On the road to the coast, Morocco, still to the south for a few days. The more I advance, the more the word is no longer just a projection of my mind created by the images that have been given to me. It is true, one could be bored, alone, static, in the middle of this big nothing where one tells the monotonous landscapes. In fact, there are so many nuances that we have no time to get used to and we are already in another picture. Sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky, it is sometimes flat or wavy, "and what are these little things that grow there ...?".

The nights are cold and the days... In reality it is not so much the heat under the layers of clothes and the cheche which is difficult to support. Neither the intense sunlight that makes the darker eyes clench, no. In the worst hours, one becomes aware of another factor. Independent of the indications of the thermometer or the number of candelas taken in the face, it gives the impression of acting on the brain as a microwave would do on a pocket of water. Even though hydrated, as I push Mysty, I remember tickling dementia as one can play caressing a lazy flame with fingertips. In unfortunate conversation with myself, I voluntarily let the tone go up ... curious to see where all this could lead me. At the same time aware of the absurdity of the situation but also more and more annoyed by these systematically provocative answers coming from an upper floor ...:

• "... Are you done ? Have you finished your monologue? "

• "No, I still have a lot of useless things to say to make you waste your time and your patience. Why, what are you going to do? "

• "I propose that we stop it there, we have smarter to do right now, don't you think? "

• "(Sings loud and of key) LALALALAAAALALALALALAAAAAAA! "

• "Shut up would you ... you tire me, really."

• " Oh yeah !? Monsieur is tired? Whoua, too strong the adventurer, I knew he would not go very far that one! Are you giving up!?

• "Can you stop transforming everything I say please? "

• "WHAT 'R YOU GONNA DOOOOOO ??!!"

A hudge punch came off Bashful's moisted right hand, whom, by his indisputable victory over Grumpy at the same time abandons what he had most precious and dearest. By the fact of having succumbed to this too obvious violence, Bashful had in fact offered himself to Grumpy who was jubilant, his eyes exalted, his mouth wide open, tongue out, a long sigh strangled at the top of his throat. He had just offered him full power over my soul ... I absolutely must stop. NOW ! RIGHT HERE !

What also changes a lot with the vast expanses of nothing is that there are almost no landmarks or distractions on the side of the road. So many excellent excuses that usually invite to stop to recover or simply lounging by immersing yourself in an orchard, a tree, its engraved rock, sanctuary ... While here, grazing the asphalt that ripples under the burns, waiting for the mirage that never happens, it is easy to exceed the reasonable threshold by rolling more than we would have.

Fortunately the Wind is here. Hello God, be praised, thank you for coming. Mostly by my side and powerful since Laayoune, he is as ruthless and frank as the sun, he decides if I have to suffer. He gives the rules. Difficult, if not impossible, to escape completely from his indefatigable stream. Where does all this power come from, who would only think of defying such a force?

I would call him Dimitri because I do not remember his name. From very far I still think to wander, closer ... It is clearly a two-wheeled upstream. Too small for a moto. A small motorcycle ? Impossible, it's been a long time since the last fishermen are behind, the next camp is too far for these small styles of Solex. Shit ... It's a bike! Its enemy of the day rolls by my side, the wind is of such force that might be at 25km / h while hardly pushing. We stop at the same height, the black strip of road tar separates us, as laid on this sterile white decor where nobody but us, the stones and silver ants can now relate this meeting. I am captivated ... We stay a few moments, like that, the honest and pure smile of these great children who have one day sworn to do nothing like the others.

He goes through, he is not very tall, rather thin. Pepper and salt short, face and skull discovered, not shaved since at least the last time. The holes and hollows of his burned-out figure remind us of the condition of the travel bags hung on his old bike. The eyes as sharp as the whips of the caravaneers, he inspects the cart, then the sail, then the skates. Exalted he is, not crazy, it's easy to see. None of our respective dialects allow us to communicate clearly through words. He is obviously Polish. He explains that he is returning from the Mauritanian border some 500km from here, where he was sent back for not being able to pay the entry visa. Since then, he has been riding against the wind, going back in time, insulting the primary logic of natural forces because God wanted it because he accepted to be his servant. Professions of faith are never reasonable for those ones. Who knows where he went. Did he know himself? Is it important ?

The sand is everywhere.

After Laâyoune I find myself for good in the Sahara. I meet a new people, the Saharaouis. On the paper of the cards, they are very Moroccan because the territory has been annexed since the end of the Spanish domination in 1975. I put a little time to realize the sensitivity of the subject.

Great human suffering transpires on this land of treasures, this land of wealths, both terrestrial and marine. The gold of the sultans seems once again to have bought, for a time certainly, the bravery of the great tribal chiefs who, formerly it is said, knew how to defeat an entire army.

While many Saharawis, such as the hard-nosed children of golden sand and silver moons, still live in great incense tents and camels branded with iron, Morocco seems firmly anchored in the area. After all the Dakhla peninsula, up to the Mauritanian border. Here and there we come across villages of settlers and bases, families of soldiers and persistants that guarantee the sovereignty of a kingdom.

Domination silently disputed in these almost secret meeting points where the shadows under the oil lamps recall the atmosphere of pirate landmarks in the north, foggy and mystical. However musics and dark turbans, as if toning the night with a note of kohl, would bring us back to those nocturnal tales that we stopped counting.

Hidden behind this wooden panel, it is the only point of supply to 50km round, it is time to sleep, since long.

On this cliff coast along the only road, I discover landscapes that remind me of my research routes and stories from travelers ... It's very beautiful. Never been to see the cliffs of my own region in Normandy, but it must be at least as good, certainly less cold here by now.

At day 1 back on the road I briefly meet a couple of bicycle, a belgo / Moroccan and his darling, Chinese. We will not stay together that day, I need to hit the road a bit ... I'll leave them behind.

The nights on the coast and even a few miles inland are cold. A dozen degrees and humidity is incredibly high and this, from the sunset. One of the improvements that Mysty and I have enjoyed during these three weeks is the creation of an isolated space underneath through a tarp and sail. So, still no tent but almost the same comfort without having to sleep separated from my faithful companion ... Even sleeping next to me I happen to wake up in panic after a nightmares where it was stolen during my sleep .

I spend a night near the fishermen with their tiny recycled huts that marry the cliff, almost camouflaged. And another close to the military, in small houses in breeze blocks, they are here to prevent trafficking and illegal immigration to the Canary Islands.

I found again my two cyclists 150 kilometers away, two days later at the only service station on the road. We decide to make the last 40 kilometers to Tarfaya together with a fabulous back wind ... Arrived on site, at dusk, they start looking for a hotel. I propose a deal to Sami to "skew" this rule of 0 budget for accomodation that tonigh, once again, is very restrictive: they'll pay my night and I would provide the dinner ... It works.

The next morning our paths are separated again, they prefer the coast road to the inland national leading to Laayoune (this time we can choose!). My decision to continue through the land is largely influenced by the information I get from here and there about the state of the coastal road.

It will turn out that half of the National 1 (although better than the other way) is in a ... let's say ... painful condition, especially when it comes to rollerblading it. For my luck I still have the wind with me and thank you my God, it's really no luxury. The track between Guelmim (another city further north) and Laayoune will be completely rebuild in two years, we'll be able to cross barefoot without fear of scratching our heels! For now it's a little complicated, some sections are new and slip like on a speed track, others make me spend the worst hours of my skater life... Even equipped in 150mm the grain of the road is so thick that it destroys my feet and knees. The road is so exploded that I am more at ease on the tracks under construction where the compacted sand, although absorbing much the effort remains a lesser evil.

I reach Laayoune a little tired of this complicated stretch and tries to let pass this feeling of anxiety with concerning the continuity of my road which is announced more and more difficult. For now I can relax again, I find new friends.

We meet at the entrance of the city, he brings me directly to the house. Once the cart parked I meet Mama and 4 of his brothers. It is a very pretty little house where reigns a beautiful atmosphere, despite the difficult episode that runs through Walid, one of the big brother. He can not get up to greet me, his father at his side. He went to see a healer two days ago for nasty stomach pains. The woman would have recommended treatment that ended destroying his stomach. With his last strength he had returned to find her. She then diagnosed him an imminent death by measuring his fingers and forearms using a rope, to compensate him certainly ... He suffers and seems terrified.

Omar started skating just 2 years ago and has already won several national titles, he is the pride of the association Extreme Laayoune which he is part. He is not the only talent of the small structure which from the height of his 4 years of existence can already boasted victories. It must be said that they put the pack here, the city has 2 skatepark and Najib, the president of Extreme is the ideal mentor for these young people in search of accomplishment.

My passage is an opportunity to shed some light on their activities, the local TV is rushed for the occasion. I never thought I would ever be able to answer an interview in Arabic ... No, actually, I just recited the little speech that I have oiled well since the beginning of the trip, nothing more. With Omar we will also have a video session one morning, we edit editing for his portfolio of rider.

The first night I when arrive, after greeting the whole family, Omar is dying to show me the skate park. We are on the way when, on a crossroads, we cross the road of my two bycile travlers friends quite by chance. What a sync, when we know that Laayoune has no less than 220,000 souls! They are tired, we plan to see each other longer tomorrow for a trip in the dunes at the exit of the city.

After the visit of the skate park and the lesson with the children, it is exactly at the same crossroads that will be installed for dinner, a beautiful Berber omelette. While we are just starting to eat, a motorcycle tumbles out of nowhere and stops right in front of our table that we share with members of Extreme Laayoune. It is obviously a traveler, it looks like a space pirate straight out of the stars, wandering between the galaxies for millennia ... Enthusiastic to meet another original the motor didn't even stopped yet that I am already standing to greet him. His eyes under his visor and the flag torn behind his bike tells me that he comes from the land of the rising sun. He is twice my age, carrying his hand to his mouth, fingers outstretched and grouped, I realize he asks me if he can eat with us ... He is hungry.

Then, seats at my left side a quit extraordinary character : Chen Luang Quan.

In short, he has been traveling the world on a motorcycle for 15 years, traveling through 109 countries andvisibly on a very tight budget. His trip, he decided to dedicate it to peace between people and contries. He carries with him a long rolled white sheet which serves to collect the peace of the world. I connect it directly with Lorin and Sami, cyclists reunited a few hours before at the exact same place, certainly the only two Chinese in town.

So we will all meet the next day in front of the Spanish church. We really form a team of shock. After meal shared with this new little clan that is formed we go for a walk in the desert together. I find this configuration of people incredibly beautiful and poetic. I would ride on the bike with Chen while the cyclists are cycling and Omar on my rollerblades.

For the first time in my life, I am walking on real dunes. This is a very special moment for me. A moment of great symbolism, the signing of an achievement, the beginning of a new era.

I am here, like I was in my dream, in this old dream... Life has finally taken me there. Surronded by Omar, Lorin, Sami and Chen, I feel, I know, I am, we are, exactly, perfectly.

At the top, three grandpa chatting, leaning in line on the guardrail. They greet me with clapping hands, eyes full of questions ... Leached but smiling, I stop at their level. My legs do not work anyway.

My little speech of presentation of the trip in Moroccan just begins to be built at this stage of the trip. I can not hide my immense satisfaction when I am understood! I'm less clever when the first questions arrive but hopefully mimes always do the job.

When comes the famous question: "where do you sleep?" I take this opportunity to explain that I'm looking for a place for my mat and sleeping bag. So after a little consultation they let me know that Oussien is the guardian of the citrus field on the other side of the road. He invites me to spend the night there.

Once the camp is installed along a row of citrus trees, Oussein has already prepared tea on a stove, I bring back my provisions, one of the guys from the side of the road also has bread to share, so is improvised a happy feast on a few pieces of cardboard. I'm happy to share a meal, I've been eating alone for a long time. And even if the language barrier is there, I remain admiring, in front of all, these efforts that they make to make me understand, willing to exchange bread and stories!

At first I understand that Oussein must go home and he will come back tomorrow to check that the field is fine, or something like that ...

In fact Oussein also spends the night on the spot (well yes jojo, it is his job to keep the field, remember?). To camp he uses these big blankets of the wheat, very warm and comfortable but very voluminous and heavy. For me it's a bit of a shame tonight. My mattress is still punctured. I feel a little too skilled by rebutting a leak in the dark ... Too bad it was not the only hole! I'm at least as exhausted as the mattress, so I'm about to spend the night on my clothes as a spare bed.

Seeing this, Oussien hands me one of his blankets and keeps his coat ... A real dad.

As we pack our respective stuffs, Oussien repeats to me again what he told me yesterday ... I finally understand that he invites me to come to his home, at Ouled Ameur. It is a village a few kilometers away, I would follow him on his bike to the track to the hamlet.

At the end of the dirt road, already well attended at this time, a little haven of peace where time seems to have stopped a long time ago. No car but rude, we meet at least 5 shepherds with their flocks and young men from the village are on their way to the fields. Only the electric line, the caps, the shoes and the tires of the chars remind us of our century.

We arrived at the man who is nicknamed mustache here, as his father was called before him. He opens the gate and we put Mysty safe in the big yard where everything happens ...

I meet then a very beautiful family in the house of Oussien. His wife, his two sons and their wives and his granddaughter. A sweet and peaceful note of harmony blows in my heart as I discover the inhabitants of this house who treat me like a prince.

Mom has already washed my clothes when I come out of the shower garden, we are at table the next moment in front of a fabulous tajine at least as big as my emotion. Difficult to explain with the words just the feeling that provides the warm welcome of these familiar yet unknown people who whispered to me already "if you're fine, I'm fine" in a divine smile filled with love, trust and sharing .

Always on the periphery are the building materials where Ammad discusses a price for these 30 wooden piles that he needs to build his own house in Ouled Ameur. After organizing the transport and passing the mechanical to straighten one of my broken trailer wheels, we arrive in the heart of the souk. This is where we will shop for the week. Difficult to determine the extent of the place as it is dense, the stalls, the people, we see only about ten meters. Heavy canvas fabrics are stretched very low above our heads, they let pass here and there the sun. Its burning rays sparkle the golden dust of the dry soil of this timeless scene. As fine as the smells of spices, they seem to be part of the great dance that has been taking place here every week for an eternel time.

I would stay just a day and a night in Oussien's family. I really want to hit the road. Oussien prepared the horse and the wagon to bring me back to the national road, a noisy and colorfull departure ! The hugs are strong and sincere, it's crazy but I feel my heart tighten in my chest. I realize how quickly and how intensely my attachment to them has become, I feel so grateful.

I also know really privileged to have crossed the path of the guardian of the field that night. And blessed, to have been adopted by this family of light.

En voulant bien faire, peut être. En voulant partager l'expérience, possiblement. En voulant se faire mousser d'avoir vu, certainement. Quoi qu'en soit la raison, on me déverse des fosses septiques entières de peur sur la tête depuis des mois, notamment par rapport au Maroc quand je fait référence à ma règle concernant le logement : budget 0.

Je crois revivre les efforts de découragement que je reçois pendant de ma traversée d'Amérique centrale en stop en approchant d'Honduras. Ou encore les "conseils" relatifs à  mes vagabondages dans le désert en Égypte. Je sais au fond que j'ai de loin la préparation pour apprécier un nouveau pays sans avoir la peur de l'autre, mais c'est inévitable, quand on me parle, j'écoute.

J'aime croire que la légitimité de mon intention de voyage et le libre arbitre des hommes et femmes que je croiserais feront bon ménage. Et c'est bien ce qui se passe, dès mon arrivée de l'autre côté du détroit. Le voyage n'en est pas moi difficile mais il est, une fois encore, déconcertant de constater à quel point on s'est laissé polluer par les peurs des autres...

Je suis très rapidement à l'aise et plus détendu, à croire que cette attitude d'ici m'est contagieuse. D'ailleurs, la différence de qualité d'accueil et de sympathie des marocains à mon égard par rapport aux espagnols est difficilement de comparable. Beaucoup de bonjour spontanés, d'encouragement, d'invitations même. Là où en Espagne il faut essuyer les regards méprisants plein air d'incompréhension et de peur la plupart du temps.

Si l'on écoute trop les conseils avisés de ceux qui n'arrivent pas à gérer leurs propres peurs, alors on s'imagine débarquer dans un pays où à chaque coin de rue vous attend une espèce de malade avec une lame pour vous déposséder de tout et peu être bien de votre vie au passage. Certe, comme partout, le risque zéro n'existe pas et des mésaventures peuvent aussi m'arriver. Qui n'a jamais pris aucun risque ? Qui n'a jamais eu de problème ? Et puis si on y pense, la rubrique des faits divers de nos sages compagnes hexagonales n'a certainement pas à être gênée, la France possède un excellent potentiel de créativité en terme d'insécurité.

Alors si je peux vous donner un conseil, pour le camping sauvage, ça sera celui de la première personne qui me donnera un avis décontracté vis à vis de cette pratique en Afrique du nord. Un monsieur d'une cinquantaine d'années en fauteuil roulant, il arpentait le pays de long en large depuis des années au volant de son camion. Son conseil est simple, il était fait déjà mes règles, comme pour beaucoup : "cherche ton bel endroit d'aujourd'hui avec enthousiasme, il t'est toujours accessible si tu y reste ouvert. Souri aux rencontres que la route te présente. Fais ceci, tu le trouvera ton endroit du jour, tu pourra t'y reposer en paix."

Et il a tellement raison, et je suis bien placé pour le savoir, quand je fais pas d'effort je passe de mauvais moments, comme toi ! Ça fait partit de notre éternel apprentissage.

So just maybe a practical advice, for the nights, always be out of town if you are camping.