Morocco 2013

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It’s about time I wrote about my trip to Morocco before I forget about my adventures there. I wasn’t sure what to expect as I’ve never been before. All I knew from the advice given to me was that I should be careful as there are plenty of con artists around .... too true.

Sunday arrives and I’m excited to commence my journey, really feeling the need to get away ... my 1st holiday away from holiday. I already planned the journey perfectly, being Mr organized. I was driving from Portugal to Tarifa in Spain (4 hrs) and then catching a ferry over to Tangier (1 hr), so I planned when I should start my journey in the car to arrive on time and take a little break midway. Bags packed, GPS set, and off we go.

I’m driving towards the Spanish border looking at my GPS arrival time, proud of myself for organizing things well, and then disaster struck. As soon as I cross the border, the GPS loses an hour and it tells me Im going to arrive an hour later than I thought. This confused me for a while and then it hit ... Spain is 1 hour ahead of Portugal ... fooook, didn’t factor that one in. So now I’m speeding like a mofo with no time for a break, and hoping for no traffic coz I didn’t factor that in either.

All was well, I got to the port on time. Finding parking was a mission as every spot in the entire town was crammed full of vehicles. I didn’t really want to park in the port as it is super expensive, but in the end I had to. Or so I thought, even that was full up and I had to wait for a spot like I would do going to Asda. Tarifa is a bit of a crappy holiday town and I wasn’t impressed with it. I went for a walk by the port and there was a biker party which you could hear for miles, just a load of Harley Davidson’s driving around and a DJ playing bike music (recordings of bike engines revving), and fake smoke machines and loads of drunk sunburnt brits loving it.

I go inside and get on the ferry, excited about what I may find in Morocco. On the ferry I’m told that I need to get a visa stamped in my passport to enter the country, so the journey is wasted standing in line for this. I usually have issues entering/exciting countries and this was no different ... it seems all customs hate on you if you have a Pakistani background, doesn’t matter that it’s a British passport. I’d prob even get trouble in Pakistan because I’m British.

I make it through and land in Tangier. The port on this end is incomplete with a lot of unfinished construction around the coast. I walk to the exit doors of the port reminding myself of all the advice I’ve been given, “don’t trust ANYBODY, people will scam you and pretend they work for authorities, tell you your hotel is closed, etc” ... and I’m confident in my abilities to not fall for that shite. 10 seconds later I exit and a man approaches me, “hi, I work for the authorities here and its my job to make sure you’re visit here is great as there are many scam artists around. Let me take you to your hotel” .... and my response? “why yes ok, you are very kind and its great you care for your visitors’ safety, Im glad I bumped into you” ... man I’m such a fool. Within 10 minutes I’m in the middle of Tangier lost, being taken on a tour, having tea in a nomad’s shop being shown 100 rugs and being reminded again and again that we’re all brothers that should help each other out and pay for meals, trying out Moroccan outfits ... wondering how I can get out of this. Thing is, I had a map drawn from the port to the hotel, and now I don’t know where the feck I am. Eventually I have the courage to say (in a girlie voice) “erm yes, id like to go back to my hotel now, please, if its ok with you ... perhaps?” So he takes me back, then tells me to give him money for his services, like £30 worth, haha yh right. I gave him a tenner, and he wasn’t happy but that was my limit. Money handed over, his mood changes and he doesn’t care anymore, just walking off like a senseless b!tch.

The towns in Morocco are split into an old town called the Medina and the extended new town. The Medinas are like condensed mazes and it’s easy to get lost. That night I went for a wander and immediately I’m approached by kids who tell me the streets ahead are closed and that I should go with them ... seriously man that’s what it’s like, they buzz off guiding tourists around and making them lost and then showing them the way again just to get money. The things I heard were ridiculous, I mean how does a street close down all of a sudden? I didn’t venture out too far tho, just got some bread from the local shop and came back, that was my dinner ... bread.

The hostel was great with a social rooftop area where I met some people who were going to a village called Chefchaouen the following morning. I decided to scrap my plans and go with them, and I’m glad I did as that was the only part of my journey that I enjoyed ... word of mouth is the best way to get recommendations. I was the last to go to bed that night which was in an 8-bed dorm. On one of the floors was a private room with a king-size bed away from all the noise and snoring, and I was tempted to sneak into that one, but I thought that if a couple came back in the middle of the night and found a naked Pakistani dude in their bed, they might not be happy about it ... or maybe too happy about it ... and I wasn’t up for either outcome that night (unless it was a lesbian couple) and decided to sleep in the dorm.

The following morning we ate breakfast (more bread, they live off white bread in Morocco, not good man), went to the bus station and made our way to the 3 hr journey to the blue village of Chefchaouen. It was a local bus so in very poor condition, jam packed, over-booked too, so people sitting on top of each other and on the floor, so much sweat, seats falling apart, electric wires hanging out. Halfway through the journey it started pouring it down outside, then all of a sudden muddy water was leaking through a hole right on top of me, next to the electric wires. I took my bath towel out and covered it up, but then it all fell apart and i got drenched in brown filth .... ruined my only bath towel and my only pair of trousers (didn’t take more than one). I must have been some sight walking to my hostel when we landed in town, 3 fresh looking guys and then me, browner than brown. I felt great about it, for me it’s all part of the adventure ... bring it.

Chefchaouen was an amazing place ... this village is painted in blue, all streets, houses, taxis, everything. Before the muslim days when the Jewish community lived here, that’s when they decided to paint it blue and the tradition has stuck. A childish part of me was thinking “wonder what would happen if I paint a door red?” lols. There were a few annoying things tho as you’d expect in tourist towns where locals need to make money. For example, you sit down in a cafe in the square having tea and weird local people come and start playing awful music on their drums, and sing into your ear even tho you look like you want them to leave ... then they expect money for giving you the performance of a lifetime. Another time I was eating breakfast and this smelly dude came up to me, reached into his pocket and pulled out ........ a stale bit of bread and offered it to me. I saw him offer this same bread to many people, it was prob a yr old by the color of it ... even dropped it on the floor a few times and it made a “thud” that tells me it’s solid.

Drugs .... everywhere. Hash is legal here and majority of Moroccans get high as a part of daily life. Chefchaouen is a mountain village and if you travel into the mountains, eventually you get to the hash fields. I went there with some guys once and the kids that live up there showed us the way. They must have been 10 max and they were eating the plants like they’re chocolate bars ... it’s a different life. But so much hash tho, I was prob the only traveller in the hostels that didn’t smoke it.

Morocco, being a muslim country, has the Islamic azaan prayer being called at various times throughout the day. It was absolutely beautiful listening to it in the mountains as you would hear 1 person go, and then other nearby villages would start and all the echoes would join together at the top ... amazing and peaceful. Even in the hostel were I was staying, I slept on the rooftop and hearing the birds and the prayers in the morning ... lovely. Sleeping on the rooftop was an interesting experience as there weren’t beds, just mattresses on the floor and loads of blankets. It wasn’t like the normal rooms with beds where bedding is washed daily ... here you had blankets that were probably not washed for weeks or longer, and people switching beds, 1 person going, another coming ... zero hygiene. Because the blankets weren’t white, people couldn’t tell nor cared about the state of them. I don’t think the towels were washed either, and there was no toilet roll, cold showers with just droplets of water coming out ... definitely a 3rd world country way of living .... which I’m cool with, it’s all good.

One of the days I hired a car and a group of us went for a hike to find a special waterfall .... and wow was it special. To save on cost we managed to get them to agree to reduce it if we returned the car the same day by 8pm, so we were on a tight deadline. We got to the cliffs and I was trying not to park like a girl but it wasn’t easy as I didn’t want to drive off the edge of the cliff, plus I was driving steering wheel on the left which I’m not used to. Parked up and as per usual got locals wanting to be our tour guide, telling us we’ll be lost without help, and as per usual when we refuse they start to get very agro with us ... had a few people that day saying “f^ck off” because they don’t want money but then afterwards they want money and we say no and they turn agro ... really wasn’t a fan of the way of the Moroccan people. Anyway, we trekked up without a guide, it was fun but very long. Every time we saw people coming back the other way we asked “how long to the waterfall?” and the answer was always “half hour” ... an hour goes by and we’re still getting the same answer. Eventually we make it and omg, the most beautiful waterfall I’ve seen ... it was verrrryyyy high and the water was like a thin stream which turned into mist as it approached the bottom. Super cold water to swim in tho ... but we went for it and decided to dive in. I need to improve on my diving skills as I was doing the same thing I do here at Pego Do Inferno ... basically being in 2 minds whether to go in head first or feet first, and then landing in horizontally with my face smacking the water ... it hurts. On the way back it was close call, we got back to the car return place a little late but luckily they hung on for us. That walk destroyed me physically and I was getting cramps walking up the stairs into the office ... and then cramps on top of cramps, the girl was sorting out the paperwork with me and I was on the floor spasming .... nobody seemed to notice or care tho. It was tough to walk back into the medina afterwards for sure.

On my last day I really had no more clean clothes to wear and I was smelling, plus I still couldn’t find a washing machine, so I decided to find something to buy. Haggling is something I’m very poor at, as in it’s non-existent ... I’ve been known to go the opposite way and make things more expensive, so I don’t even bother now. Let’s just say I bought clothes more expensive in this little village than I would pay in London. Not even something I’d wear again, it was scally gear ... but it was lean.

It was time to say goodbye to Chefchaouen. I made good friends there who I was sad to leave. Each night I’d eat in the local takeaway spot which stayed open after the restaurants closed and I’d be chatting to the owner and his brothers, even their mother came the 2nd night, it was such good fun. Other backpackers were in the hostel getting high but for me it was all about getting out and mingling with the locals, so much more awesome. But it came to an end and I booked a bus journey to Fes, a larger town (this time a proper bus, not local run down scheissen).

4 hrs on the bus and I arrive in Fes. I read many reviews about how the medina of Fes is a labyrinth and you will get lost, it is impossible not to. So I was prepared by downloading maps of the area beforehand and using GPS on my phone to navigate around. Sadly this didn’t work too well as the GPS kept jumping all over the place and telling me i’m on 1 street and then even when I haven’t moved, the triangle would shift a few blocks down and change direction. As soon as I entered the medina that 1st night with my bag the local kids spotted “another tourist to take advantage of” and here began the course of events that later led me to decide that Fes is THE WORST place I have ever been to in my entire life ... possibly, Patong Thailand is a contender as well. So I try to find the b&b myself and I’m struggling, the shop peeps not knowing where it is, and the medina is a labyrinth, hundreds and hundreds of roads all super narrow, looking the same, no signs, literally designed like a maze, I’ve never experienced anything like it. I finally find the b&b and check in, but the guy can’t find me in the book. I’m telling him I’ve booked online and to stop fecking me about ... eventually I show him my reservation and he tells me its a different b&b. Im saying it isn’t as the name is the same, but then he shows me that only the 1st word is the same, and that word translates to “Hotel”, and that every single b&b here starts with that word. I felt sad (and stupid, but mainly sad) as I didn’t want to go back into the jungle labyrinth again. The guy helped me by phoning the right place and asking the owner to come pick me up (which according to reviews he has done before), but he refused to this time. I couldn’t communicate with him on the phone as he spoke only French and Arabic. Eventually I decided to try again braving the streets. This time when a kid approached me I thought whatever, just get me to this hotel. And off we go, and I’m telling him “Im not paying you for this” .... “no no, you offend me, I am good muslim, have good heart, it not bout money, it bout helping people, I have good heart, I no want money” ... so he takes me which I now know was a very long way, I was so close myself just needing to go straight, and he took me left and multiplied my journey time by 10, making it appear that I would never have found the place myself, and taking me to some dodgy looking allies with dodgy looking kids ... I really thought Id need to fight to not be mugged, but he assured me he wasn’t Mafia. Eventually we get to the b&b and the French owner is outside waiting. Naturally the kid wants money despite the “I good muslim, no want money, I have good heart” bollocks ... so I give him like £1 and as per usual he kicks off with that ... “take it or leave it good muslim” ... and off he left in a hump.

I get inside the b&b and my days, what a beautiful place. After roughing it in dirty hostels I decided to change it up a bit and pay more for private residence. This place was the bomb, complete Persian style decor, massive mansion and my room was huge ... I had a king size bed, a single bed, 2 sofa beds, en suite room, all to myself. I freshened up and decided to brave it outside as I was hungry. I only made it one corner and decided it isn’t a good idea to venture out and went as far as the local shop, and ended up buying more bread for dinner.

The next morning I went up to the roof which is where the breakfast was being made, and guess what was on offer? More frickin bread ... aaarrgghh. I got chatting to a couple of German travellers who told me they arrived at the b&b at midnight with a reservation but the owner said he’s booked up so go away, so eventually they convinced him to let them sleep on the coach in the front room. And there was me in the luxury room which could have slept 5 people, all to myself. Actually I was chatting to the German girl about how much I hated Fes and she was the same ... We both happened to be leaving the following morning back to Tangier so decided it was best to leave together. In preparation, I decided to walk out of the medina and find the rail station to enquire about times/fares for us since I heard there was only 1 train a day back to Tangier. It was a long walk but I managed to get the info I needed and then braved it back to the labyrinth with my GPS. This time I did well, I remembered enough and found the b&b all on my own ... I felt happy about it. So happy that in the night when I was starving, I went out at 10pm for dinner. The roads were very lively the previous night so I expected a lot of action. Once again, I didn’t think clearly, it was Friday and that is the Muslim day off so the streets were dead, everywhere boarded up and hundreds of narrow streets looking the same. So I start to walk and within 1 minute I’m completely lost ... it wasn’t the same experience as in the daytime. I passed by many drunk men just hanging around the street, and when I went by a young gang a kid started following me ... at this point in my holiday I stopped being nice and couldn’t be assed with this shite anymore, so I was like “just f off and leave me alone man” but he kept following. That’s what they do, they start with “You English? Sprechen Deutsch? Hablas Espanol? Falas Portugues? Francese? Italiano?” and so on ... these peeps speak a lotta languages man and they’ll keep nagging you until they find the right one. In the end I started pretending that I only speak Urdu .. but then they’ll repeat what Im saying without understanding it and follow me anyway. I keep telling this kid to leave me alone and he tells me to “stop acting like George Bush” ... he gets the message eventually and I walk on myself. Half hour later I somehow end up back by this gang and he sees me again and follows me ... this time I think “feck it, I need to get back to the hotel”. The same story, Im telling him I wont pay him and he assures me he doesn’t want money ... but I knew how it will go down. So off we go and he directs me left ... “no kid, its in front, I know this much for a fact, Im very close, don’t be making this the long way around” ... “yes ok you’re right, we go in front” ... mofo. Once I get to the b&b it’s the usual pay them a little, they throw a strop ... and I just said “don’t be like George Bush” and walked inside. So that night I went out for dinner and came back an hour later with no food and having to pay a kid to take me home, useless night.

Im sat inside very hungry and I decide that it’s time to turn to theft. I knew the b&b owner had a kitchen downstairs but also a tourist breakfast kitchen upstairs. And off I go, in search of fooooooddd, walking in the dark with a flashlight. I look in the fridge, in the cupboards, making sure I don’t take anything that will be obvious. In the end all I found was a big tub of olives, so I eat a load of them, then shake the tub making it look like I didn’t take any. I go to bed hungry and all of a sudden, BANG ... BANG BANG BANG ... this very angry kid screaming in Arabic is slamming doors and kicking windows outside, defo angry at someone and most likely drunk, and all the locals stare out the window, and others go out to calm him down, babies start crying, dogs start barking ... it was crazy ... but all i could think of was “should I finish the rest of those olives?”

In the morning the it was over, I had my bread for breakfast and for the 1st time I was glad to eat bread ... I ate so much of it ... then me and German went off to Tangier ... 5 hr train journey but it seemed like 2 which was a good thing. On the train some random dude asked me if I was Indian or Pakistani but I ignored him ... after a week of dealing with people on the street I had no faith/energy left to talk to anybody. Even when we got to Tangier and a man in the street said “hey, ur staying in my hostel, Ive seen u and Im the owner” I was like “yh right, whatever man, no money” ... this trip changed me to be more closed with people. One final day in Tangier which was relaxing as I switched off and decided it was going to be about me, not even dealing with other backpackers. I discovered Moroccan soup that day, called “Harira” ... lovely, with lentils and chickpeas and rice and spices. I tried to make it when I got back but it didn’t work out, I just ended up with pilau rice, not chickpea/lentil soup ... not quite sure how that happened.

On the final day I walked back to the port, glad to be going home. I was supposed to make a day trip to Gibraltar as I was so close, but to be honest I just wanted to be home. At the port I once again had issues due to my face. And this is me leaving the country ... the security guy takes my passport and the exchange goes like this:

Him: Where u from?
Me: I British
Him: No, seriously, where u from?
Me: No, seriously, I British
Him: U name not British
Me: My name in British passport u hold ... so is British name
Him: Where u father from
Me: My father also British passport

And on it went, eventually he was getting pissed off so I said “fine, Pakistan” .. but why does it matter? Im British man. And home I went, picked my car up and drove through Spain ... landed in Portugal and fell asleep in my cosy bed ... lovely.

So what did I learn from my trip to Morocco? Well, the only place I liked out of the 3 I went to was Chefchaouen ... magical land where I must return and see my brothers. I also want to go further south next time, check out the desert and ride camels, surfing beach towns, etc. Following are a few things I picked up from the trip:

- It’s easy to meet the same tourists over and over. For example, there were 2 German girls in my dorm in Tangier ... then in Chefchaouen I saw them in my hostel, then in Fes I saw them in the streets, thought they were following me ... and same with other travellers I met.

- There were sooooo many German travellers, prob 90% of who I met were German.

- No hygiene. Public toilets are just holes in the ground and no paper, just jugs of water so u use hand to wipe ass, and then there’s no soap to clean hand properly ... and this is in restaurants too and staff are doing this then going back to making food.

- Moroccans eat too much white bread.

- Moroccans are great at speaking languages. I was constantly shifting between English, Arabic, Spanish, Portuguese, French, German (and Urdu so they wouldn’t understand me). The languages of Morocco are Spanish, Arabic and French.

Did I have fun? Hell yeah ... sure I didn’t want to speak to peeps at the end of the trip and became a scrooge, but it was still an epic Etchy Boy Adventure !!!!!!

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