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Starting to Explore Morocco

As most people do, I took the ferry from Algeciras to Tangiers. After inquiring about times and prices I thought it was worth it paying a bit more for the fast boat, cutting the trip short from two and a half hours to one hour. Little did I know that the boat would be over an hour late and the trip would take two and a half hours anyway, most of that time spent balancing on a shaking hall, queueing up with other two hundred people to have my passport stamped. 'At least I won't have to queue up again' - I tried to make myself feel better.

The immigration and customs in Tangiers is the worst imaginable caotic scene I could ever think of. Once more I had to queue up for my passport to be checked, then I had my motorbike's certificates and passport taken away while queuing up in a long line of cars which engines would not be turned off and horns could not be left to rest. During that time several other 'supervisors' came asking for my papers, which made me really nervous. To cut the story short, after I paid the 'tip' and retrieved my documents, I had to go to the custom and the police. Neither of them could decide each I had to see first, so I was sent from one to the other, being spoken to in Arabic and 'helped' by a supervisor in half Spanish half French. I paid another 'tip' for some piece of paper and had to be taken to the third floor of this building to have my passport stamped again, apparently because it was my first time in the country. By this time I was ready to fight the whole Moroccan army and declined to pay any more 'tips'. Honestly I wished I could make the Straight of Gibraltar disappear so I could turn around and walk back to Spain.

With similar difficulties I found a hotel and a place to park my bike and spent the night in Tangiers. In the morning I was more than ready to leave, hoping there was more to Morocco and my luck would turn.

The second half of the trip to Chefchaouen (Xauen) turned to be quite pleasant, with beautiful views of mountains, lakes, small villages and trading areas by the road where locals sell their sheep. The road became very curvy, winding through hills and mountain passes, which is very enjoyable on the bike. Then comes up Xauen on the foot of the mountains. Pretty. No more did I want to walk back to Spain, but get to know a bit of this land.

In the Moro-Andaluz style, Xauen has romantic narrow streets spread upon the steep foot of the mountain, with houses painted in variuos hues of blue and white. It's a town of artisans and hundreds of small shops. In the streets and building corners mountain people squat, selling small amounts of vegetables they produce. It gets busy in the late mornings and evenings when one can smell herbs, ground coffee, fresh baked bread and biscuits being carried in large baking trays up and down the streets plus the wonderful smell of new wood being cut and carved in tiny workshops, cuscuz being cooked, olives in large containers, sweets, perfume, shoe glue and of course the smell of people, washed and unwashed.

Today it was market day. Besides all the trading that takes place everywhere, all the time in town, this huge market spreads in the periferic streets and is absolutely packed with people, the young and the old, the ocidentalised and the traditional berbere farming people, the ones buying and the ones strolling amongst sheep - lots of sheep being pulled or pushed, people shouting and cars sounding their horns like the world has come to an end.

This is a Moroccan place. I'm an outsider. I get stared at by people who attempt to decifer through my features where I come from. They want me to see their products, they offer me drugs most of the time. I reply to anyone who tries to communicate, I hope there's somebody out there who's just interested in a small talk, in telling stories or listening to mine. I get disappointed it seems I only meet people who's interested in trading. But I guess that's the utmost agenda here, especially concerning foreigners, tourists. This is a place that reminds me all the time that I don't belong. So I watch and stare in return...

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