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Motorcyclist Illustrated October, 1975
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part 2
by Fergus Reilly
Morocco, an unpublished section 2231 klms
Ceuta, Spanish enclave in Morocco October 19th, 1974 (day 46 - 9532 klms)
to
Oujda, Morocco October 31st, 1974 (day 58 - 11763 klms)
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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.
We were enjoying the empty roads with solid surfaces and
long straight stretches as we traveled through the arid countryside
with spasmodic patches of agriculture but it became obvious our intended
destination for the night - Rabat - was going to keep us on the road
until after dark so we elected to stop for the night at a seaside
campground just outside Plage Mehdia which had immaculate amenities,
including a pedestal toilet, for a next-to-nothing tariff, Morocco
seemed to be turning out very different to the warnings we had in
Scotland.
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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.
I had been suffering from a persistent cold ever since
we crossed the English Channel and decided to start a course of
Paludrine since it seemed it wouldn't get better as long as I spent the
day on the bike - it was a 6 week course and was to have major
consequences down the road. This was also the day we passed the 10,000Km
mark.
We had a late start as it had rained during the night
and we did our best to dry the tents before packing everything for the
day's ride which would take us through Rabat. There seemed to increasing
official nervousness about travelers as we began to encounter
roadblocks manned by armed police with rather atrophied senses of
humour. Continuing down the coast we came to another idyllic beach side
near Oualidia - expensive camping fees persuaded us to try free camping a
few hundred metres south of the campground and we were happily set up
when an emissary from the campground arrived bearing a formal letter
explaining it was “interdit au camping la†(forbidden to camp there).
When we explained we couldn't afford the camp fees, the letter was
immediately torn up with a grin and the explanation that the patron was
an Algerian who “knew nothing about Moroccan hospitalityâ€! |
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.
The hospitality we had enjoyed in Oualidia caught up
with us here as our bowels turned to water - very hot water at times -
and we spent a day munching charcoal tablets and visiting the ablution
block frequently! The next day we were well enough to visit the Medina
where we enjoyed exquisite orange lassies on an umbrella-clad balcony
overlooking the main square with its date sellers, snake-charmers,
story-tellers - each with an enthralled circle of spell-bound audience.
On each side runs the seemingly endless rabbit warren of stalls through
which courses the life-blood of the market endlessly haggling over the
price of dates, figs, baubles, materials, spices,ornaments, kitchen
goods, grains and, of course, the omnipresent tourist wares. |
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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.
We passed through increasingly mountainous terrain with
near-invisible villages clinging to rocky mountainsides, each wit its
complement of enthusiastic children who would run beside the bikes as we
passed through their community - always cheerful and always with some
unseen wares to sell. Sharyn's bike continued to chew through spark
plugs at an alarming rate and I was grateful KLG had given us as many
spares as we wanted. The mountain air seemed to be making the plugs
foul rapidly and we were happy to reach Beni Mellal with its 17th
century Bel-Kush kasbah overlooking the Beni Amir plain on our return to
lower altitudes |
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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.
Our journey was made all the more enjoyable by a
never-ending chorus of “You are welcome in Taza†delivered in faultless
English, we spent the balance of the day sewing and slept well after
thoroughly servicing the bikes including shortening the chains by a link
as they had stretched significantly with the mountain work in the
Atlas.
The next morning found us hopelessly lost in Oujda
looking for the border post to Algeria - we eventually found it and a
huge queue at passport control where chaos seemed to be reigning supreme
and we settled down for the interminable wait to be processed,
reminiscing on our fond memories of Morocco and the groundless fears we
had been inundated with before arriving.
Algeria, however, was to prove a different kettle of fish altogether. |
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