The following morning I leave Oujda towards Figuig together with David who decided to ride with me for the first 20 kms. We cycle on the road shoulder to avoid trucks and buses and I try getting used to the rearview mirror.After about 25kms the road disappears into the mountains and starts to climb slightly. The lush vegetation around Oujda gives way to the more and more arid land on the high plains of eastern Morroco.
During the rather uneventful ride, my cycle computer ticks over the 1.000 kms and after 85kms I reach the village of Ain Beni Mathar where I planned to spend the night.
I approach a local school to ask for some accomodation. The friendly headmaster explains that I may not camp on the schoolground without permit of the minister of education (??). Shame. Nonetheless, there is a group of male pupils gathered in front of the school waiting for the girls to leave the afternoon class and maybe catch a glimpse of their favourite beauty during a few seconds. I ask the boys where it might be possible to spend the night and am invited by seventeen year old Ibrahim to stay in his house. While we walk over towards the town centre, school is over and we are literally overrun by children, they are everywhere, block up the whole street, start shouting as they see me, they push and pull at my bike and panniers, somebody throws a stone and I feel a slight panic with all the shouting and pushing and almost fall over a small boy trying to avoid the crowd.
Once the interest has lessened, we stop to take a group picture and one of Ibrahims friend gives me his palestinean headscarf to wear on my trip. In exchange I give him my black Buff which he puts on inmediately and he seems very happy with the deal. The sun is down already and Ibrahim leads me in the dark to his village, a 20 minutes walk from Ain Beni Mathar. He knows me for about an hour but he begs me to stay at least a day at his home because he wants to show a lot of things. I want to continue my trip the next day but he insists and I finally give in and promise him to stay a day at his place.
His family lives in a simple house made of pale mudbricks with straw roof and consists of a living room, kitchen and 2 dormitories. I am introduced to father, mother and sisters, nephews and nices that all share the same house. They welcome me, help unload my bike and offer me mint-tea and home-made bread (still warm from the oven). All smile friendly at me and I start feeling at home but I marvel about the generous and honest hospitality these people offer me.
Ibrahim is sent to the nearby tiny butcher shop to buy chicken for dinner, I feel guilty at the thought that his family spends money they do not have only to be able to serve their guest a nice dinner but Ibrahim won,t let me pay for the chicken.
At the shop, I am introduced to Ibrahims friends, they smile big smiles and ask Ibrahim to translate in arabic as they do only speak little french. Said, the young butcher/shopkeeper sends his little brother next door - a couple of minutes later, mint-tea is served.
As we return home the living room has been transformed into a dining room, Ibrhahim brings me a bucket and sprinkles my hands with water to wash before eating and we sit down with the father to slurp tea and eat a great tajine (made of chicken with peas and potatoes) using bread to dipp and only our right head to eat. It tastes just great.
After dinner we stretch on the floor on woolen matresses and sleep in our clothes under thick 
covers. In the morning, I hear Ibrahims mother rumble in the kitchen around 5 o clock, she is preparing breakfast for the older son who has to leave the house for his job on a building site around 6. We get up at 7 and sit down on the kitchen floor beside Ibrahims mother who is busy preparing a kind of multilayered pastry which is to be eaten together with melted butter and tea.
covers. In the morning, I hear Ibrahims mother rumble in the kitchen around 5 o clock, she is preparing breakfast for the older son who has to leave the house for his job on a building site around 6. We get up at 7 and sit down on the kitchen floor beside Ibrahims mother who is busy preparing a kind of multilayered pastry which is to be eaten together with melted butter and tea.
After this breakfast, Ibrahim shows me his horse that is chained to the ground next to the house. The stud already has a small fowl and is supposed to have another one soon. ..... to be continued.
Some spanish guy from Melilla warned me against thieves and thugs (and moroccans in general) waiting for me - their easy prey- just round the corner/over the border. Five minutes later I found the same guy chatting happily with a group of morrocans and he told them he absolutely loved Morocco and did have a flat there, very friendly people, todo genial, etc... (??)
Finished in 1793, being 98 meters in height, the bridge spans the gorge of the Tajo and allowed the city to expand beyond its boundary imposed by nature.
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