January 20, 2012. My GPS doesn’t have a map to look at, so I look at the date all day. January 20, 2012. I’ve been cycling for 100 days today. It feels like I should say something more here, but I can’t wrap it up neatly.
January 20, 2012. I am someplace different. I can tell because I am viewed differently. The kids and I wave energetically and shout Salam, Hello, Hola and Bon Jour at each other as I pedal past. Every third car beeps and waves. I wave to every hombre that I pass, and if I forget, they wave at me. Even the women respond to Bon Jour.
January 20, 2012. People are herding goats, plowing with horse drawn equipment, chickens run in the muck, dogs don’t bark, tethered donkeys nip the grass with their tote baskets on, the air is a mix of woodsmoke, barnyard, and diesal, and everywhere is the garb of Muslimhood.
January 20, 2012. The road is bestanded with home enterprise. Clay pots, groves of olives in 5 gallon jugs, tangerines, woven clothing, oilve oil. I catch glimpses into courtyards of olives being mushed. A boy tries to get me to stop at his familys tiny plastic and branch stand by offering mint tea that he is sipping. His little sister sits beside him happily swinging her legs. So many children herding goats, do they go to school?
January 20, 2012. 100 days of traveling. Last look at Chefchaouen.
En route to Ouezzane.
January 20, 2012. It’s me.
Ouezzane is not a tourist magnet.
You know I like donkeys.
My $9.63 hotel room. It is not ensuite, but I don’t care. It seems to be run by two Muslim women and is spotlessly clean and everything works. There is even a rooftop terrace to send this journal into cyberspace from.
January 20, 2012. 100 days… Oh My God, has it been that long already?