Morocco, Friday, 27th January 2006 (Patrick)
I decided not to say too much more about the embarrassing fact that 'the car that can't break down', broke down about 400 km away from home. All I can say is that we learned something from it: all mechanics are crooks, or idiots, or both (that Unimog 'specialist' in France, with the sheepish smile on his face, is blissfully unaware of how incredibly lucky he was that our machete is stowed away in a not easily accessible place in the car). Although I have to say that Andy from VK cars was an absolute life saver by helping us diagnose some of the problems and shipping the needed parts. We do now seem to have overcome most of our problems (although I still have to see that 3 day streak of having clean hands), and are motoring away happily.
On to the more fun parts - Morocco!
Rainy day... dream away... let the sun take a holiday... Strange how you are so conditioned by the usual images of Morocco that, in spite of the fact that we realised it is winter and that temperatures wouldn't go much over, say, 16 degrees, we did expect it to be at least sunny. Instead, it is a typical late November day in London - about 8 degrees (about 2 at night), rainy, and dark - our solar panels are struggling to keep the batteries topped up (on the other hand, the fridge is hardly using anything, since it's colder outside than inside the fridge). We should have known what to expect after our first day of camping just outside Algeciras (Spain). It's f**k-off cold (although I keep claiming it's not that bad, because if even I am cold, Corinne knows it really is, and that knowledge alone will make her feel even colder), but we figure that it can't be that much warmer on the other side of the strait, so if we can camp there, it should be possible here as well. Which is exactly right - Tangier is about the same temperature, so yes, Tangier is freezing as well! But we brave it and camp for the first night. The most level spot we can find is right on the ocean, which the next morning gives us a great view from our roof tent, but for now is a bad move, since the ocean breeze makes it f**k off cold times two. I don't know exactly how much that is, but it is cold. But once we're under the double duvet, sheltered from the wind, life slowly becomes warmer and more pleasant. And because of the warmth inside, and the steadily dropping temperature outside, little drops of condensation start to form on the plastic tent roof, from where they slowly roll down to the lowest tent pole, to eventually one by one, end up on my head. There's nothing like a cold shower at three in the morning - although I have to say I've been woken up by better things.
And then we're finally ready to enter Morocco. We have a bit of a slow start, since we still have to re-situate a couple of things in the car, there's the usual bit of car maintenance, and we just don't have a normal routine yet. We're both a bit nervous when we get on the ferry. It's not exactly the first time we enter a new country or continent, but after planning for two and a half years, there is just a bit more than the usual excitement. We get our passports stamped on board the ferry (Corinne didn't even need to be there to have hers stamped), so all we have to do when we enter is get the car through customs. At first it looks like this is going to take a while, since we're last in line, and things seem to be moving very slowly. But then the next ferry arrives and the customs officials just want to get things moving. So we fill in a form, get a few stamps, and a very quick look inside (then again what are we going to smuggle INto Morocco?). All smiles and handshakes, not a squeak about insurance or anything and we're on our way.
And then it hits us... we're in Morocco! A nightly drive though the busy streets of Tangier. People everywhere, walking the streets, having a bite, or mint tea and a smoke, just strolling or shopping. Smiles and waves (even here the mog draws a fair bit of stares). How I missed this. A place where people live outside. Kids playing football in the streets. Funny how where ever you go, you will always see some kids play football. Although it's not that great a sight that we have to drive by three times, but the sign directing us to the campsite is completely unclear about whether we have to go first left and then right, the other way around, or both at the same time. After the third round, we are pointed in the right direction by people who by now have figured out that we are looking for the campsite, and are not very successful. But after about half a minute, the streets are getting so dark and narrow that paranoia strikes, and for a minute we think we have been pointed towards the darkest dead end in town, where we'll be robbed blind. And this paranoia is fed by the fact that a group of kids is running behind the car. And just as we are about to turn on the rear view camera to figure out what they are up to, the beam of the headlights hits the gate of the campsite and the kids all run off. As we make the steep run down to the camp ground we find out that one of the kids managed to pry open on of the back doors (which we therefore must have forgotten to lock at after the customs inspection). We feel like a bunch of rookies! The kids got away with a roll of paper towel, so no damage was done, except, of course, to our pride.
For reasons unclear to me, Tangier has the worst possible reputation. Chris Scott seems to be downright scared of it, to my knowledge, no overlander ever voluntarily goes there, and of the guidebooks, Lonely Planet gives it the most positive outlook with '... learn to handle the hustlers, the pickpockets, the con artists, the touts at the port and the medina's limpetlike souvenir sellers, and you'll find it a likeable, lively city buzzing with energy.' It may be the season, it may have been the time of day, it may be pure coincidence, but the description strikes me as one written by someone who went to a completely different place. I have seldom been in a more hassle-free town. Not a single person offered to be our guide and I have had a better sales pitch from the girl at the check-out at our local Sainsbury then from these guys. One or two made a slight head gesture towards their shop which could be interpreted as an invitation to come in and have a look, but they could equally well have been nodding off. The second part of LP's description is true. It is a likeable and lively city. And though there isn't too much to see, there are hundreds of narrow streets, lined with little shops and food stalls. The crowds moving slowly, kids running in between. And endless markets, with the most delicious food imaginable. The smell of fresh bread every where. But what I enjoy most are the people. It's one of those places where people still look at each other when the pass each other by in the streets. I've seen more genuine smiles in the past day then in an entire year of riding the tube. And it's so nice that people take the time to talk to each other - even if you are complete stranger. Not that I give a rat's ass about football, but I now know exactly how Morocco is doing in the Africa cup (not too well).
We're in Fez now, which is a spectacular medieval city. 350 mosques, 1800 narrow winding alleys in the medina (old city). I expect to get lost, but through a miracle of medieval design you somehow always end up in one of the main streets (or maybe that was just a miracle of good luck). Fez is definitively more touristy, and for good reason (we see 5 other tourists the first day, though in summer you can probably add a couple of zeros to that), but it is still very laid back and hassle free. Off course people want to be your guide, but no one is too persistent. The city just has an extremely pleasant atmosphere, so we walk around for hours, soaking it all up. Three o' clock, the muezzin calls for prayer, and within minutes, the criss-cross of the crowds is gone and there is a one directional flow of people moving towards their mosque. I wish I could witness their ritual.
I'm also starting to feel really guilty about the fact that we don't have room in the car to give anyone a ride, since every time we were waiting for a bus, or walking back to the campsite we were picked up within a minute. And it's not just that it's nice to get a ride, but it's a great opportunity to have a chat and get to know the people in this country a bit better. For what first impressions are worth - they're great. And having said that, I'm surprised about how some other people go about 'exploring' the country. Morocco is quite a modern country, with a good infrastructure, and is therefore very much on the radar of the 'more adventurous' tourists. And so you see a fair bit of motorhomes (much more home than motor). So far, for all of them, the first thing they do after rolling into their spot is to push the button that aims the satellite dish. After that, the only thing you can see is the glare of the TV flickering through the fogged up windows. OK, it's cold and rainy, but some of them don't seem to emerge for days, until they move on to the next town. Bienvenue au Maroc!
Morocco, Sunday, 12th February 2006 (Patrick)
We're entering Rabat, on the lookout for signs for both the campsite and the Marjane (the Moroccan hypermarche - we have to stock up on some stuff, not in the last place wine). Left turn, right turn, straight on the roundabout... oh bugger, we missed sign. So we chuck a u-ey, take another left into an empty street, when a cop flags us down. We've passed about 25 checkpoints since we entered Morocco. For the locals, this an elaborate circus of stern looks, warning fingers, a casual 'handshake', after which the theatre continues for another minute or so and they're on their way again, but since we're tourists we have been waved through every time... so far. But this is a quiet street, so this police officer decides to brave it. Apparently we ran a non existing stop sign. We've only been in the country for a couple of days, so I haven't really brushed up on my bargaining skills yet, besides, this being his every day job, he plays the game well. After an long exchange of pleasantries, such as oh you're Dutch, but your French is so good (yeah right), and Morocco is such a beautiful country, let me write down directions to the Marjane for you... we finally get to the point... Unfortunately though, you did run a stop sign, and in Morocco that is a grave offence. Normally something like would could you 700 Dirham (about $70), but because it's your first time in the country, and well because I'm in a good mood, I'll lower it to 500. There's no way I'm going to pay $50, so I tell him that I don't have that kind of money. Maybe he can just issue a ticket, and I'll come an pay at the police station later. Hmmm, well, 'le commissariat est ferme'... until Monday, so that's not going to work. OK, we're in the game now, he doesn't really want to fine me, and I don't really want to pay. Let's see how far we get... OK, how much do you have? By stroke of luck, all I have in my wallet is 100 Dh - still too much, but we don't really want to push our luck, since we don't have insurance. Just to bug him, I ask him for a receipt, but of course he explains that he can't possibly give us a receipt, since we only paid 100 Dh for a 500 Dh fine. I know there should have been a way out of here, but because of the insurance, we decide to let it go.
All part of life in Morocco. You live and learn. And we do learn a couple of days later when Benoit, a part Moroccan, part Belgian guy from Kenitra teaches us the tricks of the trade. First off, we learn that 100 Dh actually isn't that bad for a first timer. Even most locals end up paying about 50 Dh, although some go with a pre-emptive 20 Dh handshake, each time they are stopped. Secondly, you just have to learn to live with the fact that sometimes you have to pay, and sometimes you don't - that's just the way it is, although you can improve the odds buy learning how to play the game well. The most important part of the game is acknowledging that it is a game, and show that you know the rules (even if you don't). And then you have to take the time to go through all the acts before you make your move - not too early, not too late, timing is everything. The third rule, and for me the most important, is that tourist have been declared sacred in Morocco, so even though they do, even a cop doesn't want to get 'caught' hassling a tourist.
The lessons pay off, because the next time I get pulled over, we play the game like a pro (or at least, good enough). Corinne stays in the car, and plays the submissive wife, while I get out to go through the ritual. 'You were speeding'. In the Mog that's probably the best compliment anyone can give you, so I'm proud as can be. Still, I get out, and explain that that's impossible in this car. We have a 'heated' discussion about how fast I was going, where the 60 sign is (about 10m after the 80 sign, which was also put there for one reason only - to catch people speeding), where exactly I am supposed to drive 60, and where they measured the alleged 75. He then demonstrates his speed camera for a couple of minutes, and starts pointing out that - unlike me - other people are obeying the speed limits. See 35... and that 28... look 15... Not surprising, because by now there are about 4 cars on the side of the road with police officers humming around them, which in Morocco means the max speed is about 15 - irrespective of what the sign says. Look, that one... also 15...but you, see 75 (the only number that buy some miracle is still on his speed camera). And with this, Act one has concluded. The characters have been introduced and crime is established.
Act two deals with explaining the consequences. 'You have disregarded the rules, and in Morocco that is a serious offence. And for that you have to pay 400 Dh' An amount that again I do, but don't have. But you have to pay the fine... I understand, but I don't have the money echoes through the desert for a while, until I feel it is time to move to the next. Well, maybe I can pay tomorrow - au commissariat... Normally I would do anything to stay away from a police station, but in Morocco, bringing a tourist in will get you in deep trouble, so this is my trump. We both know we're both bluffing, but who will chicken out first. 'Well in that case, I will have to take your licence, and you can pick it up tomorrow... in Layounne' I show him my emptied wallet, a 50 and some change. 'This is all I have, I spent all my money on petrol'. 'That's impossible, how can you travel without money?' I show him a bank card, and explain that I have to go to a bank. 'But you have to pay!' I feel the time is right now... 'but this is all I have... can't we arrange something?' He pins me down with an arrogant stare. 'What do you mean "arrange". There are two options - you pay 400Dh, and you get a receipt, or I take your licence, and tomorrow, you will have to go the "procureur", no "l'office du procureur du Roi" to pick it up'. 'Well, if that has to happen, it has to happen. I'm not happy about it, but I have no choice, right?' the 50 still in my hand. 'There are two options...'he repeats what he said before. '... and then there is a third option, and that is that I pardon you...' 'Will you?' 'I could...' 'What if I were to offer you...' A stern look. 'I would never... what are you thinking?' Actually at that moment I am thinking that I may get out of this one. But of course, the game isn't over until it's over. 'If I were to pardon you, that would be very good for you... then you don't have to pay, you don't have to go to Layounne, even though you committed a serious offence. But if I pardon you, you have to make sure that you obey the rules...' Etc., etc. and with another minute of lecturing I'm walking away with my papers and money, slightly confused about what just happened. Did I call his bluff? Did he think it was a good game, and decided to reward me for that? Or did I just get really lucky? I stick with the last one.
I have to say though that the normal checkpoints - though time consuming - are kind of fun. They are extremely friendly, and probably bored out of their skull, so they're always up for a chat - the weather, food, where the next gas station is, football (I'm becoming a bit of an expert by now) and of course the Mog. The fact that we usually say that Corinne is a housewife goes down really well. Big smiles and backslaps for both of us for that one. It's not just the checkpoints - everything starts and ends with a chat. It's really nice to be in a place again where people take the time to talk to each other. Not just because I enjoy that, but also because, even though we've only been here very briefly, you slowly start to understand a bit how this country and its people work. Another interesting thing you notice is that people are always in groups. In Europe, most people walk, shop or travel by themselves. Here you don pretty much everything with a group of friends or family. One of the people we talk to explains that even when he does something completely solitary, like going to the gym, a couple of his cousins accompany him. Not to join him, but just to be together. So they walk with him and then sit there for an hour or so, and watch him work out. In Morocco everything is better together. I suppose they're right.
Anyway, I'm tampering with the timeline, and I should know better than that. Fez was great and Rabat sucked. Just a big city, and like most cities anywhere in the world, a drab anonymous place. People are too busy or important for a chat and there is just not too much to see or do. Add to that that it's cold and rainy, and the wind is so strong that we were almost blown off the roof of our car (tent and all), and you have all the ingredients for a place you want to get out of - immediately. Unfortunately, we have no such luck since we have to wait for our visas for Mali. And after that it's Casablanca, which is nothing like the movie (though a lot better than Rabat), but again a necessary visa stop. Still it's a pleasant enough place (partly because we see our first rays of sun since we got into Morocco), with a couple of interesting sights (including the Mosque Hassan II, the 3 largest place of worship in the world), and if you let us loose in a market, we'll have a great time anywhere. On top of that, we even managed to squeeze in half a day of relaxing, so Casa is nothing but good memories.
When we hit the road again, the rain has caught up with us, and after a failed attempt to evade it in Marrakech, we decide to take drastic measures and head south until we see the sun (a bit of rain has never hurt anyone, but if it pours down day after day, camping loses all its charm - if you think it has any in the first place - and just becomes a nasty experience). And that sun greets us exactly where you would expect it... when we reach the edge of the desert.
Four days of driving along 'the line where the ocean meets the land'. ... and on your right side, you can see the waves of the Atlantic crash on the white sands... on your left you see... well nothing really... on that side all you see is sand... until you see Egypt. That may sound a bit dull, but that vast emptiness is absolutely fascinating. Sand dunes as far as the eye can see, and beyond. A depth impossible to gauge, which makes you a bit queasy every once in a while, as when looking down from high building. The days are long but beautiful. Miraged mountains are flying fortresses of desert tales. Long straight road turn to water in the distance. Driving a straight line, hot desert sun, the monotonous rumble of the engine - I almost slip into a trance. This way desert draws out strange fluid thoughts, until a camel breaks the rhythm of the landscape, and you snap back into reality. And I'm not even on lariam yet...
The natural landscape is not the only thing surreal. Although hardly populated, we do pass a fair amount of newly built villages. Street lights everywhere, telephone lines, crisp paint on every building, everything in perfect condition. A bit to perfect to my taste. No signs of decay, no signs of life. They look completely uninhabited, like a movie set left behind. They are completely uninhabited. It turns out that they have been built by the Moroccan government in an attempt to 'lure' the Saharawi Polisario (the original inhabitants of Western Sahara, who dispute Morocco's claim to the region) back into the country to 'keep them happy'. The Polisario however refuse to live there, and instead choose a life in exile, as nomads in the desert or in the refugee camps near Dakhla. The villages stand empty as a proud monument to the Polisario freedom fighters. In another way of keeping people in the region happy, there is no tax on petrol, which makes it about 35% cheaper than in the rest of the country. Happy as we are about this, it does bring its own set of typical problems. We stock up on petrol (just in time) as soon as we cross the 'border' into Western Sahara, but when we try to top up a bit later, we are told they have no petrol. Diesel fine, petrol, maybe tomorrow. We try a couple of other petrol stations, but one after the other gives us the same reply. 'Try the next one, or otherwise in Dakhla'. We're carrying 220 litres, and are planning to stay in Dakhla for one or two days anyway, so we're not too worried. But when just before Dakhla we get the same response again, we are starting to get a bit curious about what's going on. 'What do you want petrol for anyway?', pointing at the mog. Nobody here can believe we run on petrol (one guy even stuck his nose in our tank before he believed me), but after I convinced him that we it's not my limited knowledge of French that is causing a misunderstanding, and that we really need petrol, he starts shaking his head. 'Then, my friend, you have a problem. You better go to Dakhla, stop at the first petrol station you see, and wait. Wait for the truck to come in, and make sure you completely fill up.' He sees in my face that I'm inclined to take all this with a grain of salt, so he repeats the instructions. 'You understand me, right? You wait and you don't go away until you are completely filled up. You don't wait until the next morning. The next morning everything will be gone.' There again is a bit of disbelief in my face - yeah right, like they empty out an entire petrol station in one evening. 'Do you see those?' He's pointing at a stack of blue plastic 200 litre barrels. 'The fisherman bring their barrels here in the evening, and as soon as the truck comes they'll fill everything up. By tomorrow, the entire tank will be empty again.' OK, so that's how it works. With a difference of 4Dh ($0.40) a litre (the average Moroccan makes about 1800 Dh a month) there's a lot of money to be made in the transport of petrol from Western Sahara to Morocco. I thank him for his advice, and promise to do as instructed.
Later that day our search for petrol continues, but the one hour drive through Dakhla, gives us a good tour of the town (not really worth it), but doesn't bring us any closer to the desired fuel, so we decide to go back to the recommended petrol station just before town, where we were told the truck would arrive at 6. Which we assume means 8, so we can't believe our luck when we arrive at 6 and the truck is already unloading. We're dancing 'go petrol, go petrol...' We park our car at the station, and the waiting begins. There are a couple of cars in front of us, each with roughly 10 barrels, so this may take a while. But maybe they will let us go first. After all we only need about 120 litres. So we have a chat, help some people filling up their car. Talk to someone else. Sit in the car for a while. Do as the locals do, which in this case means waiting. This is when I learn the official version behind the fuel shortage. It's because the fishing boats have to get further at sea to reach rich fishing waters, therefore they use about twice as much fuel as in summer, which causes the initial shortage. But as soon as petrol stations start to get low on petrol, everyone starts to stock up, and things go from bad to worse. Sounds logical, but when I look around I estimate some 60 barrels waiting to be filled. That's 12,000 litres, a whole lot of fishing for a day. Or you can look at it another way and see a 48,000 Dh profit potential. I don't really have time to make up my mind, because I realise that 12,000 litres will easily clean out this petrol station. And the barrels are still coming. I hope we still get some. But in the hour we've been waiting, we've made some great friends, and enough dinner invitations to last us a week, so I'm sure they'll leave us some. On thing does still puzzle me though. Why are we still here? Philosophers throughout history have asked the same question, and like them, I don't manage to get any useful answer. It's been over an hour since the petrol truck left, so I would expect the fuel to be running freely now, but everyone is still waiting around. 'What do we do now?' 'We wait.' 'For what?' 'For the petrol' It all remains a mystery, and the most logical explanation we can come up with is that the fuel truck we saw earlier was delivering diesel, and we're still waiting for the petrol to arrive. After 1 1/2 hour there is some commotion. It looks as if an important person has arrived. He has the demeanour of royalty. Everyone is crowding around him. They all move into the office. Excited yelling, pushing to get in, arms raised in the air to attract attention. It's clear that important deals are being made in there. We are by now fairly convinced that at least some of this petrol will find its way back to Northern Morocco, and are wondering if this guy is the one who decides who gets what slice of the pie. For now, we decide that some things are better observed from a slight distance, and wait for a bit, before barging in to check out exactly what's going one. I'm wondering if this is what we have been waiting for, for the past two hours. It is. He's the one who makes the allocations, and before to long, with mediation from my newly found friends, I am called in for an audience. 'How much do you need?' 'About 120 litres.' 'Is that all? Consider it done.' And with that the deal is done, and 10 minutes later we're pulling out of the gas station with our tanks and jerry cans fully topped up, and a big grin on our faces.
And the next day brings the moment I have been trying to avoid. I have to service the car. I'm tempted to have at least part of it done by a local mechanic, but since in the last servicing some things had been skipped, I decide that it’s probably smart to do it myself. So out come the jack, grease gun, oils and spanners, and off we go. All I can say is that I'm glad I'm not a mechanic. Every patch of my skin is back and greasy, and my back hurts from crawling under the car all day. I've done it once now. I think next time I'll bring it in. After that we make our way to Nouadhibou, in Northern Mauritania, where we are taking a break from driving for a couple of days, and do some work on our education program. I forgot how much work travelling can be.
Since we've been doing quite a lot of driving, there isn't a huge amount of experiences to share, so I'll just leave you with
a couple of titbits.
As much as some things are different, it always amazes me how many things are the same as they are everywhere - every one has a mobile phone, every house a satellite dish. Everyone is curious, everyone talks about the weather (even if it is the same every day). When people drink a bit too much, music is turned up a notch (and then another). If you want to sell something you advertise it using beautiful women (whatever the product). Everyone tries to get by (ideally a little bit better than others), and when the sun comes out, everyone, everywhere is in a better mood.
I know I said something about it before but, it still surprises me. Besides, it's nice for contrast. Since there are now good roads all the way to Senegal, this part of Africa is now completely motorhomeable, so we see our fair share (maybe I should say an unfair share) of retired French and Germans. Their isolated life of this species is a complete puzzle to me. The female is inside all day cooking cleaning, and doing dishes (i.e. emptying the dish-washer) while talking on the phone. It must be very relaxing to live a life so completely different from life at home. The male emerges in the morning to empty the tank of the portapotti, and then watches TV from their home country. The male usually emerges one more time each day to wash the motorhome.
I have a daily chat with the mechanic here on the campsite - or usually several chats. He's a bit surprised that we take the time for that, because most of the tourists he meets are always in a rush. He can't understand that people are too rushed to talk to each other. Neither can I. He is originally from Nema (close to the border with Mali), where his wife and two kids still live. He visits them once a year - 10 months of work and then 2 months with his family. When I ask him if it's hard to live without his family for so long, he misunderstands my question, smiles from ear to ear and says, 'Yeah, that's great isn't it? I have two whole months with my family. I am a lucky man.' I guess he is. So am I.
That's it for now - next time Mauritania.
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