Caveman Cycling For Earth

Lee mas aqui: (more…)

There are people everywhere in Morocco. They have an “outdoor culture”; there is always someone around. If you take a piss on the side of the road, someone is probably watching you. If you are talking to yourself as you pedal down the road, there is probably someone listening. Even before lunchtime, dozens of people look at you as if you were an alien, too shocked to return an “o-aleikum salam.” Sheperds in Adidas gear pause their conversations as you pass; farmers in jilabas twist on their donkey-seats to stare; women in hijabs quickly avert their gaze – but only after you notice them looking at you. And that’s in the rural areas. In a place more frequented by foreigners, like a city, or the Rif mountain roads, the tourist hustle is just a part of life. You can’t take a break without an obtrusive offer of a hotel at a great price, or a flashy guy in a car trying to discover which language you speak, or a cute little kid yelling “Stop!” so he can beg for a stylo or un petit pièce, or a bold restauranteur shoving a menu in your face, or a dumb mute villager approaching you with open palms because, to him, your foreign face means money. (more…)

Regatear. To haggle. One of the big words I learned in Sevilla. “Desde el ferry, Charlie, start haggling even at the ferry to Ceuta,” advised my friend Alberto. I’ve never been good at haggling – in Mexico I figured even if I was getting ripped off, it was still cheap, so I never worked up the guts to talk anyone down. But now, with a long stretch of Africa ahead of me, and a much more highly developed thriftiness than ever before, I figured it was time to learn. (more…)

The trip started around the corner from my friend Lena’s squat, at the public library. It was one of the few times in Catalunya I sensed animosity for speaking in Castellano (regular Spanish)

(more…)