Morocco

Ahh...if only we'd decided on three months in Morocco. So far we have been here for 6 days and we are just about getting into our chill zone. Mark is finally relaxing, despite having to deal with the hassle and payment etiquette at the border, talk his way out of a 400dh fine for crawling instead of stopping at a police check point, being unable to access alcohol on demand and, due to navigatorial incompetence, negotiate the Karachi like back-streets of Larache, which steadily deteriorated into a rubbish strewn, rock filled puddle 100m from a busy road junction.


We arrived nervously in Cueta on the 28th, got hustled immediately out of 15 euros and spent another 100dh paying various blokes to ease our way through the border. We headed straight for Martil, thirty km or so down the coast, and plotted up for a few days to acclimatise. I washed all our clothes peasant stylie, Mark got propositioned for a hash deal within 15 minutes and Silvie befriended the campsite's resident shepherd. Then we made our first foray into a Moroccan town. Totally hassle free. despite the stories we have heard to the contrary. We ate a fantastic lunch for almost no money, bought provisions in the local shops and chatted to the campsite workers about the proliferation of middle aged french travellers in white vans and the environmental degradation that has come hand in hand with tourism.

In the evening we get to watch a Belgian crusty juggle with fire, and joined up with Robb and Helen, die-hard biker travellers who we first met in Bolonia on Christmas eve. We spent the evening celebrating Helen's 60th, the six of us in the caravan. Us 4 squashed up on the bed drinking whiskey out of plastic cups talking in hushed voices, while the girls slept soundly in their bunks. After a few days we made our way to Larache on the West coast. Driving through the mountains, watching people on donkeys loaded high with farm produce or pulling carts, ancient looking bicycles, and the ubiquitous grand taxis - Mercedes 240. At one point we saw two figures in the distance, she in blue, sitting on a donkey, and he in brown leading - 'Look it's Mary and Joseph! ' one of the girls piped up - and it was like watching the nativity before our very eyes. The campsite we were aiming for in Assila was closed, so after tense negotiations we went on to Larache and tried to find the free campsite. Unfortunately the road turned into a mud track, then a bolder strewn wetland, which led us steadily deeper into the less salubrious part of town. I asked directions, praying that someone spoke french, as my Arabic isn't a strong point-and were told we were going in the right direction. As previously mentioned things only got worse, but eventually, after Mark admirably rescued us from a difficult situation, we found the free site, complete with cafe, play-park, hot showers and clean toilets. We plotted up for new years eve celebrations with our one remaining bottle of wine. We had the good fortune to meet a convoy of English with various heavy duty trucks heading south for the Dakar rally. They shared their beer, snacks and stories. Come midnight Mark (a nutter with a plastic ear), after recounting a tale about getting drugged and serving a prison sentence in Sweden whilst drinking whisky at and African wedding, retrieved a jerry can full of Jim Beam from his truck. Introducing it as his new 'decanter', he proceeded to pour it straight from the can into our awaiting glasses. 'Nuff said. In the morning they left for Rabat, giving the girls presents before they left.
We walked into Larache, past the building sites that are everywhere to accommodate Morocco's new tourist acquired wealth, and spent the day wandering. We went to the souk, bought some couscous from an old bloke who looked like an extra from The Last Temptation of Christ, ate lunch and drank mint tea next to the 'Tele-boutique', then looked at the distant Spanish cemetery where Jean Genet is buried -got to get a bit of culture.

The next morning we head for El Jadida further down the coast and hole up for a couple of days. The Portuguese city is a 16th century port and is still functioning and lived in as such. It was really interesting to see the similarities with Portugal – history brought to life. We spent hours in the Portuguese cistern, looking at our reflections in the shallow water from every conceivable angle. Testing the acoustics, taking photos. Well recommended. We climb the battlements and visit a fish cafe in the port and order the local fare. A selection of freshly caught fish battered and fried with heads still intact. Bread and salad. The children hardly complain, indeed Silvie takes great pleasure in introducing her delicious 'mate' by animating its head and saying hello. Frida is slightly less impressed. On the way back we get caught in a tropical storm, palm trees bend and water pours forth, and we take refuge in a cafe and just watch - wondering how wet we are going to get on our way back to the campsite. Luckily it stops as suddenly as it started so we go back and plan the next stretch of the route. Can we make Essouira in a day? We're going via the coastal route – no more motorways from here on in.

We travel South, the storm and rain that started the night before following us as we go. We think about stopping off at Oulidia, parking up next to 25 modern white campers. We walk on the beach, then start to cross the causeway which leads to the spit. Unfortunately the tide is coming in and a single wave starts to cross the block our path, we run, laugh, scream towards the shore, trying to beat it but to no avail, we are all drenched up to our ankles. The rain has decimated our shoe supply, and growing feet have made the wellies and Silvie's boots (bought a mere two months ago) redundant. Their trainers are still wet from the unexpected downpour the day before, and Silvie is inconsolable after the adrenaline rush of the event and loss of her only pair of dry shoes. We manage to calm her with promises of new ones from the souk in Essouira . We eat lunch in the caravan, declining offers of couscous bought to the caravan, and razor clams from the back of an old bloke's bike. We decide to drive all the way.


We arrive (as usual) after dark, go the wrong way into town, turn round, miss the campsite, turn again and find the campsite full. Luckily there is a huge car park on the outskirts of the town so we park up. No electricity, but free and spacious. In the morning, the girls go out for a pee and return in a state of total excitement.


Over the sand dunes is the beach and on the beach are camels, loads of them. They have already been offered a ride by the camel touts, so we lock up and go for an hours bumpy ride along the beach and sand dunes. Because of the short amount of time we have in Morocco and the size of the country, we hadn't thought it would be possible to get far enough south to ride a camel. Knackers the old hips though. I could feel it for two days afterwards.

We spent four lovely days visiting the medina, buying dry shoes for the kids at the souk, eating out, befriending the local children and 'chevaliers' along the beach. We had the pleasure of meeting Akhmed, a Berber with a camel, who came past the caravan every evening and took the children for a ride around the car park, talking at length about the touristic spread of Essouira, how the landscape and people had changed in the last 20 years, the rubbish, the hustling, the begging – not a feature previously, but now a good way of making a living. But the spirit of 'progress' is upon them now, we have seen it everywhere – in 10 years time Morocco will be to the French what the south of Spain is to the English! C'est pas bon, eh? The car park filled up on our last night with a convoy of French crusties, with weird and wonderful trucks welded together from military vehicles, caravans and buses. Mark and I got quite excited about what we could make or get for our next trip. It felt like being on holiday.


We have evidence of a stowaway in the car. A mouse has been travelling with us. We have suspected his presence for a while, there were sightings as far away as Sydenham, South London. Fig rolls have been nibbled, chocolate chomped, and a small nest found in the boot. The girls want to have it as a pet, but Mark regales us with stories of mice eating the 'loom' and disabling the vehicle, incurring much expense. He proceeds to purchase, with much difficulty, a mouse trap, involving me doing an impression of a mouse and a trap to make our requirements clear – we have a laugh in us own way. The trap is set. The first night he eats the chocolate round the edges. The second night the same. Me and the girls are making up stories about 'The mouse who travelled the world', imagining him looking out the rear window and saying 'oh look, there's a camel...etc etc. The third night I plead for the mouses life, and Mark concedes that if the mouse survives till morning, he's on the tour bus. Alas, this was not to be.

MISERY IN MARRAKESH.


Well, I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. We left Essouira early in the morning in order to make the drive to the Cascades d'Ouzoud before nightfall, but 15km outside Marrakech everything goes wrong. The car starts to rumble and smoke, and we stop on the road side to assess the damage. There is fuel all over the engine, smoke is billowing out. Mark sits with his head in his hands – this is his worst nightmare. He suddenly realises his error in killing the mouse. Now it's pay-back time. We are approaching a small town, the land is flat and dusty. A boy rides past on his bike and stops to look. Unfortunately he only speaks Arabic. Mark is about to call for recovery, when another man on a moped appears. He dives in. chatting to Mark in his best 'Berber' peppered with semi random french words and Arabic for good measure. He diagnoses cracked fuel pipe and disappears off down the hard shoulder with Mark hanging off the back of his rickety moped. 20dh for the weld, 50dh to the Berber roadside assistance, and 10dh each for the kids who fiddled with the engine – total £5- seemed like a bargain. He invited us back to his house for coffee but we declined his offer on account of the language barrier and the fact he lived in the opposite direction to the one we were travelling. When we start the engine up it still shakes uncontrollably until we reach speed. We make it to a French supermarket – the second one we have encountered in the whole country- buy provisions and booze. We decide to get the car looked at properly and make the decision to stop at a campsite in Marrakech and call the breakdown service. Marrakech with limping car is totally stressful, but we make it and camp next to the crustiest truck in the campsite. We may be here for a few days, so it's worthwhile picking the most interesting rig on the site. Good choice.

The dog / child fusion works within minutes, and I am offering them a 'tasse de the'. We relax and decide to call the breakdown service in the morning and spend the evening in the big truck chatting and drinking the wine we bought in Marjan. We are up till 3, and in the morning Mark begins to get stomach cramps, made worse by the fact that the guy at the breakdown centre tells us we aren't covered for breakdown in Morocco. He uses £30 worth of credit arguing the toss, and just as we'd given up and got ready to find someone to rip us off by ourselves, a truck arrives to take 'Speedy' (never was a car less appropriately named) to the local garage. Mark goes anxiously, plagued by his lack of French and ill health. But there is nothing else to do. Me and the girls wash the clothes, find a den, write in our diaries and draw pictures and Mark returns 3 hours later, carless. That evening Mattieu offers to go down the garage with Mark to bridge the language gap. We are communicating well in 2 languages. I speak in French, they in English, helping each other out and correcting mistakes and Mark throws in the odd 'dans ma poche' and 'quel surprise!' for good measure.

Next day Sasha and the girls make a tagine, I try to write a blog, Mark's stomach gets worse, and we are unable to contact the garage to find out when the car will be ready. He spends the day curled up on the bed in the caravan - ruing the day he killed the mouse. Mark gives up on phoning and goes with Mattieu in the truck to see what's happening. The garage is closed. The next day, reinforced with Sebastian and Mattieu's father in law, they drive back and berate the owner. (Turns out the holiday was related to the new moon, and couldn't be precisely predicted until the day...New moon, new year.) With the assistance of the French speakers and the fact that Sebastian's dad is a mechanic and lets on he knows the charging system, they negotiate a considerable discount.

Our last night in the Marrakech campsite was spent watching a movie in a home made open air cinema. We go our separate ways, addresses exchanged, the next morning and make our way to the Cascades d'Ouzoud.

We are 4 days behind schedule, and our plans to meet up with Jane and Jamey in Chefchouen have been scuppered by the delay. We decide to wait around at the cascades for them, as it's the most beautiful and chilled place we've been – apart from the nightly howling of the pack of wild puppies that foraged the local rubbish dump every night. We stayed at 'Rashid's Camping' a.k.a the car park at the back of his shanty town. Really cool though.



We gave him some provisions and his mother made us a tagine (but not necessarily out of the stuff we'd given her, you understand.) We fed the monkeys that live on the mountain, cooed at the permanent rainbow that lives with the waterfall, crossed the river on a gaudy raft and picnicked on the sunny side of the gorge. We spent the evenings in Rashid's super cool cafe.


Big open fire, mint tea, locals coming in an drumming the night away. Frida was ill but happy, Silvie the centre of attention, getting kissed and asked to play football with the local stall holders all the time. Jane and Jamey are on their way. We are planning to go the next day, (my birthday) We are going to spend the night with them, get up, and drive. I figure that way, Mark will have to be cheerful en route. A big plus, and worth the bum ache. However, this was not to be.
Instead, we spend another day at the Cascades and scrub Chefchouen from our itinery. We go to the local market, nearly buy a bargain of a carpet, but get into a wrangle over the price of a pair of second hand boots. believe me, it was absurd – half the price of the bloody carpet! It is another lovely day, and we eat in the cafe, go back to the van and talk like old friends.


Next day onwards, to Fez. It is a 10 hour drive, across breathtaking scenery. We stop Bin El Ouidane, truly the most beautiful place I have ever seen, and repeat endlessly to each other,
'Is that real?'
It looked like a painting.
We arrived in Fez, with the sketchiest directions from the guide, and find the campsite. Our plan is to leave the car and caravan there, go into Fes in the morning, and stay in a hotel of some description. We revel in electricity, watch Pirates of the Caribbean and sleep. In the morning we catch the local bus from 'the other side of the road' (what's wrong with a bus stop, man?)
We arrive in Fes with no map, but Londoners' sense of direction, and head off for the Medina. Some guy wants us to give him some lolly for walking in the same direction as us, while repeating 'Ill take you there' several times. We decline his offer then end up giving him 3dh, just to get him off our backs. We find the Bab Boubeloud (that might not be the right spelling) and walk inside, getting lost within moments. It is mad. We rush out again and re-consult our maps. We know the hotel is close, and manage to find it on the second attempt.






The place was beautiful and unexpected, but no bar, no anything but beds and tiles. We went out and ate, watching the comings and goings at the main gate from the terrace, and tried to eat pastilla – who invented that? A meat pie with sweet almonds and 3mm of icing sugar on the top...too weird man.











We had the pleasure of walking the alleys of the medina on Friday afternoon when all the stalls were closing and the sound of the muezzin echoed through the empty streets. Outside the mosque the air was filled with bees, catching the sunlight through the slatted roof of the souk. A film makers dream. A beautiful moment. We paid a girl to take us to the tanneries, and stood watching the men dyeing and drying leather hidden from the deserted streets. The rooftops were covered in wool and skins, and we watched a man take what looked like a handful of wet, white cloth, and transform it into a patchwork of stretched animal hides. We went back to the Ville Nouvelle, ate french patisserie and found the only off licence in Fes, before catching the overcrowded bus back to the campsite.
Wishing we had more time, we made our way back, in another massive hit of driving, across the Rif Mountains back to Martil. Our pit stop turned out to be the best restaurant in Morocco, whose clients included the King (not Elvis). The food – rabbit - was truly sublime. The children bought chocolate puddings with their own money, and debated whether or not to buy another when they'd finished. Total cost, about £15. Bargain.
We arrived back at our first stop, meeting up with the campsite locals and spending our last night in Morocco. In the morning we left early for the border chaos, but getting out was much simpler than getting in. The guard looked in the caravan, noticing the foodstuffs and implements that had fallen from the cupboards and shelves, and waved us on.


After a ferry ride and five police checks with dogs, we were back in Spain.

Luzianes; Lisbon and Christmas

Once again we arrive in the pitch blackness of night, after stopping off at ....... and asking a Portuguese bloke the way, phoning Sabine for directions and panicking somewhat at the sudden change in terrain. They live in a valley up a dirt track that snakes under dark, river lined tunnels, up and down, over the bridge and up a slope so steep that the car refuses to climb it. Steve is there guiding us up with his wind up torch, but the car won't budge, and we have to content ourselves with reversing and parking on the bridge next to their house. It is freezing. Mark is ultra stressed. Already worrying about how the fuck we are going to get out again, what is going to happen if it rains, whether the kids will fall into the river in the night, etc etc. We go up to the house, meet the family and eat, feeling strangely alien in the new environment. We take the girls to bed and chat about what to do. The caravan has sustained major damage to the roof during some unknown wood based collision between Coimbra and here. The seam is split and the metal twisted in two places. The music system in the car is crap and needs serious attention. If it rains (and the rain is two months overdue) the place will turn into a quagmire, and getting the caravan out of the valley looks like a delicate operation even in the current weather conditions. It is the same temperature inside the caravan as it is outside. We can see our breath by the light of the flourescent lantern. All our stuff needs charging. We laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it all and go to bed fully clothed. The next morning, the family leave for their kids' christmas concert and we are left to our own devices. The ground is still blanketed with frost at 10.30am. Mark has to re negotiate the hill that beat him the previous night. We have a fracas about strategy while Mark is reversing back off the bridge, and without warning, he stamps on the accelerator, surging off in a fit of pique. I watch the caravan bouncing this way and that, falling items clearly visible through the rear windows. But up it went, and so did our spirits, and we set up the rig on the slope and secured ourselves two hours extra sunlight (and warmth) a day.
The next day we need provisions, Steve offers to show the way, so he comes with us. Just as well. The 'roads' are mud tracks, leading to tarmacked roads, and on to more mud tracks. The village shop is like someone's front room, and Steve asks for the items we need in Portuguese, then we go round the back to find an incredibly well stocked shop in the back, and are able to buy more or less everything we need. We move on to the post office, another bar. We buy coffee and chocolate milk for the girls, who proceed to stick rose thorns from a stem they have found into their finger tips for fun. The village is tiny, with a river running through, we drink our coffee and chat about living the slow life with Steve while the locals pass in and out, chatting on the streets, drinking their varied beverages. He is a Scottish stonemason and poet, and is happy to live the simple life here, getting involved with village life. His children attend the local school and speak three languages - english, german (Sabine is german) and portuguese. They are virtually self sufficient. There is a small german community in the area and half the children in the local primary school are foreign.
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They have been living at the farm for two years, and Steve has done a phenominal amount of work on the place, using anything he can find, or is given. They have a solar panel and a generator, but it seems every time they get a new one it last a few weeks then dies. Even the solar panel is failing to produce the energy they need. Not good for us. My dreams of steamy showers and easy internet access are soon dispersed as we settle into a more basic mode Mark works, digging, collecting wood, building bean cane structures, and I wallow, limping about because the constant putting up and down of the beds has done my back in. The kids all play together, and relax into it in the way that children do. I content myself with menial tasks.


Taping the gaping hole in the caravan, fixing up a cloakroom in the old toilet, which will house the coats, jackets boots and shoes that constantly clutter the caravan. I fix the cupboard that won't close and sweep two weeks of muck off the caravan floor. The power situation is problematic for us, but even more so for Steve and Sabine. They have a constant battle on their hands for the most basic of facilities. Not important during the long hot summers, but at this time of year, when the temperature at night is well below freezing and nights draw in at 5.30pm, it's quite debilitating. We don't like to ask for power in these circumstances. We decide to take the train to Lisbon and stay overnight. Splash out on a two star hotel...hot showers lure us on. The rain arrives the night before we leave, and continues all the way to Lisbon. We have decided to go on a Tuesday because there is a hugh flea market on Campo de Sta. Clara every week. However, despite leaving Luzianes at 8.50am, and going straight to the market after dropping stuff off at the hotel, we arrive within 10 minutes of it closing..
Ah well, as Silvie says. We still manage to pick up a few bargains, I get 2 new dresses for a euro, frida gets a skirt, tee shirt, handbag and scarf for 2, and Silvie picks up a mickey mouse tee shirt and hat, for a euro more. We walk up and down the windy streets, castle in sight but no way of getting there, eat a hearty meal, cakes and coffee, then are treated to an amazing show of starlings on the waterfront. Ah...civilization
There are shops and christmas lights, and santa's special tram, and beautiful lifts and tiled buildings and staircases and hotels with hot showers. They live up to our expectations, no press buttons, time limits or draughts, a constant perfect water temperature. Lush. Cleaning our teeth till they shone, washing my hair for the first time in three weeks. We all came out warm and shining, feeling fresh and new.
The next day we had a ride on the no 28 tram, through Alfama, but the rain was heavy and we, being ourselves, forgot to take anything waterproof (I'd worn clothes soley for glamour value). We had lunch and had to head for the last train home - they run twice a day at 7am and 5.05pm. We left the centre at 3 to catch the connection to find they left every two hours and we'd already missed it. Foreigners abroad eh , forgot to read the timetables cos we couldn't locate them, and whereas I'd be able to ask in pigeon spanish for the information I'd need, portuguese is a totally different ballgame. We get ripped off by a taxi driver, but work out we're only 20 euros down. We catch the train.

Back at the ranch everythings back to cold and grey. The rain keeps coming and we realise we need to go before we're stuck. Steve has told us how the bridge had been washed away twice during their brief time there, so we decide to move on. In Lisbon we had read about Cintra, and its mystical reputation. Lay lines and batteries that drain quickly, lightbulbs that pop. Sound familiar? Possibly due to the angle of the iron lode in the rocks. We discuss a lead box for the batteries on the farm...who knows.
Next day, Sabine takes me for an amazing massage by a wonderful masseuse, and I am blissfully relaxed for an hour. I take my laptop and camera battery, and we all recharge together. After fond goodbyes we watch Steve pull the caravan down the track with his 4X4. Lovely time, lovely people.
Morocco here we come.

CHRISTMAS

We drive past Faro and the Algarve, stopping off for a night at Fuzeta,, a wierd campsite enclosed by high fences on all sides. Through the gates you can see the sea and marshes, and the next morning we walk to the seaside and wander around town, visiting the local market, eating more pastries in the Pastelaria. The girls befriend a pair of border collies and their owners. We stay for another night and move on. There is no christmas food. No cake ingredients, there is a paucity of gifts from santa and us. I manage to buy a penknife for Silvie at a service station. I read in the guide that Christmas in Spain is on the 24th. Today is the 23rd and it is a Sunday. All the shops we pass are closed, and I start to think about what I could possibly make with the ingredients we have . Potatoes, cabbage and carrots, various tins of fish, eggs and not much else. My Christmas anxiety has followed me unawares. I pull myself together and resign myself to being creative when in flashing lights ahead shines 'CARREFOUR' (pronounced 'care for' by Frida), and Mark tensely drives the rig into the car park. I find myself in a shopping mall, people, lights, products, plastic bags, lights, christmas a la capitalism. I hadn't missed it. We bought a chicken ans chocolate and cheerios on Silvie's request. Everything we needed. mark takes a phone call from Jamie. They will be in Chefchaouen on the tenth. We will be meeting mates in Morocco. How cool. Mark is totally happy, and suddenly chilled. When we get out it is dark - same old, same old...We negotiate the town, and manage by some miracle to find the campsite. It is extortionately expensive and full of modern tourers full of aging europeans with satellite dishes. We stay the night and decamp early, heading for the christmas stop in Tarifa. En route we stop off at Bolonia, site of more Roman ruins, sand dunes and the atlantic ocean. It is everything you don't imagine the southern coast of Spain to be. Undeveloped, unspoilt, quiet and peaceful. In the distance, across the sea, we can see the Atlas mountains. We are still in two minds about taking the caravan to Morocco, everyone we have mentioned it to has mumbled and disengaged eye contact at the mention. It'll be expensive, they tell us, you'll have to pay extra for the top box, there might be hassle over the lack of documents (it seems the UK is the only country where you don't need an MOT for a caravan - up until recently, Portuguese citizens even needed a registration document for their bicycles). Then we meet a biker and his limping mate, and their two orange haired spouses. One of them talks at length about travelling with caravan in Morocco. They make it all sound so easy, old hands. Their daughter goes on about her memories of Morocco as a child, then recommends a campsite on the beach just down the road. When we get there, I manage to secure a discount and we plot up for the festivities.

We put up and decorated the awning, instantly doubling the living space, and go to check out the beach. Very nice. Kids instantly run to the sea, then spot the sand dunes, then the 'lagoon', as they call it. The sun goes down, and we walk the three minutes back to the campsite. Kids abed with stories and songs, Silvie worrying that santa might not find her, finding two socks (which will never be the same again), and somewhere to hang it. They go to bed excited. Mark and I go through the usual Christmas eve ritual of drinking wine and wrapping presents. It was done in no time, we laughed at the simplicity and cheapness of it all. Usually we are up till 2am, having spent a small fortune and earning the christmas morning hangover whilst still worrying about the adequacy of it all. Tonight was better. Tomorrow we will go to the beach and make a cake, and play.
True to form, the kids wake up at the crack of dawn, but can't find the socks, so go back to sleep. Bliss. 2nd time they find their socks stuffed with chocolate and a small doll. They join us in bed for tea and biscuits. We have given them their flamenco dresses and a pen knife each, plus a CD of Queen's greatest hits - which includes their current favourite - Don't Stop me Now. They want to cut apples and sharpen pencils, they want to open and close the blades. We have to confiscate them within an hour after admitting to waving them at some other kids on the campsite to show off. They open their presents from nannies, grandads, aunties and uncles, all very well appreciated, then make phonecalls, feeling slightly homesick for the first time. I do miss everyone. Then we go for a walk down the beach taking our swimmers and towels but it is not really that warm. The beach is full of fully equipped germans, the car park is full of fully equipped german trucks. They are all kite surfing for christmas day, sporty in their neoprene outfits. We lay our frayed towels down, and head for the water. It's freezing, but we have to prove a point and go the whole hog. The girls play in the sand as my fingers go numb, we run back via the sand dunes, bumping into beetles sheep and cows meandering in the scrub. I get out the two day old chicken which isn't smelling so good, make a cake and crack open a bottle of wine while the children disappear to find the three dutch ferrets down the road. We eat, we laugh then watch Little Lord Fauntleroy on the laptop. Lovely day.