Morocco I: Unlocking the Secrets

We once drove from Los Angeles to New Orleans via Omaha, Nebraska. Years later when quitting California for South America, we headed first to Canada. Now we were leaving southern Portugal for Morocco, and when it began with a stop in Lisbon, it wasn’t altogether a surprise. Fran has always found the act of being on the move a fine way to avoid responsibility, so we often take the long way round. Even when it includes the Cornhusker State. After three days of driving through Portugal and Spain, we reached Tarifa. The town lies on the southernmost point of continental Europe and faces the Strait of Gibraltar. We found an odd little hotel on a country road so lacking in basic maintenance that my ribs were battling my teeth for a rapid exit though my brain. It was an isolated spot but this being Spain there was a very good restaurant a short walk away, 3:00 PM was not too late for Sunday lunch, and if you didn’t order a bottle of wine you were thrown-out for being a sissy.

We were travelling on the Prince of Denmark, a 2022 Honda NC750X and our fastest motorcycle to date. While Bolívar was driving us up and down South America, the Prince was parked in Portugal, listening enviously to Pferdi’s tales of triumph, trauma and adventure. Of our three bikes these past eight years, he’s the one with the least experience and miles so he was anxious to get to work. Pulling-in at the port under the shadow of Guzmán castle, we were second-in-line behind two German riders. Not long after, an elongated, solar-powered electric bicycle showed-up. It had a box in front with a little tent on top, which in turn supported a solar panel. Intrigued, we asked if we could take a closer look and on peeking inside the tent, we found a small child sucking his thumb. The mother was the power behind his wheels, until she tired, and then the sun (not the son), took over. Lucky Dad had his own conventional bicycle; it’s a man’s world for sure. They were French and having accepted that they’d never be able to retire, decided to take whatever travel opportunities came their way now.

Immigration was on board the Moroccan ferry behind two glassed-in booths. It was a beautiful day and we sat outside as Tarifa’s watchtowers and Europe faded behind a wake of turquoise spray. One hour later the horizon’s thin grey bumps had turned into green hills and a jumble of white blocks took shape. This was Tangier. Customs was very casual but took some time. Thankfully there were no searches as we’d completely forgotten the four cans of beer left in the Prince’s top box. We received the smallest TIP on record (temporary import permit), no bigger than a business card, then let loose into a whole new world and time. There were women in veils, and males in long robes flapping like sails, markets displaying all kinds of fruits, and cafés serving all types of suits. Traffic was busy but not daunting. Our hotel, on a hectic, six-lane street, was nothing like I’d imagined: no courtyards, no jasmine-scented balconies, and the closest thing to splashing fountains were the hoses in the blue-and-white tiled car wash in the underground garage below. Crossing the street caused palpitations. Pedestrian crossings were non-existent and the far side seemed very far away. Getting there involved two long sprints and a scary repeat to get back. I looked for little old ladies, or small children, anything to hide behind, but they’re never around when you need them. In the end we just marched out with fake confidence and raised hands, all the while whispering “Inshallah”.  It worked.

The drive through the Rif mountains was overcast. The road was good but there were cops at every roundabout. They were smartly dressed except for the tough guy with the radar gun, legs apart and pointing at the oncoming traffic. A hit man with a steady hand. Being on our best behaviour, we smiled and gave a little wave, and they responded in kind. The mountains were brown and rocky with patches of dark green forest and small villages. We left the main road and wound our way up to Chefchaouen, and at the top were sucked into a blue maze of steep, narrow streets. As if to make up for the dreary hotel room in Tangier, our accommodation here was a small, three-room apartment with a traditional living room of cushioned seats along three walls. Surrounded by intricate mosaics, stained-glass windows and rainbow shutters, we were so bathed in colour it was like living inside a Tiffany lamp. We felt like royalty. Meanwhile our own Prince sat outside a tiny convenience store reading the stacked detergent boxes and getting rained on. (Yes, my pet, this is what livin’ the dream is all about.) The downside was the nearby mosque; each dawn the muezzin’s call to prayer was our despair. And lest we forget our own acts of devotion, the bedroom had a handy sticker with an arrow pointing to Mecca.

Nearly every building was painted blue. The season was ending so tourists were sparce and those who were present were mostly French. The medina was magical with its web of slender alleyways, covered balconies and tiled niches with public water fountains. Small shops were selling traditional robes, embroidered kaftans and djellabas as well as pointed slippers, and women covered from head to toe shopped in groups. In the back streets deliveries were made by scooters with tiny trailers. There were cats everywhere, as if they owed the place, which really, they did. On our last day it rained and thundered well into the night and next morning the bike’s boxes were full of water. The electricity was off everywhere so the town’s one gas station halfway down the hill was unable to pump. Another reminder to always fuel on arrival.

We came down out of the storm. Across a blue sky, great scudding clouds cast shadows over dry plains. Date palms gave way to olive trees, then higher up, forests of pine, their umbrella canopies forming perfect lime-green circles. In the distance a line of pink and white mountains promised a more southern climate. Women waited for rides by the roadside, swathed in pastels and purples, shopping bags at their feet. Donkeys with panniers grazed the long acre and mechanics, blacksmiths and tire shops darkened the otherwise sunny outskirts of towns. At lunchtime kids spilled out of school, boys walking goofily to the bus stop, riding or giving rides home on handlebars. They all laughed, waved, and gave us the thumbs-up.

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We entered Fez through a high Moorish arch in a castellated wall surrounding a vast empty square. In the late afternoon we walked into the medina, its long, narrow main street full of earthly delights: brass artifacts, tajine pots, silver jewellery and fez hats. We veered off to the right into a labyrinth of deep alleyways and darkened doorways, all intertwined by tangles of black electrical wires. There were some wall tiles with names, their shape indicating a dead-end (hexagon) or a through street to the outside (square), but they were of no use to us. What you don’t know, you don’t know. It was dusk when we were guided out by a nice young man coming home from work. Only then did we realize how far we’d wandered from the outer city walls. After dropping off the laundry at Hassan Pressing, we were ready to call it a night. Across the street the cafes were filling-up, men in dark suits and djellabas, and out front a row of scooters and small motorcycles. Did I mention it’s a man’s world?

The ride to the desert took six hours. Beginning with pine trees and burnt grass, it climbed into dark barren mountains, dipped into shadowed gorges, rose above trickles of green water, passed a very large, very blue lake (where did that come from?) and finally descended into the Ziz valley. Thirty minutes south of Errachidia was the village of Meski. Our tiny hotel had extensive parking, all the way in fact, to a distant flat horizon. The Prince of Denmark would be safe here but the owners insisted on bringing him inside to the restaurant. Here he was settled under the King’s portrait while we were treated to tea. This is one of Morocco’s loveliest traditions, the serving of mint tea to guests on arrival. Out comes the silver tray, the tall pot and the ornate glasses. A kinder, more civilized welcome simply doesn’t exist.

We were the only guests and each evening we sat with the owners (a Moroccan and a German couple) on the roof, ate dinner together and talked. This is one of the great by-products of travel, the stories you hear along the way: tales of how people ended-up where they ended-up, and better still, the meandering journeys they took not only to get there, but also to stay there. One night on the terrace we heard how, in the beginning, the Germans bought a washing-machine for the local lady who did their laundry. After a while they noticed she wasn’t using it, returning to the river instead to spend most of the day slapping and scrubbing sheets on stones. On asked why, for heaven’s sake, she replied that she was lonely. No longer privy to the happenings in the village, she went back to the river and her friends. Most of all she went back for the gossip.

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The road from Meski south bordered a long oasis with square, earthen buildings. It followed the curve of the valley, a great, fertile strip in an otherwise arid expanse. In Merzouga camels waited in vain for tourists and sand dunes rose like a golden sea as the Sahara flowed towards the Algerian border. Riding out here you think nothing could ever survive, but there’s always a village or a town, somewhere up ahead. The minarets of the mosques are often the first to announce that civilization is nigh, and are a signal to Fran, after the empty, sometimes mind-numbing miles, to switch his brain to “Alert” and prepare for the mini-battle ahead. The trouble with these towns, like in the American West, is that they never had to worry about running out of space. Without fail, they begin (and end) with a very long, very busy main street. What with negotiating pedestrians who never, ever look (Allah, don’t forget, takes care of this), weaving bicycles and scooters, pickup trucks with leaning towers of mattresses, and the ever-present pupils of the local Lycée, it could take up to thirty minutes just to get to the other side.  

We’d been staying in riads as often as possible. These are traditional houses built around central courtyards and gardens. In the foothills of the Atlas Mountains we stopped in Tinghir. The view from the Kasbah Omari rooftop over the old sand city and oasis was so breathtakingly beautiful we easily ignored the shortcomings of our room. It also helped that Omari’s cooking skills were far superior to those of his housekeeping and who’s going to notice anyway if we don’t shower tomorrow. This was the jumping-off point for the Todra Gorge, and to find yourself gliding through 400m tall canyons (and 10m wide) less than an hour after breakfast had you wondering just what you did to deserve this. There’s no doubt about it, the benefits of unlocking the secrets of the next fold in the map far outweigh the risks of any suspect shower stalls.

There was always something to see out here in the middle of nowhere. Softly layered mountains reflected in still green waters held captive by a dam. Miles of red rocky slopes followed by tiny irrigated fields resplendent with their rich green carpets. We stopped for a flock of sheep crossing the road to a dry riverbed. Minutes later, their shepherd came hurtling down in a shower of stones and dust, his wide smile calling “Bonjour! ça va?” over and over, until, still waving, he disappeared behind the bend. On it went, always something beautiful, proudly crumbling or untamed around the next corner. The city was a shock at the end of it all but we were looking forward to its compensations: a fine dinner, a good bed. We also could have murdered a beer. But Beni-Mellal wasn’t giving anything away. Only the coffee shops were open. Checking-in to a hotel, a large picture advertised a rooftop restaurant and cocktails with little umbrellas, but it was just that, a picture. There would be a restaurant soon, said the gentle little receptionist, sometime, in the future. Inshallah, I said, but I had my doubts. The pep had gone out of our step by the time we walked to the supermarket, our first big store since arriving in the country. It had shelves and shelves of beer, 0.0% beer, and if there was a hidden storeroom with the real thing, we didn’t find it. Never mind, Morocco’s favourite cheese was in abundant supply and after a six-hour ride, there’s nothing quite like a slice of bread topped with a triangle of La Vache Qui Rit. But on this particular night, the cow was the only one laughing.

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