Paddy Does Morocco

The story started when I was laid off recently and decided I'd blat down to Morocco to explore for a month or two, but it didn't quite work
out as planned !

I've finally arrived back into the land of happy shiny sunshine last night - might one ask, where is the rain, this is Ireland isn't it ? I've only been gone two weeks in objective time, but much more subjectively, in that I feel as though I've traveled, seen and experienced so much that I've been away for months. So now to regale you with boring tales of Boy's Own daring-do and adventure ! I've spent the last hour tapping this down before I forget it all, but it is very lengthy so be prepared to waste quite some time if you wanna read it in it's entirety.

Wales was a big disappointment; about thirty miles in the scenery near Bethys-e-Coed (or something) was very nice, but brief, and after that it poured all the way and I didn't discover any fabulous views to elicit gasps of admiration. The Brecon Hills and Dartmoor Dales further south in Blighty received a similarly muted response, just like areas of Ireland to tell the truth; pretty to be sure, but lacking that almost ethereal beauty which exists here.

From there it was a 24-hour sailing from Plymouth to Santander in Spain, indulging in the most fantastic meal I've ever had onboard the 5-star restaurant. Heads were dodgy all-round the following day, seeing as some twenty hours of that were spent sampling beer and wines in the company of several English motorcyclists. I thought your head was meant to spin at sea, not on land.

Spain, in complete contrast to my only previous experience of the country, was a magical, mystical land of wonderfully helpful people. It would appear that the people in the region just south of the Pyrenees, where my tyres once wheeled for a very short time several years ago, are, as the Americans might say, complete and utterly ignorant redneck bastards. But sixty or so miles west and trying my few words of Spanish while smiling and pantomiming like a circus clown would open all sorts of doors and nothing would be too much for them to do. Might I especially recommend the Atlantic coastline west of Santander and the Picos mountains. Beautiful un-spoilt countryside, much like Ireland what with the greenery and livestock in the fields, and dotted with lovely seaside towns and villages cozying up to great beaches, whilst behind there are the dramatic twists and turns of the mountain roads and stunning vistas down valleys to small habitations nestled apparently inaccessibly amongst the crags.

Take care not to completely fry your brakes though. Whilst further south on the empty plains, giant metal silhouettes of the Spanish fighting bulls loom menacingly on hilltops, here you round a corner to find the real thing, replete with horns even bigger than your own, stamping up black clouds of shattered tarmac, and glaring malevolently through red-limned eyes for something to trample. Luckily though, his miniscule 25-30mph is not enough to deal with the rapid darting twists and turns of Honda's mighty Blackbird, even one laden with sixteen stone of cursing fatboy.

Once satisfied with the marvelous hotels and food of this area, it was a nerve-wracking trip over the Picos into the plains, this time through horrendous rain. The phrase 'The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain' was obviously more that just a slight fallacy. Here I found that the normally placid Spanish turn into true raging psychotic idiots whilst behind the wheel. Despite the conditions, almost everybody zoomed along at breakneck speed and anything in front just has to be overtaken, at ANY cost; no matter that once past, you tootle along at the same speed as previously. I had the great displeasure of watching one guy kill both himself and his wife while overtaking in the rain on a hairpin bend, losing control and smashing through the barrier to fall some thirty feet onto the roof on rocks.

After several hours of watching such lunacy (my saddle now has pinch-marks from my bum holding on for dear life), I finally crested the mountains and the rain petered out as I coasted down towards flat earth. But rather than steam rising from my sodden clothes in the toasty Spanish sun, I now froze my overworked butt off down as far as Madrid. In fact, it was so cold that my breakfast liquefied and began dripping from my nose with wholehearted enthusiasm. I crashed out in a hotel south of Madrid in Ciudad De Real and the next day was a much more palatable 29-39 degrees.

The run towards Algeceiras, the port from which I was to sail to the Spanish enclave of Ceuta (or Sebta) in Morocco, was the usual 100+mph cruise down back roads. Before you tut-tut and nod knowingly, let me say that this is the speed at which everybody and their granny drive at - the roads are almost dead-straight through empty plains, and any rare junctions are both exceedingly well signposted and so visible that even Earthworm Jim wriggling his way at .5mph towards DeathWay 101 can be easily seen and avoided.

Once in Algeceiras, I ignored the comforts of the decadent and soft Western-style hotels, and instead practiced my thousand-yard stare with the local tough guys in cheap bars and restaurants while training my overly-mentioned bottom for the excesses of African food. Once more it passed with flying colours (though it could also it claimed that it thankfully passed WITHOUT flying colours!).

A mere twenty-five minutes on the fast-ferry took me to Africa and from there it was only an hour to find and pass through the Spanish frontier and enter the hell that was the Moroccan equivalent. It took one hour just to get an passport stamped, another to get Green card insurance and the like (here I had to give in and enlist help from one of the official guides at the cost of 20 euros, probably fleeced).

But the real trouble began while trying to get a temporary importation form for the bike. While all my documents (passport, drivers licenses, etc) said my name was Patrick, my bike ownership document unfortunately said it was Paddy. Protestations of pedanticism did nothing, especially since nobody could understand each other, and two hours of fruitless arguing and arm waving did nothing to convince them that Paddy/Patrick were indeed the one and same, and that I was the actual owner of the bike. It was also here that I finally copped, after three years of owning the bike, that the registration document describes it was being red, while to mine as well as everybody else's eyes it's most definitely blue. It was at this point that my sweat developed it's own special layer of dribbly stuff, but thankfully this example of Irish governmental incompetence miraculously wasn't noticed by the officials or there would have been no hope of getting through at all.

As it was, the head gorilla eventually gave up and went off to find himself a bucket of banana-gruel, and it took just another hour of protracted negotiations with his uniformed monkey, mainly in the form of agreeing on how much of my freshly exchanged Dirhams I would be contributing to his little-boys fund, before I was let through with a mere three days of freedom before having to return, on pain of having my bike confiscated.

And so, after being stopped and eventually passing through another two checkpoints of armed idiots, within the space of fifty yards, I was free to enter Morocco, and almost immediately wished I hadn't bothered. It's one thing to see on tv and read about them in books and papers, and while I hadn't heard anything to indicate that Morocco was one, it was now obvious that I was in a third-world country. It's something that's impossible to convey in words - voluminous descriptions of the sights, sounds and smells might give a general indication of what it's like, but the reality, the intense here and now, is as far removed from those words as the watching of porn tells you anything about what actually having sex is like. Words are just the pallid, bloodless terrors of the night, which fade away in the searing light of the sun, and so, in that sense, my story is utterly worthless.

The scene on the other side of the border, where I'd heard an incessant din of hundreds of horns blowing all the while I was struggling to pass through, was one worthy of any post-apocalyptic Mad Max type movie. I ignored the 'helpers', buzzing around like flies on the proverbial, and gritted my teeth with the effort of trying to get away as fast as possible, or as fast as is possible on a road bike with virtually slick tyres in five inches of mud, potholes, rubbish, dead animals, hustlers on foot making kamikaze and possibly fatal missions to knock you over in the hope of getting a few dirhams for helping right you again, and edging past what seemed like five thousand cars filled with locals enraged from waiting for what could have been days to get through the border. I was not looking forward to my return when I'd have to pass through the worst of it, or as was looking more likely, have to actually try and jump the queue.

On so onto my aim, to get up into the Rif mountains and take the coast road through the Kef region several hundred miles in to Al Hoceima. Further travel, several thousand miles of it over a month or two as originally planned, would be impossible now that I was on a deadline. And seeing that this route was noted as a dangerous road in the guidebooks, not least because it's the main opium and cannabis cultivation region where banditry is rife, I became a little concerned, because the main motorway, as indicated on my map, and which I was now on, consisted of a dual-carriageway with no verges or road markings with the worst laid tarmac I've ever seen (a five year old could do better with a bucket and spade from the beach); homicidal 'grande-petit' taxis - which seemed to be the most common form of transport, they slam on the anchors in the middle of the fast lane of the motorway to pick someone up, and of course don't have brake-lights, swarmed about; there were people and animals wandering, strolling, standing smoking fags and/or eating grass in the middle of the lanes; newly built roundabouts which nobody seemed to understand, and at each of which were stationed cops who would pull over any errant drivers to smack around, and force them to do it again, sometimes at gunpoint, til they got it right (never again will I complain about Irish cops), fingers of tyre-grabbing sand and swathes of the brightly-ochred African soil crept across the road to drag you down into their clutches like a drowning lover. All of this was necessitating emergency braking and laws of physics-defying swoops at never more than a max of 50mph just in order to stay upright, and I knew that if it rained I'd have to stop and huddle at the roadside til it dried up, else I'd be doing some introductions along the lines of, "Mr. Arse, please meet Mr. Road".

So if the 'good roads' (as described in the guidebooks) were like this, what on earth could the dangerous roads be like ! Well, over the remainder of the day I slowly found out. Come nightfall, I found myself stranded halfway up a mountain in the pissing rain; mud and water sluicing across the narrow road making it impossible to continue, and having only made about sixty exhausting miles in. A boat would have been more suitable than even a 4-wheel drive, let alone my damned 200mph missile. Make it through that mud ? Hell, I was starting to become more interested in it's floatation properties.

But once more Lady Luck smiled, and a local family dragged me in and gave me a corner of their one-roomed home to sleep in. To say I was grateful was an understatement, and they were honored just to be able to help. They had no food except some rock-hard bread which I gnashed fruitlessly (no pun intended) and at great risk to my choppers, so I eventually thought of and pulled out my stove and cooked us up some packet soup ( the first time I had actually used my camping gear so far, as most of the Spanish campsites appeared to be closed at this time of year). And it made me wonder as to what my reaction back home would be if I spotted some lost and bedraggled African stuck in a bad situation, would I help, or would I pull closed the blinds and turn up the volume ?

The next morning I decided it was a hopeless task trying to get to Al-Hoceima, especially seeing as the weather had eased off none, so I began the trepiditious descent back down to Tetouan where I thought I'd check out what a Moroccan town is like. Some four hours later I'd traversed the thirty odd miles and checked into the first hotel I found, Hotel Malaga. I was dying for a shower, a sh#t and a good kip. The reception area was lovely, but when I saw my room I thought, hang on a moment, this is like going back to a lovely chick's place, and finding she has a willy. The jacks were just a communal hole in the ground, and there was certainly no way was I using that bucket of water and the dirty brush leering beside it. There was no telling where it had been, or rather, there very much was. But unlike that other situation, where all I'd be would be a rapidly diminishing scream dwindling down the street, here I'd just have to make do. To cut a long story slightly shorter, I had prior experience of these sort of facilities in France and Spain, and I'd had the foresight to bring a bog-roll for just such an expediency, though I still wish I had brought wellies.

I put on my best tourist gladrags - biker boots, dirty jeans, and t-shirt with a half-dead zombie corpse giving the finger, ideal dress for a conservative Islamic country I thought - before venturing out into the streets and choosing a guide from the rabble who immediately surrounded me. From there I spent a pleasant few hours taking in the sights and smells (and boy where there some, I had to stuff my clothes into several bags that night before they made me puke). I had a great laugh at Assan, my unofficial guide and as dodgy as they come. Or at least to anyone not as tough as old biscuits as me who's seen it all before. Several people made unobtrusive signs to warn me, especially seeing as I was the only tourist about, but I just smiled to indicate that I was fine. 'Stupid crazy Ingles', they probably thought. A couple of times we wandered way off course into areas where there was no-one about, 'cept maybe one or two of Assan's buddies ahead or behind. But I'd tap him on the shoulder and grin at him and he'd know from my look that while they could try it on, I'd be the one coming out, so he'd just make some half-hearted effort at a hidden sign and they'd disappear and a few twists and turns later we'd be back in the crowds. Funny guy Assan, but he was a quick learner and soon gave up on that idea and started to get into his tourist guide role in earnest to try and earn some honest money.

However, I must admit I laughed out loud when he said in his pidgin English that he'd bring me to a real Berber family to show me how they live. Carpet dealers I thought, and he's probably on a percentage, and whaddya know ! They put on a good show though, I made them sweat throwing out carpets for nearly two hours before I got something I liked. And then I showed them how an Irish bugger haggled, heh, but it was a no-go as negotiations eventually ground to a halt. I walked out telling Assan to piss off and I'd find my own way back (despite the maze, I knew it was downhill all the way out of the medina, and from there I'd easily find my hotel), but they were desperate to sell since it was out of season, so they called up and then brought me to the director of the whole cooperative to see if he would agree to sell at my daft price as they couldn't go any lower.

The entire medina, some 750 shops, were provided free to the sellers by the government, but there was a 10% commission to be paid on any carpets and goods made by the nomadic tribes which would be paid back to them. This head honcho in his office actually knew some Irish (Conas ata tu) and we had a great chinwag, before he gave the go-ahead for them to sell the carpets. They wanted cash, but I insisted it be by credit card and done in his office, so it was an hours trek back to the hotel, with Assan muttering and cursing all the way, to pick up my credit card from the safe, and then another hour back. They wanted to ship them on, yakking about the Spanish customs, but not til hell froze over I thought, I was taking them with me. In fairness though, the shop guys were sound and probably reasonably fair and honest, they wouldn't be able to do business otherwise. But that's not to say you won't get fleeced. They told me the Japs almost always pay full buck, which disgusts them. The Germans, English and Spanish try their hand at haggling but are no good, while the Italians give as good as they get. Their attitude/culture is that a fool is easily parted from his money, and if you're a fool they'll cry no tears for you. You'd have to be crazy to pay full buck anyway, I got two carpets for the equivalent of 400 euros, the orginal price was 2,000, plus the 10% commission for the tribes. And I made them throw in another free, which really drove them up the bend. There then followed a big ritual of signing about a million forms which the government needed, but unfortunately for Assan I'd forgotten my passport number, and so another long return trek to the hotel was made.

However, he perked up on the final trip back when we began haggling for his fee. At first he wanted 700 dirhams (70 euros), fat chance, but was as happy as a pig in muck when he finally got 200. I'd made him work hard for it I thought, and I was happy because I'd seen many places where tourists are never brought, such as a Muslim cemetery where even Assan's smooth patter hadn't worked and we'd had to leg it. And now, forever the optimist, and thinking he could lay his dirty mitts on yet more cash, he offered everything from girls and old women to little boys, himself (sticking out his tongue to show he had no diseases), marijuana, coke, etc, or to bring me around to some restaurants where I could have anything I'd ever wanted. "Er, no thanks", I said, or words to that effect, most impolitely might I add, and sent the chancer on his way.
Back to my hotel then, where for the second time I used my camping gear, this time my groundsheet, mattress and sleeping bag as when I lay on the bed I found it was damp and, even worse, there was a distinct feeling of itchy and scratchy.

I'd been two days in the country now and decided that rather than spend the third, I'd better get back over the border because I suspected that they might try some dirty tricks at customs and claim I was late. Coming back I zoomed down past what seemed to be the same set of cars as had been there on my entry. The clamour of rage that arose behind me was such that I gritted my teeth to accelerate and actually lost some fairing screws and smashed a panel bouncing through some potholes trying to get away. The next time I'm bringing a motorcross bike !!
I got up to the front at the first checkpoint where I could get no further as about ten lanes of traffic compressed into two and there was complete bedlam with cars actually pushing each other around. I sat to one side for half-an-hour wondering how the fcuk I was gonna get in there, when I noticed in my rear mirror a Spanish car running the gauntlet as I'd done. The driver pulled up and as soon as he'd extracted his head from the roof lining and changed a burst tyre, the bugger had to gall to go up to the exit side (from Spain), waggle his passport about and the soldiers waved him through. I span the bike around in the muck, covering a few cars and hustlers (they just never give up, I'd had maybe five on average standing about me gabbering away, all the time trying to sell me their help and forms which you can get at the passport office just yards away) in mud and eliciting a few more curses, but you get inured to it all. I got up to the post and they waved me back, so I waved about my passport and even tried flashing some euros, but the feckers just pulled out their guns and sent me back to the official exit. No fair I thought, surely I look like a decent respectable biker, somewhere under all the mud.

Amazingly, the soldiers on the other side took umbrage at this display of wankerism and a big shouting match ensued. They then ordered all the locals to stop from moving, as if they were, to try and get me into a lane. This alone took an hour while the cars already there inched gradually forward. I felt very grateful, but also like a floater that just won't flush for taking advantage of my privileged western position to queue hop. But I'm still glad I did it, as I'd probably still be there otherwise, and the Moroccans weren't too pissed off, at least not at me personally, just at the whole ridiculous routine of trying to get out. It now took another two hours to make it the fifty yards through the rest of the frontier. I had to get a soldier to guard my bike while I went the few paces to get my passport stamped, but he refused any payment for his twenty minutes waiting, was just smiling delightedly at being able to help. I was never so relieved to be out of a place as I was once the guys pondered over my vehicle importation cert. and pointed out the different names, but thank god they eventually let me through. For about twenty minutes I thought they were gonna take the bike from me, but something must have convinced them I was genuine, the red hair maybe ! In the meantime I watched soldiers literally beat and drag some pedestrians back as they tried to casually sidle through. Next time I'm gonna be voting for the EU, we don't know just how lucky we are.

The Spanish customs waved me straight through and I zoomed on into Ceuta, where within just one hour of leaving the Moroccan frontier, I had crossed on the ferry and was now back in Spain. But now back on the Spanish mainland the customs were a lot tougher. I stood nonchalantly by my bike looking bored while they tore vehicles apart. They seemed to reserve a special hatred for camper vans, and nearly had Alsatian dogs burrowing up some guys' bums. Over the protestations of innocence and despair as items were confiscated or huge sums of duty were levied, an officer came mincing up and indicated to open a bag. This was my stuffbag containing all my camping gear, but also, unfortunately, my carpets hidden down at the very bottom. Ahem, not to mention the gun I'd purchased, and there were also some samples of.. er.. indigenous agriculture ! Cunningly though, I'd placed my clothes, stinking from the charnel houses where they make the leather in the medina, halfway down and the dog's tail curled so far between his legs that you could have put toothpaste on and cleaned his teeth. This was enough for the guard, it was nearly enough for all of us actually, phew, so I was waved on through. But just when I'd gotten on the motorway towards Marabella and thought I was Scott free, what appeared but another bloody checkpoint just a mile further on. I slowly crept up and joined the queue, and had to sit for another forty minutes while they searched through the same damn campervan in front of me again, but when they started to take his huge roof box down I got up and started waving my arms about and making razzle-snazzle noises a la Muttley from Dastardly and Muttley, and they let me go on through, result !

And that was that, it was back to the Picos mountains and Northern Spain again where I had a great time. My feelings on Morocco ? I'm totally ambivalent actually, I still don't know what to make of the country. It really is a place of literal contrasts, there is incredible wealth alongside incredible poverty. There is amazing beauty, bespoiled by mountains of trash sitting beside it. 99% of the people are lovely; for example the kids are amazing and are obviously treated with great love by all - they have no fear of strangers and wander the streets freely playing and running around, greeting you in all the languages they know and being delighted when you greet them back.
But then there are the hustlers and hard-cases who see you as nothing more than a walking money repository to be fleeced. They'll charm and flatter with infinite patience, but all the while they're only one thing in mind, but at least they're not batty. Then there was sexism against women was almost enough to make me sick, unbelievable. And the fact that it's a serious police state, though what with the bedlam and chaos you could sometimes think thank god for the cops and soldiers. If you can put up with the dangers, the sights and smells, and can accept that it's not the civilization as we know it then you'll have a great time. But women should definitely not go on their own, even around the more modern areas reminiscent of Europe you'll get more hassle than you can imagine. So clichés abound here. If you want a holiday, then stick to a package tour, and even then you'll get hassle. If you want adventure, then try to see the real country on your own and you'll have an experience you'll never forget. For me, in the short time I had, it was a fifty/fifty love/hate thing. I received an impression of what it was like and know where I went wrong (Paddy Vs Patrick!), and while I would like to try it again, and would go tomorrow if I could, to do it properly you would want at least one other to go (some Spanish dirt bikers I met on the ferry who go on day trips said I was insane) if only to guard one another's backs, and on a cheap dirt bike that you don't care about. Doing it alone is a seriously hardcore adventure. Spain on the other hand just blew me away - the food, the scenery, the people. It's soft in comparison, but it's a holiday, not a struggle, and after the tortures of Morocco it was just a pleasure.