Up the Coast

We left the heat of Marrakech for cooler days along the coast. Our final leg of cycling took us through Essaouira and on to Safi with stops en route for ping pong tournaments, buckets of shrimp and naps on the beach.
Watching, with envy, the wind and kite surfers north of Essaouira. Hmmm... the next challenge - kite surfing back to Canada?

The evening before last there was a shy knock on the hotel room door and our neighbour handed us the drawing below. Unknownst to him, he had captured the bikes at the end of their journey, waiting to be sold in the hotel lobby. We particularly like the question marks which are likely meant as a reference to the identity of the riders, but for us seem to ask the question, "what next?"

The City of Happiness

"How long will you stay in Marrakech?"
" Oh, just two or three nights."
A knowing smile, a wave of the finger. "No no. You will stay longer, a week, maybe two weeks. You will like Marrakech."
And so it was seven nights and we did fall in love with the City of Happiness.

The square is beginning to fill. Drums are rousing the flames of the kebab stalls' grills to life. The whine of the snake charmers flute is pulling down the sun. Orange juice sellers are calling to passers-by. Sunburnt tourists with hennad hands and dazzled eyes. Families with small children reaching for flashing and squeaking trinkets laid on the ground. The call to prayer rings above the smokey meat haze, echoed by the clinking of snail shells being spooned into porcelin bowls. It is at once the whirl of a carnival and the calmness of a warm summer evening. K sighs and calls it one of Earth's magical places. I agree, saying it is the world's best food court, which for some reason makes her laugh and shake her head. And yet, it is true. Just as Marrakech has opened itself up as a place to rest and rejuvenate, the Place Jemaa el Fna has nourished us.

Attending to the infected toe with our good friend, Dr. Nick.

Writing postcards in the park.

Palais de la Bahia: Ourselves so much in transition these days, it is not surprising that the doorways and archways of Moroccan architecture tend to draw us in. The ornate and colourful fixtures serve to make the segue from one space to another an inviting prospect and call on us to reflect on the beauty that can exist in change.

Marrakech Muddle

This past week has been quite full of (mis) adventures. Having crossed the Haut Atlas, we are now in the amazing city of Marrakech just relaxing and unmuddling ourselves. All of the words in this word search come from this week. We hope you will enjoy this puzzle as much as trying to imagine how all of these things fit together. We are still working out the mysteries that life has held for us of late, but all is well that ends well.
berhil
gendarmerie
rekord
strauss
peacock
sugarplumfairy
toeinfection
hautatlas
flattire
lineup
riad
medecin
tizntest
walnuts
recoveredgoods

Meanderings in the Anti Atlas Mountains

Our journey, as many journeys have a tendancy to do, has taken on a rather meandering path. Upon reaching the Anti Atlas my bike has taken on an interesting sort of wobble leading to a tendency for it to wander rather than continue on in a straight line. As the landscape around us began to roll and fold and eventually nestle itself into the hazy clouded sky, I felt an immense relief, a lightening of the heart and mind. Still so far from home I knew I was once again in my place and somehow more myself. The connections we have and form with various lanscapes are both mysterious and highly subjective, but for those who crave the elements of a place never interchangable.

The other day, K and I were stopped by the side of the road to check in with each other, have a drink and contemplate the rolling foothills that surrounded us. As we rested, one car passed, reversed back and the driver ran out to give us each some apples and wish us well. On an earlier day, a passing couple handed me an unopened bottle of mineral water as I pushed my bike up out of a gorge. We have been the grateful recipients of so many random acts of kindness during this journey. I am constantly amazed and warmed by the generousity and support that people have offered us. This has been a constant throughout the trip. Lately, in the mountains now, I've taken great joy from the thumbs-ups and cheerful salutes we get from on-coming vehicles - though in general I've found the more enthusiasm shown by the driver, the longer and steeper the climb ahead.

'Hmmm... time to ask for directions?'
Navigating the gorges south of Tafroute

The south-bound cyclists that we met in Ouagadougou at the beginning of our journey had encouraged us to spend more time than we had initially intended in Morocco. We are thankful for their wise advice as we are finding Morocco to be a beautiful and fascinating country. And the food is devine and plentiful - a cyclist's dream.

Gone are the days when tomato paste constistuted our daily supply of fruit and
vegetables.

The dinner has been eaten, the latern extinguished and the wind is raising delightful goosebumps on my arms. We have ridden down an extraordinary gorge today, silently gliding up behind old women carrying baskets of sage and almonds to their villages scattered in the hills. And now I can't wish for anything more for the number of shooting stars. The milky way is so vivid and the dipper is scooping the mountain tops into the night sky.

Crossing the Sahara

How a thousand kilometres can be just a few
and how a few kilometres can be a thousand.

Kayes to Selibabi (160 km as the crow flies)
Our driver, who bears an astounding likeness to Richard Dreyfuss, jumps into the Landcrusier tabacco pipe in mouth and we gun out of the station, our rooftop bikes effectively delimbing overhanging trees as we go. There is not so much a road between the two border towns of Kayes and Selibabi as a series of tracks that run parallel to and through dry and some not so dry riverbeds. Richard is a superb driver and has navigated hours of bush when we come across a river. We pause to watch the women walk across, the water reaching their midsections, at least. Richard contemplates our situation silently for a few minutes before sliding the truck into gear and storming into the river. And we almost make it, even as the water flows over the truck's hood. It is the steepness of the bank on the far side that is our downfall. So 3/4 of the way across, all the passengers scamper out and try to push the truck out. Waist deep water and all. The fourteen of us and the villagers who have come to help. When that plan fails, we counterintuitively resort to pushing the truck back into the river in order to get the engine started. With cheers of support, Richard manages to clear the bank, leaving the barefoot passengers to chase after him and the steaming engine. So it continued until we had bumped across endless desert landscape, crossing the border and reached the town of Selibabi.
Selibabi to Noakchott (650 km of Mauritanian love)
Our driver's favourite word is hunh, which comes as both a question, an affirmative and interspersed freely throughout his speech. There is a road for the most part from Selibabi to Noakchott and should you require a night long rest stop midway do be sure to call in at the Auberge "dirty mat on the ground at the lorry station" in Kaedi. Enquire about the spot next to the place where they slaughter the goat first thing in the morning.
In a burst of creativity that can only be brought on by a certain level of sleep deprivation and early morning butchering we piloted a new programme entitled "Good Morning Mauritania." The live broadcast, from our shared front seat, brought us great hilarity for the rest of the morning.

Noakchott to Noadhibou (4 smack 6 smack 5 smack km)
Our driver either had dentures that could really have used some Polydent or some mutton that had been stuck in his teeth since the '88 Olympics. Other than that the trip was remarkably uneventful. Just many miles of desert with a headwind we were thankful not to be battling. Oh so comfortably sharing, again, the front seat of the Peugot.

Noadhibou to Dakhla (420 km of waiting)
Our driver looked prepared to leave in about 1 hour when we arrived at 7:30 am, so it really shouldn't have been much of a surprise when we rolled out of the station at 3:30 pm. Another rather uneventful trip on tarred road despite the copious number of stops for customs, police and gendarmie. Not to mention the few years of my life that may have passed while waiting at the Moroccan border.

Dakhla to Tiznit (1100 km of pure luxury)
Our driver wore not only a uniform but shoes. The tickets had seat numbers, which meant not only did we get our own seat, but they reclined. Huddled under our sweaters to warm us from the arctic blast air conditioning, the bikes happily stowed below we snoozed away the trip. Stopping not only to pee, but also to eat yummy fish tanjine along the way.

The transitions from Mali, through Mauritania and now in Morocco have been as radical as our change in vehicles. We find ourselves having to adjust to a new world in terms of wealth, food and culture. The body has an ability to move faster than the mind and heart, especially thanks to modern transport. The rapid shift from Subsaharan to North Africa is somewhat overwhelming and so far we lack the words to truly discuss all that has changed both within and without. From here we'll be back on the bikes and heading into the Atlas mountains.

The Manding Highlands: Bamako to Kayes

S on the trail


A trés beau camping spot

Lunch at an abandoned
railway station


Helping friends out on the trail
- our latest bike pump, Senor Jose.
RIP, Jumbo Joe

It's a rainy morning in Kayes, a hub for transport in the north-west corner of Mali. Our first proper rainy day in almost two years and a strange ending to our time in sub-saharan West Africa. From here we'll move up and out through Mauritania and into Morocco - a journey that will likely see very little of us on the bikes due to the heat, sand and long, isolated stretches of road. So the past week of cycling has marked the close of this stage of the trip. We have travelled through the Manding Highlands with its wonderful forested escarpment, following the Bayole River until it converged with the Bafing to become the Senegal. The area was bursting full with the most extraordinary birds and one day a monkey even ran across the trail in front of us. Many of the villages we cycled through were quite isolated and given the state of the "road" almost entirely dependent on the rail line that passes through the area. The trail was rough (quite fitting with all of the others we rode in Mali) with sections that required us to push/carry our bikes over rocks and rivers. The journey was by no means easy, but brought with it some of the most rewarding riding in Mali.

7 Reflections from the Manding Highlands

1. There is no such thing as the right path, it is best to just pick one and see what it brings.
2. Bad days happen and it is best just to ride them out as calmly as possible because...
3. When you least expect it the world will reveal to you something of unimaginable beauty.
4. The most magnificent places are never the ones which are easily accessed.
5. You can make and eat almost anything from a Nalgene.
6. Many things we will never understand, but perhaps it is more important how we deal with our lack of understanding than trying to understand everything.
7. There is no hurry, there is no where to get to and nothing that must be seen beyond where you are at this moment.

Up the Niger River to Bamako

Our bikes' maiden voyage crossing the Niger at Macina.

The massive irrigation project on the north side of the Niger made an incredible difference. In contrast to the desolate Sahel we had cycled through on the south side, now we were passing through rice paddies and buying fruit along the roadside.



Brewing thé a la menthe at sunset with fishermen waving from their pirogues as they pass. A little piece of peace.


Traffic jam.













Our new friend, fondly known as 'Jumbo Joe' helped to see us through additional thorny encounters.


Sunshine & Rain