Everything is new.

Language, gestures, mannerisms, sounds, smells, customs and everything else were reset on the hour-long ferry ride it took us to change continents.

We arrived in Tangier. A metropolis with a history that has gone in many directions. From Arab stronghold to divided international zone under Spanish and French colonial rule. Before that, it was the Berber outpost. And most recently a beatnik city with a colorful population of quirky existences that ended in decay.

Today it is a city with ambitions to rise again as a tourist destination. The city is not without charm, but perhaps there is still some way to go to fulfill its ambitions.

We walk through the small streets of the little Medina. There is a lot being sold that no one needs. But when we spot an older man in a tiny stall, our hands find their way to the banknotes in our pockets. The man is selling French nougat. Or more precisely, he is selling Moroccan nougat. We have been in Africa for less than three hours when we experience the first explosion of taste. The nougat is light brown and chewy, but firm enough to be cut into blocks. It has a delicious deep taste of nuts from a sun-drenched valley in a warm country. We are completely sold and buy a huge bag of 1/4 kg for 50 dirhams (35 kr).

There are small cafes all around us, and we sit down and observe city life. There is something very exciting about arriving in another world. All the senses are wide open. All impressions are absorbed, enjoyed and processed. Sometimes with amazement as a result, often with excitement at learning something new about the world and the people who live in it.

We have decided to spend one night in Tangier before we jump on the bikes. We are trying to navigate the prices of everything, including the hotel room, where we pay 250 dirhams (175 kr) for something that could be included in Zero Stars. It was our first experience that some things in Morocco are disproportionately expensive, while other things are significantly cheaper. For example, a delicious freshly baked large round flatbread costs 2 dh (1.5 kr).

The afternoon in Tangier was almost a foodie tour in the small streets and stalls, where we ate and drank our way through the city. Cakes, nuts, olives, coffee, tea, freshly squeezed juice and finally a Tajine for dinner. We happened to come across a small place that didn't look like much. It looked more like a grill bar. But even here they made a wonderful tajine, which is a small clay plate on which a dish of potatoes, meat and vegetables is simmering, under a clay top. It is served bubbling hot. It is a simple meal but tastes great. Later we learned that different regions and cities in Morocco make their own versions, which means they spice it differently. We have often asked what spices are used in the tajine we are served. The answer is always evasive and incomplete. There are deep secrets in Moroccan cuisine.

Chefchaouen – the blue city

Morning dawned as we heard the Muezzin's call to prayer over Tangier. It wasn't hard to find the motivation to leave the dingy hotel room and set off into the fresh morning, on our bikes.

First destination was Chefchaouen. Reportedly an incredibly charming little town, beautifully situated on a hillside in the Rif Mountains, and where the Medina is completely blue.

After a couple of hours on a relatively boring little road, we had the same feeling as driving in Ølstykke in the rain, and we agreed to take a shortcut to get out on the main road, and that way get away from Tangier's muddy outskirts faster, and closer to small, cozy mountain towns. We thought it was a good decision, until half an hour later, when we got completely stuck in mud on a "gravel road". Let this be a lesson that when an area sells an incredible amount of pottery on the side of the road, you should stay off the dirt roads after it rains.

Still, we reached Chefchaouen just as darkness was breaking. In the light from the city's outermost street lamp, we googled accommodation options. Definitely an exercise we need to put more effort into, we had to admit. We booked a room in a small guesthouse, in the middle of the blue medina. Maybe not the most charming of them, but on the other hand one of the cheapest. And so began an evening filled with strange events.

We entered the address on the map and cycled towards the medina. A medina is essentially the old town. That is, it is a tangle of small narrow streets, around closed facades. Many of the unassuming little doors you pass by hide large courtyards with beautiful, cozy houses, but until you get into such a place, you try to navigate up and down stairs, narrow alleys and shortcuts, with a GPS that can't get a signal.

With Kenneth as an old surveyor, we arrived relatively quickly at the hotel's location, which in real life was a completely empty square. You shouldn't stand still and look confused for 2 seconds in a medina before being offered help to get there. Either to the hotel you have booked, or to the hotel they want to sell. In this case, everyone shook their heads when we mentioned the name "Casa Malek". It was only when we tried to search on Google Maps, rather than Maps.me, that it turned out that Casa Malek was at the other end of the city. But even when we got here, there was no Casa Malek. Again, locals volunteered and a guy was picked up from a cafe to show us the way, through dark streets, further and further away from where Casa Malek was indicated on the map. When the guy turned down a pitch-black alley, we stopped and started to turn our bikes. But another guy came out of the alley and said: "I'm Malek. Welcome". Besides the slightly convoluted introduction, the house and the subsequent meeting with Malek were not as impressive as we had dreamed. But some would say that you get what you pay for.

Things went completely wrong the next morning when Malek presented us with an extra bill of 20% of the price, which he couldn't really explain. Kenneth got furious, and we slammed the door without paying the extra bill.

Malek already placed a heavy yoke on our shoulders on the second day in Morocco, which we struggle to shake off every day. Namely, a lack of trust that people want us well. The belief that there are no ulterior motives when people want to help us. Every day in Morocco has offered experiences that pull us towards different poles. One moment children throw stones at us when we cycle past, the next we are greeted by warm smiles and voices that say “Welcome”. People on the street start a curious conversation with us about who we are, which ends in what they want to sell us. Many want us to go to different places. We have become good at standing still. But that goes against our curious soul. And what if we say no to a good experience, out of distrust of a fellow human being. We also experience good things. The older man who comes out of his house when we have stopped for 2 minutes on the side of the road to have a drink of water and a snack. Fortunately, he speaks Spanish and encourages us to stay a while. Rest. Sit in the shade. We can always continue later, he says. He's not in a hurry. We feel a little embarrassed that we have, as we say no and continue pedaling.

The language is another challenge we have to deal with on a daily basis.

The two official languages in Morocco are Moroccan/Arabic and Tamazight (Berber language). French is also taught, which we don't know either. In some places, people know a little English or Spanish. We wish we had taken a French course at home. It is frustrating for us every day that we can't understand or say even the most basic things. Although not everyone here can speak French, there is usually someone nearby who can. Especially in a country where you are constantly addressed by almost everyone you walk or cycle past, it is a shame not to understand their intentions or questions.

However, we are quite aware that the children's questions usually concern money or sweets. To such an extent that it has given rise to a recurring conversation between us. Because can it really be true that 90% of all the children in Morocco have met thoughtless tourists who have given the children sweets and money? Which is the immediate explanation for so many children running after us and begging. Today a boy came up to Kenneth and spoke perfect English, which is a rarity. He was a funny guy and asked why we had such strange bicycles? If we had bombs in the bags? Kenneth replied: “No. They are guns!”. “Aaaarrrhhh” he said “Give me some money. I am poor”. Kenneth burst into mild laughter and said: “You are not a poor man. You are wearing a Nike sweatshirt and nice shoes. Look at me. I only have this on my bicycle”. He replied: “You have more than that. You also have guns”. He pointed to the bags with a smile. Then we told him that we were going to South Africa on our bikes, and everything about money was long forgotten. But he is a humorous example of how easy it is to say no. Lesser people can do it too, a “No” is often enough. But what is interesting to us is why children from an entire country, high and low, ask tourists for sweets and money. It is of course possible that the tourists themselves have “raised” the children to the idea that there is something to be gained, even though we find it reprehensible. But maybe there is another, deeper culture behind it? That is what we debate on the long stretches in the saddle. Because what if it is something more ingrained?

If you go into a shop and want to buy a carpet in Morocco, it is said to be a lengthy process, involving long negotiations and several cups of tea. Maybe even over several visits. Often the carpet owner will also start by asking what gift the customer has brought for him. As if to soften his mind before negotiating the price?

In the very old days when camel caravans crossed the Sahara with goods on the major trade routes, it is also easy to imagine that gifts must have been given to break the ice where they arrived.

Many modern adventurers often tell stories about how they bring gifts when they travel to visit isolated tribes in distant lands. Why?

…and is it really part of the culture that, in some mysterious way, still lives in a child's soul in Morocco, when you spot a cyclist in the distance and start a quick sprint barefoot across the sandy ground, shouting: "Bonjour! What do you have for me?"

It's pure guesswork and wishful thinking on our part. Maybe there's a grain of truth in it. But at least the thoughts had something to occupy themselves with in the baking sun on the bike.

We also experience another, quieter, outstretched hand. An outstretched hand that touches us deeply and often makes us put a coin in the outstretched hand. When we are shopping, or sitting in a restaurant and eating, sometimes an older woman, an older man, or a child comes up. Without saying anything, they keep a little distance, but seek eye contact. These are people who have nothing. It is not a conclusion we draw from their clothes or anything they say. But we can see it in their eyes. There is a quiet desperation that tells of a daily struggle to make ends meet. We see Moroccans giving them meals, giving them money. Sometimes they are given the remains of an uneaten meal. Every time we see gratitude in their eyes. Like the locals, we also give these people food or money. Because how can you yourself be a human being if you do not help those who look you in the eye and have nothing?

Fez and the world's largest pedestrian street

We cycled from the tourist trap Chefchaouen, with its blue Medina, to Fez. By the way, we tried to find out why the Medina was blue. No one knew. The best guess was that it was to attract tourists, which fits very well with our sense of the amount of authenticity in the city.

But there stood Fez in stark contrast with life and pulse. A big city with 1.5 million inhabitants, of which 150,000 live inside the medina. It is claimed that it is the world's largest car-free urban area. There are 9,000 small streets and alleys. Everything is winding and cryptic and a wonderful jumble of goods, people and food. The medina is divided into areas that trade or produce certain things. In one place they sell vegetables, in another they sell meat, in a third they sell modern bling. In some places they specialize in working with metals and make, among other things, large copper pots that they beat into beautiful patterns by hand.

They produce mosaics and cook fantastic food. The Medina has several mosques with interesting stories, but they are not open to non-Muslims.

Instead, we spent half a day walking from one end of the medina to the other. Every meter was an experience in itself. Stolen glances through half-open doors revealed large courtyards behind. Crowds and bustle. And shoppers everywhere. We ate our fill of sugary little cakes at a master baker's in his Patisserie. We drank coffee at a café, next to a workshop where a man sat in tailor's pose with a small hammer and pounded patterns into tiles to make mosaics. Finally, we found the winding path to one of the biggest attractions, namely where the leather is tanned and dyed.

Let it be said right away, whether you come with a guide or find your way around yourself like we did, you will inevitably be dragged through the entire assortment of leather jackets, morocco cushions, sandals, bags, etc., etc., before finally finding a roof terrace with a view of one of the large courtyards with the dyeries. But it is worth all the trouble and discussion. The catch is that all the roof terraces from which you can see the dyeries are all associated with a leather merchant.

Every morning new dye is poured into huge vats, after which the hides are soaked in the dyes. The rest of the day is spent with men walking around working the dyes into the hides, and hanging them up to dry. It's all very sensual and in a way a beautiful scenario, but we have some doubts about how healthy the working environment really is. We hope for the men's sake that things are under control.

From Fez we continued on towards Imilchil, where we will follow a bikepacking route we found on Bikepacking.com. We are really looking forward to experiencing the landscapes down south in Morocco. We probably have to admit that we have taken the route planning in the northern part of the country too lightly. We have followed a few suggestions from others, in some cycling communities we follow. But to be honest, we have missed the unique experiences. The landscape of the Rif Mountains in northern Morocco did not really blow our legs away. Not even though a large part of the world's cannabis is grown here, and the locals were happy to test the goods. As they also generously offered us to do.

People didn't really take us by storm either. As we have tried to write, a tinge of distrust often creeps into the relationships we enter into. Because there was often reason for it.

For example, there was a nice guy who stopped us on the road and asked if we needed help. We said everything was ok. He asked if we were on Whatsapp, and we exchanged numbers. A few hours later he wrote again, this time using Google Translate, if we were ok. And we thanked him for his care. After which the conversation turned to how we could help him come to Denmark and work. In a way, you can't blame him for that. But at the same time, it's a breach of the initial contract he made with us, that he offered us his help.

In reality, we believe that what we would consider a breach of trust with purely Danish eyes is more about a different cultural base. As previously described with the carpet trade, we believe that the natural way for a Moroccan to ask about something is through convoluted paths, like in a medina. That their language is much more filled with poetry, or more flowery, as we would say in Danish. We clearly see that in the West we work intensely to make it easier for the individual to manage everything themselves, but here you can't even find your way in the medina without having to ask people for advice. In the same way, their interaction is perhaps more convoluted than our Danish, very straightforward and direct way?

We don't know. But we love to guess and question. Hopefully we'll meet someone we can ask.

Having said all this, we must also remember that we meet amazing people who invite us into their homes and their lives with a pure heart. Like the first time it happened, in southern Morocco. We have crossed the Anti Atlas mountains and are completely out of water. The temperature is 35 degrees. The first people we see are pumping water out of the hot desert sand, so we stop. While we fill the bottles with water, Rachid invites us to his home for tea. We meet his family, and after we have washed our feet, we enter the guest room, where they serve flatbread, olive oil, dates and Rachid pours sweet mint tea with a high jet. Rachid knows a little English and we practice our French while we enjoy their pleasant company, and we fill our bodies with fluids and energy. When we leave, we hug each other and they give us the rest of the home-grown dates, which is a huge bag.

We also have such experiences, and we let them fill our minds the most.

Perhaps the experiences we have are just as much about how we respond to them. Perhaps we also need to change our mindset from Europe to Africa.

Between the Anti Atlas and the High Atlas, a strip of desert runs between the two mountain ranges. Here lies the town of Goulmima. A small town that doesn't attract much attention from most travelers. But for us, it did, of course, because of its many bicycles. There were thousands in the small town. Everyone was cycling in all directions, women and children, young and old. Everyone had a bicycle. But it wasn't just the bicycles that caught our curiosity. There was a special atmosphere here. People were freer. We had never seen women on bicycles before. Or women who spoke directly to us. People were relaxed and nice, without being pushy. We rolled down the small side streets and bought fruit from a wooden cart, yogurt from a hole in the wall. Lunch at a plastic table in the shade at a cafe, while a donkey passed by.

Here from Goulmima we turn off the main road, to once again set course towards the High Atlas Mountains. But we hesitated, because here in the warm center of the cozy town, we found something of what we had been missing. A nice feeling of security that warmed our hearts.

But the mountains are calling. And the bikepacking route is calling. In a few days we will reach the start of it, and then we will follow it almost to the border of Western Sahara.

As we roll out of town, a friendly man stops us and chats. He proudly tells us that he is Berber, and then says: “Welcome – to the REAL Morocco!”