Meknes - MOROCCO
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Although Morocco had offered us a rainbow of experiences and adventures I recall sighing in relief as we stepped on that train and took a seat next some a Casablanca-bound businessmen. Hopefully we were in for a smooth ride home - well, towards Spain, which is as close to normality as we can get. The five hour journey contained a train change about an hour down the track, which was supposed to leave us waiting for about three minutes. Of course the connection was late. During the hour-long wait what seemed to be the entire Moroccan airforce flew by - all three of them! The station was a platform in the middle of nowhere. To one side farmers were working in fields of dirt and on the other was a small village. It seemed so Moroccan to be dumped with hordes of others in nowheres-ville and be expected to wait for "your destiny". Thankfully ours turned up by 10 and we even managed to get a non-smoking compartment, sharing with two others - an aging Spaniard with a hot Moroccan vixen. Throughout the journey we had conversations via body language as none of us could speak to the other. I spent most of my time catching up on this diary and at other times would watch an ever changing landscape fly by, from olive and orange groves, dry grasslands, distant mountains, large vegetable growing regions, farmers in the fields and small ochre-toned villages. The most interesting occurrence was when a group of gypsy women hoarded onto the train, four of them cramming into our compartment with piles of hand-woven bags. Then they began to talk in the loudest of Arabic voices. After a while the Moroccan girl joined in, but not in a friendly tone. Although it's hard to tell as when one speaks Arabic there is only one tone and that is really loud! Finally, after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing they moved off and it turned out that they didn't have tickets. Plus I thought they smelt and didn't like the idea of spending a few hours draped over their baskets and squashed to the wall! At 1pm the coastline emerged and a line of golden sandy beaches near Asilah appeared. It was good to get a glimpse of the coast we didn't have time to see. Soon we entered Tangier's sprawl, passing many decrepid houses and flats until we reached the main railway station. As we took that first step off the train we almost felt at home, or at least back to familiar surroundings. Although this is such a contrast to our arrival where we smelt fear in every corner and were wary of every step we took. We piled up on a few edible items at the station shop and began our walk towards the port. Not a single person bothered us and we even managed to find the right quay after walking along some railway tracks. Across from us was a large car ferry and terminal, so in contrast to the ramshackle building and wharf we were upon. Many people with luggage seemed to be waiting but not one single official could be seen. At this stage it was already 2:30pm and our 3pm ferry was nowhere to be seen. We found out from a Moroccan tour guide that these people were waiting for the 4pm ferry to Algeciras in Spain. When we asked about the Tarifa ferry he said there wasn't one. Of course we thought this was a scam to get us to buy another ticket. Two dodgy ticket sellers were saying the same thing. Our companies ferry office was located in a small corner of the building but it looked like it had been closed for years. Dave in desperation ran across to the Port Office and it was confirmed that there was "no boat to Tarifa". We assumed it was broken and did the next easiest thing by buying a ticket to Algeciras (30km from Tarifa). It was more expensive than the other but was a small modern hydrofoil which at least looked like it would get us to the other side. The boarding procedure caused a hell of a lot of confusion - touts were selling the most kitschy and crappy Fez hats imaginable. Just as we commented to each other that no-one would be dumb enough to buy such a lame souvenir we looked up to see ten people now wearing them on their heads. I was almost tempted to say to them "So, you're the bastards that encourage false guides and hordes of kitschy crap to be pushed against us!". As the sun began to sink into the sea the hydrofoil sped off leaving Morocco behind and if you looked around every independent traveller was breathing a sigh of relief. Within 45 minutes the coast of Spain presented itself and I was looking forward to feeling the welcoming arms of western society, like a warm blanket in from the cold. Although it didn't take too long to realise that the Spanish had their own downside. Whilst being packed in the hydrofoil, where all the doors are sealed, the masses began to smoke and it didn't take long before you almost couldn't breathe. We gladly stepped off the boat into Spain and almost felt like kissing the ground. To the right of the harbour lay the brightly lit Rock of Gibraltar and to the left was a terminal building, gleaming with marble floors and padded seats. We were almost bewildered by the concept of this large building of comfort. After all, most of Morocco is run by necessity and not flashy wants. The Muslim world was a real experience comparable to no other and the most amazing thing was that suddenly even the mundane became impressive - like multistory car parks, information centres, ferry check-in counters and where only the friends and family of travellers were waiting at the exit. After a comfortable bus trip and taxi ride (all to ourselves) the glossy lights of the campsite appeared and there stood the bus in all its glory, exactly as we had left it. The receptionist welcomed us back to Spain and that first entry into the van was like coming home. I recall sitting on the back seat amazed at the wonders of our portable home. To one side sat the kitchen and above us was a Pandora's box of treasures. Now, to sum Morocco up in a few words is almost impossible. Things that were so difficult became so gratifying once mastered or overcome. You had to get through the exterior bad people to reach its soul, which in itself was a very rewarding experience. A lot of the time bad memories can overcome the good but we made sure that this never happened. We found the exterior Moroccans - the touts and the like - to be hypocrites, for they too were Muslims but would lie, cheat and steal. Yet when we got beyond them we found the real people to be genuine, friendly, and honest. Indeed it is a country full of contrasts, where you can experience sandy deserts to snow in three hours, and in the heart lies a warm and interesting people so willing to treat you as one of their own. We tasted homemade Couscous with a family; met the women of the house, usually hidden behind closed doors; felt the excitement of the squares and souqs, where time stands still; and mastered the art of bargaining and the mint tea experience. Morocco is not for the faint-hearted, you have to work hard to find it's treasures but, when you do it's like striking gold. Indeed, the memories that I hold will never fade, they are so different to the ones of Europe. Nowhere else in the world does a tourist have to work so hard to reap a countries rewards and Morocco has made me realise even more that there is truly "no place like home". |