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 stall
Todra Gorge
Todra Nomads
Fez Dar
Fez Carpets
Rif Kif
Back on European soil
