Once again I find myself on a rooftop terrace. This time the dry heat and the silence of Ramadan surround me. The intricately tiled and sky-blue-painted town of Chechaouen, Morocco, Africa, before me, encircled by vast, gentle mountainside.
THE TEAM
Me, Vicky, Paul, Jess, Duncan and Jack (Australians who joined us in Granada – nothing like that southern-hemisphere bond)
THE JOURNEY
Three hour bus: Granada to Algeciras. I suppose it’s at this point that all the African hustle, bustle and chaos begins. We need to take a ferry to Ceuta. Turns out there are a million (correct figure) companies who shout and point from their ticket booths, insisting that you will get the fastest ride and the best deal from them.
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Bewildered and on a low budget, we start asking around for prices. A guy approaches us saying he needs us because our group plus his group means half price. Great stuff. A lack of an Arab-speaking party member in our team of six meant the beginning of being overcharged and generally ripped off. Example one, the Arab speaking guys who asked us to join them told us that they were paying 21 and the ticket guy told us 28. From here the haggling begins. He admits quickly, “Yes, yes yes, 21”, but the rest of Morocco eagerly awaiting our arrival needed a lot of effort from our side so as to get low prices and sweet deals.
So we pay Mister Tickets and he takes all of our passports. It’s amazing how stress arises when suddenly none of us have documents. He leaves his booth and takes us all to another building to another booth. We have five minutes to get on the ferry but we are waiting, thinking we have been screwed. Our passports get handed back slowly and we get directed to the boarding area where we arrive, ticketless and hover for a while, now convinced that it was all a scam.
But Mister Tickets arrives with his namesakes and we go through. Luggage X-rayed without actually being looked at. No issues that each of us beeped the body scanner thingy as we passed through it. We arrive at the next door and the kind lady says no, it’s too late. Luckily a bit of Arabic is thrown around and she opens the door. We all run… and run… down corridors, towards docking area six. People shouting, still running, ferry waiting… and we are on. Smiling, hot and heading across the Mediterranean. Three packets of crisps and a few card games later we are in Ceuta. Let’s get to the border. Language barriers, some local assistance, Paul losing 200 Dirhams (20), a packed and more packed bus of burkas, religion and expressive eyes and smiles later and we are at the border. A long silent walk amongst locals. Passport control.
One foot into Morocco and attacked. Hundreds of aggressive men attached to hundreds of old Mercedes shouting prices and places. Haggle, haggle, haggle. That’s the new synonym for Morocco. We got the best price we could, 500Dh. How they got all of our luggage into the boot remains a Moroccan mystery. Four of us in the back and Duncan and me in the front seat. Back window didn’t open, front window didn’t close, driver was super fast and through the twisty countryside we whizzed, the idea of personal space and body bubbles a thing of the past. Duncan and I, united by a thin layer of communal sweat wherever we touched, which was pretty much his entire right side and my entire left side, had front row seats to the near misses and aggressive driving of our taxi dude. Trucks came very close to us, on all sides. It made our bonding experience that much more profound. Near death experiences together with sweat sharing and my hair blowing in his face were the basis of a strong relationship.
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