Ride

“You have to come at seven!,” my host father, Ramdan said eagerly. “You can’t miss it. It’s the 3id! The end of Ramadan! Its important!” “Seven?! In the morning?!” I asked, somewhat in disbelief that after a month of staying up until 3 and waking up at noon or later I would be thrown so precipitously back into reality. “Ok, seven thirty,” my host mom Cherifa conceited, apparently amused at my Muslim holiday ignorance. I got up from the table and mumbled “Waxxa,” trying my Peace Corps hardest to sound excited about it.

Just an hour earlier the actual end of Ramadan had been unknown to all of us. There were speculations of course. Some people were certain that it would be Thursday night, others doubted that, thinking, maybe Thursday, but just as likely Friday. Still others, the fringe people, were way out there predicting that Saturday would be the last day of Ramadan and that everyone else was jumping the gun. Everywhere I went on Thursday people were talking about it and everyone I asked had their opinion. I asked them how we would know, especially if the sky were to be cloudy and we couldn’t see the moon. The TV of course, they answered. “ In Morocco we look out for each other! Everyone will know whether they want to or not.”

As I returned home, winding my way leisurely through the streets, I was greeted everywhere with “mabruk L 3id!” “Happy Holiday!” Yes! I know that one! But wait, how do I respond? Shit! I know there is some cool little phrase that will knock their pants off, but what is it… Nope…Nope… Not coming. When you are in the Peace Corps long enough, you come to realize how imperative it is to quickly pick up on new and time sensitive phrases. It’s a golden chance to show off to people how much language you know and how quickly you can evolve. Oh yeah! “La ibark fik!”

This morning came bright and early just as I had expected it to and I was ready for it. I had set my alarm out of the fear that I would miss all the excitement, but as I locked the door behind me on my way out, I didn’t notice a whole lot of excitement. In fact, there seemed to be a whole lot of nothing. Barely anyone was out. I started down the hill towards the family’s farm, seeing only a few people here and there quietly going their own ways. I was starting to get the uneasy feeling that I had misunderstood my simple instructions. I continued through town anyway. As I hit the dirt rut road that leads to my family’s house and heard voices mixed with the rooster crows coming across the stubble field I knew that I was right. The morning sun was breaking up the early autumn mist that lingered in the valley below the field and I had to stop my bike to let the warmth of it soak into my chilled skin. For a ginger like myself, opportunities to be friends with the sun are so rare. It was glorious. In that moment everything was right. I realized how much I had missed the morning.

It turns out that for a non-Muslim like myself, 3id Sighir, as the holiday marking the end of Ramadan is called, is not much different then any other day of the non-Ramadan calendar. Other then a few more varieties of cookies, and drinking tea even more frequently throughout the day (yes, somehow it is possible), things just sort of abruptly go back to normal. For the Muslims it is the final opportunity of the holiday to put on their Friday best, as you will, and go to the Mosque to pray and worship. I spent the day with my family, my friend Abdelghani’s family, and some new friends at one of the cafés here.

If the final day of Ramadan on Thursday marked the end of this last week, then the beginning started on Saturday in an equally dramatic fashion. I woke up Saturday morning (ok, more like noon) and decided that it would be a good idea to bike down the Zegzel Gorge road to Berkane. Jonathon said that it was a wonderful ride, and I had been meaning to do it for a long time. That I chose the middle of Ramadan when I was not eating and not really drinking a lot to take my first bike ride of any distance in almost a year did not cross my mind as particularly stupid. In fact it was a good idea. It would give me the opportunity to really feel how it is to fast and do physical labor, and anyway, from Tafoghalt to Berkane is all down hill. No need to ride back up. There are taxis for that.

It’s true that the road from Tafoghalt to Berkane is all downhill and I would have been fine had I stopped once I got there. Now I don’t know what it was. Maybe all the beautiful sites and vistas that I got to take in on the way down or maybe my long ago history of distance biking telling me that 10 downhill km didn’t count. I don’t know what, but with the sun burning hot high in the sky and with no food and little water in my system I pulled my bike back onto the road with the intent of making it the 40 km to Sadia and the beach.

To give myself credit, I did have almost a full bottle of water on my bike and the road generally sticks to the downward slope of things. I soon found out that it is mostly too gradual to notice though. I hugged the shoulder of the road, letting the crazy taxi drivers and rumbling trucks pass me. Occasionally a guy or two or three would putt past me on their moped, sometimes barely overtaking me even at my slow speed.

The ride was beautiful! I rode through orange groves, vineyards, olive orchards, and lots and lots of vegetable plots. People were out picking figs and plums. Some kids had set up shop selling cactus fruits next to the guys selling contraband gasoline. All down the road there was the feeling that finally summer had brought its most glorious and delicious goods into fruition.

I did finally ride into Sadia about mid-afternoon triumphant but a little shaky legged. Now Sadia was my ultimately my goal, but I had set my sites on a part of Sadia that I had only heard about but never seen: the golf course. I knew that it was down the coast back west, the direction I had come, so I set off again in that direction. I didn’t figure on it being another 10 km down, but I finally reached a far extending complex of complete or nearly complete condos crowded together on barren, empty streets next to trashy half filled-in wetlands. Knowing what I know about golf courses, especially those in places where they probably shouldn’t be, I had made it to my destination. It didn’t take much exploring to find what I was looking for. Set to the background of the Mediterranean and rows and rows of new, big, and “beautiful” homes, I felt like I was in some sort of alternate reality. A Morocco so new and different to me that it didn’t seem at all like Morocco as I know it. Really, the morocco only about an hour away.

I turned off onto a bike path (a real paved bike path) running between the golf course and the sea. The whole place was like a ghost town. The streets were empty. The houses looked empty. The road leading from real Sadia was empty. And suddenly out of nowhere I saw this little white girl with a little pink helmet riding her bike towards me. She was all alone. A little white girl all alone on a real paved bike path in between a beautiful green golf course and the Mediterranean Sea. Where am I? Maybe not drinking water had been a bad idea after-all.

The girl happily said Bonjur to me and was soon followed by her very French looking parents. I kept riding. Past a beach bar. Past some nice deserted swimming pools and gardens. At the end of the loop I came to the harbor and a shopping center. The harbor was full of big expensive yachts and the shopping center full of designer boutiques, but nowhere did I ever see the people who might ride in those yachts or buy those fancy clothes.

Anyway, being as deserted as it was, there were no taxis back to real Sadia. It looked like I would have to bike the 10 km back. I took a more scenic road and passed a few very expensive, exclusive hotels full of Europeans. Out of curiosity I crept into to check them out. I probably should have asked for water there, as I was pretty much dying of thirst by this time, but in my state, I could tell that security wasn’t buying that I was a paying customer.

I finally made it to town on my last reserves of energy and jetted across town to the taxi stand. I’ve grown accustomed to arguing against extra charges for cargo on both taxis and buses, but the fact that none of the drivers wanted to take my bike back to Berkane even if I did pay, convinced me not to argue the point. Anyway, the sun was getting low in the sky and if I didn’t get to Berkane quickly, I would miss the last taxi out to Tafoghalt. That would mean me being stuck in Berkane for the night. Not only did I not want that, but also I had visions of the food Cherifa was making, and I wasn’t about to miss out on it if I could help it.

We pulled up just in time for the last Tafoghalt taxi, but it being the last, I had no leverage room to work with, and had to concede to being ripped off. The ride back up the mountain was short, but we just made in time for the evening call to prayer/eat. I didn’t even have to time to go change out of my nasties. I walked my bike up the drive to my family’s house (my butt wouldn’t let me ride) dirty, sweaty, achy, and dying of thirst. They all laughed at me and agreed that it probably wasn’t a good idea after-all.

Thanks to those who send me suggestions and encouragement. Its nice to know that there are at least a few people reading this. If anyone has questions, suggestions, critiques, anything, let me know. I like hearing from the people in my small reader land. Thanks for reading.
Salam. Colin