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Motorcyclist Illustrated October, 1975 |
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 part 2by Fergus ReillyMorocco, an unpublished section
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After an afternoon squatting by the bikes on bitumen in the hot sun we embarked on the 6pm ferry to Ceuta with headaches - our first taste of dehydration it seemed. After working our way through disembarkation chaos we headed for the edge of the enclave - Ceuta is a few square miles of Spain on the African continent and Africa really begins at the frontier. We were lost in no time at all - it was dark and - unsurprisingly, Fergus' headlight refused to work (it turned out the battery had exploded and was useless for the rest of the journey) and so we had to travel by the light of one beam guiding us. We had seen one signpost for the frontier but no more; the situation was becoming more uncomfortable as every policeman we passed (and there seemed to be an endless supply of them) made it abundantly clear they didn't like the lightless bike by blowing their whistle furiously. |
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Finally we were stopped and given the ultimatum - leave the country or be arrested - fortunately we were close to the border post and reached there without further ado, initially relieved we hadn't reckoned with African customs - something we were to learn about many times on our journey. Late - or so it seemed to us - at night is not the best time to be introduced to the intricacies of African customs, it seems that the way to drive through Africa is to import your vehicle when you enter a country and then export it when you exit the country - the process greatly aided by having a carnet de passage. As you would expect, importing a vehicle is not a straightforward process anywhere in the world and it is a banquet for bureaucrats everywhere - it involves logbook examination, baggage searching, insurance purchasing, driver's license verification, carnet de passage pawing - just to start with. Eventually it was complete and we were passed through the customs post relatively unscathed. |
It was nearly 10pm by now and nightfall was long gone. We entered Africa proper tired, frustrated and increasingly desperate to find a safe place to camp - all the horror stories we'd been subjected to about the cut-throats and bandits roaming the Moroccan countryside were now running uncensored through both our heads causing further alarm! Eventually we saw a small building some distance up a side-road and decided to stop there as it seemed to be the only shelter we would find that night.
We formed the bikes into a circle around the opening and laid down to get some sleep - wondering in we'd even see the light of day again. After 15 minutes or so we became aware of a dim light slowly weaving its way towards us - our imaginations took off at an alarming rate as we came to terms with our approaching fate - the 10 minutes it took the bearer to reach us may be the longest 10 minutes of my life!
The light was carried by a wizened old man who spoke neither French or English but who went to great lengths to impress on us a sense of dire urgency that we follow him straight away. We were already deep into a state of dire urgency so we pushed our bike along behind him - wondering just what we were getting into. We soon arrived at a large complex of 2-story buildings all dark and quite foreboding as they loomed out of the darkness, threading our way between them we were urged to push the bikes up a short flight of stairs, along a wide corridor, through a door just wide enough to accommodate the handle bars and into a large room whose furthest reaches the lamp wouldn't illuminate.
This was our guide's bedroom with a simple bed and table and not much else we could see - much more gesticulating ensued after which we settled down for our first night on African soil - Sharyn in the bed, me of the floor next to it and the guide on the floor outside the doors acting like a guardian. In the morning we could see that we were in a large, empty school of some kind and our benefactor was clearly it's caretaker. We were woken at sunrise and given more tea - our fears having evaporated in the night we were on our way by 7am with a deep sense of gratitude at being so graciously looked after.
Our first morning in Morocco
was punctuated by petrol station stops - Sharyn's bike was consuming
more and more fuel so I reset the carburetor to it's leanest setting
which seemed to work well - at this stage I had no thoughts about the
electronic ignition being problematic. We drove along excellent roads
through fairly empty countryside punctuated by dry river beds and
occasional crops. We passed several queues of djellabah-clad men and
colourfully dressed women patiently waiting for the next bus which, as
often as not, would be full and roar past them without stopping. The
other common means of transport we saw were the donkey and the Mercedes
Benz saloon - both common sites throughout our journey in Morocco. |
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It was here we first met
with the omnipresent kif vendors - often emulating cloak and dagger
antics reminiscent of a farcical remake of Casablanca. At times the
encounters were so cloaked in deviousness we were unsure whether the
individual was wanting to buy or sell. Even the campsite guard got
involved, offering special discounts for the campsite patrons! The local
beach was blessed with some good surf that day and we met some surfers
from Australia enjoying what would eventually become yet another
renowned surfing break. |
Deciding to rest for a day we received a regular stream of well-wishing local visitors, many of whom brought us food or other welcome gifts which seemed completely at odds with what we had been so warned so often to expect in Morocco. Despite an overcast morning this was a perfect place to take a day off and we basked in the warmth of the local hospitality and the intermittent sunshine. Next stop was Marrakesh - the archetypical Moroccan destination and - so we thought - just a leisurely day's drive away so we started with a leisurely departure and were on the road by 8:30.
Police Roadblocks were becoming more frequent, each with several grim submachine-gun-carrying officers and the viscous spiked mats stretched across the road which would only be moved aside once they were satisfied we were legitimate travelers This process took varying amounts of time - the last one of the day lasted over 2 hours as they made us unpack every single item on both bikes. By the time we were repacked it was after dusk in the middle of the countryside with no safe haven in sight.
Again the bikes lights (or
lack thereof) made the going extremely difficult and we ended up camping
in a field beside the road - the only security being a sparse thorn
bush which we hoped would obscure our presence from police patrols and
wandering bandits. Marrakesh - so near and yet so far! We were back on
the bikes by sunrise the next day and ensconced in a popular campground
deep in the suburbs of Morocco by late afternoon where we planned to
spend 4 days exploring the city and surrounds. |
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We posted our first installment to Motorcyclist Illustrated - exposed film and hand-written copy - the authorities were highly suspicious of the films' content and grilled us in broken English as to the content - whether they were shots of Moroccan crimes or army installations - maybe they were regarded as equally censorable images? They package was finally accepted and we were, once again, free to return to the campsite where we joined a group of fellow travelers in sampling the local kif cake which took care of the rest of that day.
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Our brief sojourn ended with
another leisurely departure as we headed south west towards the Atlas
Mountains via El Kelaa and were once again subjected to intense
searching at a road block which once again left us in the middle of
nowhere with dark approaching and no hospitality in sight. At least we
were becoming more relaxed with finding a roadside wadi or shelter to
spend the night. |
The broad plains below Beni Mellal clearly benefited from extensive irrigation - no doubt from the winter snows in the Atlas - and were a thriving agricultural centre populated with the ubiquitous donkey carts transporting an endless variety of harvests to market.We passed through Fez and cashed another travelers cheque as the Moroccan money was clearly not going to see us to the border. We were now passing trough the Moyen Atlas but the roads continued to challenge us with frequent hairpin bends and steep gravel sections - a delight normally but quite stressful on bikes as loaded as our were. More roadblocks dotted our passage but thankfully the only interest shown was in our passports and we were waved on without extensive searches.
We camped in an empty
campground in Taza where we were given a room at no extra cost and spent
the evening enjoying conversation, kif and mint tea with the camp guard
who was, as always, well-versed in Mediterranean affairs. The next
morning we spent in Taza at the Medina, enjoying the notoriety of being
the only tourists in town and being treated to the local specialty of
fish and oyster kebabs cooked to perfection over charcoal fires. I think
the dried fig price reached it's lowest here at 10p/kilo - more than
we wanted but it seemed to be the smallest quantity we could buy, we
also restocked on embroidery threads - this being the past-time we had
chosen for the journey as it involved the least weight. We searched
through the ever-present urban rabbit warren in vain for the Grand
Mosque, repeatedly running into the town wall. |
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