Archive for June, 2005
June 24th, 2005
Friday in Morocco is the traditional day to eat cous cous.
Who are we to break with tradition?
Great food notwithstanding, Casablanca is rather more "oh Christ not again Sam" as averse to the more commonly uttered Hollywood phrase.
Like Rabat, the majority of the city is a modern creation of the past French and Spanish protectorates, and so retains little of traditional Moroccan flavour – one look at the tiny Ancienne Medina, no more than a kilometre square at the most, is enough to reveal how small the original settlement was before the Portuguese transformed it into a naval port to fight the Sallee Rovers. If it weren’t for the fact that we had to come here for our Mauritanian visas, we would have given the place a wide berth from the first whiff of decaying rubbish.
It was a very uneventful walk down the coast road to here – although a pretty warm one. The temperatures are really rising now, and we find we have to rest for several hours in the middle of the day or we chew through our water supply. One day we had climbed into a bush on the side of the road to find some shade, when a man stopped and handed us an ice cold bottle of water from his car window. As he dismissed our thanks and drove away, we realised it was a bloke we had waved to earlier in the day; he must have actually gone to get us a bottle and deliberately returned to find us. Twice after that, people stopped and passed us water, insisting we take it and refusing any thanks. We try hard to repay the amazing generosity by handing on water to the other people we meet on the road; but I think it would be difficult to out-gift the Moroccans.
Whilst waiting for the embassy today we took a walk around the city, heading first to the granddaddy of all Casa’s sights – the rather enormous Hassan II mosque. We sat ourselves down in a quiet corner and people watched for a while, always a fun past-time. The mosque was actually built on top of a large slum, which was unceremoniously cleared out and razed to make way for it. All around it the slum still exists, providing a rather stark contrast to the extravagant magnificence in it’s centre. It is a typically Moroccan problem – on the way here, we 
passed a very ritzy beach resort of brand new apartments.
Across the road was this.
The latter is rather more the norm than the former, although the very marked efforts by the powers that be to modernise the housing country 
wide are in evidence everywhere. Progress is slow, though, and the majority of houses outside the cities are in this kind of style.
After we gorged ourselves on Friday-Special cous cous, we wandered up to where the major remnants of the glory days of the French protectorate remain, albeit in decaying, faded grandeur. Opposite the central market, 
in a complete state of disintegration, stands the crumbling remains of the Hotel Lincoln, in its heyday one of the most notorious examples of fine Art Deco architecture.
I really love the whole Art Deco thing in Morocco. Sometimes I think it bears a resemblence to the culture of the British Raj; if India now is more British than the Brits themselves, then the same certainly applies here in regard to the French. Every town, no matter how small, has a choice of several cafès or Salon de Thès, decorated in immaculate 1920′s grandeur. Windows are hung with stiff brocades and rimmed with brass fittings, and the tables are good quality wood carving with thick glass tops over fine cloth. Tea is always served in shining silver teapots, and the waiters wear black waistcoats and are incredibly efficient and polite. Although I don’t go into many of the cafés (not really a chick thing, those places) even walking past them and watching the men reading newspapers whilst smoking and having their shoes shined is somewhat reminiscent of a post-war European scene. In fact, it often strikes me that being here is in many ways like going back in time – not in the obvious images of donkeys, field workers, and timeless farm practices, but to a more modern era still in living memory. The buses stop on demand; each one has a conductor (remember those?) who helps people on and off with their loads; and if I am alone on the street and get approached by an insistent hussler, a dozen men nearby will leap to my defense and apologise profusely.
When we were in Algeciras, a Moroccan man told us that Morocco was safer than most Western countries. It struck us as a strange thing to say at the time, but I understand what he means now – nobody here would ever stand by and watch whilst someone got ripped off or attacked, and although you might get hustled an awful lot in places like Casa, the likelihood of being actually physically threatened is pretty remote.
She says, boldly….
Life is nice for us at the moment. There is never a dull day, and the walking is interesting. Best of all, the accommodation is so cheap that often we can actually afford a hotel room – and I can’t tell you how good it is to have a hot (or, more often, cold) shower after walking all day. A room here costs the same as the camping did in Europe, so when we can we take advantage of it. The food is just endlessly glorious – tajines of lamb and prunes, fresh grilled brochettes (skewers of bbq meat) and wonderful melons. And everywhere is the fresh, bright smell of mint, wafting from cafés in glasses of sweet mint tea, bundled up behind old men riding bicycles, or growing in great fresh clumps by the roadside. The smell of mint mixes with the bright citrus smell of the orange juice stalls, which serve their wares on many street corners and all through the market for a couple of dirham a glass. I love that drink more than anything else.
So now I’m going for a little walk and (another) glass of juice before we leave tomorrow for the loooong hot hike to Marrakech. Its about 250 km from here I think, so hopefully we’ll be there in ten days. It is also 45 degrees there at the moment so we may also of course pass out in dehydrated lumps by the roadside.
Thanks to all the people who contacted us offering hospitality in Casablanca – unfortunately our Moroccan visas are running out fast, so it is a one day stop only for us, and we are leaving tomorrow. We appreciate very much the many kind offers, and particulary to Najib who patiently answered my questions by email – thankyou (and am desperately sorry to have misspelt your name! Hope it is correct now…unfortunately I couldn’t access my email to check the spelling at the time of writing, and thankyou again for all your help.)
Play it again, Sam…sorry, I had to do it.
June 16th, 2005
Elle "the body" McPherson; Kate "the rake" Moss:
Paula, "THE GODDESS" Constant.
Oh, yeah, baby, I really do look this stupid. Every day.
Utterly absurd headgear and tent-like material swathes notwithstanding, we have arrived in Rabat at last. I think we are still in Morocco; though this modern, sterile space feels rather more Paris than Marrakech. I mean, there is actually flesh on display! Loads of it! Legs, arms, hair…singlet tops for goodness sake! The brazen hussies. I was positively shocked.
It is rather a contrast after the past few days walking. We left Ksar el Kebir and headed back out to the coast, where there is still a blissful Atlantic breeze to take the edge off the heat. Once past Casablanca, we have no choice but to head inland, so we figure we should make the most of any possible breeze whilst we can. Moulay Bousselham, where we stopped for a couple of days to restore our delicate intestines, is not much more than a fishing village with a strip of overpriced tourist 
restaurants – but we had a great view of the lagoon, and more importantly, a cool space to recover in. Which we really needed.
We left in rather better shape than we arrived, and headed down a minor road toward Kenitra, eighty kilometres away. Just out of Moulay Bousselham we came around a bend in the road and across a strip of potholed tarmac lined with smoking litter heaps and tumbledown shanties. The street was absolutely heaving with men milling about; it looked as though the road was an assembly point for workers looking for a day’s labour in the nearby fields, and everywhere they stood about in groups. There were literally hundreds of them, and we, very obviously, weren’t local.
We took a breath and just kept on walking, straight through the crowd, which closed behind us and followed us up the road. If you have ever wondered what it feels like to be a mannequin in a Christmas window at Harrods, I suggest you try it sometime; Claudia Schiffer naked could not have attracted more attention than we did. But Gary, bless him, looked at all and sundry and gave a cheery smile and (really badly accented) "Bonjour" to everyone – and we got exactly the same back. I was absolutely astounded. We kept on walking, though, I tell you!
After that the road became a peaceful wander past fields full of strawberries and sunflowers, beside mule drawn carts loaded with workers. Everybody waved, smiled, and exchanged "salaams" with us as we went by – we had sore faces from returning all the huge smiles.
We learned very quickly that it is almost impossible to stop for a water break in solitude; the sight of us sitting by the roadside is an immediate invitation for every local about to come out and squat down beside us, conducting an entirely one sided conversation in Arabic, which we add little to aside from big smiles and the odd bit of comic theatre in an attempt to convey our meaning. Not that it matters. The inevitable end to these exchanges is a written address pressed into our hand with a telephone number and invitation to come and eat, drink tea, or stay the night. I have a bum bag stuffed with addresses – mostly in Arabic.
That night we asked a sunflower farmer if we could camp. His name is Said, and he and his wife were absolutely lovely to us. They have two children, the eldest of whom is a little boy by the somewhat unfortunate name of Osama – even his Dad winced as he told us – who was absolutely fascinated by us. He hung about the tent all through the 
process of setting up and cooking, and found the sight of me writing my journal irresistable. Here he is peeking under the tent at the weird Western woman who writes backwards.
Said’s wife very kindly drew us some water from the well to have a wash in – she probably smelt us coming three kilometres before we got there – and we spent a very 
peaceful night overlooking their beautiful sunflowers.
The following morning we were most astonished, as we wandered along seemingly in the middle of nowhere, to be suddenly overtaken by two French guys on bikes – they had cycled from Paris. And get this: it has only taken them ONE MONTH.
Man, wheels are a good invention.
We all stopped and de-packed and had a wonderful chat. They told us that they get harassed a lot through the shanty towns, asked for pens and money by all the children. We think that we have been pretty lucky; maybe because we look so overladen and exhausted, we rarely get harassed much past a shy child or two asking for a dirham, but even they give up pretty fast when they see us up close. I don’t think we exude wealth, with our scavenged trolley and rope tied packs. We certainly don’t smell of it – unless Versace has invented eau de shhhtinking lately.
We made it into Kenitra late that day, past the vile stretch of burning rubbish dump which ran for several kilometres and nearly fried our olfactory function into oblivion. I mean, this thing made us smell good.
Yesterday we walked the forty kilometres into Rabat down a totally different road again; this was also a national route road, like the one to Ksar el Kebir, but out here on the coast it is a different world to the endless parade of shanty towns and starving roadside sellers that is the inland route. Along this road, everyone is working, and smiling, and singing; they all call out to us and everyone – and I do mean everyone, no matter how overloaded the wagon – offers us a lift. We have turned down more rides in the last week than in the entire time we have been walking. Everybody shakes their head and gives us a bemused laugh – like: what the hell do you want to walk for when there is a perfectly good horse and cart here for your convenience?
Indeed.
About twenty kilometres from Rabat we ran into a police block, and gary got his big laugh of the day. At my expense, of course.
Since Gary still doesn’t speak French ( I am dumping him in it since he laughed at me) I got stuck talking to the policeman. After the initial greetings and in response to his questions, the conversation went something like this:
Me: "We are two Australians, and we have been walking for ten months, through France, Portugal, Spain, and now Morocco. We love Morocco, it is a very beautiful country:"
HIM: "Are you married?"
ME: "Um, yes, this is my husband."
HIM: " Do you have children?"
ME: "No."
HIM: "How old are you?"
ME (lying so he didn’t think we were weird without children): "twenty five."
HIM (nodding dismissively at Gary) "how old is he?"
ME: " thirty."
HIM: (dismissing gary entirely at this point) "that is the problem. He is too old for you. You need a younger husband who can give you children."
At this point he gently nudged Gary out of view altogether and began talking very merrily away to me, making it generally obvious that he would be a rather better option marriage wise than Gary, who was obviously stupid as he spoke no French, useless as he hasn’t knocked me up yet, and ridiculous anyway because he has a "tourist beard".
One would think that my husband would begin to get rather irate at this point; but if you thought that, you obviously haven’t met the Constant boys, who are so laid back they make a hammock look stressed out; Gary just stood on the sidelines and pissed himself laughing at the entire scenario, until eventually I declined the offers of marriage and we went on our way, leaving the policeman very bemused as to why I would actually choose to stay married to such a useless Western bloke when I could have a proper Moroccan man in uniform.
You know what – maybe he has a point.
Anyway, we headed onwards until we eventually got here, the cosmopolitan, very sophisticated and not remotely busy modern capital, where we have the usual array of embassy visa things to get sorted out. It really feels as though we have landed in a different country from the one we have been walking through. But it will be a nice break for a few days.
On to Casablanca from here, hopefully no more than a week away, and then -gasp, shudder, horror – inland through the stifling heat to Marrakech.
Meanwhile, the tajine on the way in was the best we have had so far, and the rgayef – flaky crepey thing – with honey was a gorgeous brekky this morning, so I am holding out high hopes of wallowing in food for a bit.
Yum. All is well in my world now that I can eat again.
June 9th, 2005
I had been planning to post the following a few days ago – but stuff got in the way, as I guess will become apparant. So I shall post it now, and at the end of it, let you know what happened afterwards…
I was planning that the next update would be from the impressive distance of
Rabat
,
180 kilometres
from Larache. You know, then I could be all sort of nonchalant – like, “oh sure, just knocked off the 200 clicks to
Rabat
this week, walk in the park really” type thing. Kind of like those real long distance walkers, who actually manage fifty kilometres every day (it took me months of walking to be convinced that this is actually possible. I still think it’s insane.)
But, hey, what do you do; constanttrek is rather more dawdle than dash, and all too inclined to get easily sidetracked by good food and a nice view. So our stop in Larache stretched to a few days. It was an easy place to dally in, and awesome for people watching. Every night, around five o’clock, the entire town turned into a carnival, with the central place absolutely thrumming with hundreds of people out for their evening promenade. All the men sat outside the cafes drinking mint tea, whilst the women congregated in the central part to sit and swap gossip. Music played, children ran about, and hawkers did their thing. It was endlessly fascinating.
But finally yesterday morning we reluctantly shifted our lazy bones and set off. Gary’s heel was still fairly nasty – new boots are really no joy at all – so we were planning on no more than twenty kilometres, which would take us half the way to Moulay Bousselhem, where there is a nice campsite.
But it wasn’t to be.
Despite our good old map saying that there was a secondary road which ran next to the Motorway, the turn off being indicated about four kilometres past the Motorway exit – we plodded for about five before we realised it simply didn’t exist. By this stage we were actually ten kilometres past Larache, and the sun was climbing. We were walking on a
National Route
road; those things seriously suck, as there is no wide shoulder like there is on a motorway, but still a heinous amount of traffic. And in Morocco that means trucks piled up to twice their height with mattresses, tables, and people perched on top, flying past you at one hundred miles an hour, with a couple of Grand taxis trying to overtake for good measure. Being a main route it also means endless stalls hawking everything from tajine pots to watermelons and bags of nuts. There are so many poor, hungry, and thirsty people along these roadsides that our excess supplies were eaten into very smartly as we filled empty bottles and gave away our packet cookies.
By lunchtime we were feeling pretty dejected about our wrong turn. The road we were on had no alternative to rejoin our intended route, but carrying on would mean adding around
30 kilometres
, or a day, to our journey to Rabat. And that along a major road, which we avoid like hell when possible. Even worse there was little in the way of towns or forest marked until Ksar el Kebir, which was
36 kilometres
down the road, and then an additional 6 off the highway and out of our way. Having planned a short day, we didn’t start walking really early, so the heat was getting worse and we still had a good twenty kilometres in front of us just to make it to the turn-off.
At times like this, we have one universal solution: sit down and eat.
We came across a roadside settlement of run down shantys. They all looked pretty grim, tumble down tin sheds with solemn men drinking tea out the front; but we shunted our packs and trolley inside and sat down amidst the sawdust and flies for a cold Coke. We are becoming addicted to Coke – and I know that
Morocco
is the last country we’ll be getting it cold for some time, so we plan to make the most of it!
The smiling proprietor came over to us and we struck up a bit of a conversation; like most Moroccons, he spoke French, Arabic, Berber, Spanish, and a fair bit of English. Just enough to give one a minor inferiority complex. He offered to make us some lunch, for which we were eternally grateful; and out came just amazing platters of fried fish chermoula, stuffed with herbs and aromatic paste, harissa sauce, fresh salad, olives and bread. Oh Lord, it was marvellous; spicy and hot and so fresh, the fish must have turned up that morning. (
Gary
is working on recipes to put on the recipe page so you can make it yourself – hopefully up very soon.)
Bellies content, water topped up, and wallet barely touched – the whole lot cost 50 dirham, under ten bucks Australian – we set off back into the burning heat, waving good bye to our lovely host. The solemn blokes even waved back and smiled at us.
We trudged and trudged, and, to be honest, despite the good lunch we were starting to feel pretty down.
Gary
’s feet were really in a rough way and for the first time since leaving
London
, I got chafe so bad there were raw wounds. There was nowhere to camp – every available place had people already laid out on it – and as this is an agricultural area, the rest of the ground was all cultivated field. It looked like we would have to cop the forty odd kilometre march.
Finally, just on dusk, we got to where the road turned off to Ksar el Kebir. To our enormous excitement, there was another café – this one a proper truck stop, complete with waiter and pretty surroundings. We hauled our stinking carcasses in and collapsed heavily onto chairs, worried that we would be a bit unwelcome in our putrid state.
But you know – the hospitality in this country is beyond words or description, and it comes straight from the heart, every time.
Seeing us coming, the host had poured an enormous jug of ice cold water. As soon as we sat down he came out and put it down in front of us. In French he told us to just rest, be tranquil, take as long as we need – we didn’t have to order anything. I can’t tell you how much a gesture like that means when you are hot, tired, and thirsty.
We ordered some Coke and got chatting, and he asked us all about our walk. As we told him he relayed it all to the other robed and fez-zed guys inside, who shouted out questions and nodded in response to our answers, and all cried “bonne chance!” to us. We asked if there was a hotel nearby, as we weren’t looking forward to walking the unnecessary six kilometres into a large town and trying to find one, particularly on sunset.
Kerim, our host, immediately swung into action. Half an hour later, shaken warmly by the hand by the whole staff, we were piled into a friend’s van and driven straight to a lovely hotel in the centre of town, where the hostess welcomed us with another huge smile and gave us a cut-rate price on a lovely room overlooking the town square. We had barely gotten over our shock at being suddenly clean and with a roof over our heads – given that we had been anticipating a dodgy night by the roadside – when we were directed over the road to a little restaurant, where we subsequently got fed incredibly good paella, salad, and fresh orange juice – again for next to nothing. And everyone – absolutely everyone – shook us by the hand and welcomed us, and smiled, and were just beautifully, wonderfully, kind.
There is not a hint of avarice in the people here. Sure, there are some very poor people, and a lot of those are trying to sell something or begging. But if ever it is overwhelming – and it hasn’t been – we look around at the other Moroccon people and watch the tolerance and patience they display towards those who are struggling, always putting a few dirham in the plate, or politely declining the offers to buy something. There is no crude dismissal, no looking away and pretending they don’t exist, just a sympathetic hand and a prayer to God that they will have good fortune. 
Last night after we ate we sat out on the little balcony and watched the plaza below. Just as in Larache, the carnival was in full swing, as it seemed the entire town milled about swapping greetings and chatting. The street kids dashed in and out of the snack bars and cafes where the waiters surreptitiously slipped them a glass of water or a little something to eat, the other customers smiling indulgently and offering things of their own.
Yesterday when we had lunch in that shanty town, the host talked to us about Islam. It is hard, he said, because everyone associates Islam with terrorism in the wake of September 11th. But, he said, this is not Islam. Those men are not Muslims. Islam, he told us, is about “being good in your heart, being happy with God and the world.” In
Morocco
, he said, this is what is important.
I sat up there last night and watched the world in front of me and I thought: and what on earth could be more important than that?
So, it was a long day. And we’re not going anywhere (again) today; the chafe and the blisters are taking a break. But we don’t care about the extra distance, anymore. There was nothing wrong about this turn, and there is everything right about this town.
SUBSEQUENTLY…..
We had a lovely rest day. But late that night, I began to feel a bit flu-ey. By the next morning, both of us were well and truly in the grip of an all out attck of gastro, barely managing to stagger from our room to the bathroom.
Fortunately for us the people running the hotel have been kind and solicitous beyond belief, bringing us cups of chamomile tea, going with me to the pharmacy to help translate, and finally getting the local doctor up to see us. I cannot reiterate how grateful we are to have been shown such kindness – everyone knows how gross it is to be sick and far away, and we feel very lucky to have been treated with such consideration.
I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere for another day or so – Gary is still flat on his back and there is no way we can face a busy highway in past thirty degree temperatures just yet. In actual fact this week was an enormous test for us – in the midst of the illness, the temtptation to jump a train down to Rabat and air conditioned, sterile surroundings, was pretty huge. But I guess we both knew that if we did that, we would never come back and walk the hundred kilometres between here and there. And if we fell at the first hurdle, we may as well give up now and just start bussing it down. We have had to think that it doesn’t matter if we take a week to recover, just as long as when we do move, it is by foot power. We are going to face things a hell of a lot tougher than the odd bout of gastro in time to come, we tell ourselves. Better get used to it.
And when all is said and done, it’s no major drama. We’ll rest in the hotel until we can hoist the packs, and then just take it easy on the way down. It might be a while before I post that one from Rabat, though….
PS/ ANDREAS! please, please send us an email address so we can contact you. Great to hear from you!
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 16th 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.