Morocco

Day One: Transit

Rising at 6am in Malaga I hiked it to the bus station and rode to Algeciras, then caught a ferry across the strait of Gibraltar. That right there was the extent of my amazing plan. Other than a recommendation from Kevin, an English guy from the hostel in Malaga, that I visit Chefchaouen I had no idea what to do in Morocco. And other than a discussion/slideshow with my cousin Karin and I had no idea what to expect.

On the ferry I started chatting with Bekka and Danny, two siblings from the States. We were soon joined by two young English lads Sam and Charlie on a charity hitch-hiking trip. They were all going to Fes. I’d never heard of it, but it sounded okay so I joined them.

The Moroccan countryside from the new port to Tangier is lush and green. Hang on, isn’t this Africa? Not what I expected, cruising along a motorway through green, rolling hills. Once in Tangier we ate something (a big plate of roasted chicken, chips, and salad with baguette for around two Euros) and climbed on a fairly normal looking bus to Fes.

It was dark when we arrived in Fes. It had been a long day and we were keen to find a place to crash. Bekka and Danny had pre-booked a hostel. The rest of us hadn’t, so we shared a cramped taxi ride to the hostel (the driver drew the curtains to conceal the three in the back seat and the one in with the packs). The hostel was full but the owner walked with us to two other places nearby. We settled into basic accommodation (sans hot water, power sockets or anything else) for fifty dirham (around five Euros).

Day Two: Fes

We rendezvoused at Bekka and Danny’s hostel. Their hostel was a big step up from ours (hot water twice a day from 8-9, a common chill-out area and complimentary hot chocolate croissants!) and they had space so we checked in to a room. A bunch of us from the hostel chipped together (three Euros each) and organised a guide for the day. Rasheet was a shrewd middle-aged gentleman, absolutely convinced of the amazing quality of Moroccan products (herbs, carpets, leather, etc) and a true believer of Islam (at one point he laid his hands on Sam and prayed to heal his as-yet-undiagnosed bronchitis). He was an excellent guide, and organised (for another 3 Euro each - whatever) a taxi to get us around. I say he was shrewd because of the way were lead from one factory to the next, each beginning with a tour and ending with a shop. Although there was no obligation to buy anything there was plenty of incentive and a healthy dose of encouragement. We were presented with ceramic ware, herbs, perfumes, oils, bags, jackets, souvenirs, carpets, blankets, clothes, scarves, and many, many more. All at 20% discount. Of course. To be honest though, as long as you’re aware that you’re being hustled it’s a lot of fun. The Medina (central market area) is a huge warren of little shops and bustle. Another advantage of having a guide is that you get left alone by the other hustlers. 

The Ceramic Factory (Being Sold Ceramics)

Ground bean soup with oil and bread / The Medina

I think he was born in there / Carpet Tunnel Syndrome

Being Sold Spices / The Tannery

Being Sold Bags / Being Sold Rugs

That evening Sam’s cough got worse and he thought he had a fever. I had my thermometer handy (the same 40 Baht mercury job which had saved my life in Thailand). His armpits read 39.5°C. Wow. I checked my own temperature as a control, which was accurate. We asked around and found there was a clinic just two hundred metres down the street. Charlie escorted him there.
They were gone for quite some time. Sam had perked up when he returned though. He recalled the tale of being poked and prodded, diagnosed with Bronchitis and given a prescription. And he meant poked and prodded quite literally. They took some ultrasound images and took his temperature. Anally. Yes that’s right. Needed to be accurate she said. Want to know what it read? 39.5°C. I laughed very hard.

Day Three: Chefchaouen

Actually seemed honest.

We rose, ate our chocolate croissants and parted ways. Sam and Charlie were headed southwards to Marakesh. Bekka and Danny were headed north to Tangier and then Spain. I went to see  Chefchaouen. I arrived in the afternoon and checked into the hotel that Kevin had recommended (which in case you’re ever there is the Pension Castellana near Plaza Ute Hammam). The town is beautiful, built on the side of a hill and all painted blue for whatever reason. I thought it looked like a scene straight out of the Neverhood. It’s becoming touristy with cafes and little shops everywhere. 

Roadside Chow / This Is Africa?

I was greeted by several locals on my way in asking where I was staying and offering ‘help’ which I politely declined. One of them actually got angry at me for not stopping to talk to him. One of the guys stuck with me despite the absolute affirmation that I wasn’t going to pay him. He led me to my hostel. His family run a textiles co-op which he’d love to show me. Of course. But then I thought about it - actually, why not. I had nothing better to do. He was waiting for me after I’d checked in so I let him take me all the way through the windy streets to his family’s shop. There was a brief warm-up phase where they figured out my nationality and talked about their fondness for New Zealand and how they have good customers who order from there. They even knew a fair bit of Maori. Then, time for the show. Carpets and rugs were unfurled and spread all over the floor. I had maintained that I was, exactly as promised, just coming to look at the shop and had no intention of buying anything. I have no house and therefore no floor. No matter, the show went on. More rugs, more talk, and the increasingly frequent suggestion of ‘how much would you pay?’ Eventually it was narrowed down to one blanket which, were I to theoretically buy a blanket, it would be that one. I apologised for wasting their time. Don’t need it, can’t afford it, sorry. (I can lie too, whatever. My Mammut jacket and Geox shoes were probably giving me away though.) It was obvious I wasn’t going to buy and they started folding everything up. I helped a bit, just to feel better. But instead of giving up like any sane person would he invited me in for dinner with the family. So I shared couscous and stewed beef with the other family members watching Arabic TV. Cool. After another half hour I rose to leave and said my thanks and goodbyes. The guy caught me as I was trying to escape! My ‘favourite’ blanket was still rolled up on the chair. One full hour after I walked into the shop he starts actually talking price. ‘Come on. More than one hundred. Less than five hundred.’ I was being taken seriously. It felt good. 

‘Okay, two.’ 

‘Four.’ 

‘Look, two hundred fifty. My final offer.’ 

‘Fine, Three hundred dirham, that’s it.’

‘Make it thirty Euros.’

I couldn’t believe it. I was buying this stupid blanket for which I had neither space nor use. Screw it. The experience was just too cool not to. *sigh*…  ‘Okay. Thirty Euros.’ I open up my pouch and give him a fifty Euro note. According to my Converter+ app on my iPhone (recommended by the way) I figure out that he needs to pay me 220 dirham in change. I let him pay the conversion commission.

The Showroom / Dinner With The Family

The rest of the day was spent exploring the city. I met up with two guys I’d chatted with on the bus for mint tea on the rooftop terrace with views across the town. The hostel was amazing, with hot water and everything. My bedroom window had a spectacular view, as did the bathroom. There was a rooftop terrace where I sat after dark and played guitar. I was joined by a Basque guy who told me the about the troubles of his homeland. I had a sneaking suspicion that this guy had ties to ETA. 

Looking Up / Looking Down

Bathroom View / Balcony View

Chefchaouen

From the Perspective of Klaymen

Day Four: Tangier

I took a stroll up to the mosque on the hill and took some pictures before picking up my things, marching down to the bus station. 

I had copied the names and addresses of three cheap Tangier hostels from Kevin’s Lonely Planet. Once in Tangier I went straight for a line of taxis and asked if they knew any of the places on my list. Nope. They didn’t recognise the addresses either. They even tried the phone number I had which didn’t work. Damn. Then one taxi driver comes over and says ‘Yeah yeah, I know where that is.’ Sweet. I followed him to his car and was careful to negotiate a price before getting in it. He wanted 50. That’s a night’s accommodation. I offered 30 and we settled on 40. It was too much but he was getting me to my hostel after all so I owed him that.

Once in the car he asks for the number of the hostel . Question marks form in my mind. He tries it and again, it fails. He looks puzzled and I start to feel pissed. He doesn’t have a bloody clue where it is – he just wanted to get me in the taxi. So he drops me in the Medina, the tourist warrens. It’s just in there but unfortunately it’s a pedestrian only zone so he can’t drive me the whole way in. Riiight. I grudgingly pay him and get out. I’m instantly joined by a friendly guy wanting to show me the way. I politely explain that I don’t want a guide and can’t pay him anything. He assures me that he’s not a guide and that I don’t have to pay him anything. Déjà vu. Well if that’s his M.O. I won’t stop him. We walk up the street a bit and surprise! He doesn’t know the way. I’m fairly convinced by now that none of the three hostels exist in the Medina. We stop at a random hotel and ask for directions. The guy doesn’t know, but why not stay there? I’m tired. ‘How much?’ He offers 100. ‘No, that’s twice the price that I’m used to paying.’ He offers 70. ‘No, 50 or I walk.’ He offers 50. I go and look at the room. It’s crap. I take it. I pay, drop off my bags and walk outside again. My guy is still there, waiting patiently for me. I get rid of him. He looks disappointed and gets zero sympathy.  I walk around the medina, check out the port, a park, find an internet cafe, post a postcard, then return to the hostel. I enquire about a shower. Ten dirham. Ah, you got me. I should have asked about that earlier when we were still haggling. ‘So does that include a towel?’ Negative. ‘For ten dirham it should include a towel.’ 

He thinks about it. ‘I can give you a used towel.’

I’m suspicious. ‘Just how used is this towel?’ He changes subject and suggests that I just use a t-shirt to dry off. I explain what happens to damp t-shirts which get packed into rucksacks for long periods of time. He offers a sheet. A sheet? That would work. I pay him ten dirham. It’s a done deal. He gives me a clean white sheet and lets me into a room with an en-suite bathroom. There are unpacked suitcases on the beds and I don’t know to whom they belong. I just lock the door and get on with it, trying not to imagine the looks on the hotel guests’ faces as they return to find a naked Kiwi guy in their bathroom. I shave, deliberately leaving some beard clippings around the sink to make them wonder.

So by the time I went to bed I was pretty sick of Tangier. Being at the mercy of hustlers isn’t my idea of fun. I was leaving on the first ferry.

Day Five: Gone

I rose at 6am, packed, woke the doorman to let me out and bought a yoghurt drink for breakfast. As I’m walking along a scabby, skinny ginger cat sees what I’m drinking (with his not-closed eye) and runs along beside me, meowing. I pity the poor thing and put the foil cap on the ground for him to lick. Instantly a bigger cat appears and challenges the skinny cat for licking rights of the foil. They meow at each other at increasingly haughty tones. And that’s what happened to my single act of kindness. I round the corner and walk downhill towards the Medina gates. Three guys are leaned up against a rail and see me coming. One jerks his thumb back towards his mouth and tilts his hand, indicating he’d like a drink of my yoghurt drink. The ginger cat springs to mind. I walk past, ignoring them completely. The last words I hear being called after me as I exit the Tangier Medina are “Fuck you man! Fuck you!” I raise my bottle in the air and smile. It pleases me to know the feeling is mutual. Damn, the yoghurt tastes good today.

My exit from Morocco was smooth. I walked to the free bus pickup point (you have to ask about these things or you get sold a taxi), rode to the ferry terminal and crossed back to Spain. An excellent yet intense adventure.

Spain!