constanttrek

Larache

7 comments June 3rd, 2005

Neither of us had ever entered Morocco at Tangier before, although I had departed from it once. But Ceuta – the other, recommended, port of entry, in Spanish Morocco – was out of our planned route; and so Tangier it was to be.

The good ol’ Lonely Planet quotes a recent traveller, on entering at Tangier, thus:

"…the worst possible introduction to any country, anywhere in the world (and that includes Kabul)."

So we weren’t overly looking forward to the experience. Our plan was to get in and walk out – asap.

But things were neither as bad – nor as good – as we expected. We arrived relatively early on Sunday, and either it was too early for the touts, or they don’t work Sundays. We were barely noticed except for a few desultory offers of a taxi service, and wandered up into the Grand Socco to get some money out at the ATM. We had been warned by several people in Algeciras not to bother changing money in Spain, as the rate was bad, and had some euros with us in case we struck any trouble – luckily, it turned out, as Gary’s card promptly refused to work in any of the ATM’s. This unfortunate hitch struck at the same time we noticed a rather ominous storm front rolling in and obscuring the Spanish coastline; we decided on consideration that perhaps we had better dig in for the night until we got ourselves sorted out. From our window we looked out across the port for the last glimpse of Spain, and Europe, we are likely to have for quite some time.

We trawled around a few of Tangier’s seedy little back alleys until we found a decent pension. To our vast amusement the locals found Gary’s Osama beard the most intriguing thing about us, calling out: "hullo, Ali Baba! Welcome to Morocco!" As we passed.

"Why you have big beard and no hair?" Asked one in particular. "Don’t you know that God likes hair?" We’re thinking it might be time for those clippers to come out.

Thanks to the prompt action and combined efforts of various family members, the problem with the bank was sorted out later the following day, and we prepared to leave. The day off wasn’t a bad thing though, as we got a chance to wander around the medina and orient ourselves; and Gary to get used to being called Ali Baba by all and sundry. Even I’m taking to it now.

But Tangier is a strange, dilapidated place, with a major identity crisis, left over from its glam days when it was the sexy centre of the Interzone. Now it is just a faded sleaze – although harmless enough. But we were glad to be walking out along the coast toward Asilah the next day.

We got going early thanks to our new alarm clock, thoughtfully provided by the mosques – there’s nothing like a good raucous "Allaaaaah akBAR!" blared from a hundred different loudspeakers to get a girl moving at half four in the morning. I was four feet vertical and on my feet before I realised what it was.

It took me a few kilometres to get accustomed to walking in headscarf and with a sarong wrapped around my front, in an attempt to minimise what is, let’s face it, rather major; but it was an effort well worth while, as we attracted little more than a passing glance. Nobody really knows what to make of us, what with Ali Baba towing a trolley laden with various scruffy bottles and tarp, and me swathed in copious amounts of material. It is obvious that we aren’t Moroccon – but nobody is quite sure what exactly we are. And that’s not a bad thing.

The first enormous difference for us, is that finally, we are just one of a never-ending stream of foot traffic. Everybody is on foot. They push trolleys, lead donkeys, and haul enormous loads over their shoulders. As soon as we left the city behind we became just another in the long parade, greeted with the same courtesy and warm smiles as everyone else. As with everywhere, the country is entirely a different place once the city grime fades, and we wandered along quite peacefully until we got about twelve kilometres from Asilah and found a campground. It was pretty basic – but it gave us a chance to trial our new twenty euro tent. Not bad if you don’t mind sleeping with your knees around your ears. We have kept the tarp and mozzie net, but after gale-force-winds-night in Andalusia, this little black duck got a bit militant in her wish for something that would stay pegged down in manky weather, and, tiny or not, I like being able to zip it shut. Ali Baba would sleep through another Hiroshima, so it doesn’t matter to him one way or another.

Asilah the following day was lovely; a very pretty whitewashed town with a laid back, Spanish feel, and quiet medina. We had a great lunch and a long chat in French with the restaurant owner, and bought ourselves two very fetching colourful straw Berber hats, as our previous ones went astray during the Andalusia hike. Since Ali Baba has gone out in sympathy with me and taken to a headscarf also, we made a right looking pair wandering out of town the next day. But rather than being the tourist gimmicks we were worried about – a worry nowhere near as serious as walking without a hat at all – our new acquisitions actually seemed to break the ice with a lot of people we met. We stopped in one tiny village for water, and amidst the unashamed staring we inevitably attract, we received a lot of approving comments about our choice of headgear, along with questions about where we bought it and how much it cost, and reassurance that we had paid a good price. In actual fact the hats are absolutely brilliant – they stay on well, let the breeze blow about beneath, and have a terrific wide brim so our necks are covered. I realise that hat pros and cons are right up there with beetle mating for intriguing topic winners, but on such minutae does our little life revolve.

Yesterday we got up planning to stretch the 42km to Larache over two days – no point in rushing – but in the end, we knocked it off in one painful hit. We were rewarded by a fantastic, ridiculously cheap, pension room, and an absolutely gorgeous town, where we have been met with unending kindness and hospitality.

With our customary unerring sense of direction (God alone knows how we will ever get through Africa) we managed, on arrival to bypass the town centre completely and wander vaguely on for another couple of kilometres. On top of a long day, believe me, this is not a good thing. We were just heading for a convenient wall for a water-and-think break when a ragged old vehicle pulled up beside us, and the driver leaned out and asked if we needed help. Worried that he was a Grand Taxi looking for a fare, we were about to politely decline; but he was so lovely, and so obviously not on the make, that we got into conversation. When he worked out that we had stuffed up he immediately offered to take us back into town. "You are visitors to Morocco!" He said by way of explanation, and with a big smile, waving away our thanks. In the end we had a marvellous chat and he dropped us just down the road from where we needed to be, refusing our offers to pay and shaking us warmly by the hand. Right on the back of that wonderful encounter, I asked a girl walking by for directions to the hotel; she gave us an enormous smile, comprehensive directions, and shook us both by the hand and bid us "welcome to Morocco". We got to the hotel feeling rather blissfully at peace with the world in general, and incredibly grateful for the kindness shown us.

Larache is beautiful, with its 16^{th century Portuguese built Casbah (complete with washing line) crumbling into the Atlantic, and Spanish colonial buildings in the centre. Not far from town are some amazing Roman ruins, lying in lonely but quite remarkable splendour; this region has been occupied by everyone from the Phoenicians to the Carthaginians, not to mention the local Berbers and later the Arabs. It is totally laid back and not remotely touristy. There seems to be just one lone tout, who offered us "some very good kif, because if you are Australian, you like to smoke, yes?" He was most amazed when we declined.}

Gary is once again wearing in a new pair of boots, as the old pair ("Bestard" by name – never were boots more aptly called) never softened. The new ones are much better, but his heels are still pretty ripped up after the long hike yesterday, so we are resting for a couple of days before heading down toward Rabat.

I realise that this post is rather devoid of pictures. We have been really reluctant to take the camera out, as people have been universally kind and generous toward us, and we both feel that a camera changes that balance immediately. Maybe as we go on we will become more comfortable with snapping people, but for now, we are happy just to meet and talk rather than try to capture it. We have also done some rather long days, which have stopped us snapping much of the countryside – pictures next time. There are plenty of internet cafes, so hopefully the updates will continue.

There is a café just down the road that serves awesome mint tea, and heavenly French crepes – man, I love Moroccon food – and it looks out over the ocean. This is the view just here.

So in the interest of acquiring new recipes to share with you all – I’m so thoughtful, don’t you think – I’m going to sign off now to go and sample some (more) local cooking. And quietly contemplate the fact that, after nearly 4000, we now have only 1000km to go until the end of our first leg. And that really is exciting. Well, more than hats or mating beetles, anyway.

PS: Gary is blogging now also – on the equipment page.