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.