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.

Love in Morocco...
 

How dare you using the left part of your brain so much..! Can you really describe many women in your life with all the superlatives you used for her? With the adventurous life your trips imply,is it possible for you to be in Ouarzazate? Get on the bike mate,go find her,don't chicken out,read what you just posted,give your life a chance!

And buy a new shirt.

er, what, exactly, is the point of motorcycle travel? You are OUT OF YOUR F***ING MIND. I would have stayed - no question, no hesitation. GET BACK THERE YOU IDIOT!!!

Thanks for the advise guys, not sure it's possible, except buying the shirt .....oothef, I'm on it :thumbup1:

Well, I’m now convinced that this forum is littered with hopeless romantics. Some people might even use the term romantic fools. Whichever, I’m glad I have company. Make no mistake, we all love our motorbikes too. I guess it makes sense, whether you’re a RTWer or a weekend warrior, it’s the sights, smells, sounds, places and people you meet that makes travelling so special, and what better way to do it than by motorcycle. When you’re out there on that road that’s never used by sensible people, and the only thing that’s going to get you back home or to that hot shower and that pillow is the machine you’re holding between your legs you’ve got to love it, whether it was manufactured in Germany or Japan. And size doesn’t matter…….
We often get labeled by the uninformed as adventurers who risk life and limb to travel through the most inhospitable countries and terrain imaginable, but we know it’s not true. We’re just average guys and gals who enjoy the outdoors immensely and like to do it on motorcycles (Perhaps we’re just too lazy to use bicycles). There are few things in life that match the satisfaction you get from climbing up a trail where the rocks display the tire marks of 4x4’s that struggled up there before you, and knowing that the driver didn’t run the same risks as you.
But I digress, I was trying to make fun of all you ‘tough’ motorcycle adventurers. I can just imagine you rushing in after a day of playing in the dirt, still wearing your knee-high boots and body armour, covered in dust and sweat, and reading my love story…..hehehe!

So is it a true story or not?

Yes DocSherlock it's a true story.....Unfortunately I lack immagination and can only write about true experiences. I will be seeing her again in a week or so :D

Good on you. Good luck with it.

All the best to you. :mchappy:

looking for the next report after you meet her again!!

best of luck

Great! Wish you all the best!

Ahhh women
 

I am in the process of my RTW and have spent the last 12 months in SE Asia and have met some stunning women but one has me returning time and again we are now engaged. I am returning to Medan in Sumatera from Thailand in July to pick her up get married and continue RTW together. All I can say is never say never and good luck to you mate. Hmm I wonder what is around the next bend in the road .... life is goodbier

Congratulations ricktherider. July is what's around the corner. I love that she's going RTW with you :-)

Nice story mate, hope you see her again soon.

Morocco is complicated for lovers
 

Ok, here I go risking my reputation again with my little love story, so please be warned that the puke-factor is high :-)


Morocco is complicated for lovers
It never occurred to me that meeting more than one soulmate in a lifetime was possible. You meet that somebody ‘special’ when you’re young, fall in love, marry, have children and live happily ever after. I’ve already had all that, except for the ‘have children’ part. The ‘live happily ever after’ part lasted for more than two decades but then she got sick of me and decided to look towards greener pastures. I didn’t see it coming and it hit hard.
Trying to get over my loss, I dated a lot. I even had a few ‘steady’ girlfriends for a few months at a time, which always seemed to end because they got too serious and because I was still in love with my ‘happily lived ever after’ gal. It was then that I decided to end yet another dead-end relationship, buy a motorcycle and go see Africa. Unlike most Cape-to-Cairo travelers, I didn’t spend months to plan my route, create a website, and have a business card and sticker printed. I bought the motorbike, asked the dealer to fit the cheapest luggage he had, Africa-proof the bike and off I went. No gismos, just the bare basics. The dealer disagreed when I rejected the idea of a GPS, centre stand, stronger bash plate, steel mesh radiator cover and many more upgrades that would have doubled the price of the bike, but I’m poor, cheap, and very stubborn. Since I haven’t been on a motorbike for thirty years (and then I had street-bikes) I was planning to do an off-road training course but couldn’t find one that started right away so I gave it a miss, relying on my mountain bike skills to pull me through, which are also suspect at the best of times. Two days after taking delivery of the motorbike I set out to concur Africa and hopefully wipe my ‘happily lived ever after’ gal from my memory banks. So off I went into Africa, not exactly knowing where I was heading. I wanted to see Mozambique and Malawi and hence found myself on a popular Cape-to-Cairo route. I met many interesting people on the way, as well as many interesting people from the opposite sex, but nobody to throw me off course.
By the time I reached Egypt I decided to take a few months break from this motorcycle touring thing, but word must have gotten out because they started rioting, and I thought it wise to move on to Morocco instead. That’s where I arranged to rent a room in a small budget hotel in Ouarzazate for a month to do some reading and relaxing. I somehow managed to get one of the only two rooms with a balcony overlooking the pool, and even talked Hassan, the owner, into buying me a small fridge. Everything was going according to plan. I had the perfect little room in a nice little hotel. Hamid and his banjo entertained the tourists with live Moroccan music and the sweet sounds would drift up to my room every night. I didn’t have to plan meals or worry about laundry, and a cold beer was only two flights down. Life couldn’t be simpler and for the next month I could catch up on my reading, relax by the pool and ride pistes in the area. Everything went according to plan for about a week, until one fateful afternoon when I decided to visit the touristy village of Ait Benhadou to see what all the fuss was about.
Like a whirlwind she entered my life that day, ruining my solitude, and the whole idea of reading and relaxing by the poolside came to an abrupt end. I knew from the moment I met her that I wanted to get to know her better and I looked forward to seeing her again two days later in the coastal city of Agadir where she was vacationing with her family. I broke one of my self-imposed rules to never ride in the rain, and spent much of the four hours commute to Agadir getting soaked to the bone. It was worth it. We fell in love and didn’t mind displaying it to the world. When I returned to Ouarzazate I couldn’t get back to my routine of doing nothing and decided to tell Hassan about this great Moroccan woman that I just had to go find again. He understood immediately and after only two weeks into my month rental agreement I left Ouarzazate for an overnight camel trip into the sand dunes of Merzouga before meandered through the Atlas Mountains to Fes where my dream woman lives.
After about two weeks from last seeing her in Agadir, I rolled into Fes not knowing what to expect, and although I had been warned that our relationship couldn’t be as ‘free’ in Fes as it was in Agadir I thought ‘how bad could it be?’ It was bad…..her family is well known in Fes and she’s bound by more social rules than you can shake a stick at. We couldn’t be seen together in public and I couldn’t visit her apartment without being smuggled in by her and a chaperone, which was usually her daughter. I couldn’t even take her to dinner without being accompanied by her daughter the chaperone. I’m sure her poor daughter couldn’t wait for me to leave Fes so that she could get on with her own life. Nevertheless, we spent much time together in Fes, and enjoyed every moment. Thankfully her daughter must be the worst chaperone in the world and we had a few bursts of private time filled with passion.
The whole thing made me think of Romeo and Juliet, and suddenly Shakespeare made so much more sense. What I thought of before as a tricky situation turned out to be an impossible one. Here was the most gorgeous creature that has ever crossed my path and we were forbidden to love each another. A simple dating relationship would require the approval of the family and it would have to be with marriage in mind, and even then our movements would be severely restricted. Marriage was the only true way out but we had cultural and religious differences that would have to be sorted out, we hardly knew one another, and marrying for a second time has never crossed my mind before. Burdened with my newfound knowledge of the complexities of the situation I left Fes six days later for Agadir where I again entered into a month rental agreement and am hoping that she will visit. We talk every day but both know the situation is almost impossible and that we’re just postponing the inevitable. I now have a much greater understanding for the challenges that couples face in societies where tradition, culture, religion and families dictate the rules of conduct, and when seeing an Arab couple out on a date I will sympathize with the challenges they have to face just to be in love.
On the plus side, although I will always love my ‘live happily ever after’ gal, she no longer keeps me awake at night, and I now also know that one is not limited to only one soulmate in a lifetime. As for my Moroccan goddess, barring a miracle, it seems that we are not destined to share this life together, but I will cherish every moment I spend in her company or talk to her, and one day when we lose contact, I will remember her fondly and I will wonder if there is truth in that famous line……..it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all…....pffff!