MOROCCO BOUND

A Solo Motorcycle Journey to North Africa

(Clearing Customs in Tangiers, Part 2)

Riding out of the port, my euphoria was abruptly brought back to reality. A policeman stepped out into the road and stopped me before I even got out of the gates. He demanded my paperwork and I began to wonder about all the police roadblocks and checkpoints I had read about on the Internet. This could be a long journey if I have to stop every 50 miles and show my documents. But he quickly handed them back and waved me on. Turns out it was the first and last stop by a policeman on my entire trip!

As I rode into the roundabout circle outside the port, the traffic immediately became my total focus. Cars, trucks, busses, horse-drawn wagons, bicycles, mopeds, pedestrians, donkey carts, dogs, etc all competed for space on the road. Just finding my way out of Tangier was exciting. But with all directional signs in both Arabic and English, I was soon out of the city and flying southward. It was then I learned that two-wheeled vehicles in Morocco are second-class citizens. Since no one has large displacement bikes, any car or truck automatically thinks the oncoming vehicle with a single headlight is a moped, and that they can use the lane as they wish. I had a large on-coming truck pull out into my lane and put me onto the shoulder. I also exactingly followed the 100 km/hr speed limit because I did not want to get pulled over for speeding. Adding in the 20-30 mph winds coming from my right off the Atlantic, and my first couple of hours on the road were extremely stressful.

The first 90 km of road south from Tangier to Larache parallels the coastline so closely I could can see the moisture of the ocean spray settling on my face shield as the winds blew over me. I was grinning like a madman as I raced southward and watched the waves breaking on the beaches, not 300m to my right. The whitewashed houses along the beach only added to the surrealism of the view. I could not believe I was finally riding in Africa! After the first 80km or so I began to relax and enjoy the experience. I hadn’t a clue where I was going to stay the night, and only the goal of getting to Zagora, on the eastern side of the Atlas Mountains. I had seen the Timbuktu sign on the Internet and decided that it was my goal! The problem was that Zagora was still over 1000km away.

Around Larache I was startled to see an autobahn sign similar to the ones in Europe! I discovered that they had recently completed the divided highway and it now ran from Larache all the way thru Rabat to Casablanca. It also ran from Rabat to Fes in the east. Wow. I had not expected this. The tolls were nominal, and the road fantastic. I was soon blasting along quite pleasantly at 130 km/hr on the near empty highway. My only real company were the ever-present police! I had never seen so many in my life. Every tollbooth had at least two. Every bridge had one on each end. Most bridges over the highway had two motorcycle policemen sitting under it. Every intersection off the highway had a policeman as well. Then occasionally they’d be waiting at the end of long straight stretches of the highway. Even though most were mounted on BMW R1100RT police bikes, they never chased anyone. They simply stepped out into the road and waved you over. I don’t know what would happen if you decided to try to run by one of them because I wasn’t interested in trying. I just made sure that I stayed within the posted speed limits! Three hundred and seventy kilometers later I was outside of Casablanca, near the end of the autobahn. It was around 5 pm, over 90F, and I was soaked in sweat and exhausted from fighting the horrendous winds coming off the Atlantic. Casablanca is right on the coast, and is part of the humid, yet windy littoral zone. But Marrakech is situated in the high central plains, nestled up against the western side of the High (Haut) Atlas Mountains. When I saw that Route 7 angled due south towards Marrakech, I had to make a decision. Stay and look for a place to stay in Casablanca, or head to Marrakech and the cooler mountains?

Never one to leave an hour of daylight riding time unused, I turned for Marrakech. After all, it was only 220 km away. That was when the fun really started. I left the four-lane highway, and jumped onto a real Moroccan two-lane road. The traffic lightened, and the rolling hills slowly opened up into the dry, flat plains of inner Morocco. I again studiously maintained the speed limit because of the police presence, but after I had been passed by about a dozen trucks and busses doing well over the speed limit, I say “screw this”, and wicked it up. I wanted to let the K75 run. I was finally hitting my stride when I blew past two trucks and a bus in one pass, running about 130+ in the designated 100km/hr zone. Bingo. I had just swept back into my lane when 500m ahead of me a policeman steps out into the road. Damn. He holds up his left hand….., and I’m really cursing myself for my stupidity. But he is stopping the trucks, and with his right hand he is giving me the sign to “GUN IT” and waving me by! I cannot believe it! When I dropped a gear and wound it out , he had a huge grin on his face and was waving to me as I flashed by! That was it. The gates had been opened. The next 150 km were pure adrenaline pumping, high speed strafing on wide-open roads. Because of the sparseness of the land I could almost always see at least a mile in the distance. I ended up playing tag with a Peugeot and a Mercedes sedan all the way to Marrakech. They’d accelerate to around 150 km/hr in the straights, but when they’d get caught up in traffic I’d pass them with ease. Then at the next series of straights they’d blow by me again. It was an entertaining way to spend the early evening. The only unexpected excitement was the out of control horse-cart that came screaming across the dry, brown fields towards the road. The poor horse was in an absolute panic, the driver was pulling on the reins for all he was worth, and they weren’t going to stop for anything. Not even traffic on the paved highway. Fortunately I saw him from about a quarter mile away and thought, hmmmm….. I bet you he can’t stop that horse, and I started braking. Sure enough, they blew right across the road in front of me, so close that I could see the look of terror on the driver’s face. I wonder how long it took him to get it back under control?

Pulling into Marrakech just before dusk, I was burnt out. I had been up since 0600. I didn’t get thru Customs until around noon, and then had ridden 7 straight hours since then. The temperature was still in the 90’s, and I hadn’t had anything to eat all day. In that state, I rode into the teeming mass of traffic. What a mistake. Woozy from the heat, dehydrated, hungry, and exhausted from the 600 km ride, I was no match for Marrakech.

Return to Page 5 | Return to Index Page | Continue to Page 7

All photos and text are property of Jeff Munn.

Please do not use without my permission.