One
of the perceived difficulties of making this trip seems to be the fear
of crossing a major practical hurdle, that being the entry into the
bureaucracy of an African culture. Our homework and the advice of many
who've done this trip promised that this hurdle is a lot lower than many
believe.
Sure, we had some moments of confusion at the customs post particularly, but these were caused completely by the inability of the officials to organise themselves. It was still pouring with rain and the roof of the customs shed had large gaps in it, so all the vital paperwork that'd been taken from us got drenched. I wish I could've taken a photo of the little man in the big hat holding up our "D16 ter" by one corner as it dripped ink onto his shoes. Luckily the UK registration document we'd given him was a photocopy. Given that, as we were forcibly reminded three times, "it is the most important piece of paper you will have in Maroc" he seemed remarkably unfazed at the state it was in and let us head out into a very different world to the one we're used to.
Next stop was the insurance office, conveniently sited on the road out of the port together with currency exchange. For anyone who hasn't had the benefit of "reading ahead" on this, it's very easy to miss it and then the next opportunity to get this vital bit of paper may be some way off - and a very careful drive.
We'd decided that due to the late-ish arrival we'd make for a campsite within easy reach of the port as Mike didn't relish the idea of night driving on roads that are notorious for "interesting" driving habits. We did, indeed, pass the scene of a probably-fatal accident as we climbed the hills behind Tanger. A sharp bend on the narrow road had clearly proved too much for someone and the crash barrier hadn't been enough to prevent the vehicle - and it looked like a big one - going over the edge of a very steep drop. Like, precipitous. For about 150 feet. The wreckage was strewn down the mountainside for a couple of hundred metres...whatever it was, it bounced several times. We made the campsite in Alboustane as it was getting dark and shoe-horned ourselves into a space barely big enough, but we really didn't care. We were in Africa!
Even though it was still raining, it was Africa! Then I heard my very first "call to prayer". I'd heard so much about it but never realised how loud it was and for how long it lasted. It was a sound so completely different to anything else I'd ever heard before and it made me realise that we were now enveloped in a culture that is completely alien to us, as our church bells on a Sunday morning would be to them. The following day reinforced this feeling. Driving along a main road to Chefchaouen we passed a shepherd and a young boy on the roadside, watching a flock of sheep graze. The shepherd was wearing what could only be described as a "hobbit gown with a hood". Further along, we passed three people with a donkey laden with four or five black bin bags of stuff. This sight generated some comments, as you might expect, but within half an hour we'd seen so many that they'd almost become routine. I guess you'd equate them to our "white van man" in that they seem to be the method of choice for moving everything from groceries to bricks.
Chefchaouen....
What a place! A regular rabbit warren of narrow streets and overhanging houses that give the feeling of being almost underground. The deeper we penetrated the maze of tunnel-like streets the more disorientated we got.
The shops, if you can call them that, were no bigger than the average bathroom back home, and opened straight out onto the street - dressmakers, barbers, bakers - and we bought a round loaf that was still too hot to handle straight off the counter - and all the usual groceries and hardware you'd find at home but all available in miniature versions of a local hardware shop. One thing we did notice the lack of..there were no newspapers or magazines. Maybe we didn't look in the right places, but as yet we've not seen anyone reading one anywhere.
Apart from one chap who'd tried his luck as a guide as we parked the truck, we had no pursuit from hopeful locals wanting to "help" us do our sightseeing and this was a relief in some ways. All we wanted to do was soak up the local colour and settle in to a new space. And it didn't matter that it was still raining.
Sure, we had some moments of confusion at the customs post particularly, but these were caused completely by the inability of the officials to organise themselves. It was still pouring with rain and the roof of the customs shed had large gaps in it, so all the vital paperwork that'd been taken from us got drenched. I wish I could've taken a photo of the little man in the big hat holding up our "D16 ter" by one corner as it dripped ink onto his shoes. Luckily the UK registration document we'd given him was a photocopy. Given that, as we were forcibly reminded three times, "it is the most important piece of paper you will have in Maroc" he seemed remarkably unfazed at the state it was in and let us head out into a very different world to the one we're used to.
Next stop was the insurance office, conveniently sited on the road out of the port together with currency exchange. For anyone who hasn't had the benefit of "reading ahead" on this, it's very easy to miss it and then the next opportunity to get this vital bit of paper may be some way off - and a very careful drive.
We'd decided that due to the late-ish arrival we'd make for a campsite within easy reach of the port as Mike didn't relish the idea of night driving on roads that are notorious for "interesting" driving habits. We did, indeed, pass the scene of a probably-fatal accident as we climbed the hills behind Tanger. A sharp bend on the narrow road had clearly proved too much for someone and the crash barrier hadn't been enough to prevent the vehicle - and it looked like a big one - going over the edge of a very steep drop. Like, precipitous. For about 150 feet. The wreckage was strewn down the mountainside for a couple of hundred metres...whatever it was, it bounced several times. We made the campsite in Alboustane as it was getting dark and shoe-horned ourselves into a space barely big enough, but we really didn't care. We were in Africa!
Even though it was still raining, it was Africa! Then I heard my very first "call to prayer". I'd heard so much about it but never realised how loud it was and for how long it lasted. It was a sound so completely different to anything else I'd ever heard before and it made me realise that we were now enveloped in a culture that is completely alien to us, as our church bells on a Sunday morning would be to them. The following day reinforced this feeling. Driving along a main road to Chefchaouen we passed a shepherd and a young boy on the roadside, watching a flock of sheep graze. The shepherd was wearing what could only be described as a "hobbit gown with a hood". Further along, we passed three people with a donkey laden with four or five black bin bags of stuff. This sight generated some comments, as you might expect, but within half an hour we'd seen so many that they'd almost become routine. I guess you'd equate them to our "white van man" in that they seem to be the method of choice for moving everything from groceries to bricks.
Chefchaouen....
What a place! A regular rabbit warren of narrow streets and overhanging houses that give the feeling of being almost underground. The deeper we penetrated the maze of tunnel-like streets the more disorientated we got.
The shops, if you can call them that, were no bigger than the average bathroom back home, and opened straight out onto the street - dressmakers, barbers, bakers - and we bought a round loaf that was still too hot to handle straight off the counter - and all the usual groceries and hardware you'd find at home but all available in miniature versions of a local hardware shop. One thing we did notice the lack of..there were no newspapers or magazines. Maybe we didn't look in the right places, but as yet we've not seen anyone reading one anywhere.
Apart from one chap who'd tried his luck as a guide as we parked the truck, we had no pursuit from hopeful locals wanting to "help" us do our sightseeing and this was a relief in some ways. All we wanted to do was soak up the local colour and settle in to a new space. And it didn't matter that it was still raining.
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