Africa

 

Waiting for the boat to Morocco in the southern Spanish port of Motril I doodled through some online cycle touring forums, in the hope of getting some advice about where to stay and what to do on the other side. My heart gave a leap when I found a post, only a few days old, from a girl named Krista who was looking for a cycling partner in Morocco. I immediately sent her a reply to ask if she had found anyone yet. Before the boat left she replied to say that she was probably a weeks cycling ahead of me in Fes but that she could wait for me to catch up. It was her intention to cross the Sahara. Well I was pretty sure that my set up was not good enough to get me across the Sahara, and I had my doubts about its ability to cope with the Rif mountains between AlHoceima and Fes, so we left things basically open. But when I read her profile and saw her photo I was absolutely smitten with the energy of this woman and the prospect of travelling with her, so I made it my primary objective to get to Fes once we had landed in AlHoceima.

One of my first thoughts on seeing Africa from the ferry was that it looked just like Spain. Same colour limestone mountains, same white buildings and same grey clouds hanging over the higher ground. That was from the boat far out at sea of course, but as I'm writing this in my tiled concrete hotel room I'm aware that the whole notion of nationality is a human construct and one that we re-enforce with conventions. Just looking at the tiles on the floor reminded me of the quarries and factories I had passed in northern Spain. I wondered if these tiles had been made there, and then remembered the exquisite moorish tiling I had seen in Granada. The Moors had been in most of Spain for around 800 years before being given the boot by the Christian royals, so it's pretty redundant to ask if the art of tiling developed first in North Africa or Spain as for the majority of recorded history they have been the same place. Mediterranean culture. I find it fascinating.

Bikes were unloaded off the ferry first and as mine was the only bike on board I was the first to go through passport control and customs. The passport guy was young and cheerful and knew a little English but we spoke mostly in French. He asked me a lot of questions and wanted to know where my destination was in Morocco. I told him about the Trappist Monastery I had written to in the town of Midelt and he immediately started writing things down. Was it a hotel? Would I be working? and so on and I thought that it was a mistake to have mentioned it. The monks at Midelt had moved there from Algeria during the civil war after nine of their number has been beheaded by extremists, and suddenly I felt the current of this enormous force of suspicion that is being generated between the two empires of East and West and the battle for hearts and minds that goes on in political forums around the world and how it plays out in the every day lives of simple folk like me and the immigration officer.

But all of a sudden he wished me well and passed me on to the customs officers who went through pretty much all of my bags. When they got to my camping stove one of them smiled and said "Aha you are an eco tourist!" I'd never thought of myself in those terms before, and failed to see the funny side, thinking " well that's his job as a customs officer to put people into pigeon holes and make informed guesses about what they might do, like smuggling for instance. So I kind of reluctantly agreed that maybe I was. After finding my dirty laundry bag they decided they didn't want to go any further with the inspection and directed me off to one side so that I could repack all my stuff. 

So my first experience of the Moroccan town of Al Hoceima was after nightfall. When I got out of the port and started cycling around the town I once again started making comparisons with Spain. There was no alcohol or jamon, but there appeared to be bars and instead of churches, mosques. The fixtures of the religious life seemed almost interchangeable, even though, superficially, we are conditioned to think that they are polarised.  The ubiquitous Spanish town church bells indefatigably tolling the hours replaced by the 4 hourly call to prayer from the minarets. 

I thought I'd just make for the town centre and try to find a hotel. I hadn't pedaled very far when I was stopped by one of the locals who asked in French if he could take a photograph of me with my bike. I was a little puzzled by this and immediately started thinking "what's he really after?" and "will he expect me to pay him for doing this?". I paused long enough for him to find out that I was English and for him to explain that he actually lived and worked in Rotterdam and that he wanted the photo to send to his Dutch friends back home. I asked if he knew of a decent hotel, not too expensive, traditional style and, after taking his snap, he immediately escorted me across town, stopping at a cash machine for me to pick up some local currency on the way. 

The town was absolutely fizzing with life, there were shops open and stalls sprawling across most of the streets selling everything you can imagine, but mostly fruit and vegetables. I didn't see any other European faces. On the way Ferid, my new friend, asked me where I was heading and I mentioned that I was planning to travel to Targuist tomorrow en route for Fez. He smiled when I mentioned Targuist and asked with a glint in his eye, if I would be buying any hashish there. Apparently it has a reputation for good quality hash! I said no and he went on to tell me what a beautiful city Fez was and that I would not be disappointed.  Not only did Ferid find a decent hotel but he also agreed a price for me with the guy at the desk, who I have to say looked a little crest fallen about accepting only 70 dhirams, about £7, for my stay. I offered my guide the price of a drink but he refused adamantly and showed me his Dutch residency card as if to say he was a European and had no need for baksheesh. He shook my hand warmly and wished me a pleasant stay in Morocco, then all of a sudden was gone. This left me with the young man in reception who knew neither English, French or Spanish, so we were obliged pretty much to converse in sign language. The most important thing he wanted to get across to me was that I was expected to leave at 10am which he qualified with the only english word I could understand.. Breakfast, which he accompanied with a spanish "Si" (and a thumbs up) and a "No" (with a thumbs down). Well even if breakfast was not included in the price of the room I thought it would be a good bet and would contribute a bit more to the local economy so I replied with a "Si" and a thumbs up. After responding with a smile and a "Si" and a thumbs up back again, he showed me where I could park the bike safely overnight in a downstairs courtyard, and then upstairs to my room on the third floor. There was no lift and the stairs were solid tiled concrete, very clean but looking very time worn. The room had a double bed, clean linen, a simple table and chair and a window out onto the street below. There was a faint but persistent smell of sewage in the background. Outside my room and just along the corridor there was a sink and a mirror and next to these a door, behind which was the tiled wet room that served as both shower and toilet.  I soon discovered that this facility was shared by everyone on this floor of the hotel, probably around a dozen of us, and all male as far as I could tell. No toilet paper or towels anywhere, just a tap on the wall and a jug of water. But at least it was clean and like everyone else I had my own towel with me.

Krista, the cyclist who was ahead of me in Fes, invited me to join a chat group for cyclists in North and West Africa, and another member, called Karl, had got in touch to invite me to meet up the next morning for breakfast in a local cafe. All of a sudden I seemed to be collecting breakfast appointments, but I couldn't resist the opportunity of meeting someone who had experience of cycling in this country which was becoming by degrees more and more mysterious to me, so I agreed. 

Before going to my room to sleep I had a mint tea in the cafe next door to the hotel. The boy at the counter looked as though he was around 9 years old. He couldn't understand what I wanted and went to get another boy who looked maybe about 13. He spoke a little English and a little French and was delighted to be able to help me. He directed me to sit at one of the tables and I suddenly found myself watching Aston villa playing live in the UK premiere league. Some of the locals wanted to know if I supported Man City, but it turned out that most of them were Liverpool fans. Although I do enjoy watching a good game of football I don't have a well enough developed sense of loyalty to be able to support the same team through thick and thin, and I soon lose track of all the personnel changes that go on every year, not to mention all the changes that have been going on with the rules. My host appeared with the tea and I barely recognised him, as although he still had the face of a thirteen year old, now that he had emerged from behind the counter I could see that his body was huge and appeared to belong to someone an awful lot older. I thought that either he was blest with a youthful countenance or that, more likely, he had been obliged to grow up quickly to support his parents, who were nowhere in sight. The tea was delicious and I made it last as long as I could, messaging my friend Dave, a lifelong and loyal Aston villa supporter, to let him know what an incongruous situation I found myself in. On going back outside the streets were as loud and as busy as ever and I wondered if I would be able to get any sleep. I opened my bedroom window and gazed down onto the scene below which was kinda half way between squalid and exotic. Either way it was also mesmerising and calming, filled with gentle chatter, courtesy, offering and respect. As I closed the window, switched out the light and clambered into bed I had no sense of any kind of danger or threat, only comfort and contentment.

I slept really well and woke feeling great, just before dawn and the muezzein's call to prayer. This started like a low motor from the main mosque in the city centre and was gradually answered by the other mosques dotted around the city and suburbs. I thought perhaps everything would come to a halt, particularly as it was also Friday, but nobody seemed to pay much attention. Personally I found the chanting captivating and it instantly put me in the mood for a yoga session. I went downstairs afterwards to keep my first breakfast engagement but Ines, the receptionist looked at me incredulously when I pronounced the word and just carried on with what he was doing. So I asked again "No breakfast?" and he simply repeated what I had said without any hint that the words meant anything to him. So I smiled, collected my bags and my bike, handed in my key and went out to face the action on the street. I wasn't sure if anything would be open as it was a Friday, but things were clearly getting under way again, if a little slowly. The night had not been at all noisy, as I had been expecting, and clearly the people of this town enjoyed their sleep and respected each others right to do so. Here and there the homeless were still sleeping tucked in between market stalls and the other paraphernalia of the streets. Beggars were certainly a feature of the streets and while probably no more numerous than in any European town, they generally didn't hesitate to approach and ask for money in preference to standing there with a card or a cap. On more than one occasion I saw locals gently admonishing beggars, presumably not to take advantage of the town's visitors. I've read in many travel journals that hospitality is taken very seriously in Morocco and I'm guessing that begging runs counter to this impulse for many mainstream citizens. But I didn't get any feeling that it was in any sense shameful. There are just too many people, victims of circumstance, typically with a limb or an organ missing, who are forced into this livelihood for it to become normalised as shameful. In the absence of a Moroccan welfare state, I have to wonder at how it is that socialism has been so successfully identified with godlessness by those who oppose it. 

In the time it took me to co ordinate meeting up with Karl for my second breakfast appointment I was able to buy a Moroccan SIM card for my phone, to save on roaming data and call charges. I think it cost me 100 dirhams (£10) for a month, which was a pleasant surprise. I kept my fingers crossed that the coverage would overlap with my travel routes.

Karl was waiting when I got to the cafe, he had arrived on a motorbike from his home in Melilla, a Spanish enclave on the northern coast of Morocco about 100 km away. He was instantly likeable and had a quiet but confident manner. I soon learned that Krista had stayed at his place about a week ago via warm showers, on her way to Fez from Europe and he confirmed everything I had already guessed about her from her profile. Karl himself was heading for a place called Cala Iris about 60k along the coast in a national park and invited me to stay there with him as it was a two bedded apartment. It was vaguely in the right direction and I agreed. He had arranged to meet the owner's brother who was to give him the key, at the café where we were having breakfast. I couldn't quite believe that the brother was going to take Karl there in his car and also offered to take my bags so as to increase my cycling speed as I followed along behind them.

So we set off, me a little in front to begin with and I couldn't understand how it was that they hadn't passed me after half an hour. Then my phone rang. It was Karl. The driver had taken him to a completely different place and he had been obliged to cancel the booking. He apologised and said that they would take my bags back to the cafe in AlHoceima. Immediately my mind set to work on re evaluating Karl's compétence as a local guide, even though this error had nothing to do with him directly. AlHoceima is perched on a mountain overlooking the sea and it was quite an effort cycling in and out, but I went straight back to meet them at the café. I never did get to the bottom of the misunderstanding, I was only glad that all my bags were returned undamaged at the end of their journey. Karl began talking about arranging some other accommodation but I had become irrationally impatient and just wanted to get on with my journey to meet the illustrious lady Krista! It was already almost noon and I wanted to get to the town of Targuist, 70km away before nightfall. So I thanked Karl and set off, pretty much into the unknown. I barely paused to reflect that there weren't enough daylight hours to realistically achieve this target, and neither did I spend enough time studying the route that Czecki sat nav offered me. To begin with all was well and I made good progress, but about 12 k out of town Czecki Mapi asked me to leave the main road and take an unmade track. I had read on one or two cycling blogs or maybe I heard it somewhere else, that the main roads in Morocco were dangerous, so it didn't seem at all risky to take a cross country route. Opposite the turn there was a guy ambling about outside a building that might have been his home. I asked in French if the track opposite was indeed the road to Targuist and he said No I would have to stay on the main road for another twenty kilometres to find the correct turn. I looked at the map and decided he didn't know what he was talking about and stubbornly took the track in spite of his advice. Well it certainly pitched me full on into rural Morocco. It was quite something to be so close up to village life to begin with. But gradually the track grew steeper and rougher and the villages more remote from one another. At the same time the expressions on the faces of the people I passed by became more incredulous. After a few hours the surface of the track had become so poor that I was obliged to push the bike through several uphill stages and I began to think that I had made a big mistake. But it was too far to turn back and Czecki Mapi, although still doggedly classifying the route as a "road" which it certainly was not, did actually have all the correct turns and supporting physical features, so I didn't feel that I was actually lost. But the daylight was declining and I knew that there was absolutely no chance of making Targuist by nightfall. All along the route there were people walking, and they would emerge as if from nowhere so that I could not imagine putting up my tent anywhere around. I had no confidence in my ability to understand people so was reluctant even to ask if I could. I made my mind up to head for a town called Binf Hadifa where I would try and find a hotel. It was on the main road and looked like it would be a decent size. At one point going up a hill in the middle of nowhere I came across an old man walking with a stick in the same direction, so we walked together for about ten or twenty minutes. We were completely unable to understand each others speech, and as he only had about two or three teeth in his head I thought it was likely I wouldn't have been able to understand him even if we spoke the same language, but he was extremely good company all the same. Admiring my bike, smiling, pointing to the horizon and laughing repeatedly. I felt comfortable in his company, but when we got to the downhill again, I climbed back on and waived him goodbye. I'm sure he started singing something as I rode off. In the distance I could see a yellow school bus approaching and it stopped beside me as I drew alongside. The driver leaned out with a cigarette between his fingers. I don't know what he said but he tried to have a conversation. I asked about the town Binf Hadifa, but I couldn't make out what he was trying to tell me in reply. It was beginning to get quite depressing, not being able to understand or to be understood, and I was getting more and more angry with myself for having made so many impatient and unwise decisions about the route. But I had to keep going. I had lights with me for the bike so kept pedaling through the dark. At one point I thought I'd found a good place to camp, but on closer inspection by torchlight, I found it was planted with young leeks. I certainly didn't want to compound my miseries by upsetting a local farmer, so I just kept going. At last I hit tarmac again and found the long uphill road into Binf Hadifa. When I got into town I was pretty much exhausted, it was well after 8pm and I wondered if anything would be open. Lucky for me there was still quite a lot going on. I trudged around trying to find a hotel. Two guys talking together on a street corner caught my attention. One was dressed like a works foreman in a kind of blue overall, the other was middle aged and wore European clothes and a cloth cap like a Frenchman. He asked in French if I was looking for something. I said that yes indeed I was trying to find a hotel. He immediately wound up the conversation with his friend and came over to show me the way. It wasn't a long walk and he seemed to be a fairly genuine kind of guy, at any rate he left as soon as he had made sure that the place had room for me. The hotel clerk spoke a little French so I felt that at least I was home and dry. And the room was only 50 Dirhams, about £5 for the night. But when I saw it I shivered slightly. It was a bit like a prison cell. No sheets on the bed, a mattress with holes in it, a single small window and no furniture. Like the previous night the toilet and shower were rolled into one only this time it looked like it hadn't been cleaned properly for a long time. There was no way I could contemplate trying to find an alternative so late in the day in a town I didn't know and I was starving hungry, so I just put aside my misgivings and went out to find something to eat. The clerk asked for my passport and I was a bit puzzled to see him walking off across the street with it as I went out to find something to eat. I reviewed in my mind that I could call 112 on my phone to summon the police if I felt that an injustice was being done and I felt sure that there must be at least one police officer in a town the size of Binf Hadifa. 

Like the previous night the restaurant was run by three young children, adolescents this time, who judging by their constant laughter, I imagined to be stoned. We agreed a price for the meal and they cooked it there right in front of me, some beef with tomato soup and bread. I couldn't say it was delicious as I don't really like beef, but it was all they could offer me. When it came time to pay they added on quite a bit extra maintaining that the price had been only for the meat and although I tried to argue they were not having any of it. In the end I split the difference and left them to take it or leave it. But I felt that I was not really getting on the way I would like to in this country.

Back at the hotel the clerk was there with a woman I presumed to be either his sister or his girlfriend. He gave me back my passport and started making friendly conversation. He began rolling a spliff and asked me where I was heading. I told him that I was heading for Targuist and then onto Fez. He started laughing and asked if I knew that Targuist was the best place to buy hash in Morocco. It was of superior quality and this was exactly what he was putting into the joint he was rolling. His girlfriend was extremely pretty and kept flashing her eyes at me in quite an encouraging kind of way. Her French was also pretty good and she asked me why I had come to Morocco if not to smoke weed. I explained about my love of Amazigh music and how I had originally hoped to go to Algeria. Her partner immediately shuffled about on his phone and found some Amazigh music to listen to. It was mesmerising and soon enough I was also puffing on their weed, mindlessly abandoning my years of abstaining from intoxicants. I was plunged into a world of sensory euphoria and after the hardship of the day, enjoyed every minute of it. But I was together enough to realise that if I smoked any more of that hash I would not be getting up again till morning, so I bid them farewell and shoved off to my room. Not long after Aja, the girl appeared at my door asking if she could spend the night with me. I said that her boyfriend wouldn't like it but she assured me that he was not her boyfriend, they both of them just worked at the hotel. I was sufficiently stoned and foolish enough to agree. It turned out that she had a huge sexual appetite that I was unable to satisfy, in fact despite her attractive looks I couldn't even summon up an érection. Wether it was the effect of the dope, the lousy squeaky single bed we perched on, or possibly even the result of the last two months cycling I couldn't say, but she was not very happy and stormed out of the room muttering what I assumed to be insults. 

Suddenly the reality of the situation I had put myself into hit me like a train. Not only had I taken the risk of abandoning the Buddhist precept of avoiding intoxicants, but I was now well down the road of sexual exploitation. And I even had the nerve to think I could make a reliable cycling partner for a woman like Krista. My assessment of myself and my situation was literally crazy. I realised I had to get out of there before my complete lack of judgement lead me into a state of total dereliction, and not just me, I knew from previous experience that I could also mislead others into that dreadful cul de sac.

I'm not sure if I slept at all, part of me waiting for Aja or her "boyfriend" to knock at the door. But it remained quiet until dawn at which time I quietly packed my bags, took my bike and left. The "boyfriend" was sleeping next to the check in desk and woke up as I opened the front door to leave. He came up and shook my hand and thanked me and wished me bonne route. I almost cried, but thanked him in return. As I was getting on my bike a message came through on my phone from Karl, asking how I was getting on and wether I would like to meet up with him again for breakfast. Actually I felt so ashamed of myself I didn't want to see anyone, but he said he was very close to Binf Hadifi so I felt I could hardly decline. There are times when people appear to be like angels and Karl's re appearance at this moment was like that for me. We rendezvoused in a smart little cafe and I poured out my heart to him. He listened without making any judgements as I laid out the bones of my situation. As well as all the errors of judgement I had already made, I had to acknowledge that there were some pretty massive mountains ahead of me just to get to Fez. The distances between towns meant that it would be increasingly difficult to find hotels and the nights at high altitude would very soon be freezing cold. I knew my sleeping bag and tent would not be up to those more extreme conditions. On top of all that my eyesight was definitely getting worse, I was occasionally incontinent and I had no health insurance cover whilst in Morocco. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be misleading the fair Krista if I attempted to convince her that I could be a reliable cycling partner in this country. Karl made no attempt to change my mind, although he did try and make the point that I was perhaps seeing things more negatively than they really were.

But my mind was made up, I had screwed up badly and needed to get back on the straight and narrow. I sent Krista a message to say that I had changed my mind and I was returning to England, I gave Karl a warm goodbye and set off back to al Hoceïma, but this time along the main road. It was a perfect cycling journey, downhill almost all the way and with probably the most spectacular mountain scenery of the journey so far. Added to which there was hardly any traffic on the road. It was tempting to review my decision in the light of all this, but I felt there were just too many risks and that I was probably too exhausted after almost three months on the road, to assess them all properly, particularly if I couldn't resist smoking that damn delightful Moroccan hashish!