MOROCCO BOUND

A Solo Motorcycle Journey to North Africa

(Camping Rio Jara, later the same day.)

Have discovered much about Tarifa in one afternoon. As I said before, it is on a point that juts out of the southwest coast of Spain into the junction of the Atlantic and the Med. Because of its geographic uniqueness, it is a mecca for wind and kite-surfers from all over the world. The winds that whip across the section of Spain are incredible, and are the reason that hundreds of wind turbines have been built all over the hills above town. But it is the younger, adventure-seeking crowd that makes Tarifa jump. After returning from GIB, I changed into a swimsuit, grabbed a cold beer from the camp store, and wandered down to the beach. It was amazing.

The beach outside the campground is uniquely suited for kite surfing as it is miles long, and about a half a mile wide at low tide. But when the tide comes in, it surges over the outer dunes and forms a shallow lake less than 24” deep. Perfect for high-speed kite surfing, without the risk of pounding thru the waves on the sea.! I just walked the beach and took photos of the dozen of colorful kites running up and down the shore. When I rode back onto Tarifa later that night to find an Internet café, it was much the same, a small, bustling town that was jumping with adrenaline. It seemed like every bus that pulled into town disgorged young backpackers and adventure seekers. Plenty of bars, 3 Internet cafes, adventure sports stores on every other corner, and the driving, thumping rhythm of youth and excitement seeking new thrills. Ah, to be in my twenties again…

But I’m not. And being older, happily married, and with a little disposable income is not without its own rewards too. I can remember backpacking without a penny to my name. I think I prefer it by motorcycle now. But I must close. Time for an ice-cold shower. Must be up early. I have a morning ferry to Morocco to catch!

13 Sept 2002 (Friday)

Early in the morning, on the ferry to Tangier, Morocco.

This is it! I am on my way! We are about an hour out of Tangier right now. I was so excited that I slept like crap. I awoke practically every hour because I was so scared of oversleeping and missing the ferry.

Was up at 06:00 and packed the bike in total darkness. Was heading to Algeciras before 07:00, and the twisty roads over the mountains were better than a cup of coffee. I fueled just outside the port, and was rolling into the cavernous heart of the ship by 08:00. I had apparently not bought a ticker on the super fast catamaran ferry, but instead was heading out on the huge commercial cargo ship. In the vast, empty hold that probably could hold 300 vehicles, I was parked with 20 cars and one truck. My K75S looked lost and forlorn as I tied it down for the passage. All I could think was that Customs would be a breeze with so few vehicles. Oh how little I knew. Secured all my bags with my PACSAFE, and went topside to take some pictures of the sun rising over Gibraltar. The moment was magical. Later, once we set sail, I took the time to change money ($100 USD = 1047 Moroccan dirham), and process through the passport check station as well. Then wandered back up top and enjoyed the breeze and the Straits of Gibraltar, one of the most heavily traffic stretches of water in the world. The transit was scheduled to take 2 ½ hours, but ended up taking over three. Met up with a Con-Tiki tour of young Australians and they were quite inquisitive about my motorcycle tour. One guy asked if I was on a “round the world tour” and I could only say that I wished I was. They were on a 13-day bus tour of Spain and were taking the day ferry across to Tangier so they could say they had been to Africa. I told them that it might just be the same thing for me if I didn’t get thru Customs! Who knows? I may just have to turn around and take the next ferry back, but at least I’ll have tried. I’m feeling lucky though. We’ll see.

(later the same day, in the Garden of Hotel Radoune, Marrakesh, Morocco)

Oh my, oh my, oh my. It just keeps getting better. How can I put today into words? Disembarking in Tangier was not unlike all the horror stories that I had heard and read on the web. It was an artfully choreographed cacophony of cars, trucks, pedestrians, customs inspectors, police, and the ever-present “touts” or “helpers”. When I rolled out of the bowels of the ship and onto the dock, I was immediately flagged down by a “helper” in a blue frock, complete with semi-official looking white badge. He rushed me to the head of the line and I thought things were going incredibly well. I paid him $5 and at first it appeared that everything was going smoothly. He took my passport, registration, green insurance card, and began to fill out the Customs Declaration and Vehicle Importation forms for me. But wait. Suddenly, after getting the money, I was handed off to another blue-smocked “helper” who wanted another $5. Apparently they thought they had a live one and the word was getting out…. Managing to avoid the continuous requests for a little more “Baksheesh”, we continued with the customs process and I was starting to be optimistic. But then they discovered that my passport did not match the name on the registration and the insurance card. By the raised volume of the shouts and increasingly vigorous gesticulations of their arms, I knew the stuff had hit the fan. Damn. Since I didn’t know Spanish or French, and they didn’t know much German or English, it was growing more difficult to understand the crowd gathering around me. Eventually the Chief of Customs was called over and he explained to me that it was simply impossible to bring into Morocco a motorcycle that I did not own. I then whipped out my handwritten, dual-language letter that Armin and I had crafted. Ha! But after reading it, the Chief shook his head and said that the letter could only be accepted if it had been stamped by my village mayor (notarized). Then my “helper” and he engaged in a very animated argument with more arm waving and shouting. Every once in a while one of them would look at me, wink, and go back to arguing. I couldn’t’ figure out which one was on my side. My “helper” then pulled me off to the side and said the Customs Chief needed $10 to sign my paperwork. Quickly calculating how much time and effort I had expended to simply get to this point, I slipped it to him, and off he went again to do battle for me. Eventually, the Customs Chief waved me over and told me to never come back to Morocco again without the correct paperwork. With a wink, he stamped by documents and said, “Welcome to Morocco”. Back at the bike I quickly secured my passport and paperwork, and donned my helmet for my quick escape from the port. Suddenly, there were my two “helpers” tugging on my arms and telling me the Chief needed another $20 for the stamp he had just given me. I said no thank you. They said he needed at least $10 then! I told them they should have not asked for more money after I had all my paperwork back in my possession, but gave them each another couple of dollars, then rode off! All told, it cost me the huge sum of $19 US to clear Customs. Not bad since I had figured I might not be enter the country at all. The next time back I’ll be able to do it without the help of my “friends” and it won’t cost me anything at all. But the experience was worth the couple of dollars, and I’m sure they needed the money much more than I. All in all I think it was a fair exchange.

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