It was good to know that in the 12 years since we’d done the Plymouth Dakar Rally, the Moroccan border experience hadn’t changed much.
As soon as we arrived in Ceuta we were approached from all sides with gentleman claiming to be the best fixer in town.
“I know Chief of Police”
“I know the King of Morocco”
“Do you support Manchester United?”
It’s hard to fathom how clearing customs took over two hours when the actual border process involved handing over terribly photocopied copies of the customs declaration form and acquiring a stamp in our passports.
The customs officer’s ink pad was so dry that the stamp was barely visible. Maybe he’d stamped in a cartoon dinosaur. We didn’t much care. He then proceeded with intense questioning while trying to watch a football match on a black and white portable TV.
“Have you got local insurance?”
“No”
“Will you get insurance at next town?”
“Yes”
“OK go”
We went to the next town. We didn’t get local insurance.
When does a drink become a salad?
Having “cleared” customs our plan was to start with a nice gentle run along the Mediterranean coast. It was now approaching sunset but we were in no hurry.
Two days earlier we were sat outside a cafe in a small town in Spain trying to work out where to stay. An old man walking by, turned to us, and without speaking placed his hands to his cheek in a “sleep?” gesture. We nodded.
He reached behind Matt’s head and pushed open a wooden door. It was an apartment overlooking the square and it was all ours.
Due to that moment of serendipity we decided that for the rest of the trip we would not seek places to stay – we would let the Africa come to us.
As the sun began to fade we stopped at a beach-front cafe, parked up and gazed out to sea in complete confidence that the universe would conjure up an overnight stop.
The waiter offered us some mint tea which we gladly accepted. It was so loaded with sugar you could have laid bricks with it. As we sat there pulling faces like our tongues needed a shave, curious locals started to mill around. Some did the stand-at-a-distance-with-hands-behind-the-back-stare. Others offered a polite greeting.
As we paid the bill a smartly dressed man introduced himself as “Aziz” and asked if we wanted to stay the night at his place. With an expectation of pitching our tents in his back yard, we were delighted to be offered the top floor of his beach-front house, with its own kitchen, bathroom, and walled garden to park the bikes in. The plan was actually working. Clearly someone, somewhere had aligned some stars.
We gratefully parked up at Aziz’s house, showered and made our way up to the rooftop terrace to watch the sunset. The only thing to top this off would be some cold beers.
Aziz took a deep intake of breath, shook his head, saying it was not possible. By way of apology he promised to get us weapons-grade hashish within five minutes if that helped. We politely declined.
Aziz then summoned his son, gave him some money, and sent him off in to the night. About an hour later he came back with a couple of carrier bags of…cold beer!
Of course we now all felt terribly guilty that we’d sent a ten year old boy off to hustle some beers but he seemed genuinely delighted when our faces lit up and we paid him back with a tip.
Aziz said we could drink our beers on the strict condition we didn’t wake up his wife. Assuring him that we weren’t likely to go all Magaluf on him, he bid us goodnight and woke us the next morning with a breakfast of hot coffee and cakes while we mapped the next stage of the trip.
After the customary round of photos, swapping of email addresses, and empty promises of meeting up again in the future, we headed out for the next leg of the journey towards Fez and the Atlas mountains. Things had gone way too smoothly up until now so it was inevitable really.
To get some distance under our belts we decided to take the main route. We’d only just started thinking that Moroccan driving wasn’t as bad as it used to be, then we arrived in Fez. It all came flooding back. In places like this the highway code might as well be replaced with the Beano.
In comparison to say India, it was actually fairly well organised chaos as opposed to total chaos but even so it pays to keep your wits about you. Every set of traffic lights was like the start of a Moto GP race, only without waiting for the lights to actually change colour.
Local etiquette dictated that the horn had to be applied constantly. Only brief silences were permitted when your spare hand was otherwise engaged in lighting your pipe or combing your moustache. There was no such thing as a two or three lane highway. Instead, lanes are formed by the number of vehicles that can physically fit in a space without a pile up.
The entertainment value reached its peak when Charlie failed to slow down for a roundabout. This particular roundabout was either five or eight lanes wide depending on whether you count people in the middle of the road selling melons, as traffic.
We looked on in awe as Charlie weaved through the tiniest of gaps. He narrowly missed a bloke walking against the traffic, pushing a wheelbarrow made from a bath tub, and slid unceremoniously to a juddering stop using the soles of both his boots. We assumed Charlie had simply earned his Moroccan racing stripes quicker than the rest of us until we found him on the far side of the roundabout looking for his rear brake pedal.
After the laughter had subsided we partook of a long lazy lunch of grilled kebabs then decided to get clear out of Fez and head towards the Atlas mountains.
Charlie, post-roundabout roulette