Northern African: Morocco - The Lions on the Road: Cycling London to Cape Town - page 61

my own, I decided that what I did was in my best interest. Who knows, maybe if I went
horsebackriding,mybikecouldhavebeenstolenbyhisdrug-inducedfriends…thenagain,
maybe not.
I left his home and joined the main road. With a tail wind blowing, I made good
time. I arrived in Marrakech, a resort town at the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, at 11:00
a.m. I wanted to go to mass but found the church closed. I asked the rector, Father Cou-
turier, if I could enter and make a visit. He told me it was OK but insisted that I bring my
bicycle in as well. Afterwards we had some water with almond syrup and chatted. I told
himaboutthetourandhetoldmeaboutMorocco.Heexplainedthatabout50%ofthechil-
dren in the mountains did not go to school. Most of them were girls who spent their time
gathering wood and food for the herds, cooking for their families and fetching water. He
also commented that the King of Morocco had presidential palaces in every major city in
the nation, a fleet of cars, and dozens of horses.
IfeltperturbedthattheKinglivedinsuchopulentwealthwhilehispeoplewereun-
educated and poor. Since arriving in Morocco, I noticed that every road and shop in every
citywasadornedwithlargepostersandbannersofeitherthekingorsomeonefromtheroy-
alfamily.Inhushedconversationswiththelocals,Ifoundoutlaterthatmanypeopledidn't
respect him but feared him. It was because of this fear that people put up these portraits in
their establishments.
Father Couturier offered me to stay the night which I accepted. One of his parish-
ioners owned a hotel and insisted that Father Couturier eat there. When he returned, he
broughtenoughfoodfortherestoftheweek.Ihadawonderfullunchandendedupjustre-
laxing in front of the TV and watching the Olympics. Emotionally speaking, I didn't know
what was happening to me but when Spain won a gold medal, I burst into tears of joy. ..
and I'm not even Spanish.
Don't Remind Me!
My wakeup call was at 6:00 which I ignored. I remained in bed until 7:00 and after
a light breakfast, Father Couturier escorted me by bicycle to the road that led to the moun-
tains. I bid him farewell and began my journey. Not soon after, two local pleasure cyclists
joined me. We chatted as we began our first ascent into the Atlas Mountains. I didn't mind
the chatting at first. However, as I was trying to get into a rhythm, the chatting became
a distraction. Then my co-cyclists became incredibly annoying. They kept reminding me
that the route was difficult, long and far. They repeated this every couple of minutes to the
point where I was getting pissed off. I told them at one point to shut up. For me, nothing
was more psychologically draining than being reminded that the task at hand was difficult