, then weigh and label your veggies in the produce section before you brought them to the checkout. That sort of hassle made me eat fewer veggies.

Once everything is piled on the countertop, the calculus begins. And it IS calculus.. I watch as they punch numbers, making good use of every available button on the calculator: The multiplication symbol, the division symbol… the AC button is a frequent favorite. Eventually the calculator is held towards me with a surprise number each time. Usually it is much higher than I would have expected; sometimes it is lower. Usually I just pay it, but today I questioned the numbers. The man had also written some numbers down on paper, so I asked, “How did 68 on paper become 84 on the calculator?” He explained that it was simple, “I used centimes”. I figured this was some previous Moroccan currency with an exchange rate of 1.2, so accepted his answer. Later,I looked it up later on Google. No, that word means “cents” as in: There are 100 cents in a dollar. 🤔

The first part of my ride was on an extremely rocky road. If you’ve ever been to the Irish Hills, imagine the rockiest section of that. For 30 miles. When I finally got to the road, the military had closed the next section of trail. Good riddance, as I had been thinking of taking the road anyway. This must be Morocco’s Area 51, or baring that, the place where they keep the alien bodies and the cast for Star Wars.

Todays ride definitely looked like the set for Star Wars. For the first time, I noticed that these camels looked just like At At’s. The day I arrived in Morocco, I thought that the men with the long hooded robes looked like Obi Wan. I looked it up, and yes, Star Wars even integrates elements of Islam. The name “Jedi” comes from “Al-Jeddi” (Master of the Mystic Warrior Way). I even rode by a town last week with a name similar to “Tataouine”… well, heck, tonight I’m in Tata, which is kind of close. I’m waiting for a Jedi to appear. Hopefully it will be Yoda; he’s my favorite.

Speaking of Yoda, I figured out a way for you to remember the capital of Morocco today. Do you already know the capital? If not, just think this: Yoda looks like a frog, and frogs go “ribbit”. That sounds enough like the capital of Morocco, which is “Rabat”.

Tonight was going to be my 6th? Night in a row in a tent. I came to a campground and the kind man offered me an already set up tent for $5US. I prefer my tent, but agreed. Next thing I know, he’s poking his head in to offer me tea. Then he upgrades me to a room for no extra; video’d. I decided to make the video due to the audio – so you can hear what it sounds like here. Janet gets to hear this during our phone conversations each night – so thought I’d share with you too.

“No,” I replied.

“Well, you can maybe give this to your sister, then,” he said as he withdrew a carefully guarded crocheted purse, about the size and shape of one of those pizza crusts with no toppings that I told you about last night.

I really liked Ahmed, as we had talked in his good English about his time spent in Virginia and even going to the twin towers in 1998. He had a sincere and generous manner about him. I felt awful saying, “thank you so much, but I have no space for this. Thank you.” It is true, too. Between all my diabetes stuff and the fact that I have a 3 person tent (a vestige of the trip with Janet), space for food and water for my long hauls in the desert takes precedence. But how do you refuse a gift like that? He looked sad. I considered accepting his gift and then leaving it with someone else. In retrospect, that probably would have been best – but as you guys know, I’m still learning how to “do” Morocco, taking a lot of missteps along the way.

The next 8 hours of riding were excellent. Good surface, in spite of this unusually heady wind. The route I took only exists because of a mine, but the dirt was hard packed and no rocks as a result. About 25 dump trucks passed me during that time (only about 5 per hour, so not bad). Each and every one of the trucks would stop as to not engulf me in a dust cloud. They smiled and waved as i plodded by. One truck even went to the opposite side of the road and flashed his lights – just so I could go upwind of his dust cloud!

And then I got to town where I bought food – the same stuff again for $5 instead of $15… a third of the price when only the + key is being used. As the adversities of the tourist zones are beginning to diminuendo in my mind, I’m returning to that state of happy harmony with Morocco that I had on the first days being here.

In spite of my Achilles, I’m having to do these long hauls to get water. 55 miles of dirt without water today. Also, since there aren’t any campgrounds out here, I decided to give myself a bit of luxury tonight. Normally, when wild camping, I will shower with one liter of water. That is the bare minimum to get a decent nights sleep. At the end of the day, I had made it to a town, and looked in the dumpster for an empty 4 liter bottle, and quickly found one. Since I couldn’t find a spigot in the dusty town, asked a shop keeper, “aviez-vous l’eau, s’il vous plaît ?” (Do you have the water please?) while pointing at the empty bottle. Not the perfect sentence, but he seems to understand and takes the bottle into his shop. He returns a few minutes later saying “l’essence ! L’essence!” (Gasoline, gasoline). “Oh crap!” I thought. He probably thought I had a motor bike and needed gas. He shows me the bottle, it’s full, and he is sniffing it; holding it for me to sniff too. I thought, “now I have to buy this gallon of gas.” But then I saw the separation of water and oil. I realized: someone had used this container for gas in the past! He was warning me, probably thinking I planned to drink or bathe with it. He suggested a solution, returning with a small scoop of white powder. I didn’t understand that! But then he returned with a better solution – he filled up a clean 4L bottle. “Merci beaucoup !!”

Everything wasn’t 100% perfect today. As I was pedaling off with my gallon on my back, kids started harassing me. They chased me asking for my water bottles, money, grabbing at me and my bike. I said, “no”. They continued to run along me, grabbing and saying “donnez-moi !” (Give me!). I don’t know where this came from, but after two polite “no’s” I suddenly ROARED, “NO!!!!!”

My! You should have seen the shocked kid’s faces as they ran away from this evil monster. I’m going to confess a secret: That felt DAMN good yelling at kids. Wow. I’m glowing with a feeling of empowerment.

The other bad thing is that I went to change my insulin cartridge, and found not one, but TWO of the cartridges had shattered and leaked all of their precious contents to the dry desert air. I had been riding that insanely rocky terrain a couple days back.. and even though they were padded to the hilt, it was no match for that terrain. What dummy made these things out of glass? Anyway, I lost 50 days worth of the insulin I use for eating. Luckily, the insulin I use for living is all still intact. The good news is that I think I can get more here in Morocco – albeit not the exact same stuff.

In Summary: Brian gets joy from screaming at kids. The good guys don’t rip me off – and get less money as a result. The best guys, instead of taking, they try to give.. What a strange world we live in, huh?

“Je ne comprends pas,” I said (I don’t understand).

“Le Maroc est calmé,” he tried again.

Oh! tranquil… calm. “Oui,” I replied, gleefully understanding.

He grabbed my hand to shake it, but pulled me into an embrace like old bro-friends do. I’ve been getting a lot of manly Moroccan hugs here. As nice as they are, they’re a poor surrogate for Janet hugs. I hope she isn’t jealous, though.

Meanwhile, a small girl had been standing at the counter. In Arabic, she said, “peace be with you; god bless you,” then fist bumped her heart. The man smiled at her. “Welcome to Morocco,” he said. It was a scene out of a Moroccan fairy tale. I beamed a big smile and headed off to the next gorge.

I had spent the morning casually riding up the Ait Mansour gorge. Originally, I had planned to ride up and over the Anti Atlas, but last night I discovered another gorge called Igmir. I got a little greedy for gorges and decided to add on a second gorge today. I’m glad I did because both were equally, if not more beautiful than the well known Dades and Todra gorges I visited during the stint in the High Atlas. The beauty, though, was complemented by the relative absence of harassment. Just good and peaceful riding.

But the day wouldn’t be without some strife. As I was ascending from a tiny village, a man used his girthy body to successfully block the narrow road. “give me money,” he demanded in French. I replied, “why?” He put is hands to his mouth in the eating motion. I looked him in the eye, smiled, and then gently patted his protruding belly.

“No.”

An onlooking kid with a bike smiled and laughed at the pat-pat. Even the guy kind of laughed, presumably because he knew that he had made a weak case. I’m almost reluctant to tell you some of these stories, lest you get the idea I’ve become an ass (or maybe already was one). I’ll emphasize once again that I gave to hungry people in Spain, but so far here, I haven’t seen anyone who seems to fit that qualification yet. Plus, with everyone touching me and my bike, it seems normal to make physical contact with strangers. Daily, people jump in front of my bike with their hands out (or interlocked) to stop me.

Late in the day, I tried to escape two kids, but they were too fast. I gave up – plus I needed to stop for water. They surrounded me and started opening my bags, “what’s in here? A camera? Give me a phone! My brother has a phone and I need one too.” Their French was surprisingly good – with verbs other than “give me.” These kids couldn’t fool me, though, because thanks to my rear view mirror, I had seen them taking photos of me with their phones on the way to the spigot. Each time I turned around to smile for the camera, they would hide it, pretending like they weren’t videoing. This new level of impunity, though – opening two of my bags – has got to stop. Luckily, they lost interest when they saw sardines in one bag and wires in another.

So that should paint a picture of how and why I must journey for 30 minutes to select a wild camp. I’d happily pay the $5 for a wall to protect me from perpetrators… but I haven’t seen camping or hotels in the last 145 miles. The rules of camping are that it must be impossible to ride your bike to the site. If you can ride, then someone else can drive or ride. You must be seen by no one on your way to the site. Just as it is with flies, if one lands on you, many more will come quickly. I ended up finding a trash dump with a burning pile of trash. But rather than camp in the dump, I crossed it completely and camped on the other side.

Was the shop owner right? Is Morocco really tranquil and calm? Like most things in life, the answer isn’t always clear.

Pushing into the crescendoing wind with quite some might, I realized that by crossing the trash dump a second time – with all the shattered detritus – I had damaged my tire. I added more sealant and carried on. On the 5th stop to inflate the tire, I finally discovered it was a sidewall cut – this is why it hadn’t been healing. I managed to use some of the shoe repair glue left over by Janet, and a Park glueless patch to seal the deal. This worked.

In stopping so much, I was a little surprised that none of the 12 vehicles that drove by stopped to ask if I needed help. This was a remote stretch with only about 6 cars per hour. In Spain, solitary octogenarian women would stop to check on me if I was having a snack – and now I had my wheel off. I find it particularly interesting because everyone is VERY interested in me when I pass through town – just not when I’m broken-down-looking in the desert, I guess.

With the tire repaired, the fight against the wind was a smidgen easier now. I made it to a tiny village with a pharmacy and went in to ask about my insulin. I showed him what I needed and he produced something that would work – for $11.50 US without a prescription. Not too bad considering my receipt for 5 pens of this stuff in the US says, “Congratulations! You saved $1,600 with your insurance.”

He watched as I used the pen to make repeated injections into an empty vial I had been carrying. Pretty non-standard stuff here. I tried to explain that space is at a premium in my kit and that I would be “going to Africa.” I think he understood, and he let me use packing tape to wrap and protect the fragile vials. I was relieved that I could buy insulin even in a small town! He only had one, though… so I may try and buy another later.

I suffered into the wind through the bleak desert. At least the road had no cars on it. Then I heard a noise. I turned back to find 5 puppies dying in the hot sun on the side of the road. A sack nearby suggested to me that someone had dumped them here – over 40 miles from town. It was so sad to see the poor dried up creatures – still living and squeaking. Their tongues were out, and two of them looked like they were about to expire soon. It wrecked me. I thought, “It is impossible for me to help FIVE puppies. I pedaled on, crying, and trying to console myself by saying, “this is natures way.”

I was over a mile away when the pain was just too much. I realized, “If I leave them there, I am just as evil as the person who dumped them.” With tears streaming down my face, I retraced that hard earned mile and got out an empty sardine tin and filled it with some of the little water I had remaining. No, this isn’t impossible. It would be hard, but not impossible.

At first they wouldn’t drink, they were so dried up. I forced them into the water and they all drank a little. Enough. I wrote to my sister Michele who is an animal lover. She was awake at 5AM, and immediately got on the task of contacting places in Guelmim – 40 miles away. That way, I could work on pedaling them there while she did online stuff. This would take a huge burden off of my shoulders because trying to get a response plus back-and-forth communication is difficult even when you’re not in a hurry and riding a bike. Michele said, “Are you keeping them warm?” I laughed, “it’s 90 degrees here!” With the drying wind blowing 15-20mph in my face, this was going to be about as tough as anything I have done.

I stopped whenever a car passed (not many). I tried to flag them down for help. Only one Moroccan slowed to 2mph, but when they saw what was going on, they accelerated away quickly with a diesel cloud. A French couple finally stopped and said they could not help, but gave me 500ml of water and petted the puppies for a minute.

I began a series of 40 minute rides with long yogurt breaks. During the first leg, they were so still, I thought they had all died in my backpack. Once I got them to eat the yogurt, though, they perked up. By the 3rd session, they were robustly more alive – playing and squealing with each other. The yogurt was like magic – though now it was all over their fur. This drew more and more flies each time and quickly began to smell awful. I flagged about 12 cars. No one stopped.

I finally got them to Fask. Here I hoped to find a driver. My sister was closing in on a Vet! Meanwhile, I explained the situation to the guys at the dusty gas station. There was a lot of laughing and one man said a lot of stuff and pointed to a female dog in the parking lot. I wasn’t sure if he was saying, “look, there are homeless dogs here. Don’t bother” or maybe “see if that dog will nurse these puppies”. Her nipples were all bulging, so I presented one of the puppies to the mother dog. She sniffed it for an entire minute… and then walked away. Even she rejected the puppies. I got out my yogurt, hoping that the cuteness would inspire someone to help. Indeed, a weathered man in a long robe came and crouched beside me. He handled the puppies deftly, poking their faces in the yogurt pile – helping to keep them from smearing it all over their bodies. I liked this one gentle and caring man who looked like the Marlboro man on his 100th birthday.

My sister finally got me the contact and an address. She got me in touch with an English speaking vet. I only had 14 miles left to ride – no one would drive me – so against my Achilles’ will, I pushed at race pace into the defiant wind. Once the sun set, I realized that my sister was right about keeping them warm. I could feel their bodies warm against my back. They were perfectly behaved in that pack, waking every 40 minutes or so for food. Maybe the gentle rhythm of pedaling was like their mothers womb. Once it got dark, I shed more tears… but this time tears of joy. It was becoming a reality. These puppies really were going to live another day.

The vet agreed to have his assistant stay after hours. True to his word, the assistant was still there. He took the puppies and put them in a little enclosure and called the vet. (The assistant did not speak English, but the vet did). Vet promised me in perfect English, “I will find them a good home”. The assistant then began writing a series of numbers on paper. $100 for vaccines, $80 for food, and $70 for shelter (guessing on that last one). A total of $250 that I don’t need to pay now.

I’m going take tomorrow off so I can settle this. also, my Achilles is truly wrecked from that effort. Meanwhile, I need to decide if I want to pay them $250USD. Do I trust them to find good homes? I discussed it with my sister and we are both going to sleep on it. WWYD?

I just found a Moroccan guy named Aboubakr on Strava who is 10 days into a bike tour of Morocco. He is from Guelmim (where I am now), and I was writing to him for help finding a bike shop. He is not here right now, but he saw the same French cyclist (Michel) who I saw a few days ago! Aboubakr wrote on his Strava, “Three joyful kids approached asking for candy, spreading smiles that truly made my day.” Whaaaaa?

Why have I been fighting this? It suddenly occurred to me that a simple change of attitude and behavior could flip my experience 180 degrees. Am I making my own “badness” out of Morocco? Probably. Why?

I think it is because I’m hung up on two things:

Number One: These kids have managed to learn “candy, pen, money” in French, but they never say “please” (in any language, including Arabic). That gets me too – but maybe it is just my culture? Is just saying “give me…” ok in other cultures?

Number Two: I bring from my own culture that giving handouts is “bad.” Yet, yesterday, several of my friends just handed over money to me – and a lot more than the value of a giant bag of candy. I didn’t deserve these handouts! People were willing to give me more money than the actual cost of the puppy care. Why? I didn’t ask for anything, yet people rapidly just gave. Should I just give to the local people here? Where do I draw the line? Who “deserves” giving? Who doesn’t? Definitely the rock throwers don’t deserve anything… but what about others? Am I leaving a trail of problems for those who follow in my footsteps if I give just to make my own day better for me?

Anyway, I didn’t have to deal with any of that nonsense today. In fact, I thought from the map and the layout of the city that Guelmim would be a depressing spot in the desert. Instead, I really like it here – so far a genuinely good time. I went to a bike shop for to ask about sealant for my tires. “No way you will find that!” He announced. Later, I saw the same man at the grocery store and you know how there is that thing where you see someone twice, but in a different place? That familiarity, however brief, somehow catapults your relationship into the next level of friendship. He asked questions about the tour, as did other nearby locals – with zero snake oil anywhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, I went to pay Ayoub (the vet assistant) for the puppy services. My main concern was that the puppies wouldn’t get good enough care here. I made sure that he agreed to send me photos of the puppies being cared for, raise them for 2 months, and then send photos of them in good homes. I checked in on the little guys in the morning, and it really did make me happy to see them. I don’t consider myself to be an animal lover. I’ll confess that I have thrown rocks at attacking dogs, kicked ramming goats in the head (saved my mom’s life once from a goat), and (more recently) yelled at children that were behaving like wild animals. But I gotta say, if I had been coming home within a week of meeting Mila, I may very well have figured out how to bring that dog with me.

I insisted that Ayoub wash the puppies. They looked kind of uncomfortably dirty – still with yogurt in their fur. He sent photos (attached), giving me good confidence that they are being loved.

I’m taking naproxen for the Achilles, and it already feels a lot better. The weather window for “comfort” in Sub Saharan Africa has a tiny aperture – I’d say November 20 until February 1. I hate to blow one of those precious days, but I think that taking tomorrow off too will pay dividends in the next leg. Thanks again for all the kindness and generosity you all displayed in yesterday’s activity. Your help made it much easier to ensure the puppies received care moving forward. Everyone who commented participated in driving that in the right direction. Thank you.

My expectation was that today’s ride would be bad – I had been searching for an alternative route through the desert (as opposed to the lone paved highway). Satellite imagery revealed two possible routes that paralleled the pavement – but you can never be sure what you will find on the ground in places with sand dunes. Some sections looked like they could be 1mph pushers. I made some fake strava segments and zero people had done any of the stuff I had been considering. Moreover, the “bike shop” guy said it was impossible. I had some intrigue to conduct a scouting mission (even though I knew the scenery would be the same)… but there is also this precious weather window that I’m paying attention to. In the end, the main highway between Guelmim and Tan Tan was excellent riding. First, it was a Sunday morning, meaning almost no vehicular traffic. Second, the entire 70 mile stretch is 4 lane highway, but because it is under repair, the cars are only allowed to use two of the lanes. This meant that I had my own 30 foot wide, independent and paved bike path to relax and just enjoy the ride. Which I did until that 8-12mph head wind picked up around 1pm.

This morning, I went to do one last check on the puppies, but unfortunately the vet was closed early on Sunday. I’ll miss those cute little fur balls. I had expected to dislike Guelmim, but instead, I liked it a lot. Because today was on a highway with zero intervening small villages, I saw almost no children. Just as in Guelmim, the couple of people I met in Tan Tan were also welcoming and friendly. These experiences continue to solidify my belief that tourism can pollute local people; my favorite locales are often just the boring and regular places.

I pulled over every 10 miles to check and adjust blood sugar, drop a pin, and eat or drink. During one of these stops, a van pulled over, a guy jumped out and broke a 1.5 liter bottle out of its 12 pack shrink wrap. He came running over a small gulley and insisted I take it – without me even asking. Most passing drivers gave thumbs up.

Later, I saw a guy sitting behind his parked truck. I thought maybe he had broken down, so I stopped to offer him water or help. He looked at me befuddled. “Maybe he doesn’t understand French?” I left him with, « c’est bon? »? « Oui » he replied. in my rear view mirror, though, I saw him get up and walk around the truck to stare at my receding bike with a puzzled look. A few minutes later I saw another truck pulled over. But this time I got it. He had his prayer mat out and he was bowing up and down in bare feet. It wasn’t Yoga time. It was prayer time. Yeah, I may have caught that other guy right after his prayer.

One thing that I had been meaning to report was the paucity of people I have seen praying. I hear the mosques almost every day – even when I’m in pretty remote locations – but until now have hardly seen anyone on those mats – and today I saw a dozen. Maybe there are regional differences in devotion, or maybe it’s just that this is a good excuse for the truckers to all simultaneously take pee breaks. I haven’t been in a highway like this with truckers until today, but a cyclist could get 5 brief respites from traffic on a daily basis if they simply go to muslimpro.com and download the schedule. If you didn’t know: There is a official prayer schedule, and it changes every day in relation to the sunrise and set.

Today’s prayer schedule is as follows:

05:19
06:38
12:08
15:16
17:38
19:00

Wait! That is six prayers. This would be perfect for my friend Nancy Prier who always has to do “bonus miles”.

Interestingly, I noticed that everyone I saw was also quite adept in their knowledge of the cardinal directions. I think I need to know that for my wind analysis (though the reality these days is that “the direction you are heading dictates the inverse of the wind direction”). Every time I saw someone praying, they had a perfect rhumb towards Mecca. The best pray-er of the day was a man with a horse drawn carriage parked on the side of the highway. The horse patiently waited as he knelt and bowed several times. The arches of his bare feet arched tightly. Of course, a photo of this picture perfect moment was desired, but not sought; you’ll have to use your imagination.

Usually I’ll go to one of the many cafes for an espresso shot because it is one-and-done, but today I opted for tea. For one thing, I like the way tea makes me feel – I don’t know if it is the other chemicals or the additional hydration – but the tea buzz is worth the cost of having to spend time drinking the extra volume.

Tea also gives me the opportunity to sit, observe, and momentarily participate in the local life. Across from me, a lone young man sat by himself with his tea. He had voluntarily helped translate my French to Arabic for the guy across the counter as I pointed to the items I wanted to buy.

When you get tea here, you receive a pot, two glasses per person (one upside down) and a huge block of sugar. I watched as the 3 men at the table to my left poured the tea from 20” above into the first glass. Next, another high altitude pour into the second glass. The block of sugar is then placed into the pot, and the two glasses are decanted back into the pot. After a brief waiting period, this process can be repeated. I read online that the height of the pour signifies your respect for the other people with you. A bride in an unwanted arranged marriage might do a low pour, for example. I was drinking alone, so as I copied their behavior, I decided to respect everyone around me with a modest 6” pour height – “respectfully” not baptizing my neighbors with hot tea.

Before I could get too engaged in the pouring project, one of the dodgy guys from outside walked right up to my table. He mumbled something, but then made a face that I could understand clearly. It was kind of a puppy dog face, which reads “I need something, can you help?” He was doing a pretty good job of moving my heart, but I could see the lone young tea drinker behind him kind of rolling his eyes. His face read, “oh great, here we go again.” I looked back and forth between tea-eye-roll-man and puppy-face-man, and before I could take any action, puppy-face-man pirouetted and stepped to tea-man’s table. He grabbed one glass of tea from the table, and one of tea-man’s loaves of bread; promptly walking back out front of the store to enjoy the meal. Tea-man made a face of disgust, but he still had one round loaf and one glass of tea at the table. You can do your own analysis on what just happened.

Back at the 3 man tea table, there were stacks of that round bread I have been telling you about. As puppy-face-man exited, a new man entered, pulling a bagged bottle from inside the lapels of his coat. I peered carefully – was this contraband alcohol in Morocco? The man uncapped the mysterious bottle and poured a thin syrup into a small dish at the 3-tea-man table. It looked like a blend of honey and olive oil. The men began to dip their bread in this substance – just as another guy emerged from behind the counter wielding a fancy tray with a carefully decorated crepe-thin omelette as a centerpiece. They would share the bits of the little omelette, mostly filling up on the hunks of bread dipped into the honey oil.

I sat back and sipped my tea and contemplated how unifying this is. You probably think I’m going to say it’s unifying that they shared the little omelette… but no: I’m thinking of the shared human experience. Possibly a world apart from this ramshackle store, in the USA, one could go to an opulent restaurant and similarly fill up on bread and oil; the “real meal” being a highly decorated but very small token centerpiece.

Juggling these thoughts, I rode off into the side-headwind, optimistic that the flow would eventually become favorable. The first 55 miles, they were still building a new highway, meaning that I always had my own designated paved bike path. That was good. I stopped in a small town at mile 55 and bought more supplies. The young man amplified the music and danced behind the counter for me. “C’est bon?” He smiled asked over and over. His dancing was kind of distracting and made me nervous for some reason… it took a long time for me to point out the foods because he kept dancing between retrievals. I thought he might grab me and make me dance too. I took the items outside to pack the bike, and I could see the man in the pharmacy smiling at me, patting his heart, and waving. It feels like these guys just want to spread the love or something. I get so much friendly attention from men; I wonder if it has anything to do with the male-female restrictions here.

Unfortunately, the wind was mostly a side wind – acting as a headwind in some places – but a tailwind too. Then, I got sick a third time. I don’t keep statistics for this, but if I had a chart for number of times vomited per days in the country, Morocco would rise to the top. Concurrently, I developed hypoglycemia – 47mg/dL all in a pretty forsaken place (but luckily the ONLY place with bushes I saw all day). Imagine being required to force down food to avoid going unconscious – right after your body just rejected the previous meal. Bad stuff. Plus, the Achilles screams at me all day long. My body felt like a wreck. But through what felt like a miracle, the sugars absorbed, I eventually was able to continue rolling, slowly becoming stronger again. By the time I finished the ride, the nausea was gone – only to relapse the moment I stopped. Ugh. Sometimes I wish I could repair this body like a bike or a computer.

According to the United Nations, I entered into the non-self-governing territory of “Western Sahara” today. If you look at a map, some will call this Morocco, others will call this section “Western Sahara”. This disputed territory has the honor of being the least densely populated “country” in the world. That’s a plus and a minus for the touring cyclist. On one hand, it means low traffic and nuisance from unwanted tent visitors. On the other hand, it means long distances between food and water. Like up to 120 miles on the main paved road.

The border crossing was uneventful; in fact, I missed the unsigned border. This means that logistically, WS is easy for me. Same currency, same SIM card, no passport stamp, etc. This Western Portion of the territory that I am in is currently controlled by Morocco. In 2020, the US temporarily became the first country in the UN to say that Morocco was the boss of Western Sahara (this was in exchange for Israel and Morocco agreeing to “be buddies”, which they did). You may remember I mentioned this in reference to “Trump – thumbs up”.

Speaking of Trump, during his tenure he managed to build about 455 miles of wall to block the Southern “invaders”. For comparison, in Western Sahara, there is a 1,700 mile long wall which I will not be going near, until the far South when I cross into Mauritania. It’s the second longest wall in the world after China; it’s called “the berm”. I constantly wonder about these global land disputes – but this one in particular. It’s sand, guys. Add this to the list of things I don’t understand.

Western Sahara is divided vertically by this wall, so this side still feels like Morocco, with some minor observational differences this first day: First, less French. North, most signs would be in French and Arabic. Here, the French has been dropped somewhat. Second: military checkpoints along the road. I’ll upload a photo. Each of these buildings is within sight of the next one on the horizon – enabling them to monitor the most land with the fewest people. One or two men would always be standing alert outside in uniform – watching the road. Each had dogs, and almost all of those chased me – unabated by the military men. Remember, I had hardly been chased in Morocco proper. Each building had military outfits drying on the clothes line. Just to be safe, I took this photo while riding, and when the building was between me and the watching man.

I’ll tell you more later about Western Sahara. Let’s do a wrap up on Morocco. I spent 25 days in the kingdom of Morocco, and would have happily spent the full 90 days allowed to Americans. Would I go back? Yes. For bike touring, it’s a top destination: lots of good scenery, mountains, deserts, and oak woodlands. The people were great – some of the most friendly I’ve encountered anywhere in the world. Drivers were excellent, almost always giving me the entire lane and waiting until it was safe to pass. Even paved roads had very little traffic. Prices are very accessible. For the non diabetic with a more robust gut than me, the food is excellent when prepared for you (though “grocery store” selection is extremely limited). Accommodation is easy to find, though you might need to come with a high level of physical fitness due to the (sometimes) long distances on difficult terrain. A variety of tour styles can be pursued here, including credit card road touring (well, ATM and cash touring). French was useful only at a very basic level: shopping / hotels. The richness of the experience would have been 100 fold better if I knew how to speak Moroccan Arabic (which differs from the Arabic on my phone). The best tours I’ve done were in parts of the US and my recent tour with Janet to Southern Mexico / Honduras. I still cherish the many 45+ minute conversations we had with people and what I learned about their lives. This is the most enriching part of any journey (in my opinion) – but it doesn’t always come easily. In Spain and New Zealand, although we spoke the languages, the opportunities were rare. Conversely, in Southern Mexico and Honduras, people loved to deeply share their personal stories, struggles, anything. Here in Morocco, I got the impression that these conversations were just waiting to happen – because patient people would try to communicate in their limited French. Had I known Moroccan Arabic, 90 days probably wouldn’t have been long enough to ride and REALLY talk to people! I felt my French was better than that of about 85% of the people I met – and my French is crap.

If I were advising a friend, I’d say: Bring a fat bike with at least front suspension. Go from September 15 to December 15st. Go online and look for a list of “top places to go in Morocco” and make sure you avoid the PERIMETERS of ALL those places. The touristic centers are OK; I think because there is some education to “not harass the tourists.” The sphere of influence is big, though. I would suggest to spend more time in the Anti Atlas. I would recommend Tetouan for the cosmopolitan, Fes was better than expected. Definitely go to Erg Chegaga (fat bike). Ait Mansour for a gorge (instead of Dades/Todra). Explore higher elevations in September (the cold in November made me skip a couple high elevation sections). I might recommend to bring candy, because that might be my only complaint about Morocco – harassment. Even though you would be perpetuating the problem for the next guy, your own life might be better. Luckily, you probably won’t see anyone in actual need of food, just kids trying to bum whatever they can off of you because it is a “fun game”.

Hope you enjoyed today’s post and learned a little. I took it easy today because I am “staging” for the next leg. If I want to have water at camp, I need to carefully organize the next 10 legs or so. This is because the distance between water resupply can reach up to 120 miles. That may sound like a lot, but it all depends on the wind. If there is a headwind, I may have to wait out “jumping” to the oasis. With a tailwind, 120 miles is no big deal.

The Sahrawi people are the the nomadic people of this disputed area called Western Sahara. The name derives from the Arabic word, “Ṣaḥrā” – which means “desert”. You got it… when you say “Sahara desert,” you’re saying “desert desert”

A little bit later, a truck driver parked on the side of the road flagged me down from behind his truck. I stopped and went around back. All the 18 wheelers here have these little fold out cubbies on the side that seem to serve as a mobile countertop. Atop his platform, he had a stove; he invited me to sit and have some tea. Unfortunately, the sugar had already been added. It made me sad to turn him down – he spoke only Arabic – but he still really wanted me to come have tea with him. What would we have talked about?

A few hours later, a family having tea on the side of the road wanted me to stop and join them. People will just pull over in their vehicles to have these roadside tea parties. Given the frequency of these invitations, I am certain that I will be joining someone BEFORE they add the 300grams of sucrose.

I gotta say that as difficult as it is to manage type 1 diabetes, the impact on social interactions might be the worst part. Having to pre-dose insulin and then wait to eat… it destroys the spontaneity that makes life beautiful. I can potentially drink the sweet tea, but have to be judicious about when and where – especially when exercise and remoteness are involved.

The wind began to change from a side-headwind to a side-tailwind. My speed increased from a patience-requiring 12 mph to a brisk 22mph. If you ride 10 hours, that means you can cover an additional 100 miles in the same amount of time. That is hella significant now that the jumps between civilization are 100 miles.

I’ve passed some 70 police checkpoints during my time in Morocco, but it wasn’t until today that I was asked to stop. Twice, in fact. Because of the conflict between Morocco and Western Sahara that I told you about yesterday, Morocco really wants to make sure that the tourists are safe. They asked me many details about my itinerary, the time of day I would be each part of the next leg, and where I would stay. They didn’t want me riding after dark. I got a little suspicious when then they asked for my phone number. But, they were being really nice and patient. I gave them my WhatsApp and asked, “Why do you need my number?” They came back with, “for your safety on the road,” as they kindly patted me on the back. You could tell by the looks on their faces that they were sincere – and doing this for me.

These kind of interactions are why I say that I’m going to miss Morocco. Yes, there were some nuisance kids that I called out earlier in the trip… But I’m constantly impressed with how patient and helpful the majority of people have been here. I feel like a turd for only knowing 5 words in Arabic, yet people are always so tolerant and never ever act annoyed, impatient, or anything negative.

People in the US are generally pretty nice, but if I knew only 5 words of English, I think it is safe to say that I would have pissed off at least one American during the course of 26 days.

Something to think about tonight: How does it come to pass where entire countries have a certain way of “being?” I guess you act like what you see. I wish I could bring a little bit of Morocco back home. Well, maybe I will: Smile big at people and be more patient.

“Huh?”

“caméra…. ici”. He pointed to the bolt that holds my rear shock on.

“No,” I consoled him, and to prove that my shock bolt wasn’t recording his gas-station-shenanigans, I did a little shock dance bouncing the shock. He smiled and walks back to his two buddies, laughing and punching them. I’m pretty sure that one of them thought my shock bolt was a camera. This is a new one.

Before I embarked on this stretch of road, I thought it was something to “just get done.” It’s flat, and I’m a mountain scenery kind of guy. But in my heart, I realize that I’m really just a “love to ride my bike” kind of person. Admittedly, I’m only 4 days into probably a 14 day Sahara crossing, but this stuff suits me well, even if it means enduring shock bolt conspiracy theories.

I know it will become more remote further along, but about every 50 miles there is some sort of gas station-like-place where I can get water and entertainment from the people resting during their epic drives. I can also get mid-day tea… something I shouldn’t be doing (caffeine), but it’s a nice hydrating treat.

I’ve been trying to savor this section. Janet and I have been packing in these tours. That is great because I feel like we have been making the most of the precious minutes of life. The disadvantage with moving fast is that as soon as we get home from one trip, I’m designing another – leaving little time to “process” the previous one.

Morocco has required a little bit more processing than usual; there’s more “newness.” Also I met a lot of new people in the first 3 weeks. It is really really nice now to have some quiet time to let those experiences bounce around in my head a bit. Maybe this leg feels a bit to me like what a vacation on the beach would feel like to someone who likes that sort of escape. Getting to see Janet on video calls every day is the icing on the cake.

Things change quickly out here, and by morning, the soaked tent was completely dry. Back to our regularly scheduled programming! But I have a fresh reminder of how much I prefer the desert over the tropics.

I had read that this section was super remote, but have been happy to find a place to get water and tea every 45 miles or so. I came into this with the expectation that it would be remote (and difficult as a result), but the people who wrote that must not have cycled in the Southern California deserts where you can easily ride 120 miles with zero services. Maybe if we stopped to pray more in the US, we’d erect a few more stations. The gas stations here have dedicated rooms with little prayer rugs or mats.

Today was the first time since I began the flat stretch that a driver didn’t stop to offer me water. Not that I’m expecting it, but drivers continue to be friendly and polite usually giving the full lane, waves, and thumbs up. My human contact is exclusively at gas stations now, but the people are largely jovial and curious about the trip. I continue to enjoy this section immensely more than I thought I would – perhaps the benefit of setting low expectations! It feels hedonistic with all the tea stops and good pavement.

The winds have been tough for camping; I didn’t sleep optimally last night due to the noises of the tent. The 3 person tent is proving to be beneficial, though, as I can sleep on the middle – further from the moving sides. Sand management is a time consuming project, as my electronics and diabetes kit are struggling a bit (the port where I put the test strips is crunching – occasionally refusing strip entry, the glucometer zipper is struggling to open and close, the finger stabber is having trouble, and the clicking mechanism on my insulin pens still works, but resists movement periodically). The AQI was 142 this morning. In spite of this, I reveled in the beauty and isolation of last nights camp; watching the shooting stars for quite a while – wishing Janet were here to also enjoy the nice spot.

The following portion goes into some negative stuff, and I suggest you stop here if you don’t like bad thoughts or are reading to children.

Surprisingly, I haven’t been asked for any of my fiche cards since Boujdour. I had read that there were many many police stops through Western Sahara for the safety of travelers and because of the conflict. Tourism is very important to the Moroccan economy, and in 2018, two backpacking women were beheaded by Jihadists. I think that this inspired heavy security that has since faded somewhat in the last 5 years.

The other sad news is that the sick puppy I mentioned yesterday died today. I appreciate the vet being in touch with me daily. I’ll post a happy video of the remaining four. I like to tell myself that his passing was better in their care than it would have been otherwise. I am sad that this happened, but I still feel happy that he was amongst his vibrant siblings when it happened.

Thanks for reading. Tomorrow’s plan is another day like today!

I’ve been changing latitude quickly. Latitude lines are only 69 miles apart, while longitude lines depend where you are on the planet. If you were at the North Pole, you could run through all 360 longitude lines in a second by doing a little circle. That wouldn’t be so easy at the equator. Conversely, if I ride 138 miles due South, I can cross two full lines of latitude in a day like yesterday. If there were a flat paved road from the North Pole to the Equator, you could knock off a hemisphere in 45 days at that rate. Makes it seem like it’s a small world after all, huh?

In that sense, it is a small world… one with limited resources. I look around me in Western Sahara, and it doesn’t always look like there are many resources to go around. Water has to be trucked in. Outside of towns, electricity is generally off during the day. My 120 miles today were quieter than ever, making for superb cycling, but limited commerce, as it was a 1.4 degree of latitude jump (100 miles) between resupply. In spite of the limited resources, Moroccans have been munificent, giving of the things they do have in abundance: Smiles, tea, man-hugs, and patience.

Tomorrow, I am leaving Western Sahara (Morocco if you prefer) just in time for my SIM card to expire. I am patting myself on back for the exquisite timing.

Speaking of patting yourself on the back, you should be doing this too if you were one of the people who simply THOUGHT helping with the puppies. It means you are a kind and thoughtful person who is willing to give what you have to help. So how can I give back to Morocco? I think about this a lot during my rides, and I know I’ve mentioned this before in Latin America with coffee and bananas, but by buying Moroccan olives, and olive oil, Moroccan dates, and (if in Europe) Moroccan fruits and veggies, it’s possible to give to some of the people. Admittedly not everyone. And yeah, the money might go to go to kids wielding big sticks… but it’s going to be the ones using them to whack olives and dates out of the trees. Not the kids using sticks and shrubberies to block the road and demand a cadeaux 🎁.

Maybe it seems like buying these foodstuffs is a drop in the bucket?

I equate it to voting.

Transoceanic shipping pollution?

As people have better financial situations, they gain the latitude to have smaller families.. decreasing the population burden (and thus pollution) on our little planet.

Ok, enough soapbox. 🧼

Speaking of soap, I washed my clothes last night at my dry camp in the desert. “How is this possible?” You might wonder. It turns out that one can reliably find water in the desert alongside the road. I’d estimate that I could find about 1 liter every two miles. The majority of littered water bottles I found along the side of the road still had quite a bit of water remaining. Of course, there is selection bias, as the lightweight empty ones blow away into the vast Sahara. Pro Tip: That is not liquid laundry detergent in the yellow ones.

I gathered a couple of bottles right before heading to camp, poured them into my dry-bag, and threw in my cycling kit for a wash. Even had enough water for a rinse.

Tomorrow I cross into Mauritania. As my latitude changes, so must my attitude. Sticky skin, sand in zippers, flies for company… but in spite of that, tonight I got a golden nugget: It was the first time on a week I’ve sat on a toilet seat. 🚽 Luxury!

“Je suis américain; je viens des États-Unis,” I replied.

“États-Unis? Je ne comprends pas!” the soldier replied, starting to look aggressive. How could he not understand “United States?”

“États-Unis,” I said again. Saying I’m from the United States always worked in Morocco. Usually getting a big smile, a heart bump, a bro-hug, or at least a handshake with a “Welcome to Morocco.” Now I was getting physical contact, but the guy in fatigues was lightly punching me backwards – like he wanted to start a fight. He put is face 2 inches from mine. I could see the blackened roots of his teeth – he looked like a sick horse in there.

“États-Unis de quoi? Je ne comprends pas!” Now he really looked like he was going to fight me. How could he not understand what I was saying? Was I the first American to pass through here? He began to flail his arms around repeating “United States of what? I don’t understand!!”

Luckily, a younger guy in a headscarf came to my rescue. He put his hand on the shoulder of the angrily dancing soldier. They spoke in Arabic, but from the body language, I read him saying, “cool it man, give this guy a break!”

This gave me time to think about what was going on. Even though I understood his words, I’m still a little insecure in my French. Especially when a guy with charbroiled gums is looking to fight me. Then I remembered the joke from Latin America. “The United States” is the only country in the world without a name. America refers to the “Americas” (North America; South America). This bully really wanted to inculcate that point. With the help of the calm assistant, I managed to hand him one of my fiche cards and move past the barriers.

He forgot to say it, but: Welcome to Mauritania.

That didn’t even happen at the border; it occurred about 20 miles into one of the many security check points where I am handing out those little fiche cards I made in Morocco like a good little boy. A fiches is a copy of my itinerary, job title (Biologist), passport, entry and exit dates, etc.

The border crossing was fairly smooth. Stamping out of Morocco was a breeze with the typical patient and helpful people. After 33 days in Morocco, I felt I could do no wrong. No matter how stupid the question or how bad my language skills, people would always help. I have fear – even in my own country sometimes – of just walking up to a stranger to ask for help. In Morocco, the only fear in approaching someone is that you are going to probably get invited to your 5th tea of the day. If Janet and I are ever in Spain again, I will try and talk her into going to Morocco. One month is the minimum; 3 months wandering there would be good.

I had heard that there would be “fixers” swarming you on the Mauritanian border – people who (for a fee) will guide you through all the entry steps. As a result, I was a little tentative when people approached me, hustling me into this room and that… but in the end, each of these guys was official, and although there were many steps to entry, it went as professionally as it could have in the little rooms filled with non-smiling sweaty people, flies, and sand.

Notable issues were the thing attached to my eyeglasses – which they wanted to confiscate for being a camera – until they discovered it was a mirror. The other issue was my bicycle. He kept saying I needed some sort of permit, and I kept saying it was a “Un vélo; une bicyclette”. Just to make sure, he sent another guy outside to make sure it didn’t have a motor.

Unlike Morocco, which is free entry, Mauritania requires the purchase of a visa for €55, so about $2 per day if I stay the fully granted 30 days.

There is supposedly a 3 mile “no man’s land” in that disputed area right at the end of Morocco. People make a big deal of this section online. They show photos of blown up cars and detritus. They talk about the land mines flanking the route and say things like “I hope I can find the way across.” But the reality of it is that there is a road that trucks can drive; one mile is rocky and unpaved. They must have cleaned this place up, or the travelers were exaggerating, because it was not anywhere near as extreme as I had anticipated.

Getting money is the next project. I had a lot of Moroccan money and had a medium-fun time negotiating with the money changers. They weren’t as jovial as the ones in Latin America. But like Latin America, once you pause and start dealing with one changer, a few others come swarming. It is interesting, as they seem to be competing with each other (hey, this is MY guy!). The swarmers like to participate too, and if you start asking for a better rate, they pull out their calculators. Oddly, after a rate is agreed upon, the other guys in the circle will pitch in a few small bills that the main guy doesn’t have. They don’t seem to do an accounting of this either.

I was a little dismayed to find that GoogleFi doesn’t work in Mauritania (they promise it does). I let it try and connect for a while during my ride to see if it would activate – but it didn’t. This meant the adventure of buying a SIM card. I had a MOOV store on my map and went there. It was a little slot in between buildings – wide enough to accommodate a portly and enshrouded woman on a folding chair – and nothing else. Compared to the trash strewn road, it felt safe enough to enter; It seemed like they might have a card in there – there were 3 carelessly strewn across the cardboard “desk.” She couldn’t help and pointed behind me. The swaddled mad had already walked around the dead animal heads to solicit my business. He turned out to be pretty nice; I trusted him to sell me a black market SIM card. I couldn’t buy from the lady in the store because I don’t live here with a residence card. The black-market cards have pen marks all over them, are faded and scratched; I have no idea where they come from, but it did work unlike GoogleFi.

That is enough for now; I got what I need to give you a post!

After a brief and enjoyable lull, I think that Mauritania will at least be rich in stories. Hopefully good ones. Inshallah.

Anyway, about the train: it’s designed for carrying iron ore from the heart of Mauritania out to the shipping port where I am now. It is not designed for travelers in any way, BUT, they let you ride on top for free. You can go 300 or even 400 miles into the desert if you can endure sitting on iron ore (in the opposite direction of me) or inside the empty carriage (like I plan to do on the train’s return trip to the mine). There is no real schedule, so it has the potential to be a long day of waiting and discomfort. It is supposed to be extremely dirty, sandy, windy… so I went to buy some throw-away clothes. I need to get a blanket still – because it gets really cold at night. A number of people have done this as tourists, and there are at least a couple dozen YouTube videos about “hitching a ride on the most dangerous train in the world”. 😂 In almost all cases, they make it sound like a grueling trip. My only hope is that they are exaggerating the strife – like the thing about the “no man’s land” that I went through yesterday. Maybe I have a higher tolerance for dirt and dust being a cyclist? We will see. I don’t really want to do it, but I DO want to go to Atar and the surrounding area. There is a single passenger car on some trains. Someone sent me a photo of the lone toilet in the passenger car where they cram in dozens of people who sleep on top of each other.. I think sitting inside the dirty bin for 13 hours sounds better.

Every day in Morocco, I woke excited about the day, and I was happy 10 percent of the time, and extremely happy the other 90 percent. Today upon waking, I had a bit of that new energy, and decided to go face the city again. I washed my clothes, went to town and after visiting 5 stationary stores, managed to get some new binder clips (for hanging clothes). I had lost two in the sand at camp the other day.

Next job was to get money. I went to ATM after ATM… most had been sand blasted (and thus blank screens). But some were working and accepted my card – but did not dispense money. I was getting a little desperate, as you might imagine, so when I saw a “Guichet automatique” (ATM) sign – but no ATM, I looked inside the accompanying bank. I told the guy what I was looking for, and he handed me off to another guy. I kept getting passed off until someone took me down corridors to a cluttered and dim fluorescent-lit back room. There was a man dressed like he was some president from the UN sitting behind a desk with little flags on it. The rest of the room, people were slouching on cardboard boxes. A tray of tea was coming out with foamy sugar bubbles in each little cup. The men took their glasses, and one of them offered a glass to me.

“Um… is there an ATM here?” I asked in French. The president guy pointed to his left and said a bunch. Since I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to go explore more corridors to his left, I said thanks and went outside, assuming he meant left: Down the street.

In general, people here have been nice enough; I think that coming from Morocco, it is a more dramatic change than if I had come from Spain or US where people are more reserved. I did meet a guy named Mamoudou at a street corner. For some reason, he had a good vibe, and best of all – he spoke Spanish… well! This meant we could have a meaningful conversation. He told me he was actually from Senegal (making me have hope for the next country). He explained that he was “working” on this street corner for his kid. As we talked, people came by and stuffed small coins in his hand. He was fully engaged in our conversation, meaning that the people passing by were grabbing his hand, putting in small amounts of money, and walking away. I guess they knew him? He didn’t ask me for money, but we ended up talking about diabetes. His arm had been amputated; he revealed the stub. I asked him if he was type 1 or 2. He said that he didn’t know. He doesn’t take insulin – so I pronounced him type 2. I showed him my meter and he says he wants to get one. I don’t usually give people money on the street, but when I got the $80 USD excess donations for the puppies, I decided to tabulate the overage in my spending sheet and distribute it judiciously amongst people I like and feel need/deserve help. He very much appreciated the small gift. For sure this is a drop in the bucket, but I thought I’d let you know where the funds are going. Honestly, I would have preferred to buy him a glucose meter or food than hand over cash. Unlike giving in the US, though, I think it is a safe bet that he won’t be buying something self-destructive like alcohol. We exchanged WhatsApp numbers and tonight he made the effort to send me a voice message saying thanks. Good guy!

Next job was to buy clothes. I found a used clothing seller and asked about the prices. It is tricky here because the currency got revalued in 2018 due to massive inflation. They basically removed a zero. So, i got a bunch of 500 Ouguiya notes at the ATM. Each 500 is worth about $13.75 USD. The problem is, many places you go, they quote prices in the old currency. So, the guy told me 1500 for a used T-shirt. That’s like $40! Just to be clear, I showed him some money and he said that 150 (minus one zero) is ok. You gotta make sure, though! My hotel is quoted in the new currency at 1200 (so the tshirt would have been more than a hotel room). He had to go down the street with my 500 Ouguiya bill to get change. He finally came back, and as is often the procedure here, you are handed a single bill for change. Nowhere near the amount of change you’re expecting. A long-feeling wait ensues (with my hand still out). Then another bill is added to the pile. We wait again. I look at him with my hand out. Eventually, another bill. Then a coin. Now I have my change. But as an experiment, i linger. He starts to put another bill in my hand. Before I can smile and refuse it, he snaps it back. Was he trying to cheat me, or just reaaaaaaly slow at math? Maybe he was slow at math, because I lingered in front of the store to record my spending, and his kid came out to say, “Bonjour”. Then he came out to talk to my phone app “May God bless you again (in Arabic)”.

I went to find the train station, but instead found a dirt lot where people were scraping the ground. Goats were meandering. Some people sat scraping stuff in front of little shanties. I saw two fit and sporty looking young men picking bits of rusted metal out of trash. I saw a guy peeing on another pile of trash. I saw a car run over a tire in the road – and it got stuck in front of his car as he pushed it along making a small burning rubber cloud. I went to snap a photo, and then he stopped. A guy from another car stopped too – and pulled the tire out for him. So, there is a smattering of humanity here too.

The day was a mixture of good and bad. It exhausted me talking to all these people, and by 1:30PM , I retreated to my room to eat my $3.00 US cans of tuna and try and figure out where this train station is.

I’m excited to take the train too, though, as it gains access to a (probably) nicer section of Mauritania. Nouadhibou was pretty crummy in my opinion. The probability of seeing a smile was about equal to the probability of someone stopping at a red light. Both happen sometimes. Of course, the red lights were rare: it seemed like all of the traffic lights were full of sand like the ATMs, and most were not working.

This morning, I had that renewed and excited energy: ready to see some stuff.. so I rode South to Cap Blanc – in the Banc d'Arguin National Park. It is a marine reserve with an interpretive center. This area has the largest remaining colony of Mediterranean Monk Seals (about 270). A big epidemic wiped most of them out in the 90s.

I loved getting out of the nasty city and took a side trip to a small town called “Cansado” (tired, in Spanish). Wow! About half the people in the street were picking up trash. There was a garbage truck driving down the street. It was CLEAN. This made me happy – to see people actually taking care of their town. I wonder if they just drive the trash over to the streets of Nouadhibou and dump it there? People smiled. I rode around the dirt streets, but just said “hi” to people (didn’t want to spend too much time due to train plan). South of this town, in the reserve, there was almost zero trash. It was nice and uplifting. I saw a group of 20 military guys walking – following slowly moving truck. They were friendly. When I passed them again on the return trip 45 minutes later, they were still moving. I guess this was some sort of hike training?

And then I rushed to get to the station by 2pm. A guy said the train comes at 4pm and leaves at 5pm. I will be happy if that is how it works out!

The multi-mile long train pulled to a stop, and before I knew it, one-tooth had lithely leapt into the bin. I began handing him packages, but in a moment, two more young men arrived. One got into the bin with one-tooth, and the other straddled the adjacent cars like a rock climbing stem-maneuver. A third person helped me hand up one-tooth’s packages. What the hell was all this stuff? Before departure, One-tooth sat crouched, shoveling dirt and sand into a bag. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a crazy guy – portaging all these bags and detritus. You will soon learn that he wasn’t crazy: He was a professional.

After seeing images of the ore bins, I had mentally rehearsed the maneuver I would make to get my bike into the bin. Right arm over the top tube, grasping the down tube, I climbed up the first rung of the ladder. The plan had been to quickly grab the next bar with the free hand – relying on inertia to keep me from falling off, kind of hopping my way up. Real life was a little different than the rehearsal. For one thing, the weld was broken on one side of the second high-up hand rung. Would it hold? And the more important difference: in my visualization, I was the Incredible Hulk. In real life, I was the Incredible Idiot who still thinks he is in his 20s. I jumped back down with my bike and instead pushed it up towards the young guy who was straddling the two cars. The strength of this young man was humbling; he easily lifted it from my hands at a back-breaking angle and hoisted it over the rim of the bin. The guys inside grabbed it and it disappeared from sight. “Well, that is done,” I thought as I started handing up more bags of what appeared to be garbage. Next, we teamed up awkwardly with the broken refrigerator, my arm going into one guys’ crotch.

Once everything was inside, I walked to greet my new bin-mates. The other 3 guys were Mohammed, Mohammed, and Mohammed. They reluctantly shook my hand as I went from person to person to introduce myself. Were they messing with me about their names? Maybe, because I later heard One-Tooth call one of the guys Hasan.

One-tooth already knew a little about me because we had talked a bit in French before boarding. I could hear him telling the 3 Mohammed’s that I was American. But I don’t think they were too interested. For them, this was a different kind of journey; more of a routine than an adventure.

This trip has been good for me. Normally I am pretty reserved, but when you’re inside an ore bin with four other guys – about to share the same pee corner, and one of them is barefoot… you think “what have I got to lose by trying to talk to these guys?”

But these are hard men. Every time they ride this train, they give up a part of their body breathing this dust. Some work in the ore mine so we can have things like cars and (if you still think “steel is real”), bicycle frames. They take the train to visit family in Nouadhibou, then go back to work or little huts in the bush. After having been to Nouadhibou, though, I question if maybe they prefer being in the mine.

One-tooth kept busy for most of the time. First, he took the bag of dirt he prepared and made flat piles of dirt in two of the corners. One became the pee corner. The other was his cooking cubby, where he set about building a coal fire. I’m not so good at starting fires in easy conditions, so I was impressed when he got a fire going in whirling 38 MPH winds.

He cut up meat, vegetables and boiled water. He invited me to sit on one of his bags of clothing for comfort. They offered me tea, and later on, food. The cooking process took nearly 3 hours, and One-tooth was constantly occupied tending to this-and-that. We hadn’t been talking much, and when they drank their tea, it was expeditious. If this had been a place for socialization, I would have shot the extra insulin for the sake of the camaraderie. Even though they had dour expressions, they waved at the passengers sitting atop the ore when a train came by in the opposite direction. They would flicker their flashlights at the occasional huts we passed in the night; the people outside the huts would reciprocate.

Nobody washed their blackened hands to eat, but as the sun set, they all oddly got together to wash hands around a bowl. Next thing I knew, they were all praying in a rhythm of up and down bowing and standing.

One thing I hadn’t prepared for was practicing how to wrap a headscarf. It looks easy but it isn’t! Especially with a 38mph wind. If I had to do one more thing to prepare for this trip, it would have been to learn that. I still don’t know how to do it well.

As you know from my previous post, this was something that I had been dreading quite a bit. The people on YouTube who made this out to be so extreme… well, I think they exaggerated a bit – or maybe they happened to have a rough experience? My train departed and arrived precisely when expected. That easily beats out Amtrak in the USA.

As the land took a golden hue, I began to tear up, swamped with emotion – I couldn’t believe I almost didn’t do this! Writing to guys trying to get a truck to drive me – senselessly burning additional fossil fuels so I could be comfortable? Now, I was riding through a place of daydreams, song lyrics, and movies. Combining that sense of beatitude with the feelings of relief about my worries sent me down a path of deep emotion. This trip is fricking awesome.

NOTES FOR CYCLISTS CONSIDERING TAKING THE IRON ORE TRAIN WITH A BICYCLE IN MAURITANIA

Since I’m now mirroring my strava posts on my blog, I thought I would give some tips on bringing a bicycle on the iron Ore train in Mauritania.

1. Tie a 1 or 2 meter rope around your head tube. This will aid on the raising and lowering process of the bike.
2. Consider practicing tying a headscarf. The locals did not have any protection, but some had bad coughs – before even boarding. Be sure to bring something to protect your lungs.
3. I bought throw away clothing, but the ore did wash off clothes easily (I donated them to the auberge in Choum for the next people). Contrary to the internet hype, it rinses right out.
4. Electronics, on the other hand should be protected. My camera is having lots of trouble – causing me to miss some great shots. Also, my diabetes meter and stabber are in dire straits.
5. I strongly recommend teaming up with a local who looks experienced. Better yet, find someone who you can help load their stuff. They will help you in return with your bike. Also, even if it isn’t a socializing environment, I think it will be more friendly with others.
6. Solo female travelers: If you’re uncomfortable being in a bin with only men, I saw at least two (accompanied) women board the bins.
7. Do not let the internet descriptions of this being “hard core” scare you away. If you have come from Western Sahara on your bike with winds (and wild camped with said winds), it’s like that, except you don’t have to pedal. It’s not the extreme trip that some people make it out to be.

“Why is the United States killing the Palestine women and children?”

I tried to explain that I didn’t think the US is doing that, though we both agreed that the US is actively giving money to Israel. He said, “But the USA is the judge.”

Is the USA killing women and children? It is hard to discern culpability in these complex networks of money and weapons. I don’t really know; there is so much I don’t know. For sure, I’m not going to change the world by trying to convince M-Abdul that the USA is innocent.

Because he spoke English, this topic of discussion was possible for us at a deeper level… I wonder if this is what much of the Muslim world believes? Maybe this is why that border guy was bullying me over “The United Stares of WHAT” the other day.

“Jesus was from Bethlehem. Mohammed is from Jerusalem,” he continued. “Israel is the place for all the religions to be together.”

I know you’re not supposed to talk politics or religion, but I’m always eager to listen to what people have to say. To get people to feel comfortable talking, I won’t discuss my own beliefs much. For me, I don’t care if you want to call him/her “God,” or “Allah,” or “The over soul,” or “the universe”. In all cases, it’s belief in a power greater than you. And If God doesn’t humble you, nature sure as heck will.

Oh yeah, nature served me a piece of humble pie today with the winds, mostly from in front. I met a 26 year old touring cyclist named “Giorgo” (sp?). We rode together for at least half an hour at his pace. I always like talking to young bike tourists; they have such natural curiosity and enthusiasm about what they are seeing. I think mid-20s are the most inspired years. Giorgo and I shared our likes and woes about what we have seen. He told me how he had seen foreign tourists coercing children to pose for the camera by offering them gifts and candy.

“It’s like they are zoo animals.”

He continued, “The tourists come to Mauritania, take their pictures and then get shuttled away in a van and say, ‘I saw Mauritania’”. He wasn’t mad; “I’m going to need some time to process all of this,” he concluded.

His “zoo animal” comment really hit home. He’s right. Although I hadn’t witnessed the practice, I know that is what has been happening, otherwise, why would I have all these odd requests. Today a little girl and two boys approached me when I walked out of a store holding food. All three said, “cadeaux” (gift; just the noun). Since these kids looked a little disheveled, I handed the girl my 4 pack of (sweetened) yogurt. She pushed it away with a look of disgust, instead pointing at my water bottles, my pump, my bag, and repeating “cadeaux.” What is a girl without shoes going to do with a bicycle pump? The store owner promptly came out and shooed the kids away.

It was hot and dry; Giorgo had at least 5 liters of water that I could see. I only had one, so we exchanged WhatsApp and I accelerated into the wind. Along the way, from behind, I recognized a skinny guy with very short gray hair. It was One-Tooth from yesterday! He was working in the dirt, measuring something with a rope and 4 other guys. I slowed down to turn around. I could see a dozen kids running towards me from ahead to ask for a gift as I made the U. I tapped him on the shoulder to say “hi.” He turned around, and I recognized his face. He smiled and suddenly I saw at least 5 teeth. Crap! This wasn’t One-Tooth! All the guys were like “WTF?” But Five-Tooth was genial. I explained in embarrassed French, “pardon me, I thought you were the other person.” Five-tooth was as cool as his doppelgänger, “What is your nationality?” He smiled. The kids arrived just in time to watch this exchange in bewilderment. I apologized some more and rode off. Not one kid grabbed me or said a word. Perhaps I have found a new strategy!

In the final leg, I saw a donkey running towards me on a side road. He was quickly pulling a cart with jugs of water. Far behind him, a young man with a bright yellow and green soccer outfit was chasing the donkey. The man looked like Usain Bolt, but the donkey was winning. I dropped my bike in the sand, and since the donkey was coming right towards me, it was easy to head him off. I grabbed the cart from behind and tried to dig in. Instead, it turned into a waterskiing ride (except on sand – fun!) This extra drag slowed the donkey enough that Usain could catch up. He said thanks (I assume), making some clicking noises with his mouth. That seems to be a thing in Mauritania that I forgot to tell you about: some people make these clicking noises sometimes whenever they talk. Not sure what that is, but I am sure that this post is too long. So, I bid you Good night!

Bowing before the desert sunrise on a mat and singing… That’s a great way to start the day; and it kept getting better. I went to go buy some groceries and the guys invited me for some tea but I told them that I couldn’t drink tea with sugar. This time, they said no problem – making a special pot of tea without sugar for me over the coals on the store’s tile floor. Can you imagine being in Vons or Albertsons and crouching around a little fire with a teapot on it? They passed me a cell phone playing a video in Arabic. In French, they explained either that “Tourist Season has begun in Mauritania” or that “French Tourists are coming to Mauritania.” Either way, they seemed to love this video. They brought out a junky bicycle and held it next to mine and said, “c’est la meme chose.” (It’s the same thing). They kind of giggled. I didn’t know what to say. So I just agreed, “Oui, c’est la meme.” You can see how elementary our conversations can be at times.

I was doing an out-and-back to see the oasis at Terjit. Along the way, I surrendered 3 of my fiche cards (those passport photocopies) to the friendly military guys. On the way in to the oasis, a guy had graced me with an award winning smile, asking if I wanted to buy some dates. I said “no, thanks”. On the way back, he asked again; his smile so big and welcoming, I decided to stop and ask if he could sell me some water. The man looked like a black Albert Einstein, sans mustache and about 60 pounds lighter. He had a welcoming perma-smile and teeth jutting out in every direction. After I bought the water, he got even more excited – saying we should have some tea. I went through the sugar thing and he said he would make a special pot just for me. He ran to his house – bursting with excitement. This is going to be a big deal guys; tea sans sugar is sacrilege here.

Another guy had been slouching nearby in the dirt. While Einstein was fetching the pots, this guy patted a nearby mat suggesting I sit next to him. He looked a lot like Robert Redford with some modifications… it would be as if you had left Mr. Redford out in the sun with no food for a week… and he was having a bad teeth day. His name was “Huelda-Ali“ and he spoke French very well. Hope I spelled his name right. He said he really wanted to build a store for selling stuff – but it was difficult and expensive. He had a down-to-earth nature about him, and asked a little bit about my trip, told me all the places I could go nearby, and confirmed that the road to Tiyikya was paved and in good condition. I asked him how old he was, but he did not know. Maybe 30 or 40’he surmised. I thought he might be 50.

I guess if you don’t know your age, you can’t “act your age,” which seems to be working out fine for these guys. It is a pretty tranquil life when you get excited pointing out that one bike is the same thing as another bike.

After that deplorable start to Mauritania in Nouadhibou, I thought I wouldn’t like it in this country… but I love squatting in the dirt and sipping tea with all these friendly people. Yeah, and so much caffeine might play a role too.

I asked if I could pay for the tea. They said, “The tea is free.” I had already pulled out several coins and “accidentally” left them on the mat. Before I could ride away, Huelda-Ali saw them and said “you forgot it”. I said it was for them for being so good. Einstein jumped up and tried to give me a big bag of dates. I used the diabetes card to exempt myself from the gift, and he settled down. Good people here.

At the next hut, I decided to get some bread and canned veggies. This woman didn’t have so much French, but I got the feeling she understood. She talked loudly at a little girl and pointed down the dirt road. Since I didn’t see any bread in the store, I got the feeling that she had ordered the 3 year old girl to get bread. Meanwhile, I squatted on the dirt floor of the hut with the woman as we drew numbers in the sand. If you had been watching, you might have thought we were in the process of splitting Yugoslavia up into 7 nations. But no, we are just working out the price of the can of veggies and two loaves of bread.

You may remember that I said the currency had dropped a zero in 2018. In “advanced” stores (like ones that have a cash register and a floor that you can’t write on with your finger), they quote the price using the numbers you see on the bills in your hand. In other places, such as this thatched hut, they quote the pre-2018 price with an extra zero. I can see how you can’t go wrong with starting high. How many tourists, I wonder, have paid $30 USD for two loaves of bread and a can of vegetables?

The little girl returned; in her arms, two baguettes formed an “X” across her body. They were as long as her, nearly touching the ground. I hoped that none of the snot dripping down her upper lip had fallen onto the bread. I had paid the lady for what I thought was the can and the bread. But before she would hand over the bread, she asked for a second payment. Clever; Whatever.

I finally made it to Aoujeft. This is where the 200 mile section with no services would begin. I went into a store to get 5 liters of water and lots of food. A robed man walked in and said, “Hello, Brian Lucido”. WHat?? He laughed and said, “it is a miracle, no? I know your name.” He peered over the top of his sunglasses as if he were Magnum Pi in a white gown. Then he showed me his phone – with a picture of one of my fiche cards. “We are watching you,” he grinned.

Well, when there is only one road, there is nowhere to hide!

After Ajoueft, it was nothing. No cars, just me and the sand and the road. A tiny village with some huts appeared. Because I am so far behind on Strava, I’ll have to backfill this story later, but basically I was able to get a couple of liters of water from the “splooge” remaining in an irrigation hose that I uncapped. This is the desert, folks.

I’ll end here. This day was a lot of fun.

I wanted to get an early start because the wind had been tranquil for the first 3 hours yesterday; I figured the same pattern would repeat today. Today when I woke, the wind was very strong, and it crescendoed dramatically once I started pedaling. With all my effort, I could go 7 painful miles per hour. To see where I was going, I peeked through one squinted eye; the other closed. At this speed, I did not have enough supplies to make it to the next known town, still 180 miles away. I saw a large puddle and took the muddy water – figuring I would filter it later if things got dire. 45 minutes and 5 miles later, I saw a concrete water tower. There was an old jug that had been cut in half and had been used for mixing concrete. I broke the rock out of its mold, and fashioned a bucket on a rope. The water inside the tower was only 1 foot deep, but enough! I gathered as much water as I could from the nearly empty tower. From that height, the wind felt dangerous. Normally, I rely on “fast and light” to get out of bad situations, but with the water weight and winds, I was heavy and slow. I was getting kind of scared, as this was starting to feel like a survival situation.

A few arduous miles later, I came to a tiny village. People were living here, so I figured, “if they can live in these conditions, so can I.” Inside a tiny shack, there was a robed man and a little store. The building seemed ramshackle, but it provided a remarkable amount of protection from the wind. He was friendly and sold me some bread. They invited me to sit on the floor for tea. As the wind raged and the sand flew, I started to realize: I’m not going anywhere today. All morning, adults came and went, they would shake everyone’s hands, including mine, jabber for a while about something, and then carry on. Children constantly gathered at the door. I was having trouble communicating; the tall and skinny shop owner spoke some French, but the Bedouin people here don’t usually speak actual Arabic, meaning my app was of little use. One guy came to say hello, and he spoke clear and fluent French. Being so desperate to communicate, I stood up to talk to him – my French miraculously improving 10 fold as I dumped upon him my logorrhea of why I was here and what was going on. He explained some to the others.

Then Rashid came in to charge his phone; there is one solar panel in this village, and Rashid probably had the only phone. For some reason, when he talked to my phone, everything made sense. I asked him why. He said, “I am fluent in the Arabic language; here we speak a dialect, which is why you have strange translations from the other people.” Suddenly my world was brightening. Rashid and I could have long and in-depth conversations using the app. You could tell that he was educated, intelligent and experienced with handling the phone. I know this sounds so trivial to you, but when you’re in a small hot tent with 6,000 flies, sand blowing everywhere, dozens of children and a constant rotation of robed men (and some women came and sat with us too), having a person who can explain it all is monumental.

Rashid kindly took me under his wing, and would tell others what I was saying. They could all understand a little Arabic, but not much compared to him. We talked about all sorts of things; I can’t tell you everything, but I’ll try and tel you a few interesting excerpts.

Rashid said that he is 30 years old. Next year he will be marrying his cousin. I wanted to make sure I got that right, and he said, “yes, I am marrying close: The daughter of my uncle”. I asked him if he was in love, and he looked up and with a shy smile said, “yes,” in English.

That may have been too close of a question, but he had previously said “You can ask me anything” I asked if my questions were too personal and he said “la, la”, which means “no” (by the way, “nam” means “yes”). I would eagerly await each new message as we passed the phone back and forth, learning yes and no gave me a head start on the answer.

It became apparent that the daily schedule here goes like this: Lie on the ground and drink tea with your friends and family. Walk over to the next tent and drink tea with your other friends and family. After that, wash hands, do a little prayer, and then go to another tent for tea…. We sat in one tent which was buzzing with hundreds of flies, rattled by the wind as dust swirled about. Children came and went to buy little candies. No one seemed to notice a black beatle the size of a walnut scuttle across the floor and hide under a pair of flip flops. Two different women sat on the floor and talked to me; one even removed her head covering and shook my hand that way where you clasp the other person’s hand from both sides.

Rashid took me to the tent of his grandmother. His grandmother and uncle live here because they prefer the Bedouin life, but his parents live in the city. I walked around the room with Rashid and shook hands with two unknown men and his gregarious uncle, Mehedi, who was constantly smiling and giggling. I liked him a lot; he smiled and laughed at everything. Rashid’s grandmother was slouched on the floor in a Jaba the Hut position. As I walked over to her to reach out and shake her hand, Rashid and another man jumped to grab me as if I were brandishing a knife. I never saw anyone move that quickly here. Shaking hands with granny was obviously wrong. I passed Rashid my phone to apologize. He understood, and said something back about “the holy prophet, men and killers”. I should have taken a screenshot so my Arabic reading friend Ally Glenesk could decipher the true meaning.

We sat around the cous cous bowl, and his uncle eagerly offered me to eat. They went to find a metal spoon and washed it – special for me. I told them, “I will eat like you.” We washed hands from a tea kettle and I decided to “let it go.” Yes, I will drink watered down camel milk from the shared fly-encrusted bowl being passed around. The only way for me to be here is to dissociate myself from myself. I had to flip an “off switch” in my mind several days ago, and just go with the flow. Did I make mistakes? Hell yeah. Eating cous-cous with your hands is not easy. They pack it into a ball grabbing some of the surrounding fish and veggies, popping it into their mouth as a single ball unit. No matter how tightly I packed, it just crumbled into my lap. No worries, though, his uncle picked the bits off of my legs and shorts and tossed them back into the communal platter. His giggle put me at ease.

The afternoon became hot. We lay on pillows and rugs, often in silence. Waiting. They excused themselves for a prayer sometime around 4pm. The kids were polite, a little curious, but did not talk a lot. I did try to make people laugh by telling jokes, but humor is difficult here. They did like it when I said “Rashid must be friends with the Apple Company because he is the only one who my phone understands.” They also liked my quip, “You don’t need to do a pilgrimage to Mecca: Allah is blowing it straight to you.”

Whew, Allah jokes are OK.

After that, they all wanted to know how far Mecca was, so we got out the map and it’s about 3500 miles away. I reckon the sands of Mecca take about 100 hours to arrive at this wind speed.

Rashid would come and go; I kind of clung to him like my lifesaver. He understood everything I said, whereas communication is vague but doable with the others.

My favorite part was when night fell. Rashid and I went to his house which was better than some of the others. The east facing wall was made of concrete block, fortified against the wind that almost always comes from that direction. The other walls were supported by sticks, wrapped in chain-link, with fabric held tautly over the structure. We and lay on our stomachs in the dark, passing the phone back and forth. It was like a sleepover party illuminated by a tiny battery powered LED. I asked him all sorts of questions about his family, the religion, his favorite soccer player (Cristiano Ronaldo) – everything.

He expressed great interest in coming to the United States. He wants to work for 10 to 15 years, save money, and then come back here. It’s a dream that Janet and I heard often during our travels. He hopes to accomplish this by marrying an American Woman.

Wait, what?

“Aren’t you marrying your cousin,” I thought, but didn’t ask.. this is probably a “little” cultural difference also.. plural transcontinental wives. I accept that some cultures do that. I kept a poker face so we could carry on with conversation about Islam, values, and lots of good stuff. It wasn’t until late that I started to notice that he hadn’t asked a single thing about me. No one here in Mauritania has had much curiosity about me or the outside world. I’ll often get two questions; where are you going and where did you come from. Apart from that, no other inquisitiveness about anything. Since I had been asking him so much about his family, and we were taking about how alcohol is prohibited here (and so is Marijuana, (but they smoke something different called “?Marjane?”)), I decided to tell him:

“My mom died very young from alcoholism; it is good that alcohol is prohibited here because it can be unhealthy.”

I expected him to say something about my mom, but instead he continued with the importance of adhering to the rules of Islam. He didn’t miss what I said because I mentioned her again in my next reply.

I so much wanted this to be a story of the kindness and generosity of the Bedouin people who I stayed with for 24 hours. And it still kind of is; they were kind to me. But as the evening started to come to a close, Rashid said, “Can you help me? I need you to give money to my grandmother.”

I had already been planning on offering them a 500 Orguya bill (enough to buy 50 loaves of bread as long as a 3 year old girl is tall). I really appreciated sheltering from wind, and I also enjoyed their company. That has value to me, and if the value to them is monetary, that is fine.

I almost left this part out of the story, but I think it has relevance to help you understand Africa. I try to keep these stories concise. Although the only thing Bedouins have in greater abundance than sand is time, I know that YOUR reading time is precious.

I asked Rashid, “how much do you need?” He pulled out his phone calculator and said “$150 USD”. I began to think about the day, and questioned if any of it was genuine. After all, he had not shown any reciprocal interest in my life or anything. Is that maybe a cultural thing too?

I told him that I wanted to give them money anyway, thanked him many times for their hospitality, and passed him the 500 note I had been planning to give them tomorrow. I apologized that it wasn’t as much as he wanted, and he understood.

I’ll stop there and let you mull that one over. They were nice enough. Maybe I should have given more. I always want to give to the kind people who won’t accept it – which makes me want to give them more. Should I have given Rashid more? 150 USD seems like too much – and I know that it would not have been equally distributed amongst the villagers (another story altogether). Do I want to perpetuate the notion that foreigners are traveling ATMs? So many moral dilemmas to consider here.

I ended up spending the night sleeping on the floor like everyone else. The floor is dirt, covered up with sandy rugs, a thin sleeping mat, and a pillow that feels like it was made from shrubbery. My stomach regurgitation problem was severe – probably due to drinking 12 cups of tea. I took a few walks outside of the hut; no worries of waking others over the sound of fabric rapping in the wind.

I needed to eat early because my blood sugar was too low, so I turned on my headlamp and began to spread margarine onto some bread that I had packed.

Rashid was awake now and he squatted near me. I could barely see him in the dim LED light. I offered him my bread and margarine, and he made a little butter sandwich. I told him I was very grateful for his hospitality.

“I am Muslim. It is my duty to help others”

Does that sound familiar? I’ve posted it at least once before, but whenever I have said thank you for something big, people always reply that it is their “duty”. For my non-Muslim readers, when you help others, why do you do it? Where do you feel that urge comes from? Is it out of a sense of duty? Maybe it is just semantics, but duty makes it seem like an obligation, whereas I feel like my desire to help comes from somewhere else.

It was time to say goodbye. The winds outside were still raging, but everyone had agreed that there were tiny villages and tents – not on any map – where I could get water and take cover. If I hid from the wind another day, I’d be leaving Janet hanging without notification even longer. There were still 180 miles to go before I would have any communication with the outside world. Remember, this was “Route C” with no prior information, except a satellite image showing 30 percent of the route buried in sand. Everyone promised that the road was open.

I remember learning as a kid that when you meet someone, you should stand up as a sign of respect. Somewhere, in the back of my head, if someone stays on the floor to shake you hand it “feels” disrespectful. I said goodby to a few people lying on the floor; in their culture, I don’t think this means disrespect. I bought some more sardines and bread, and said goodbye to the omni-smiling and giggling uncle. He was my favorite one here.

As I pushed hard into the wind, I noticed something was different. The Achilles pain was suddenly 5 percent of maximum instead of the 80 percent it had been last few weeks. How had it healed overnight? I don’t think it was the camel milk (which by the way did not cure my diabetes). It could be due to me trying to emulate the contorted postures of my tent companions. I noticed yesterday that when people sit, they tangle their skinny legs up into such odd positions; as if they are doing yoga on their floor. Often, they will bend their hands backwards (farther than I can do), their palms easily making a 90 degree angle with their forearm. As I copied them, and listened to their conversation, I would massage my Achilles. This morning, the lump was gone and the pain almost entirely vanished. I could finally pedal harder now – and strong cycling would be necessary.

As I set off this morning, a Mercedes drove past me. It would be the one and ONLY car that passed me “going my way” during this 10 hour ride. Let that sink in for a moment. Why does this road that you could ride on a road bike even exist if so few use it?

I guess it is how supplies are trucked in, but apparently nothing comes in on a Monday. At the little store yesterday, I was able to find the same food seen everywhere else: Candy, bread, margerine, dates, sardines, tea, water, rancid peanuts, sugar, and cigarettes. If I had a stove, the remaining options are macaroni, shriveled carrots, tomatoes, and Mother Hubbard Squash. If you put all the options together, it’s complete nutrition. I don’t know where the little piece of fish in yesterday’s grab-plate came from, but it had bones like the fish in a Tom and Jerry cartoon meaning it wasn’t from a can of sardines.

Margarine seems to be the only concentrated source of fat I can find. It is probably unfit for human consumption right off the shelf, but after it melts into a bag in the desert heat and re-solidifies during the night, it certainly converts into something toxic.

As a fat adapted athlete, I am having trouble finding the fuel I am used to; fat is in scarce supply, which is why I buy margarine when I see it. I’ve been buying bread to make up for the shortfall in calories; It’s yet another thing from home that I am having to “let go.” Mid-day, I felt that awful margarine nausea coming on. Because this is the 3rd time I’ve felt this way, the cause was obvious: the margarine becomes rancid when it melts. I poured the golden oil from my bag into the desert sand. Luckily, I didn’t throw up this time, but had hypoglycemia again with the nausea.

It was a day of hard pedaling into the wind, but finally at around 4:30 PM, the wind slowed to a reasonable ~12mph. It seemed like the majority of my progress was made in those last hours of the day.

As it got darker, a substantial building appeared on the horizon. I set my tent on windward side of building (hidden from the road, otherwise I would have preferred the leeward side). Tent people saw me, and within 30 minutes came to check it out. They sent some kids to fetch the village chief. He arrived in his clean white robe with two golden stripes, inspecting the situation. One of the smiling teenagers ebulliently pointed at their own tents and made the sleeping symbol. I think he really wanted a sleepover party. I was so exhausted from last night (the regurgitation, not the people) that I kept doing sign language indicating I would rather stay here. Plus, I had spent so much time battening down the tent. I had even put rocks inside all around the edges to bolster it against the wind. It would be a lot of work to dismantle. The chief gave his approval, and the “interpreter” gave me a “thumbs up” and a smile, meaning I could stay. It was all very pleasant with their smiles. The only intelligible words exchanged between us were, “c’est bon” and “shukraan lak” (thank you). I decided to adopt the hand-clasping handshake from the woman in the Bedouin tent yesterday as I went around to thank each one.

The wind remained relatively calm for the next 8 hours of night. It concerned me that Janet would be worried after 3 days without communication, and today’s effort had taken so much out of me that the idea of doing the remaining 70 miles to cell service in just one day seemed formidable. I knew I had to push, but I was frankly loving being off-grid in the desert… in spite of the physical hardship.

Mohammed must have been 17 years old. His beautiful face was as dark as the midnight sky. I say beautiful because he had a munificent smile that never disappeared. Hasib and Ahmed looked to be about 7 or 8 years old. When I got their names, I wrote it on paper to verify the spelling. When I showed it to them, they looked confused – they didn’t even know how to read or write their own names.

Hasib and Ahmed looked to be brothers with their olive Mediterranean complexion. Clearly they were not related to the older Mohammed. Nevertheless, the three held hands affectionately as they talked to me. It looked like one of those “big brother / big sister” commercials from the 80s, except that the skin colors were reversed and the affection was not staged.

Mohammed understood Arabic from my app quite well, and he translated to the two boys. I loved watching how he interacted with them, and how they looked up to him and trusted them. It was adorable.

Down the road, I saw a broken down Jeep. It occurred to me to make a little joke video which I will post here. It took a while because I had to do two takes in an attempt to muffle the wind noise. It was barren sand dunes as far as the eye could see, so I jumped when two slender women approached from behind. Where did they come from?! They were both as tall as me, but 50 shades blacker. I’m seeing different genetics in the South of Mauritania. I’m also seeing different behavior. After so much contact with only men, I’ve gotten a little afraid of women – especially after the (almost) psycho-killer handshake with granny two days ago. I spoke to the women using the Arabic app, but I do not think they understood me. I pantomimed photographing the abandoned vehicle, and they nodded in understanding. Their clothing was so clean, how do they do it? I’ve never seen anyone washing clothes here, and there isn’t a shower in any of the tents. It’s an unsolved mystery – especially because I took a bottle shower yesterday and still have sandy boogers all over my arm coolers. It’s a bit embarrassing to look so filthy.

An hour or so later, three women approached me while I stopped. They were giddy; giggling at the clown that had arrived in tight clothes. They asked me something about my chest (maybe “are you cold with your zipper down?). They had a few words of French but no Arabic. I get that the older woman is their mother. The boldest sister seemed to be asking to ride my bike. She tries, but the bike is too big. It is hilarious; the three roar with silly laughter. So different of an interaction compared to further North.

The sisters grab their breasts and feign a cough. Then, they point at mother. I had noticed that the mother had a rattling cough. Did she have lung cancer? Breast cancer? Given the AQI, it could be the former. Given the breast grabbing, possibly the latter. They pointed at my bags and made the eating sign. I said, “ nouritoure?” (food?) And the bold sister says “oui” (yes). They laughed when I pulled out the last of my food: Two cans of sardines. They laughed even louder and said “sardines!!” Who is this clown? Nevertheless, the mother accepted them and pointed at my other bag and did the same sign. I showed them that all I have left Is clothes and tent. They accepted this. I actually did have a secret stash of dates but needed that for any glycemic emergency on the 6 remaining miles to Rashid. That will be a hard earned hour in this wind.

As I came close to civilization, I was a sad to be leaving this section. A pack of 20 boys came running. Fear filled my heart – I couldn’t run away because of the wind. They ran alongside me and yelled “Bonjour monsieur!” No rocks, sticks, or ask for gifts. Just smiles and cheers. The way it should be.

I am not going to laud this route for the quality of the riding, at least in the conditions that I experienced. In still air, this route has the potential to be one of the best rides you have done – but in the wicked conditions I suffered, it is feasible that 99% of humans would have given up – presuming they could. Of the ~8 vehicles that passed me in 4 days, they were all full of goats or people – even people on top of cars.

Ironically, although I suffered nearly every inch of the path, it was one of the best things I’ve done: PRECISELY BECAUSE OF the hardship. The slowing winds forced me to interact with the villagers.

I know that my decision to ride here is erasing ink from the right hand side of my life’s timeline. Between blood sugars unhealthily vacillating between 40 and 240… and breathing in this sub-micron sized dust, I am withdrawing heavily from the bank account of my time to be alive.

I remember being with Janet after she ran her one and only 50 mile ultra marathon in Utah. I hugged her when she finished and she began to cry powerfully. I said, “why are you crying? You just finished! And you finished well!” She said, “sometimes when you do something that is so hard, you get very emotional.” At the time, I couldn’t really remember having felt that way, but the visual of her experience stuck with me.

I’ve shed more tears in the last month that I have in the last 3 years. But none of them have been tears of sadness, really. They have been these tears of powerful emotion, accentuated by the hardship, followed by the relief. It’s ironic, because the more life I erase from that inscrutable timeline, the more I FEEL alive with powerful emotions.

This 4 day stretch of Mauritania was totally unique. Not one kid opened my bags to look for candy. With just the one exception of “Rashid,” no one else asked for money, gifts, or photos. His request (though not the amount) was justified The one request of food from the women felt different – especially considering they actually accepted real food. I had finally found an unpolluted chunk of Africa where I could just focus on mostly genuine human interactions.

If you are reading this on my blog, using it as a route guide, I really don’t care too much if you throw your polluting cans into the desert. But please, PLEASE don’t pollute the people and treat them like zoo animals like what has already been done in so many other places along sections North of here. Please meet them on equal terms.

There I go again, dripping tears on my cracked phone screen. Better stop here.

https://www.brianlucido.com/11-12-2023-lmdiya-day-96-the-wisdom-of-youth/

He was the tall majestic looking peripatetic teen I met walking in the desert studying poetry. He had a perfect olive complexion, tight curly hair, and a big smile. I liked him, but maybe put him on a pedestal because here was this guy studying poetry – right on the boot heels of kids throwing rocks at me.

We have remained in touch and he messages me every three days or so with “Hello my friend, how are you?” Frankly, our conversations seem a little vapid if you consider where we started. Intrigued, I ask about his studies, and once he told me how the poets used their poetry as a weapon. I had been wishing he would have elaborated on this, but so far he hasn’t.

Yesterday he wrote me and asked if I could buy him a computer. I wrote back and said, “How can I buy a new computer? I am in Mauretania now.”

He wrote back, “Send me money.”

I wrote asking “How much do you need?”

“1500 dirham” (which is US$150).

I informed him that, I was unable to send money to myself (and I have been trying all day) let alone being able to send money to him. But I will think about it. It is probably possible if I have time to do more research; Morocco may be easier to send money to than Mauritania.

I thought long and hard about what I should do. My first reaction was to unfriend him and block him. But that didn’t seem right; I do respect this guy because he SEEMS like he cares about educating himself.

At the same time, I’m adamantly against just giving “hand outs”. So, I wrote back to him telling him that I appreciated our friendship and I hope that we can still remain friends – but I did not think that this was the best thing to do. Then I sent the Christian parable “If you give a man a fish you fed him for a day; if you teach a man to fish, you have fed him for life.”

I checked online, and it doesn’t look like Islam has that parable, most of what I found asked whether or not fishing is Haram or Halal. Haram means “prohibited” in Islam; Halal foods are ones that are allowed. Easy to remember because “Haram” sounds like “harm”.

Anyway, we are now in talks. I mentioned “fiverr” to him as a way to make money (my brother-in-law uses that to send people birthday cards) – people perform various services online in exchange for money. $5 USD goes further in Morocco than it does in the US. Ręd Wāne was not amused: “I don’t have time for that; I need to do my studies.”

He says he needs a computer to study because his teachers are on strike. I suggested he use his phone, but he said that the memory is full.

We did a lot of back and forth. How can I help this guy – but without “just” giving him money? I’m happy to spend money to enrich lives, but worried it will not go to the right place.

Also, now I have a challenge to live up to: You can’t just rattle off an apothegm, “teach a man to fish” but not actually teach anything. I’ve been trying to offer suggestions on how to earn money online, mostly because that is what I know, and it seems like it could be lucrative in Morocco.

I also want to see him demonstrate some sort of his own initiative…

———-

In other news, I saw a post on Facebook from my niece Amber about her son Connor. He was faced with the question, “Show 2 strategies to prove that 9 x 8 = 72. I have included a screenshot of his clever answer. I believe this is the type of “thinking outside the box” that we need to give Ręd Wāne…

Also, Connor read through some of my Strava posts, and that somehow inspired the poignant question, “Do people in Africa know how to play rock, paper, scissors?”

I decided to do a test. Without any words, I went up to one of the kids surrounding me and went bump-bump-bump-scissors. Yup; they knew exactly what it was and started joining in!

Thank you, Connor, for your inquisitiveness. Your good question made me have a fun day, and now we also know that kids in Africa play ✂️ 📄 🪨 !

I was having a persistent low blood sugar – one that couldn’t be cured with a bag of dates, two loaves of bread, and candies. I was beginning to worry that I’d run out of sugar when a little store by a tiny mosque appeared. I ran in to get some little donuts and cakes; Mohammed beamed with excitement that “Brahim” was there. He was at least as friendly as everyone else who I have met the last two days. I was packing my bike when I saw him sitting on the floor through the doorway – motioning me to come drink tea with him. I was still shaking from the hypo, so this seemed like a great idea: Full Octane Tea. I joined him as we sat on the floor and passed the phone back and forth, sipping our tea.

Mohammed began to look a little anxious. His own phone was on the floor and he kept checking it. Suddenly he got up and ran out the door to the little nearby mosque. I could hear him get on the loudspeaker and start singing for a few minutes. I figured the party was over and returned to my bike.

Mohammed ran back, and no, there is time for more tea! I was fine with that. When I asked what he was doing, the translator reported back that he was a sheikh. As I do with most people who I talk to, I mention God blessing them; usually the last sentence. I love to watch them read the text and then smile broadly as they get to the end. God seems to brings us together.

Temperatures peaked near 95F today, so I made a lot of water stops. At one, I bought 4 bottles of water and consumed 7/8 of one before I got engaged in taking to a bunch of friendly guys. We had been taking a while when I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a woman sitting on the ground motion to her kid. The kid comes over and brings her my 1/8 full water bottle. It had been quite a while since I had done anything with it, so I think she thought I was done. She uncapped it, and swilled the remaining liquid. I’ve seen this with sugar drinks before, but not water.

I’m glad I made 24 of this fiche cards and 20 copies of my passport. I’m giving 8 out per day along this route. Overlanders complain about all of the military checkpoints, but being on a bicycle, I do not mind. It’s nice to take a break, and almost all of them are friendly, joking around, and want to invite me to a meal or tea. Bikes stop a lot easier than RVs. Today, a guy announced that we have the same birthday, except he is one year older. The military guys all speak French well, and unlike some of the villagers, they know their age and birthday too.

Speaking of being invited to meals…

Since people are always on the ground, I didn’t notice this at first, but the guy running another shop where I stopped to buy water had something going on with his legs. He had feet, and I didn’t want to stare just so I could tell you the mechanics of it all, but I think his calves may have been just a few inches long. He got along quite well, his eyes as high as my bellybutton. Since everyone crouches here anyway, after I bought the water, I crouched with him as he carefully packed some hard boiled eggs. He had a great smile and asked, “will you come eat with me?”

It pained me to say “no.” Something around him smelled like fresh human poo. I kept trying to blame it on the eggs… but no… there was poo nearby. Maybe on him.

This may sound bad to say, but I suspect you guys might not have a feel for how dirty it is here because I don’t just go around taking pictures of all the squalor. Outside of cities, near the Bedouin tents, for example, there is a semblance of sanitation. Kind of like if you were camping at home with the most basic supplies. In the cities, however, it’s a different story. Drivers careen down the streets made of potholes and dirt. Trash and dead animal carcasses can be seen (and smelled) on the side of the road. If you enter a shop, it is usually 10 feet wide and 10 feet deep with no interior lighting. Sometimes the shelves behind the counter have some food; sometimes they are stuffed with trash. The people lie on the floor of the store; usually amongst the trash. The only thing on the floor that isn’t trash (besides the bodies strewn out like slugs) is a little tea preparation station. Usually consist of a tray, teapot, at least ten glasses, a bucket of rotting compost (where they pour the used tea leaves, but also other organic material that draws flies). The people often stay on the floor when I enter, so I’ll just open the refrigerator myself. Sometimes there is a lot of exploded stuff in there, but often times it is OK too. Today I retrieved a pristine 4 pack of yogurt from the war torn fridge; nothing else looked edible. It’s not always like that, but I’ve been to plenty of places that match that description.

All on all, it was another great day of riding, with tailwinds and lots of friendly people. 100% of the people who solicited my attention today were genuine. I had ZERO requests for gifts or anything. Since leaving Nouadhibou, Mauritania has been really good about this, and I feel more and more confident to stop for long periods and just chat it up with about 20% of the people who call out for me to stop and talk. There isn’t time to talk to everyone!

Only a few more days of Mauritania, the 14th least densely populated country in the world. Western Sahara (also on this tour) is arguably the least densely populated in the world – and I liked them both. Hmm, does that say something?

Even though Mauritania has a lot of land per person, they are famous for being the last country to end slavery in 1981. Supposedly, it’s actually still going on illegally, though I can’t say I observed that. Only about 1500 people per year came as tourists to Mauritania before COVID, though that number has increased the last few years.

The lack of visitation is partly due to former terrorist activity (some danger still exists just East of where I had been cycling). This may explain the plethora of police checkpoints that I have had to submit my fiche cards to.

Here is a list of the primary National Treasures:

1. Parc National du Banc d’Arguin – home of the monk seal colony (the ones that you didn’t get to see, and neither did I). – Episode 121p1
2. Iron Ore train – which we saw in episode 121p2
3. Chinguetti – A town with historical manuscripts. Today there are five libraries left in Chinguetti containing some 1,300 Quranic manuscripts, as well as civil records including contracts, bills of sale, and legal judgments. On occasion, the crumbling texts are gingerly inspected by scholars who still visit the site to study Islamic Law. Preservationists have attempted to relocate the collections or set up restoration programs locally, but the libraries' private owners resist. UNESCO has awarded Chinguetti and other nearby ancient settlements World Heritage status.
4. Eye of the Sahara. Also known as the Richat Structure – you can see it from space. It was originally thought to be an impact crater, but later determined to be of Earthly origin.
5. Terjit – oasis, which we saw in Episode 123

I have uploaded photos from the internet of #3 and #4, which I did not visit. My reasoning for skipping the Eye of the Sahara is that you can really only appreciate it from the air. And Chinguetti has the reputation of people mobbing tourists with their wares.

The capital is Nouakchott. Now that you know that the “Eye of the Sahara” is in Mauritania, maybe you can remember the capital by thinking « nuke shot » (you know, I like a nuke was shot into the desert). If you think of a better way to remember, let me know.

The latest data I could find had 66 percent of Mauritanians living on less than $5.50 USD per day. I lived on about $13 of food per day. That was eating “expensive” canned food when I could; also buying a good fraction of my water.

Well, that is about all I can relay about Mauritania so far. I think it is 1-3 more days here before Senegal. Hopefully you have been enriched a little learning about a place that maybe you couldn’t have picked out on a map beforehand!

With that as your preface, here is what happened today.

First, I read that Lukas, the other type 1 diabetic I mentioned on Diabetes Day ( https://www.strava.com/activities/10218914282 ) has arrived in his destination of Togo. He is a T1d who is cycling Western Africa. They are testing the local people for diabetes, and yesterday they found a boy with a blood glucose of 470. Without this effort, the child’s diabetes likely would have never been discovered, and he probably would have just died of unknown causes in a couple weeks.

“It made a difference to that one.”

Lukas’ story lifted my heart, so the day was off to a good start.

Now that I’m at the border with Senegal, things are different. The men are tall and muscular; many women are my height, lithe, and slender, their legs the diameter of my wrist. The tea parties are over, and along with it, most of the smiles.

A boy of about 8, wearing a rastacap called out to me. He was smoking. “Bonjour,” was all I could say, even though people here know little French. He looked so adult the way he handled the cigarette. Apart from the fluent military guys, no one seems to speak French or Arabic in this region. (See language map I just uploaded). No humorous conversations passing the phone back and forth – just blank stares, and occasionally people who wave back when I smile and wave.

I stopped to buy bread from a street vendor. A dozen kids surrounded me; all with their palms facing upwards. They were all thin: maybe due to genetics, but also maybe due to lack of food. I passed a few of the boys some of the bread that I just bought, naively thinking they would share the loaves with the others. Instead, the 3 started chomping down on their loaves without saying anything; the other kids still waiting for their pieces.

This act did not go unnoticed, and kids came running at me from all directions. I shoved the remaining bread under the strap on my bar bag and squeezed past the crowd to run away.

I guess “It made a difference to that one.”… maybe.

This day was tough. Besides seeing all the depravity, trash, and probably hungry children, I had a very dusty headwind on a mostly dirt road so bumpy that the bottom fell out of my bottle cage. Luckily, the elastic hair strap kept the bottle in there.

This type of begging was different. It wasn’t kids just messing with me like in Morocco; I think these kids really did need help – but I cannot help all of them; and a loaf of bread really only buys them another day at best.

Although shop owners generally shoo away kids, today when a man came inside the shop and just stood next to me with his palm out, the shop owner actually gave him a small coin. He continued to stand besides me, an inch away, waiting as I worked out what I wanted to buy.

I didn’t take many pictures today because the only beautiful thing is the people. Everything surrounding them is rot and trash. I generally try to keep my camera put away around the people unless they are already taking selfies with me.

The people are beautiful, even if some of them have disheveled clothing. I noticed a number of boys with whitish powder on their faces. I wondered if that was “a thing” or maybe it was just dust.

Luckily, when I got to Kaedi, some of the smiles came back and I had a couple of short chats with teens in various spots. While I was buying food, I could hear a boy saying to another boy to say to me, “don argent”. (trying to say give money). The younger boy would repeat the incorrect French, smiling. A girl stood and watched everything as three other boys tried to talk to me. I couldn’t hear what one was saying, so I moved to get closer – he jumped and ran away – causing everyone (including me) to laugh. He was quite a grasshopper, because this happened 3 times!

Although the town looked pretty deplorable with all the trash, I didn’t get the impression that the kids in Kaedi really needed anything like the kids I met earlier in the day.

I hate leaving most of these little starfish out to dry, but at least it make a grain of sand difference to those ones near Bogue. That’s what I’m going to tell myself, anyway.

I wonder what came first, the foreign aid or the destitution? How does an organization like Oxfam identity these small regions where people need help? If you just look at the Rondavel huts, scattered trash, and roaming goats, you wouldn’t be able to differentiate this section from any other in Mauritania; The only difference was the abundance of the foreign aid signs… and the despondent faces. What happened? I’ll leave you to ponder that, because today we moved on to a more positive place.

Starting at Kaédi, everything has been great. Fantastic, really. The quiet campsite was bereft with thorns, but my sleeping pad survived. A lot of headwinds to the border post, and once I arrived, I got to practice some of that patience I’ve been working on. They needed to summon “Le grand patron” to let me out of Mauritania. He took his sweet time in arriving – but in the meantime, I befriended an English speaker named Aly who took me to a small building where I could change money while waiting for the big boss to arrive. Whenever I meet someone who speaks English, they are my instant-hero. I bathe them in grateful compliments, because even though my French is improving, it is still crap. And how do these guys learn such good English in just 3 years? Humbling.

Big boss was the black version of the sloth at the DMV in Zootopia. Every action required several seconds – picking up a pen involved careful examination of the pens current position, followed by maneuvering methodically to retrieve it. Kind of like a child might carefully control the crane at one of those arcade games where you drop the claw to pickup a stuffed animal. His reading glasses came on and off and on. Each time, carefully being pushed up his broad nose, only to be removed later, painstakingly folded up back into the case… preserving them for their next use 40 seconds later.

I finally got into the boat amongst many friendly people. By the time we were across the river, everyone knew which countries I had been to and where I was going. People are gossipy-talkative here! The boat ride was a breeze.

Once in Senegal, things started to get amazing. First, the passport was stamped without hesitation or questions. The man grabbed my hands and smooshed them onto the green back-lit panel. When you had to climb over sleeping dogs and trash, and a goat is nibbling your t-shirt, it takes you aback to be simultaneously using a digital fingerprint scanner.

Zero fuss, and I’m in. Free of charge too, because Senegal doesn’t require visas for US citizens.

After some friendly marriage proposals, I headed to a town to stage for a (probably) 3 day off-grid ride starting tomorrow. (I have updated the proposed route on the tracker).

In town, the second ATM I tried worked; supplementing my changed currency. Plus, the Central African Franc used here is also used in Ivory Coast, Togo, and Benin. It’s kind of like the Euro of this part of Africa.

In the SIM card store, I was doing well in French until the woman asked something I didn’t understand. I finally gave up and whipped out the phone… “if you go back to the USA you come here for me to take me with you,” she said. I guess this was kind of like another proposal. I know I mentioned that I was always surprised to talk to women in Morocco or Mauritania… but now i talk to the women more than the men; it’s like a switch flipped. Plus, guys and girls alike have been smiling and joking around. Seems like they have fun here in Senegal.

I think that first day in Mauritania set my standards for infrastructure nice and low (power outages, no Googlefi, broken ATMs, 36 military checkpoints, slow paperwork, spotty internet, confusing currency (10x price sometimes)) which was helpful to make it through the rest of the country. I’m very glad I went there, but coming into Senegal with no B.S., working ATM, no price cheating, smiles and joking, and a warm reception…. That takes me to my happy place.

I stopped by a few little stores this morning, and I don’t know if it was the coffee, but I was just overwhelmed with how happy I was to be here. It’s only been one day, but I really like the warm reception. People seem very relaxed and informal. I’m getting used to guys leaning on my bike now, but maybe not yet used to the woman who without asking, grabbed my wrist to examine my watch and started dragging her finger across the display, probably thinking it was a touchscreen. Rules that we have about physical contact at home are absent here.

I did something a little different today. Remember how I said I was going to experiment with gifting? I went to another friendly store in Ogo, and for the first time, asked for “bon bon” (candy). The guy looked around and grabbed a 24 pack of individually wrapped cookies. Good enough, and if no one asked for gifts, it could serve as hypoglycemia remedies on the estimated 3 day journey instead.

The road varied between gravel, single track trail, sandy road, and hard pack. It was fun to see new vegetation and birds! You could hear chirping songs whenever you stopped, and they came in glorious colors: bright greens and blues. I stopped to try and photograph a few – even though the camera is inadequate for wildlife photography.

Tiny villages appeared. Not one car all day, but a few motorcycles passed. These settlements were composed of round mud huts and thatched roofs. The people were full of smiles. The women here have this thing they do to their lips where they are dyed darkly and bulging. Some women had piercings on their faces too. In a way, it looked like a Halloween costume – but that kind of costume that is so well done that it’s just a little scary and a lot pretty. The eager smiles help with the later.

Most of the day, I was alone. It is not a densely populated area by any means. When I did see people, they were usually herding goats. About an hour before sunset, I could see a village on the horizon – a place to get water for the night. I rode through the dusty double track, weaving around huts to the sound of children cheering. The water well was along this road; centrally located. Many people were already there, some filling big jugs that they would load onto donkeys to bring to their homes; some just watching the spectacle.

I feel a little bad asking for water, but they willingly gave it, letting me go ahead of some ladies with big jugs; I only had two relatively small bottles. By the time I had filtered one bottle, the entire village seemed to have surrounded me. Children were the closest, with adults attentively shadowing in the background. The kids were all cute and smiley.

I started to ride and say goodbye. They speak Pulaar here, but I said “au revoir” anyway. The kids ran after me, and the adults were suggesting I sleep here with the head-on-a-pillow sign language.

I smiled and thanked them and moved slowly as the kids cheered and ran alongside. They did not need to run fast as my tires bogged in the sand. You can only be in a good mood in this type of environment.

From a side trail, a slender man who looked like a tall black Jonas Vingegard headed me off. He spoke more French than anyone so far. He wanted me to sleep here. I acquiesced to their kind invitation.

The village is divided up into several “sub communities.” Imagine a small fence around a dozen huts. That little “corral” is one micro community. The cattle are brought into the same circle as the people at night. Right next door, you will have another circle of huts within their own fence. I was tentative about staying with the 100 kids blocking my path, but Jonas (I got his name, but cannot pronounce or spell any of the Pulaar names meaning we will call him Jonas) guided me into one of these circles. Only about 30 kids came with us inside the “corral”. I assume these are divided by familial relations?

He showed me a place for my tent, and as I set it up, he departed! I was scared now, as I couldn’t really talk to anyone else. Feeling a little out of place, I sat on a nearby flat donkey cart and smiled at the kids who surrounded me. Adults would periodically come by to introduce themselves, but mainly it was me and the kids.

The group diminished to a dozen kids as the night fell. They were behaved and extraordinarily patient. They would say words and make hand movements and faces; trying to teach. They did not seem to know tic-tac-toe when I drew it in the sand to their uproarious laughter. I understood them when they said “NASCAR” and made the vrooom vrooom sound. I was a bit surprised they knew about this. I also understood “telephone,” and “luminere,” but it was mostly sign language and laughter. They were astonishingly patient. The half-moon illuminated our little circle. The kids gained confidence and crept closer and closer – eventually onto my lap. One even put his head on my knee.

I noticed four small fires within this corral – adults sat in 4 separate circles and chatted. I’m pretty sure that they had just adopted me as tonight’s babysitter! I was with a dozen kids on the donkey cart without a campfire!

Adults would walk by; it seemed like new people constantly were coming and going. When an elder who spoke French walked by, I called out in the dark, “can you help me! I don’t know what the kids are saying!” He chuckled warmly, nodded his head as if to say, “they’re your kids tonight, sucka!” and slipped into his hut.

I kind of wanted to sit with the adults, but there wasn’t much point given I don’t know a word of the local Pulaar language. The kids probably had more patience with this imbecile who had no words anyway. The boys sitting on my lap touched my arms and felt my leg hairs – touch is just normal here, so I just “let it go,” trying to adapt. They were trying to say something and I finally figured out that they wanted me to take off my glasses. Once I did, they all said, “Merci” (thanks) in unison. What is it with my glasses that kids don’t like? My nephew Connor asked me to take them off too once. Some older girls approached from behind on several occasions. If I turned around, they would go running, which made everyone laugh. Kids generally aren’t shy here, but these girls seemed to be.

The boys started saying “Bonjour cadeaux” – not that they were asking for gifts… it felt more like they were trying to say, “this is what we say to Toubabs” (White people). That gave me a dangerous, and perhaps selfish idea…

I counted the boys and looked around. The adults were all focused on their individual fireside circles, and there were no other kids visible in the dark. I slipped into my tent and grabbed exactly the number of cookies as kids that were surrounding me. I plopped then down on the donkey cart, and the kids knew right away what to do: Grab! But it was good. The kids who got two or three right away gave the extra to the kids didn’t have any. Each kid ended up with a cookie pack.

The temperature was perfect, wind down, and the moonlight reflected off the Mylar cookie wrappers. Without any prompting from an adult chiding, “what do you say?”, once they had taken a few bites, the boys all refrained, “Merci.” (Thank you). I was enjoying this moment immensely. When each finished about half their package, they offered the rest to me!

Now these kids were melting my heart.

I encouraged them to eat the rest for themselves.

It’s the first time I’ve handed out sweets on this trip, but man, I can see why people do it. A twenty-something came by and jokingly asked if I had a bon bon for him.

It had been several hours now, and I had one little problem. Where is the toilet? I found the chuckling elder and spoke French. “Where is the toilet?” I asked. “Can you show me?” (I didn’t want to go into someone’s hut – especially in the dark). He mentioned something about water, and he took me to a slightly private enclosure – not unlike our outdoor shower. It had a small concrete block – presumably for standing on and pouring water over your head. I thanked him – and took my shower there. But where the heck is the poo hole? I decided not to drink much or eat my canned veggies tonight, just in case!

After several hours as babysitter, I excused myself, and while walking to my tent, I got the answer to the NASCAR mystery. Someone had a little solar battery powered TV. I could see the faces of the other village kids illuminated by the flicker of the tiny screen. In clear, well enunciated French, I could understand the news talking about the explosion at the oil refinery in Guinea that happened two days ago. I knew that these kids couldn’t understand any of the words, but they were nevertheless enthralled by the images that I couldn’t see from my angle.

Despite the remoteness and vast differences in culture, this place did not seem all too unfamiliar. It was a unique experience for sure… but it had the feel of a rustic family-camp in America where families bring all of their kids and let them play. The only difference being that this is everyday life here. It was 10:45 pm when I escaped to my tent to write this down. With the TV noises in the background; no internet connection, and no distractions.

I woke to the faint sound of women singing. The sound was soft, distant, and soothing. You may think of Arabic people as being the only Muslims, but Islam is strong here amongst the Fulani people of this region. We greet each other with the same “salam aleykoum” (peace be with you), which I’m pretty sure is Arabic. It would be like you saying “hola” as if it were English.

Inside my tent, I stuffed my sleeping bag listening to a rhythmic “pop-pop-pop” that started coming next from various pots within the corral. Like last night, people formed small squatting clusters, and using tree branches like potato mashers, thudded the bottom of the pots. It was before sunrise, and small fires had already been lit. Surprisingly, although this was female dominated task, a couple men were sharing in the cooking duties.

I was offered coffee; they use the same shape teapots as in Morocco, only they three times larger. No mention of tea.

You know that I’m super careful about proper giving, so I called the (apparent) elder aside for a private meeting. He was the one who chuckled last night about my predicament understanding the children’s words. Since this was a difficult concept (and I wanted to get it right) I relied upon the phone to tell him my thanks, and ask him to do me a favor: Would he please take a gift and distribute it evenly amongst the children in the village? I explained how I didn’t want to give directly. I didn’t want “Toubabs” (white people) to be seen solely as gift givers or ATMs. He chuckled and understood all of this. I trusted him to evenly distribute; after all, he had generously brought me food last night – complete with a spoon.

Even if it doesn’t go to the kids, the money will probably go to good use. I noticed that below his clothing, he had a growth the size of a volleyball on his back. It’s a delicate topic, but I didn’t want to turn these innocent children into beggars, and going via the village elder with an agreement seemed the safest way to responsibly attain that goal.

The day would only get better.

In the next village, I needed some water. As I turned to enter, I noticed a small crew hand-erecting the base of a tower. Red and white painted poles lay on the ground. A bit of sadness washed over me – the characteristic color pattern of a cell phone tower. Modernity would soon be here too – in a place where I was having so much fun due to the precise lack of such connectivity.

Kids formed a cheering circle. I let some of the older people ride my bike. Even the oldest guy in town hopped on; he might have been 60. Some very friendly folks begged me to take photos of them while the guy was riding the bike. This wasn’t a “photo for money” request. The man said, “please, take a photo of my family” and he gathered them up and they posed. I have no idea who-was-who relationship wise, and even though I ask over and over, the names in Pulaar are like nothing I have ever heard before. They escape me the minute I hear them, so everyone remains unnamed…

Since I can’t spell his name anyway, we will call the older man riding my bike “Alvin.” You will see why in a moment. Alvin came up to me after passing the bike to the next teen waiting. He grabbed a bit of his indigo-blue gown, showing me a torn hole at the bottom. He said many things in Pulaar, and though I didn’t understand a word, I was certain that he said my bike ripped his gown and now I owed him money. He did not appear upset; almost humored. I quizzed all the teens around me in French: “What is he saying?” On a delicate matter, it’s best not to make assumptions.

One of the smarter guys in the group pointed out: Maybe ask one of the cell phone guys. Great idea! I said let’s go. Once we started walking, Alvin held my hand affectionately; the way I would hold Janet’s hand. It felt weird, but I’m embracing this new life. All the kids tried to hold my one remaining hand at once and we marched through the dead weeds like the cast of the Wizard of Oz going down the Yellow Brick Road.

At the tower, amazingly, there was a young guy who spoke English! But he did not speak the language of my hand-holding friend with the ripped gown. I asked my new English speaking hero (we will call him “Clark” like Clark Kent), “Can you please tell me what this man is trying to say?”

The young Clark climbed down, and said he would need a third translator – also working on the tower – to translate Pulaar to an intermediate language before he could translate to English. Several minutes of discussion later, he explained the 4 person translation path.

We held our high court out in that meadow, and elderly Alvin made his case. Before I received my translation, the entire village and cell phone crew were already laughing at him mockingly.

Clark seemed like a great guy. He laughed as he translated: “He says your bicycle ripped his gown and now he needs money for new clothing”.

His gown was already ripped in other places.

I asked, “How much does he need?”

A few translations later: “15,000”

I asked my English speaking hero: “Do you think I should do it?”

Unhesitatingly, he laughed, “YES!”

I opened my wallet and pulled out the cash (about 26 dollars worth) and said to Clark as I put the cash in Alvin’s hand, “please tell him that he needs to distribute this evenly amongst the villagers.”

Clark smiled broadly. He loved being a translator. The moment the translation got to Pulaar, the entire crowd roared cheering, kids jumped up and down. Clark and I high-fived.

Alvin looked happy too. Even though everyone had laughed at him, and he now had more than 40 witnesses knowing the terms of the agreement, he seemed delighted to grab my hand and take me back to the village. We sat together on some boards as the village circled the two of us like they were witnessing some sort of important meeting. We were no longer able to communicate intelligibly because Clark was back at work on the tower.

Well, I won’t bore you with the rest of the details, but this was certainly a fun day. I met many more villagers, and each time I witnessed this amazing joy amongst them. Senegal, this section at least, has been the superlative of happiness; I can safely say that I’ve seen nothing like it anywhere.

Before I left, I shook hands with dozens of kids. Small hands, big hands, soft hands, dry cracked hands, wet hands, sticky hands. An unbelievable variety of little hands. I’m currently listening to a Peter Attila podcast on the importance of diversity in the micro biome… So, let’s do this shit!

Oh, and the bicycle… it had been out of my sight for a long time with people taking it for joy rides. When I got it back, 4 of my bags had been opened – but nothing was missing. I’m guessing the kids were searching unsuccessfully for candy. I mounted the bike and plied through the crowd. Something was wrong with the rear brake. When I got out of sight, I tried to fix it… befuddled for a moment until I extracted the culprit: a frayed piece of indigo-blue fabric stuck in the caliper.

Alvin!

Here is the deal: The last two days were really fun for me – maybe the most delightful of the trip. Handing out gifts and treats is FUN. It’s a rush. I confess that I will probably do it again. But I also feel guilty about it too.

You may wonder why I’m talking about this all the time. It’s because my life here is a string of “give me” session, punctuated by meaningful conversations with people who I really like. I decided to take a rest day tomorrow. My body is perfectly fine: It’s raring to go with a healed achilles and high level of fitness. The rest day is so I can hide out in a hotel and get a 36 hour break from people asking me for things. In some places, the demanding is intense and even aggressive. In other places, it’s entirely absent. On the last ~15 miles into Tamba, aggressive asking reappeared.

I saw something that disturbed me today.

(December 22):

It’s the day after this activity; my rest day, and I’m exploring Tamba. Have you heard of an organization called “World Vision?” As I wander the streets, SUVs with “World Vision” painted on the side are carelessly parked, blocking the sidewalk. The vehicles are crowded inside; each with 5 or 6 nicely dressed adults nom-nom-ing on Fast Food in wrappers (not McDonalds; but local fast food). The windows are all up, and the vehicles are surrounded on all sides by begging children looking in the windows, watching as the adults chow down.

I looked up “World Vision” when I got back to my room. Their mission statement is:

“The objective of World Vision Senegal is to help children and members of the community become stronger and recover economically. In addition, they strive to improve children's health and nutrition.”

The scene was contradictory and depressing, but I don’t think they were any more wrong than me when I say “no” most of the day. What do I expect these guys to do… open the doors of the SUVs and pour out food? They would get mobbed. And if they did, would it make things better in the long run?

I’ve been reading most of the day about that topic, and the research says no. In fact, several paper authors argue that foreign aid just makes things worse in the long term, backing it up with data.

For me, a big part of what I enjoy are the days when I filter well water, sleep in my tent, and eat simple foods that generated no trash. Obviously, this isn’t the definition of happiness for everyone, but I think back to “Alvin” from yesterday’s post:

Isn’t it ironic that he already has that kind of dreamy ascetic life? The desert really is browner on the other side.

Yesterday, Alvin walked away from the field beaming with happiness and cash. But how the heck is he going to split that up fairly and make everybody satisfied? Even if he succeeds, once it is gone, then what?

My point is that careless giving has consequences. The people who come to Africa in their RVs can roll up their windows and duck their heads in the metaphorical sand, but on a bicycle that goes 3mph in the real sand, there is nowhere to hide from the footprints of “make-ME-feel-good” giving. Even being hyper-sensitive to the issue, I’m a guilty party… yet I’ll do it again.

I hope this post doesn’t make you too sad. If it makes you uncomfortable and conflicted, that is great; you’re getting a real feel for what it is like to be here without the air fare! This stuff has been going on for a long time. Having it “in your face” daily just makes me think very hard about responsible giving – how do you help without hurting?

The last time I asked my 12 year old niece “what do you want to be when you grow up,” she replied, “I want to help people. Maybe a social worker.” You bet that response melted my heart. She’s one of the most empathetic people I know. When she was little and we would read book, her first questions were not about the plot; she’d point to the people and ask, “Why is he sad? Why is she happy?” It inspires me that she wants to help others at such a young age. I know my niece reads some of these entries, and it excites me to think of her wrapping her young mental acuity around these complex problems at an early age. How can we help other people, but do it right?

Meanwhile, I have no real solution. I’ll just continue to proceed as thoughtfully as possible. It may appear haphazard as I come up with some axiom as to why one person deserves charity, and another does not.

I still hand out sardines.

🐠