Ceuta

The bus to the port of Algeciras came to stop at yet another concrete terminal and I was left wondering if I had reached my destination. Awkward exchanges with several Spanish passengers only confirmed that I was on the correct bus. My brain had begun to overflow with languages and deliver sentences that were a melange of tongues (and my “gracias” was sounding suspiciously like “grassy-ass”). It was left to Eddie to inform me that the bus was only in Malaga; the British gardener was in his late 30s and had just boarded the bus, gaunt and weathered, head capped with stubble and mouth minus a tooth. Morocco was our shared destination (“Morocco” was the extent of Eddie’s plan) and an amicable conversation was our impetus to travel together.

From Algeciras we took the quick ferry to Ceuta, a tiny Spanish province huddled at the very top of the African continent. On the ferry, Eddie picked up a tablet that had been discarded by a young Spanish man who clearly had a mental disability. After squinting at the printing on the foil, Eddie announced that the tablet “probably” contained valium. Having known Eddie for all of a few hours, my confidence in his company was shaken when he washed the tabled down with a gulp of water.

Ceuta trivia #1: The government of Morocco has repeatedly called for Spain to transfer the sovereignty of Ceuta, but the Spanish government and the population of Ceuta have both rejected these claims by a large majority.

The tablet, however, exhibited no adverse effects as the ferry reached Ceuta. Overly zealous taxi drivers ambushed the ferry the moment it docked. We declined their offers and elected to walk to a nearby bus stop (which never transpired). Struggling under the weight of our packs after a long walk in the midday sun, two charming ladies at the local tourism office directed us to the border crossing. The European “borders” that I had crossed thus far were fictional devices, which had not interfered with travel and were manifest only on maps. However, the border separating Ceuta from Morocco was negotiated by a long, hot walk over open bitumen. High concrete walls and barbed wire looked down at a steady stream of people, while bored officials stared off into the distance and ignored the human traffic.

To enter Morocco, one must scribble several inconsequential details on a tiny form. And one must use this exact form, which was not offered at any of the administrative desks. No, this form can only be obtained from elderly men sitting in a nearby gutter, a gallery of wizened grey beards and toothless gums. And in exchange for this receipt-sized scrap of paper, every last Euro on your person will be angrily demanded. This serves as an introduction to the ubiquitous bartering that will accompany most any interaction on the streets of Morocco.

I don’t begrudge a person in their position asking for money in exchange for such services, especially from people who are clearly much wealthier and can afford the luxury of travel. The barrage of demands was, however, intimidating at first due to the brusque tones. These encounters were especially uncomfortable when it was assumed that I possessed a level of wealth much beyond my means, and insistent demands developed a seemingly hostile edge. Thankfully there was no actual danger, and those conjured by my tentative mind were soon put to rest.

Ceuta trivia #2: On September 29, 2005, the border-fence was assaulted by hundreds of migrants. Caught between Spanish rubber bullets and Moroccan gunfire, a number of migrants died and many more were injured.

After handing over our scraps of paper and officially entering Morocco, Eddie and I needed transport to Chefchaouen. Two border officials advised us to catch a taxi to the nearby town of Tetouan, from where we could take a bus. Again, money was demanded. Keeping our wallets to ourselves, Eddie and I left the barren concrete expanse for a giant dust-bowl teeming with decaying Mercedes. These rust buckets were the “grand taxis” that move travellers between towns, remaining stationary until a full complement of passengers is seated. Seated being a relative term, the standard arrangement of four persons in the back and two in the front (plus driver) is rather uncomfortable. The enforced intimacy fostered cordial conversations.

The bus from Tetouan to Chefchaouen took several hours and the scenery was beautiful; vivid green slopes disappeared into the distance, while swollen rivers and glaring brown gouges of landslides gave stark evidence of heavy rainfall over the previous three months. By now, Eddie’s valium had kicked in and he could barely stay awake, let alone move. It was a hard task to rouse Eddie and collect his luggage.

Tetouan trivia: the Berber name for the town is “Tittawin”. The literal meaning is “the eyes”, but the true translation is “the water springs”.

We disembarked just outside of town at the insistence of Mohammed, a friendly man who worked for the bus company. He flagged a passing taxi to take us to the top of the old town and then led us on a twisting, turning path to a hotel at the heart of the medina. It would later become clear that he overcharged us for the taxi and negotiated a cut of our grossly-inflated hotel rate. He also took advantage of Eddie’s drugged state, selling him several brochures for the equivalent of two night’s accommodation.

Eddie and I left our bags in our rooms, which sat on top of the hotel roof (rather than under it) and went in search of a restaurant. On the street a man approached and offered to lead us to his family’s restaurant for no charge. We were led to a cosy house, where a second man materialised and insisted that we buy some hash. Our unrelenting refusal caused both men to become agitated, loudly cursing us before they vanished into the night. Their father led us into the restaurant and explained that while the younger generation were mostly drug dealers, they were only a nuisance and not a cause for concern. Delicious meals of couscous and vegetables were brought to the table, served with the intensely sugared mint tea that is surely Morocco’s national beverage.

Retracing our steps back to the hotel in the freezing rain, Eddie and I reflected on a stressful introduction to Morocco. Despite piling on blanket after blanket until I struggled to breath under their weight, I awoke shivering and chilled several times. By the next morning we had lost our initial enthusiasm for Morocco (the icy weather offered no encouragement) and our thoughts turned towards Europe. But having come this far, a resolve remained (perhaps simple bloody-mindedness?) and we decided to see what Chefchaouen had to offer in the cold light of day.