When I left school, I took a course in music production, which I quit after a few months. I then quit an engineering placement after six months. In my final year of university, I tried to quit six months early, but was stopped by my tutor. When I did finish, I ran away from a career in engineering, to teach English in Bangkok, which I quit after four lessons. I started making a video game, which I abandoned after a year, to get a job. And that job lasted three years, though I would have quit earlier if I wasn't given responsibilities.

The theme for the last decade of my life has been: Starting things, then quitting at the first opportunity.

Two days ago, as I approached Marrakesh, the voice in my head said: I'm getting there, then I'm done.

Why do I give up so easily?

I want to get to Cape Town, to prove to myself that I can finish something I start.

Cycling Morocco

This has been so different from Western Europe. I've met other cyclists, like Nico from Germany, who cycled with me for almost a week:

Hostels are no longer deserted, so I've met other travellers, like Andrea from the US, whose path (by bus) has crossed with mine in three different cities (I forgot to take a photo in all three).

The sun has burned down through clear skies almost everyday. The landscape is open and sparse (with no fences), which makes for great wild camping in spaghetti-western-style landscapes:

Food is cheap, especially fruit and vegetables (from roadside carts) and the delicious msemen (pan-fried flatbread). A full meal, like this sizzling kefta mkaouara (meatball tagine), can cost anywhere between £4 and £7 (eaten with bread):

Cycling with Nico

I was nervous about cycling with a partner, as I'm more comfortable alone, but I had also craved the fun and ease that comes with travelling in a pair: If something goes wrong, or you run out of food or water, your companion can help. You can run into a shop without worrying about your bike being stolen and wild camping feels safer. It's also nice to share camp meals and hear another perspective on the day.

Nico has cycled from the southern tip of South America (Ushuaia, Argentina) to New York, so I was able to learn a lot from him, like:

• How to cycle further in a day (for me, stop less).
• To buy food and drink as you need it, instead of carrying supplies.
• To camp by a river for washing and cooking water.
• That an avocado is a cheap and healthy spread for bread (with no plastic packaging).

We joined in Tétouan (though had met in Tarifa, Spain) and spent our first night camping in Morocco together:

(In the foreground is my new camping chair, which was worth the ten-day wait in Tarifa.)

The next day, we stopped early in Chefchaouen, a town nestled in the mountains, where we stayed for one night.

At 6:30am, the call to prayer rung out from various mosques, echoing off the mountainsides, and I recorded it from our hostel roof terrace:

I find the sound to be sinister, but others have said they find it relaxing. It's definitely a surprise when you first hear it.

After breakfast, we began a day of hill climbing:

Which was worth it that evening, for one of the best spots I have ever camped in:

The next morning, while descending the mountain, I took a corner too fast. The road bent into the shade, where it was still wet from the night, and my back wheel slipped. It's a strange feeling, falling to the ground when it's moving by so fast. I ended up on my back, in the foetal position—face contorted with pain. My hands and elbows took most of the damage, and fortunately nothing broke, but I lost some skin:

My bike was lying some distance away, with the handlebars twisted backwards, gear modules and hand-grips dislodged, and the front brake lever bent inwards, so it touches the handlebar before applying the brakes. There is also a new hole in one of my panniers.

The kindness of Moroccan people was shown by those who stopped to help. One car pulled up and a man used his mineral water to clean my hands, before giving it to me, along with a pack of tissues (I turned down a ride to the next village). Nico had cycled on before I fell, but eventually came back after someone told him what had happened. While we fixed my bike (as best we could), another car stopped and a man told me he would call an ambulance (against my will). We were told to wait until it arrived. By this point, I was mobile and wanted to continue (and didn't want to go through an insurance claim). When the ambulance arrived, I was asked again if I needed it, and I said I didn't, so it left. It was a strange series of events, and only the beginning of a strange day.

At about 6pm, we crossed a bridge over a river and spotted a good camping spot on the bank. We set up our tents on soft, flat grass, with the sun setting overhead:

The only problem was a small path running beside our camp (visible in the photo). As darkness fell, people began walking by.

At around 9pm, Hamid appeared. He was friendly and chatted with us, Nico gave him some coffee and I offered my camping chair. Eventually, he told us that we couldn't stay there because it was not secure. He told us to follow him to a gas station, where it would be safe. The gas station was two kilometres away (not too far), but the prospect of packing up in the dark and leaving such a great spot was not appealing. Hamid was persistent, so we eventually packed up, as he stood watching over us.

We followed him to his motorcycle (by the bridge), then cycled behind him until we reached a junction. Here, he told us that he would go home and that we should take the remaining exit to find the gas station. We began to think it was a trick to rob us, but had no choice but to follow the road, aware of how difficult it would be to find another camping spot.

Two kilometres passed with no gas station. Then five. We cursed Hamid. The road was not even the right direction for Fez (our next destination).

After nine kilometres, we found a gas station. A shop was open, so we asked if there was somewhere we could sleep, which there wasn't. The other option was a bar on the other side, filled with men watching the Manchester United vs Paris football match. Reluctantly, we approached, and it paid off. Some of the gas station staff were there and they found us a place to sleep in the back, next to a pool table. It was great to throw down our mats without setting up our tents, and to have food and drink available next-door. We were soon invited into the bar by a man selling sunflower seeds, and sat with him drinking mint tea (coffee for Nico) and eating snacks:

What a day it had been!

At midnight, the bar closed and we went to bed, with the gas station security guard watching over us.

Here is another photo of our 'camp' in the morning:

It was nice to have a table for breakfast, and no packing up to do, which also meant that we could leave early for the hardest day of cycling I have ever done. It was 100km to Meknes, our new destination thanks to Hamid. Not only was it a huge distance for me, but I had been beaten up by the road, couldn't grip my handlebars properly (because of my injured hands) and had a sugar-tainted sleep, thanks to the sweet (but delicious) tea of the night before. I annoyed Nico more than once, by stopping to contemplate my own existence and to stare at the horizon, utterly exhausted.

Eventually, we made it to Meknes, climbing one last hill into the city, and I ate two bananas from a street seller to stop my hands from shaking. Nico had also uttered something like, "I think I'm getting tired too", which reassured me that he was human.

In Meknes, we relaxed and resupplied. Our guest house was in the old town, and I wanted to show the vibrance of the alleyways, so I took a walk from one side to the other, with my stereo recorder held in front of me. The result is best on headphones:

Nico and I also discussed our motivations, and decided that we would part ways (at least until Marrakesh) after one more night on the road. He would go into the Atlas Mountains and I would head straight for Marrakesh.

Here is a photo from our last day of cycling, which took us through a beautiful landscape of open fields and rolling hills:

The next day, we separated, which felt strange, even after just a week together.

The road to Marrakesh

After separating, I helped a young Moroccan with a flat tire, and we cycled thirty kilometres together (with one of his friends). Here is a photo from an excellent downhill run:

The following evening, the sun was setting and I was desperate to find a place to camp, so I asked a farmer if I could use their land. The language barrier was high, but after gesturing that I needed to stop when it got dark, I was told to wait.

After a few minutes, an old car emerged from a farm building and I was told to follow. I chased behind until we reached the village of Acharikka, where I was handed to another man, Abdellah. He sat me in a chair, a few meters from where he was sitting with his friends. His manner was friendly, so I was relaxed. While I waited, some chickens inspected my bike, and a puppy bounded around a tired-looking, older dog.

Eventually, Abdellah got up, and gestured for me to follow. He spoke only a little French, so conversation was sparse as we walked through the village. I gazed at the houses and the people who greeted him as he passed, and who took quick glances at me—probably an unusual sight. When we arrived at his home, he said I could bring my bike inside.

The house was spacious, but mostly empty. On the ground floor was a squat-style toilet, a wash room, kitchen, bedroom and one empty room, all adjoining a central living area, which is where I left my bike. Abdellah took me upstairs and introduced me to his brother, Mustafa, who he shared the house with. Mustafa was a French teacher (working in Meknes) and spoke a little English, so we were able to have a conversation. He said (referring to his home), "It is modest, but we are rich in here", and he pointed to his heart. I tried to tell him that I was grateful nonetheless, and that it was perfect for me, which it was—it was a sheltered and safe place to sleep.

He cooked a vegetable and sardine tagine for dinner, which was delicious, and we watched an American movie channel (I think for my sake). Afterwards, a bed was made for me in one of the empty rooms, but I stayed up drinking tea with the brothers.

When I went to bed, I thought about the amazing hospitality and wondered whether someone in England would offer the same to a Moroccan traveller.

Here is a photo with Mustafa and Abdellah after dinner:

In the morning, I was told I could stay for as many days as I like, which was overwhelmingly generous, though I declined in my drive to get to Marrakesh.

The rest of my journey was plain, with many roads like this:

I envied the scenery that Nico would be passing through: My roads were marked with the corpses of dogs and cows—some just skeletons, with hide hanging over them like leather.

Now that I'm in Marrakesh, I will probably meet Nico again in the next couple of days, though I don't think we will continue together, due to the difference in pace. I can now do about eighty kilometres in a day (comfortably), but this should ideally be in the hundreds, for the long stretches of road through Western Sahara and Mauritania. I will keep pushing it higher.

Stay tuned for my next sandy post from the desert!

P.S. Nico's blog is here if you can read German (or want to look at the pictures).

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