Scratching the Surface

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		a		The occupied territory of Western Sahara extends the kingdom of Morocco to the disputed length of 1,809 km. We entered the country from Mauritania in the south and the two countries long running dispute over the mineral riches of Western Sahara is reflected in the most guarded and bureaucratic border we had encountered since central Africa. It is famed for the 3kms of landmine strewn sandy no-man’s land that divides the two countries but for us it was more memorable for the sudden enormity of traffic (vehicles and people) and the unreconstructed wankers passing for immigration officers (a long story but apparently I don't look anything like my passport photo and I'd be lucky if I got through Morocco without getting locked up). At the border we gave a lift to a fellow Islander by the name of Chris Milne. Chris had been travelling for some time and as well as sporting a triumphant Victorian beard, he had a dog by the name of Wacha (Arabic for 'yes' or 'okay'). They occupied the back seat of the Range Rover and we ploughed north at our usual speed of 75kms an hour. After 9 hours of driving we arrived at the shoulder of the Dahkla peninsular and headed for the one campsite we knew was there. When we pulled up in, what was by then, a very tatty old Connie with hippy and dog and all, the campsite owner could barely conceal his contempt. He reluctantly told us the camping (European) prices and insisted that we pay for dinner. We had read that the camp was popular with western kite surfers (much of the Moroccan coast is wind sport friendly) but the place was full of posh European & North American kids cleaning the sea from their boards with their noses in the air. We got the message and left, hoping to find somewhere to park up for the night. A little further down the road we found a community of Sahelians living in huts on the side of a hill. On its other side was a municipal car park where a European van was already parked. On the sandy edge of the car park, looking out over the sea was a large nomadic tent. We went to investigate and as we approached two men walked out of the tent and greeted us as if we were expected. “Salaam aleikum,” we replied and then they asked us in French if would like some tea.” Okay. Abdul and Hamadou made green tea with sugar and extra sugar and we fashioned half conversations about journeys and families and the evening dropped into the night. They had shared their hospitality with many other Europeans and Hamadou showed off the few words of German, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Czech, Swedish and English that he knew with accompanying accents of amazing accuracy. Later, more of their friends came from Neighbouring Dahkla with Sahelian moonshine. We sat up late watching hilarious videos on their mobile phones and teasing Chris Milne on his close resemblance to Osama Bin Laden. All very nice but we were still in the very southern part of Western Sahara and it would take us another three days of solid driving (and, as it turned out; a breakdown in the desert, a lift to Laayoune with a lorry driver and a day of repairs) to travel the dull desert scrub road to Tiznit and Morocco proper. On the invisible border, the fuel prices jumped from 40 to 60 cents a litre but in exchange we had buildings, culture and civilisation. We enjoyed the market and the ancient Medina but also the modernity. Suddenly there were coffee shops, ATMs, paved streets with orange trees. Even the lights and relentless signage of the modern traffic systems was strangely pleasing. It was a genuine culture shock after the nothingness of the (nearly) Sahara. It all felt so European in comparison with what we had seen over the preceding months; was our trip nearly over? We decided that from here on in we were on holiday and so we dragged poor old Connie from one amazing tourist sight to another. Morocco has a fantastic array of terrains and micro climates and first we hit the north-west coast at Essaouira. In this quaint fort town we met Europeans of every kind; young kite surfers mastering their hobby and bar hopping in the evenings, pensioners in well-equipped motor homes, old hippies visiting their favourite haunts from the 70s and property Brits looking for investments now that Spain is looking less favourable. Suffice to say we had no trouble from the police with my passport photo or otherwise. The southern border clearly a very different place from the Morocco we now found ourselves in, where the authorities have been given strict instructions from the King to leave all tourists in peace. Essaouira was a little Disneyland Maroc for us so we ploughed up the N23 to Marrakech and stayed a night on the main square overlooking the Djemaa el-fina. In the High Atlas Mountains we visited ski resorts, twisted around terrifying mountain roads before dropping down to the east and the perfect desert city of Ait Benhaddou. We drove up Todra Gorge and while enjoying Berber hospitality in a local hostel we took a hike along the top of the breathtaking ravines, visiting a nomad tent along the way and in the Moyen Atlas we spent out time hiding in the tent from the freezing rain. But Fez was next and there we had our final treat of the trip, proper tourist accommodation! We started the day in an (almost) alpine town; rising from a very soggy tent, pitched in a cherry orchard otherwise occupied by elderly French tourists in mobile homes and finished the day in a restored 19th century Dar. Our room was on the ground floor; our Tamassna doors opening onto a courtyard of fountains and scented plants. We eat breakfast on the roof and watched old ‘Arab town’ Fez wake for another day’s trade. Old Fez has been more difficult to tame than Marrakech, its narrow nervous streets pull you into the maze of a city which has little regard for the niceties of modernity or health and safety (hurray!) And its still safer that Marrakech because they have yet to allow motorised vehicles into the medina so there were no two-wheeled teenagers running you against the old walls, nonchalant cigarettes hanging from the corners of their mouths. Old men with donkeys move a lot slower. After wonderful Fez, we drove north towards the Rif Mountains, which climb far too steeply for a clapped out old Range Rover. In Taounate we rose 650 metres in 10 minutes. Once upon the plateau the arid desert that had accompanied us since Ouagadougou blew away, revealing an endless blanket of green fields. The hills by the side of the road were very fertile compared with some of the desperate places we had passed through; the electric green fields punctuated with tuffs of olive trees and small copse of pine. Idyllic. The towns tell a different tale. Like permanently out of season ski resorts, the towns feel abandoned; linear scraps without the focus of the coastal towns or the energy and governmental investment of the occupied territories to the south. And here is the thing; breadbasket of Morocco, this lush cluster of valleys, forests and rivers is the poorest in the country. And as drove further into the heart of the Rif the roads began to fall to pieces, the towns no more than bus stops with cafes, the roadside mosques paint scarred from years of vehicle collisions. As we left one of the towns, I noticed a man ask for a cigarette with a two fingers to the mouth gesture. We laughed about the improbability of a passing car, travelling at 45kms per hour going back to give a pedestrian a cigarette. But in the next village, three or four boys asked for a cigarette with the same two-finger gesture and we began to think we were missing something. We turned another corner and the sun was shining down on the most beautiful of valleys; a giant bowl of green with a perfect white mosque sitting at its centre. We pulled up and took a closer look. As we admired the view another young man a little down the street again, gestured with two fingers to his lips and only then, as I was inches from the edge of the field did the penny drop. The entire valley below us, and the remaining mountain stretching above us was completely covered in marijuana plants. We looked at each other and laughed. I looked back down the road and the gesturing man was now joined by two friends, who were speed walking towards us dressed in 80s blouson leather jackets. We got in the car and choked the old girl into a quick departure. As we passed them on the road, the men gestured wildly, half joking, half not. ‘Hey, we have Kif,’ they seemed to be saying, slightly incredulously. ‘You don’t want it? You’re Europeans, aren’t you?’ A different 1980s Mercedes chased us out of each town and every time we stopped to take photos a troop of kids would hassle us until we gave up and left. We had read about the Rif’s poverty and how cannabis was partly responsible (the government indirectly rely on the Kif whilst shunning the people of the Rif) but we hadn’t realised how predominant a crop it was or how dependant the local population are upon it. Over the years the traffic through the Rif has changed to more traditional, non-Kif smoking tourists and supply (and suppliers) is clearly out-stripping demand by some margin. What happens now is a combination of desperation and a sport chasing tourist around tight mountain bends. One chocolate coloured Mercedes chased us for several kilometres before eventually pulling alongside us so the passenger could wave a gigantic piece of hash out of his window. We managed to shake them off and in a fit of hysterics we reached Ketema and the fantastic pine-forest road to Chefchauan. Chefchauan is a beautiful town with good hiking potential and we enjoyed it but there was no denying that our African trip was at an end. So we drove out of the mountains, down to the Spanish port of Cuerta and crossed the border into Euroland. We took the ferry across the straights of Gibraltar with the inevitable mixed emotions; to complete our trip was a fantastic achievement and we knew it would be good to see our friends and family but restarting our old life in London was unimaginable. We consoled ourselves with holiday lager and seafood and sent triumphant emails to everyone. We had done it! Now where next? Photos Hamadou and Chris Milne Wacha Marrakech Market Marrakech s tall Todra Gorge Todra Nomads Fez Dar Fez Carpets Rif Kif Back on European soil
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