Morocco

If we had driven an extra 30 minutes to Tafira rather than to Algeciras we could have made the crossing from Spain to Morocco in about 35 minutes but Janet and I decided to take the longer ride to get some pictures and see a little more of the Strait of Gibraltar. Unfortunately by the time we were loaded and ready to go it was nearly dark so we confined ourselves to the cabin and read.

Morocco Customs

 Traveling through the European Union is like traveling through the United States, no stopping at borders—just a friendly sign saying ‘Welcome". But Morocco isn’t in the EU so the friendly signs are replaced with iron gates and armed guards. However, I must give credit to the Moroccans, their system is relatively fast and officials really seem to know what they are doing.

First there are the "Helpers". These guys work for tips and understand the process well enough that they are able to cut through the confusion of who to see first, what documents are needed and who to provide some "consideration" for speedy work..

"Where are you from?" "We are Americans traveling from China." "China?" "Yes, we are riding our motorcycle from China to Mexico." "Where are your documents?" As soon as I show our Chinese registration, there is always a flurry of activity because no one has ever seen a vehicle or documents from China. Further, it seems like I always draw the senior officer who wants to talk with these crazy foreigners.

"Why are you riding a motorcycle? A car is safer and can keep you dry in the rain." "We like riding the motorcycle and it’s cheaper to operate." But with such a fine motorcycle and special clothes, you must be rich!" Not at all; we are retired teachers who have saved what little money we could and now are spending it, hoping we can make it around the world." You could see his face change from one of expectation to disappointment (at least that how I read his expression).

It was getting late and both Janet and I were tired so I asked our Helper where I could find a good hotel with secure parking for the bike. "Straight along the beach to the Ramada." We knew it would be expensive but we were beat, we would look for another place tomorrow.

We woke to a cloudy sky but an impressive view of the beach from our hotel room.

Armed with a street map (major streets only for tourists) we set out and after a quick lunch we found a cheaper hotel and settled in. That’s just about the time that the Tangier Trots hit Janet. First, the antibiotics that we have been carrying since China, then a diet of tea and toast and by today, she should be up and able to get around a bit. It took almost three days but by the third day she was able to travel a longer distance without the dreaded fear of having to stop every few minutes in hopes of finding a protective bush.

I am a reasonably well educated man, well read and very well traveled. I know that things change. For example I knew a man who took several months off work to cruise his powerboat down Baja and then over to the Mexican coastline because he heard of how people talked of similar trips and then would talk about the ‘old days’ and how it was then. He wanted to be able to tell similar stories, stories of unspoiled fishing villages, coastlines unfettered with high-rise resorts, of payments to local officials and the fun of bartering for the lowest bribe. I know these things.

Yet, I wanted Casablanca to appear just like it was in the movie. I didn’t want the traffic to be nearly as insane as in Changchun. I didn’t want to see the decaying buildings—I wanted to see Rick’s American Bar! Alas, Casablanca is like all other cities, somehow ruined by progress, masses of unemployed people in a situation that is difficult if not impossible. It is only if one looks hard and long enough with an uncritical eye that one can find places and individuals that sparkle in the lunacy of large cities.

I have become paranoid about the bike’s safety and was deathly afraid to leave it "outside" at night in a city where so many have so little. We found one hotel and talked to the manager, a lady that spoke English, and asked, "Does this hotel have secure parking? "No, but at the other section of this hotel, there is underground parking." One young man said he would be happy to lead us there.

Janet approved of the room and price. I was concerned about the large and obviously out of commission compressor that blocked the doorway leading to the parking garage. But our friend who led the way told me not to worry, it would be moved. Within a few minutes, several young men pushed and pulled until the compressor sat in the middle of the street much to the consternation of cars waiting to pass.

The ramp leading down to the parking garage had to be an afterthought. It was steep, perhaps 20 to 30 degrees and narrow. In fact the compressor had to be moved once I tried to position the bike to enter the doorway. The narrowness was further compounded by several large cloth bags lining one side of the ramp.

I entered and walked into the dark garage and luckily someone turned on a light. It appeared as though the area had once functioned as a storage room that was converted to a garage with the addition of the ramp but now functioned as a furniture factory, complete with large saws, joiners and planers, and nearly finished bed and chair frames. The large bags on the ramp were sawdust waiting to be disposed of.

My only option was to back the bike down the ramp because there was no room to maneuver because of the furniture at the bottom. Once secure, the garage doors were closed and the compressor returned to its place and we were finished—the bike was safe.

The concierge at the hotel (read that as coffee bar manager, gofer, porter and all around expediter) and I struck up a conversation after Janet went to the room for the night. His English was at least understandable and his experience reasonable broad. He had worked at hotels in Turkey, Libya, Algeria and Morocco. At one point we were standing at the entrance to the lobby when two heavy girls walked past and I asked where they might be going at such a late time. "Oh, they are prostitutes looking for men. They live in that building and take the men there, then jing-a-jing and then they come back to look for more." "How much do they charge?" I asked. "Are you looking for a girl?" "No, just interested." "They charge about 100 to 200 hundred dirham. (100 dirham is about $12.00)"

He went on to explain that many families are so poor that the girl might be the only source of income that the family has. How often have I seen this in third world and developing countries?

The Plymouth – Banjul Challenge

 We left Casablanca with expectations unmet. We had somehow lost interest in seeing more of the city. Since Jay was coming on the 19^th and we were planning to see Marrakech with him, we decided to head to Agadir, a costal city about 500 km southeast. Our first priority was gas.

We pulled into a station and while making the obligatory ‘pit stop’ we met Nick and Joshua from the UK who were on the way to Banjul, the capital of Gambia. It seems that four years (I think) ago, a man organized a charity event that involves people buying cars, for about $250.00 or less, and driving them from the UK to Banjul to donate them to the ‘government’ and then returning home after having had a taste of the adventure of riding through a part of Africa, a portion of which goes through the Sahara.

 "Yes, we are all going to meet in a campground just north of Marrakech in two days, and then we will head off to Banjul." Janet and I looked at each other and agreed this was something we had to see so in an instant our plans changed.

The campground was easy to find; so was the Challenge group. Even with their excitement of reaching the staging area, our bike did draw their attention. We talked about how we had met one of the team on the road and decided to come and film a bit of their activity and did they mind. Not only were we welcomed but provided a parking place amongst the cars and a tent site close to theirs.

$1,000 (technically within the limit because there were eight people traveling).

One common theme with all the people we talked with was the traffic in Casablanca and while I didn’t think it that bad, I did have one driver in a fairly new Mercedes try to force me out of my lane to the point where he rubbed up against the sidecar fender leaving a large blue stain on his door from my fender.

We also met Leon and Clair, a young couple in their 30s from Holland, who were headed to India, or maybe someplace in south Africa in a 30 year old Land Rover. They were planning to cross the Sahara and then head through the Middle East to reach India but they, like us, were a little concerned about the political stability there. Their option was to head south through Africa and then ship their vehicle to South America and drive north. "How long will you be on the road?"

"Until the money is gone." Fair question, reasonable answer.

Leon had taken some time to tell me about some of the neat places he had been, on previous trips to Morocco and one was the little village of Abaynou where there was a thermal bath. Thermal baths are a must visit item on our agenda.

Abaynou is just a pencil mark on a map which shows no road leading to either the village or the thermal bath. "Just go to Goulimine and follow the signs to Sidi Ifni, then take the second right and follow that road until you reach the baths." Sounded easy, something about 500 to 550 km and no rush to get there.

Riding in Morocco fits well with what I had thought the Dragin’ Run should be; riding over a constantly changing terrain, passing through small villages with people going about their daily routines. Having tea or coffee in small cafes and occasionally talking with anyone who spoke some English.

The roads are good but the land is very poor. What land that is being used for farming is rich in rocks ranging in size from very large to gravel size. It seems that there is hardly room for any vegetation to grow. Goat and sheep herds are forced to roam broad stretches of area in search for food. But for us the scenery is magnificent and it is warm! The coastline is breathtaking with few beaches but many cliffs that plunge straight down to the water.

As we approached Goulimine we had to slow for a police checkpoint, of which there are many here, and I spotted the sign, Abaynou – Thermal Area. I checked with the officer and he confirmed that down this one lane road was Abaynou. The gently winding road took us through more ochre desert populated with pear cactus and the ever present rocks. We navigated one more curve and climbed one more small hill and we were there.

"Camping is 40 Dirham and the hotel room is 160 Dirham. The bath is 10." The women’s bath is over there and this is the men’s bath but at 7:00 pm it is open for men and women." "We will camp but where can we set up?" "Just follow me."

 We set up the tent on a grassy area next to the women’s bath. We had trees and a wall for shelter. It was a great location. The best part was that all the motor homes were parked in other areas so we had this spot all to ourselves. It was only a short walk to the W.C. and showers and there were facilities for washing dishes and clothes. A length of nylon rope served as our clothes line. The world was good.

I wake up at least once every night. It doesn’t bother me but rather gives me an opportunity to take a few moments to look up and here in the desert I am always grateful for one more opportunity to see stars brilliantly shining against a black sky showing the Milky Way. I look for Orion, Big Dipper and the North Star and somehow feel comforted that they ate still there. Infantile thoughts perhaps but none the less calming to me.

I also wake up early, most often long before sunrise. I enjoy my mornings when I can sit with a cup of coffee and think about yesterday and today. I love the anticipation of sunrise on clear days and just the growing light on cloudy or stormy days. On this first morning at Abaynou, in this little corner of the northern Sahara, sunrise appeared like air blown coals trying to burn their way through the ash of yesterday only to fade again in the heavy grey morning. But the sun was not to be denied. As it grew later, the sun appeared over the clouds and in moments the sky was once again clear and brilliant blue. The land, sometimes a brownish red, sometimes almost pink, are colors that I thought only existed on an artist’s pallet. But then here is where artists discovered these colors.

On the last morning here, sunrise was more like an explosion of red-orange light that announced that the sun would rule this day, that it would heat and burn everything in its domain. I still wonder at the power of the sun and recognize my insignificance but I am also in awe at my good fortune at being able to witness the majesty of nature.

The thermal bath was a bit of a disappointment. We had been told that they were about 98⁰F but in fact they were much cooler, maybe 85 or 90⁰. I had looked forward to soaking in hotter water to soothe tired and aching muscles and this water just didn’t do the trick. Never the less, the warm water was relaxing and both Janet and I were glad we visited here.

On the morning of the third day we left Abaynou and headed to Sidi Ifni and then on to Tiznit. The coast is a great ride; cooling winds and great scenery. But as soon as we headed inland the temperature started to climb. By the time we reached Tiznit we were ready to find a camp site. "Camping", I asked a westerner. In French I got a reply I didn’t understand but a man on a motorized bicycle said follow me and he led me to the entrance to a large campground. I should say he led me to a recreational vehicle campground. We found a space at the very back of the area squeezed in between two large motor homes. We were the only bikers and the only tent in an area of at least 200 vehicles.

A few people were interested in the old folks on the bike and came to see. "Bon jour", they said. "Bon jour" we replied. "Do you speak English?" A few did. Word quickly spread that the bikers had come from China but as evening approached there was less and less interest. Soon I began to watch the ballet of TV satellite dishes as they all began their automatic signal search. Obviously, an important program was on because the search started at about the same moment.

The following morning I watched as the owners of the vehicles got pails and mops in hand and began their daily routine of washing their motor homes. Some even wearing rubber Wellington boots to keep their feet free from splashing water. After the wash came window cleaning and finally a good dusting with paint brushes to keep the desert sand at bay. I am glad I don’t have a motor home.

The afternoon was hot and I suggested that we ride to Sidi Ifni, a small village on the coast that we had past through a couple of days ago. I knew that it would be cool. We set off and reached the town and the cooling ocean breeze. But instead of returning by the same route, we headed north to see more of the coast. That is where we met Frank Butler, a British rider on a BMW Dakar, coming from Sweden and heading to South Africa. He, like us is making a photographic record of his travels. As we talked he made a statement that has proved true for us as well. "It is almost impossible to photograph the local people." He carried a small printer with him and had hoped to photograph the locals and then give them a picture. However, he found the local herders either too shy or uninterested that they refused or that they wanted money in return for their image.

As we rounded one bend in the road, I spotted a car parked on the shoulder and two westerners standing, looking into a tree. Then I spotted what had captured their interest. I pulled over and got the video camera. There in the tree were several goats. Yes, in the tree.

We also saw goats in other trees feeding on the high branches that still held fresh green leaves and small, new shoots. When what little grass is gone, the goats take to the trees for food. I had finished filming when several young boys came over and demanded money. When we refused, the older boy, maybe twelve, became angry. I guess since he was in charge of the goats, he was entitled to charge for filming them.

 Another common characteristic is that nearly all of the people are older and very heavy. America isn’t the only country with an obesity problem. At the same time, Janet and I were amazed at the Moroccan women, almost all obese (even the prostitutes in Casablanca). We cannot account for this except that presumably once married, they begin to care less for themselves than for their families. I hope to have a chance to discuss this with a national.

Jay arrives in two days so we head for Casablanca, about 350 km from Essaouira where we have been for the last two days. We have stayed here because Janet caught a pretty bad cold and has stayed in bed.

Morocco is proving to be one of our favorite countries along with Turkey and of course Mongolia.