We left our roadside camp early (about eight-ish) after a sound nights sleep and a light breakfast. The road to the port in Algeciras was un-eventful taking in the steep hills leading to the port Jaba (the Truck) didn't miss a beat. The scenery became increasingly rocky, huge boulders became mounds that became outcrops culminating in the big rock – Gibraltar.
Algeciras is a port like many others with concrete bollards providing very solid walls to funnel the cars, trucks and bikes to their ferry. Large families of Arabic types dressed in colorful cotton robes squatting down under trees or next to cars waiting; their kids eyeing us up and down with curiosity. Getting the tickets was trouble free and we boarded the ferry shortly afterwards (10.30). Africa could be seen (and smelt) from the deck as we sped across the strait to Ceuta.
The Moroccan border is about 5km along the coast and is not pretty with lots of blown rubbish (plastic bags, bottles). The people are not a good representation of our species finest, all seeming to loiter with no purpose, then suddenly bursting into rapid fire shouted Arabic, punctuated with dramatic gestures and posturing. They could have been asking for directions to the local health club for all I know; it just all seemed very dramatic.
In the scheme of things we escaped lightly, not too much serious hassle from the urchins and those people who prey on the bewildered and unaccustomed. This is the second time I have 'done' customs at the Ceuta/ Morocco border- it's a bun fight, cars trying to squeeze in front of each other, chaotic paper work requirements. People 'helping' you then demanding money for the service. SERIOUS BIT- It's easy to judge a nation by the actions/observations of a small group of people - but don't. If the whole country was like this I wouldn't come back, but I do. Morocco like England and any other country has their share of undesirables/ lowlifes etc etc, they just happen to congregate around borders.
The officials were no problem – my boyish good looks worked a treat. However, they did spend a lot of time looking over the truck for two motorbikes? We finally convinced them that one quad bike equalled two bikes (simple math's really) and then we moved into the world of Moroccan traffic and its particular take on health and safety.
GTA – (for the uninitiated) stands for Grand Theft Auto, a popular computer game for those into that sort of thing, why do I mention this? Because, I'm told - gaining level three qualifies you for a Moroccan Taxi license. The carefree approach to life (their own and anybody else's) is a sight to behold. This, married with the large amount of cattle, sheep (and people) that graze on the roadsides, make navigating and steering a large truck rather a 'sporty' experience.
We had made a plan to get south as quickly as possible: less people to hit. We took to the motorway; this meant we travelled faster, unfortunately no reduction in sheep, cattle or people on the road! The peage tolls were cheap, the cherry faced girls in the tollbooths (clearly suffering from a degree of carbon monoxide poisoning) found Tony attractive. The next hour was spent travelling to Rabat and then Casablanca discussing cheap, cherry-faced Moroccan girls and stripping – this helped us both a lot.
However, we had to put aside fulfilling the cherry-faced etc etc girls fantasies when a 'Ffptwaaangg' caught my attention. This, coupled with the trucks reluctance to slow down (even when applying the middle pedal known as the brakes) meant man-time had come.
Somewhere between Claude Van Damme and that mustached bloke off 'Scrap Heap Challenge' sits the engineering behemoth that is Tony Evans. After eventually stopping, Tone quickly established that an accelerator spring had 'sprung'. Using a trick learned from a left-handed Tibetan typewriter salesman, Tone fashioned a spring from a backpack bungee cord (in place of bra strap) and some zip ties. We were saved, I stopped sobbing uncontrollably and the nice Belgian man stopped bringing me cups of sweet tea and tissues. We were able to continue on our way – phew.
We are now parked up 150kms from Marrakesh and tomorrow the real Morocco begins - Atlas Mountains, desert and going off road in the truck, no more f…ing motorways – although I will miss the cherry-faced Moroccan girls.
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