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Photo by Marc Gibaud, Clouds on Tres Cerros and Mount Fitzroy, Argentinian Patagonia

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Photo by Marc Gibaud,
Clouds on Tres Cerros and
Mount Fitzroy, Argentinian Patagonia



 
 
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Old 10 Apr 2011
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Join Date: Feb 2011
Location: Johannesburg, South Africa
Posts: 72
Morocco is for lovers
I decided to risk my reputation by submitting this post. If you're a hard-core biker or even just a serious guy's-kinda-guy, I suggest you skip this. The puke risk is high....however, if you ever plan to travel to Morocco, treat this as a warning:


Alone on the patio of the little cafe in Ait Benhaddou, I was relaxing with a freshly squeezed orange juice while enjoying the view of the Kasbah from the shade of the only umbrella when they walked in. The trio was led by the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in a long time. I tried hard to pretend I was taking no notice, but a blind man with a cane would have noticed my bewilderment. I actually might have stopped breathing there for a while. Since I had the only shady spot, I found myself hoping that they were going to ask to join me at my table, but they were content with flippantly posing for photos in a way only girls know how to. I couldn’t help but crack a smile when the youngest one attempted a seductive pose in an old doorway, but I don’t think they saw me.
Since I left South Africa a year ago I’ve become used to not understanding the languages people speak around me, and they were no exception. They must have taken close to a million photos when the goddess unexpectedly turned to me and in perfect English asked if I would mind taking a photo of the three of them. After metaphorically picking myself up from the floor I managed a “what makes you think I speak English”, and could immediately kick myself for not coming up with something more original or cool. Just as she started stumbling for a response I had the presence of mind to jump up and utter a hasty “I’d be glad to”
And so it started. For the next ten minutes the other two might not even have existed. We were in our own little world. By the time they left to go see the place where Russell Crowe was filmed fighting his way back into the higher echelons of the Roman Empire in Gladiator I was armed with her telephone number, the surprising knowledge that she was Moroccan and not European, and more bravado than the gladiator himself. Unfortunately I had also now learnt that they were on their way to the dunes of Merzouga and then the coastal city of Agadir the day after.
Fortunately I have a motorbike, a willingness to travel long distances for no particular reason, and a ‘dog-on-a-bone’ mentality. Two days later I left Ouarzazate for Agadir in pouring rain. It was raining so hard that water was pouring down the front of my rain suit onto the seat of the bike and soaking my crotch. In one day the stifling heat of the desert gave way to a downpour and bitterly cold winds, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the gods were telling me to back off this one. By the time I covered the 340 kilometers to Agadir everything but my crotch was dry again, and the sunshine I enjoyed over the last hundred kilometers or so also convinced me that the gods were having second thoughts about my intentions.
I hate my knee-high motorcycle boots with a passion, and rate them less comfortable than my ski boots. For a simple asphalt trip like this I would have worn my hiking boots but today I decided to wear ‘the boots’. It was a good move because now my hiking boots were still dry. Dressed in the better of my two long-sleeved shirts, faded jeans and dry hiking boots I confidently walked the kilometer to their apartment. When she answered the door I was floored. Even if I were dressed in my best suit I would have had second thoughts if we were matched. I hid my disappointment and surrendered to the fact that I was outclassed and our relationship was a non-starter. In true Moroccan fashion I was immediately offered tea during which we looked at photos of their overnight camel excursion into the dunes of Merzouga. To my surprise she leaned into me a few times while watching the photos and my confidence slowly re-emerged. She’s beautiful, classy, well educated, speaks four languages, and from a well-to-do family. I’m ugly as hell, unsophisticated, travelling around Africa on a motorcycle, and haven’t had a haircut since the transvestite in Spain screwed it up…...go figure!
We eventually ended up at a ‘white tablecloth’ restaurant in the heart of the beachfront promenade, with her looking like she was going to the symphony and me looking like I just crossed the Sahara on foot. It was in the course of that evening that her true beauty surfaced. Many women are beautiful until you get to know them better. Not her. She exudes a gentle kindness. It doesn’t matter if it’s a family member, stranger, beggar or stray animal, she treats all with the greatest respect and compassion. Her uttering an unkind word or acting in an unkind manner is simply unimaginable. During the evening I often found myself staring at her admiringly, wondering how I ended up at her side. The wonderful evening was concluded with a passionate goodnight wish and the promise of more of her sparkling company the next day.
After solemnly swearing that I would go slowly, she ventured onto the back of my motorbike the next day. That’s when I knew it wasn’t the motorbike that attracted her to me. She was terrified. Not only would she lean in the wrong direction around corners, she would twist the skin on my back like a steering wheel trying to force the motorbike into an upright position in the turns. The straight sections were much more enjoyable with her wrapping her arms around me like seatbelts. By the end of the trip she was a little more relaxed and even talked a policeman out of giving me a 300 dirham fine for not wearing my helmet. How could I, she was wearing it. The real breakthrough came the next day when she started backseat driving. That’s when I knew the universe was in balance and I had fallen for her in a big way.
We spent three marvelous days searching out secluded beaches, restaurants and live Moroccan music while getting to know each other. Now I’m back in Ouarzazate, moping around the hotel like my favorite dog just died. I think of her kind eyes, her brilliant smile, and the way she dances to Moroccon music, and my body and soul aches for her. But then I remember that we live worlds apart with complete different lifestyles and I wish I had the guts to throw caution to the wind and follow my heart.
__________________
Jo’burg to Cairo (And a bit further): KLR 650
Southern Africa (And still going strong): XT660Z Yamaha
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