Reflections on Morocco

August 2003

On my first trip interailing around Europe, I wound up in Barcelona with a friend, wondering where to head next. Why not Morocco?

We made our way south via Madrid, and landed in Algerciros early in the morning for the ferry to Tangier. On the ferry, we met two English guys, sent by God or Jesus or both to Africa. For how long, they didn't know. What did they have? A bicycle frame, a front wheel carried seperately, a shoulder bag each, a wooden staff, and a cowboy hat. I have no doubt that they ended up dying of malaria, lost somewhere in the Congolese jungle, whispering 'The horror, the horror....'

We weren't much better prepared. We had no guide book, and no idea what was in store. Walked out of the port, into a new world, and the rest is blurry. Before we even knew what we were doing, we were in a taxi with one of the dodgiest looking characters I've ever seen, a small, wiry, moustached Arab by the name of Rasheed. And that was that, we were putty in his hands for the rest of the day.

We spent the day having our money fleeced from us in various uncreative ways, and after buying carpets (which we then carried around the rest of Europe in our backpacks for the next 6 weeks), eating a horrible expensive dinner, going swimming, and finally getting stoned in some cafe, we tipped Rasheed an enormous amount of money, and got away from him for the night train to Marrakesh.

We only lasted 5 days in Morocco that time. The main memories I have of it are the smell of rotten fish on arrival in Tangier, and the fear we felt everytime a stranger would approach and ask 'Where you going?/What you doing?/Where you from?'. The heat of Marrakesh, the sheeps heads in Fes, and the long train journeys. But most of all, the complete, absolute culture shock of that first day with Rasheed. It's something I doubt I'll ever experience again.

Well, I've seen a bit more of the world since then, and with a month to spare, thought it would be nice to return with my girlfriend to see the country properly, and maybe find Rasheed...

August 2007

The ferry from Algerciros to Tangier follows roughly a North-South route, but somewhere, a trick is played on you, and you land in Morocco having been transported from 'The West' to 'The East' in the space of a couple of hours. The result for many is similar to jet-lag, as the noise, traffic, smells, and languages leaves the new arrival disorientated, and wondering why they came.

This time, however, I found Tangier a tame experience - the police seem to have cracked down on the hustlers at the port, and the one guy who did approach us with the 'Where you going?' question, told me to 'Fuck off then' after I answered 'Timbuktu'. Gladly.

However, that guy kind of summed up how I came to feel about most Moroccans who make their money from the tourist industry - he was an arsehole. I've dealt with the kind before in India, and to a lesser extent Turkey. What disappointed me about the hustlers and touts in Morocco was their lack of a sense of humour. Most touts in India would relax and smile when they realised I was a lost cause. A Moroccan would tell you to fuck off.

Quite obviously, these guys aren't representative of the entire population, and Morocco certainly has its share of welcoming locals. The problem is that they're largely pushed to the side as you try to deal with the scams. I've heard the situation is quite similar in Tunisia, and worse in Eqypt, and I'd be willing to bet that Algeria and Libya, with their relative lack of tourists, are the opposite. I guess it all comes down to a relatively poor, developing country dealing with mass tourism.

For such a popular tourist destination, Morocco is noticably lacking in any major historical sights along the lines of the Pyramids or Taj Mahal. That's fine by me of course, but the more time I travelled the country, the more I coudn't help feeling that the place is a bit of a bore. We travelled from Tangier in the north, down along the main tourist route leading over the Atlas mountains to the desert, and then back up to Marrakesh and the coast, before returning to the mountains.

Certain areas I would class as beautiful. South of the Atlas, the land is rocky and barren, and somehow brings to mind places I've never been to, such as southern Afghanistan and Xinjiang, as well as some that I have, like Baluchistan. It's easy to see why Morocco is such a popular setting for Hollywood movies, as the landscape lends itself easily to the imagination.

However, most of the destinations left me underwhelmed. The Atlas mountains are rather modest, the coast is nothing special, while there are much better places to see the desert. The jewels of Morocco's tourist industry, Marrakesh and Fes, despite offering little glimpses of the past, only made me yearn for a more authentic experience, and Casablanca is an urban nightmare to match Tehran.

That's not to say that Morocco doesn't have its moments. As is quite common for me, the journeys between destinations were often a highlight, including the shared taxi ride from Fes, over the Middle Atlas, to Er-Rachidia on the edge of the desert. The drive along the Draa Valley from Ourzazate to Zagora was another, illustrating perfectly how a river can bring life to the most barren lands.

Chefchaouen is a great place to smoke your brains out, while the Cascade d'Ouzad are undeniably spectacular. Our trip out to the desert at Chigaga near the Algerian border was perhaps the highlight of the whole trip, but the country is over-run these days - the worst examples were the Todra Gorge and Ourika Valley, where overpriced hotels and cafes dominate would would otherwise be a beautiful setting.

Sitting at home now though, I can't help but wonder if my negative view of Morocco is more down to my own attitudes than anything particularly wrong with the country, especially as the other travellers we met all seemed to have glowing reports. I can see that if perhaps I had arrived in Morocco at the start of, say, a long overland trip down through West Africa, than I would have seen the place in a different light, as the anticipation of moving on to Mauritania would have made lingering all the more sweet.

And the views of the desert, and the dark faces of the south got my imagination racing. With perhaps a year to spare, and enough money, I could have continued on, crossing the Sahara by way of Timbuktu, through the chaotic and corrupt republics of West and Central Africa, past the killings fields of Eastern Congo and Rwanda, before emerging on the Serengeti plains. From there, a fairly straighforward route would lead me past the great lakes of East and Southern Africa, before arriving at lands end, just past Cape Town.

That's all years ahead of me, and for now I'll have to content myself with the knowledge that I know more and more the kind of places that inspire me. Morocco just isn't one of them.

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