Europe Blog – Part 40, Into Africa
I left Barcelona the day after George caught his
flight home. He and I had spent a fun week riding together in the Pyrenees
Mountains. Drained after all that riding, I enjoyed a rest day before moving
on. It took me four days to get to Spain's port city Algeceris and a short ferry ride into Africa.
Still in Spain, I stayed for two days in a nice beach resort near
Almeria. I got time consuming tasks like
photo editing and blog drafting done. The internet was good, that was what
convinced me to stay longer. I downloaded all the Google Maps I would need in
Morocco. Downloading is often blocked on campground wifi; if it does work, downloading
that many maps might take days. I also
uploaded all the photos for the next blog. Photo files are huge and that task
is normally a stumbling block requiring hours of patience. As an afterthought, I also downloaded four
small files. I didn’t know it then but those files would prove to be very useful.
Moroccan Coast
I rode through vineyard and orchard areas, each
plant carefully irrigated at its base by measured drops from plastic tubing.
There were areas of desert with no visible land use. In another region I made
note of a concentration of Karst topography features visible from the motorway.
I remembered reading something about the region previously. I determined to research
and plan a visit to the area on a future trip.
The towns of Almeria and El Ejido, along with nearby
valleys were famous for growing fresh produce for European tables.
Greenhouses made from plastic sheeting covered the ground and were visible in
all directions from any hilltop. Tiny walkways between them, the only breaks in
the sea of plastic, blended into the artificial landscape. Countless numbers of
undocumented workers laboured inside the plastic enclosures. The greenhouses
used continuous sunshine to keep inside temperatures and humidity levels high.
Labour laws were given scant adherence at best in the rush to produce numerous
crops annually of fresh garden vegetables at competitive prices. I forgot to take a photo.
Plastic Valley Floors (photo from the internet)
Another full day of riding brought me past Gibraltar,
to the ferry dock at Algeceris in 35 degree heat. I bought an open return
ticket to Tanger Med, gateway to Africa for 84 Euros. There were plenty of
ticket offices on the road into town. They advertised deals but I was
determined to buy directly from the ferry company. A little backtracking
brought me out of the city and close to The Rock of Gibraltar. Thankfully it
was 10 degrees cooler at the iOverlander recommended campground.
The Rock of Gibraltar
There are choke points along well travelled overland
routes. They usually involve water crossings. Isabelle and I met five other moto-travellers
at one such choke point when crossing the Darien Gap where no road exists
through the thick jungle of Panama’s Darien National Park. Together, we seven
riders sailed for five days aboard the vessel Stalhratte from Panama to
Colombia. Isa and I have kept in touch with four of the five other riders. One
of them, Glenn subsequently rode with us in Bolivia. His quick thinking and
generous heart, along with his excellent Spanish, proved invaluable when I
crashed and was injured outside Uyuni. Isabelle and I are forever grateful to
him for that.
Camping Sureuropa, near Gibraltar was one such travelers’ choke
point. I met Peter who was from Amsterdam. He was camped next to me and was
riding one of two Honda CRF250L bikes he and his wife Leonie had used to ride
around the world. Their sensitively written travel blog had inspired me while researching our South America trip. It was such a pleasant coincidence to meet
and speak with him. Peter was returning from Morocco and gave me several tips.
Camped on my other side were two experienced moto travellers. Tim and his
friend were headed to Cape Town but slowly. They had planned to use at least
six months for the journey. It was wonderful to listen to tales and to hear travel
advice from such seasoned riders while the four of us sat around sharing tea
that evening. Yes, it really was tea.
Loading the Ferry to Tanger Med
The ferry crossing went well with no delays. I spoke
on the ship with Cyril from France about Morocco. He had many helpful route
suggestions. Getting through Immigration and Customs was a breeze compared with
Central American border crossings. I bought insurance and exchanged some US
currency I had been saving for the occasion. I would be going into a mainly
cash economy. Beside the almost exclusive use of cash, there would prove to be many
other similarities in Morocco to conditions Isa and I encountered on our South
America trip.
North Morocco
One similarity was navigation problems. In South America
I eventually learned to stop using a satellite navigator and instead became
proficient using off-line Google Maps downloaded onto a phone. Electronic
markers or “pin drops” worked in places where addresses didn’t. Google Maps was
a revelation! My new dilemma was that Google Maps didn’t work in Morocco. It
wouldn’t do a search or give a route. It was pretty much useless. All that
downloading I had done the previous week was for naught. I spent a couple of
hours riding and stopping, getting lost and worried in a strange new place.
Then I remembered Alain’s last message.
Just After the Ferry
I was slowly catching up with Alain and Francoise, a
riding couple Isa and I had met on the flight into Paris in May. The idea was
for the three of us to get together somewhere in Morocco. Alain and Francoise arrived
in Morocco a week ahead of me. Alain’s last message to me ended with, “…and
Maps.me works well.” Not understanding, I thought it mildly curious he felt the
need to tell me that fact.
In North Morocco
Isabelle and I had toyed with using Maps.me but
never really got the hang of it. Google Maps did everything so well, who needed
another app? I had downloaded the four Maps.me files for Morocco to my phone, at
the campsite in Spain with the great wifi, as insurance against Google Maps not
working. The decision allowed me to continue riding deeper into Morocco that
first day. Maps.me even worked over Bluetooth; giving me audio instructions on
the go. I was glad to have downloaded the four maps and suddenly understood why Alain had commented that Maps.me worked in
Morocco.
Two years earlier, when Isabelle and I had finished
with the fast toll roads in Mexico and entered Guatemala everything changed.
Crowds of tuk-tuks and small motorcycles billowing blue smoke buzzed around
slow moving trucks belching their own black clouds. Mountain roads with varying
surface conditions and blind corners required prudence and patience. Traffic seemed
to barely move on Guatemalan roads. In Guatemala, we threw out all our daily
travel time estimates, realizing that Central America worked on a different set
of parameters than those we had used when planning the trip.
Those Guatemalan parameters applied right from the start
in Morocco. I rode south to Chefchaouen following Cyril’s advice. Getting there
took the rest of the day. Trucks lumbered along roads that provided few safe
passing places. I saw numerous police hiding under roadside vendor tents, under
trees and in the apexes of sharp corners. They caught many drivers making
unsafe passes.
I met Christian, a Swiss rider in the campground
above Chefchaouen. We chatted for a long time and discovered that he planned
similar routes for his five weeks in Morocco. His bike had electrical problems
and he planned to stay in town for as long as it took to get the machine fixed.
I planned to move on the next day. I wanted to arrive a day early in Casablanca
for my appointment at the BMW dealer. That first day’s reminder of how slow
things can go caused me to not want to dally.
Morocco's Atlantic Coast
I rode to Camping Ocean Bleu, 25 kilometers north of
Casablanca. The journey was 300 kilometers long and it took all day. I was
nervous and became intimidated by all the dangerous passing and corner cutting
on blind turns. It seemed that motorcycles were expected to hug the white line,
even to go onto the shoulder to allow oncoming vehicles to cut a left corner. The
last 100 kilometers were on a four-lane toll road with a speed limit of 120.
Without that quick third of the journey I would have needed to use my insurance
day to get to Casablanca.
I felt uneasy and couldn’t snap out of it. Culture
shock and fear had risen up and bitten me. It was surprising but none-the-less
real. Chris Scott, in his book Morocco Overland warned that culture
shock and allowing one’s self to be intimidated sometimes caused a lone
traveller to go, “running back to Spain.” I was determined to not let that
happen.
I wandered into town for a couple of hours the next
day. I found a bank and tried my first withdrawal in Morocco. My card of choice
was rejected twice by the machine. I was relieved to find my back-up card
worked and the machine spat money at me. With that worry over I found some
lunch and a grocery store then made the long walk back to the campground. I
spent the rest of my insurance day doing laundry and finalizing, then publishing a
blog post.
My visit to Smeia BMW in Casablanca was smooth. The
whole team was professional and courteous. My bike was serviced while I waited.
I chatted with the mechanic and one of the front-of-house staff hanging out in
the back. They were really interested in the bike modifications and in my
travel story. They invited me for a ride together the next weekend.
I was impressed with Smeia BMW. There was no attempt
to take advantage of a traveller. Watching the mechanic lay out required tools
and supplies then work with efficient movements and practiced hands spoke of
his training. The price Smeia BMW charged me for the 110,000 kilometer scheduled
service plus new rear brake pads was very favorable. Only Ruta 40 BMW in
Medellin, Colombia had given better value for money.
I rode back to the campground and tackled the task
of learning to use Airbnb. Isabelle had always looked after accommodations; without her, it was up to me. I
made a booking in Essaouira for two nights. The price was fantastically cheap. What
took the most time was learning how to transfer a location pin drop from an
Airbnb message that went automatically to Google (which didn’t work in Morocco)
to Maps.me. Solving these problems combined with positive experiences earlier
in the day at the dealership increased my self-confidence. I messaged the host
about parking. He responded that parking was, “off the street and safe.” I felt
ready to move out of the emotional security of a campground and into someone’s
house. I looked forward to the kind of learning and cultural exchange that Isa
and I had always enjoyed at an Airbnb stay. Things didn’t turn out the way I expected.
Pollution Problems
The ride
south from Casablanca showed that industrialization had outstripped Morocco’s
ability to deal with waste and pollution. The countryside was plagued by the
same garbage problem Isa and I had repeatedly seen in other developing countries. Household
refuse was strewn about, chucked from passing vehicles. Prevailing winds off
the Atlantic Ocean spread pungent, clouded air inland from refineries and coal
generation stations along the coast. I arrived, hot and tired after a long and smoggy
ride south, to a café in historic Essaouira.
Coal Fired Generators
Isaac, the Airbnb host responded immediately to my
message from the café. He appeared moments later. Isaac’s inviting greeting
drew me in. I addressed him in French. Isaac spoke French and Arabic, Morocco’s
two official languages but insisted that we speak in English so he could
practice. I found out later that he was also beginning German classes. He
invited me to follow him to his apartment. His was a third floor unit in Block
F of a housing project.
Entrance Portal to Essaouira's Medina
“The parking spot is on the other side of the
apartment block but I think it is too far away from my home. I always park
here.” He pointed to his scooter chained to a metal fence on the wide sidewalk between
apartment blocks. My expression must have given away my misgivings.
Inside the Medina
“If you prefer there is a man, over there.” Isaac
made a sweeping gesture back the way we had come. “He stays up all night and
will watch your motorcycle.” I guessed Isaac meant there was a guarded pay
parking lot in the direction he had pointed.
Narrow Passages
Isaac helped me carry things up the dark stairwell
to his apartment. He showed me my room. It looked just like the photo in the
Airbnb advertisement. He showed me the kitchen. On the left wall was a small
shelf with a portable two burner gas stove. On the facing wall, below the tiny
window was the kitchen sink.
People Going About Their Business
“Don’t drink the water from the tap, instead use
water from here.” Isaac pointed to a large bottle of water on the right. It sat
on the floor beside a banged up old bar fridge which Isaac invited me to use.
“You can do laundry too if you like,” said Isaac.
He
showed me the laundry machine that was temporarily placed inside the toilet
room. It was blocking the doorway of the tiny room, its hose connected to the
water supply somewhere behind. I couldn’t see inside the interior of the toilet
room.
Commerce and Social Interaction
I introduced myself to another house guest. First
pushing back hanging beads, I entered the living space to extend my hand to grinning
Todd. Todd’s matted dreadlocks looked heavy but they shifted a bit when he closed
his right hand into a fist and drew it backward to his shoulder. His gaze was
downward, toward my hand. He froze his posture. Todd’s gesture was not
threatening. He was sitting and I was standing; moreover, his glassy and half
closed eyes looked beyond benign. Todd was really buzzed. I came to understand
his gesture. He was not rejecting my hand so much as waiting for me to respond.
I returned the fist-bump he was offering.
Variety
“Good to meet you Dude,” said overly smiley Todd. I
learned that Todd was an US citizen from California. He was in Morocco waiting
for non-allowable Shengen days to pass before returning to Europe. Todd “really
liked the coast.” We exchanged further pleasantries before I made my way to my
room to get settled in.
And Free Shipping Too
I needed to use the toilet after a day on the road
but didn’t want to bother Isaac and his washing machine. He looked like he was
almost finished his laundry anyway. When he lifted and carried away the little
machine I made my way across the vestibule to the toilet. This time I saw
inside the room.
Patient, Watchful
Security Guard
Just Hanging Out
The toilet was a stand up affair with a hole in the floor. The drain hole was positioned toward
the rear of a white porcelain base covering most of the tiny space. There was just enough room to close the door if you stood on the toilet. The ceramic floor of the toilet had two raised and
treaded foot platforms that perfectly positioned the body into a squat for
doing one’s business. Leaning back on the wall was probably an option. Simple enough
to use for the task I had in mind, I resolved to find a sit down biffy
somewhere else for more serious industry.
Just Hanging Out
Isaac asked, “Is this your first time with a
traditional Moroccan toilet? You just fill this bucket when you are finished
and pour it down the hole.”
Repairs
Isa and I had encountered similar units in South
America but only in outhouses where there was no plumbing. We had always
managed to wait for a “real’ toilet. The Moroccan shower was another matter, completely new to
me. Apparently, human waste and shower water drained down the same hole.
“The tap for the shower is here,” Isaac added. “I
have some flip flops for you to use.”
That’s very kind,” I answered. “I have a pair.”
“Let me show you how to turn on the water heater.”
Guarded Water Entrance to the Medina
Isaac was very helpful in other ways too. He made
sure to give lots of information about local restaurants that were “cheaper
than in the Medina”. He took me to meet the man about parking. The arrangement
turned out to be street parking with an older man who would sit in a chair on
the sidewalk all night. The exchange between Isaac and the man was in Arabic;
naturally, I didn’t understand it. The man, I never learned his name, displayed
body language expressing displeasure with the plan. I assumed I’d be expected
to pay him. My neck and back began to tingle. I decided to take my chances by chaining my
moto to a metal railed fence under my window at the apartment. At least I could
see my bike there. I had been lugging around a huge chain and lock I bought in
England. “It might as well get some use,” I thought.
Above Paradise Beach
A little while later Isaac left for German class. He
said he would be gone all evening. A few minutes after that Todd pulled out a
long, hand blown glass device. Its top end had a large opening, big enough to
swallow Todd’s entire face. Over the next fifteen minutes he smoked a huge
amount of hash. This wouldn’t have bothered me at home where such things are
legal but this was Africa! I had to leave. It was dark outside, much too
dangerous to ride. I resolved to leave in the morning despite having paid for
two nights.
Paradise Beach
There was little sleep for me that night. Harmless youthful
revelry sounded until late in the housing project. I got up repeatedly to look
down at the sidewalk, each time rewarded with the sight of my covered and
locked moto. When not looking I was listening, imagining the footfalls of police
rushing up the pitch black stairwell on a drug raid. Isaac left for work very
early the next day. I dozed through it and missed him.
Social Contrast in Morocco
I got up with the sun and walked down the street to
a restaurant Isaac had recommended. My breakfast consisted of coffee, olives, bread,
scrambled eggs and margarine. It was quite delicious and worth every penny of
the dollar and a half it cost. Isaac was right, cheaper than the Medina. I
walked to the Medina, the old historic centre, after breakfast. The sights,
smells and narrow passageways were just what I had expected. I was glad to have
seen it before moving on.
The Pool
I repacked my motorcycle back at Isaac’s apartment,
always a tedious task, and prepared to leave. I said goodbye to Todd. He took his
face out from his pipe long enough to grin and wave. And I was on my way again.
View from Campsite
I landed in a nice camping resort above “Paradise
Beach”, north of Agadir. The toilet block was clean and had familiar plumbing.
There was a pool with a deck looking down to Paradise Beach. The in-camp
restaurant was reasonably priced. The fee to stay was half of what I paid in
Essaouira. It was Thanksgiving Day back home. I felt thankful to be safe and comfortable again. Relief rushed through me as fatigue arrived too. I met Guy, a biker whose tent was
pitched next to mine. He was very knowledgeable about Morocco. Guy was kind to
spend a couple of hours with me and a map of Morocco. I learned much from Guy,
formulating a plan that began with a visit to the Atlas Mountains.
The Campground on Thanksgiving Day
Sunset that Night
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