Morocco 2008

Morocco (May 2008)
by sig

Bugger! Just two and a half hours into a three week trip to Morocco and in the time it takes to get a chocolate muffin and a latte to go, a large pool of oil had formed under the Land Rover.

A quick scratch and sniff and the offending liquid is identified as ATF. At least half a litre is on the car park, with the same again smeared over the underside of the Land Rover. Having allowed myself just eight hours to cover the 360 miles to Plymouth, I didn’t have time to dally. I cleaned off the underside of the gearbox and discarded most of my coffee.

Though I had thoughts of travelling to Morocco for years, the actual trip was planned and organised in a matter of weeks. My wife Karen and I are self-employed and holidays usually have to be taken “on the hoof”. It was really simple, we both had three weeks early May, a bit of spare cash and a 25 year-old Land Rover 110, which, as a mainstay of my forestry business for 15 years, had nearly 300,000 hard-earned miles on the clock.

Preparations were fairly last minute. A return crossed between Plymouth and Santander was booked and the Land Rover serviced. With one week to go, a camper van conversion was carried out! This involved clearing out all the junk from the back (and front), washing out (a first) and fitting a piece of 22 mm plywood from a builders’ merchant. We covered the plywood and inside with chopped up foam sleeping mats. A double sleeping mat finished the job.

A literally last minute purchase was a second-hand caravan awning, which fitted over the back door, giving us room to set up our table and chairs. This was taking camping to a new level, where we might actually be comfortable.

My mechanic friend Robert supplied a box of useful spares, which we threw in the back, under the bed, together with the tool box, spare wheel, camping stuff and a couple of bags of clothes.

Having spent years travelling by motorbike, we had got used to travelling light and we just didn’t have enough stuff. I thought desperately about how to increase our load, but couldn’t think of anything else to take. Eventually, out of desperation, I threw in a 20 litre jerry can, which, of course, was never used.

It was more like winter than spring when I slipped away in the early hours of and April morning. I was on the afternoon sailing from Plymouth, some 360 miles from our home in Cumbria. This was the first of two essential rendezvous; the second was to meet Karen at Malaga Airport on Tuesday evening.

The roads were quiet and I settled into a steady cruise. Things were going very smoothly, until the aforementioned coffee stop. While not entirely surprised at having a mechanical problem, I was a little disappointed in having to put on my overalls quite so soon. The diagnosis was a leaking over-drive oil seal, which meant I had to juggle fluids between gear boxes to keep the levels correct.

It was with much relief that I made the Plymouth sailing, with time to spare.

I disembarked in Santander at 1pm the following day, leaving a substantial pool of oil on the otherwise spotless car deck. Driving south through the rain I soon developed a routine, which lasted for the rest of the trip. Every 200 miles or so, I would drop excess oil from the over-drive and return it to the transfer box. I soon got this down to a fine art and could complete the task in a few minutes. I spent the night at a truck stop in Puerto Lapice, south of Madrid, and baptised the new bed – with sleep.

Heading towards Andalusia, I cut off the motorway, finally making it to the south coast by about 4pm. It was great to meet up with Karen and we were in high spirits as we drove down to Algeciras the following morning, where we boarded the fast ferry to Ceuta.

People will tell you that crossing into Morocco is difficult and stressful. It’s true that at first sight, the customs post and the throng of people and animals can be a little intimidating. But with a little patience you can be through in 20 minutes – with a bribe. In our experience, it is better not to be the proud, independent traveller, rather just pay the guy with the friendliest smile a couple of euros to get you through.

Unfortunately, though you can buy help to cross the border, nothing can quite prepare you for your first drive in Africa. Don’t be fooled into thinking Morocco will just be a poor relation of Europe. It’s not! It’s insanely different. By the time we had reached Martil we were suffering from sensory overload and found a small friendly campsite near the beach. It wasn’t exactly picturesque but Morocco has a rough edge you soon learn to look beyond.

Over the Rif mountains and on to Chefchaouen, our first proper Moroccan town. A campsite overlooking the valley was a good base to explore this awe-inspiring, wonderful place. For us, the ancient town had everything. We ate fantastic food and got lost in a maze of narrow streets and evocative blue buildings. Food smells and spices, mixed with jostling crowds, and music blasting from shops and cafes, made our heads spin. At the end of a wonderful day, we fell into bed to the sound of grasshoppers and our bargain awning flapping in a light breeze.

The southern most part of our expedition was to be the desert dunes near Merzouga. Our journey took us south past Fez and an overnight stop at Azrou, a quiet friendly place, and Midelt, where we stayed at the wonderful Auberge Jaafar. This amazing place seems to be a favourite with the 4 x 4 crowd, due to its location, near fantastic pistes into the Atlas mountains and the warm hospitality from the charismatic owner.

Feeling ever more confident in our vehicle - which as a little misplaced, as it happened - we decided to head off the next morning on one of the many pistes radiating from Midelt into the mountains. We had a great time getting lost but finally found tarmac again and struck out for Merzouga. The landscape constantly changes as you head south towards Erfoud, becoming ever more barren until the only significant vegetation are lush palmeraies clinging to riverbanks.

When you first glimpse the dunes at Merzouga, they appear as a surreal orange line on a grey horizon. As you approach, they rise up, far bigger than you could ever imagine. A long drive was amply rewarded by a spectacular sunset, a beautiful starlit night – and the best buffet ever, served by our hosts at the never to be forgotten, Berber inspired Kasbah Mohajut, at Hassi Labied. Candles in upturned paint tins kept the feast warm as we savoured the flavours of delicious local dishes.

Moroccans are persistent people! While Karen spent half an hour at the internet café in Erfoud, I was besieged by dozens of young men trying to sell all sorts of useless trinkets. I finally gave in and agreed to buy a necklace off one guy, if he kept all the others at bay. This worked a treat and was certainly worth the seven dirhams asking price.

From Erfoud, we moved east and camped at Tinerhir, at the foot of the Todra Gorge. Following advice, we set off bright and early to see the gorge in the deep ochre morning light. The roads are very narrow and to have it to ourselves, made the 6am start worthwhile.

Rocky mountain pistes took us north east through high mountain villages. Scores of children flooded out to see us and walnut-faced old men begged cigarettes for directions. I joked we needed JPS, not GPS! As the day got hotter, I cursed not buying a map from a local shop. Few junctions were signed and any directions given were in Arabic.

The narrow, winding and eroded track over the 2,700m pass to Tahemdount got steeper and the temperature gauge slowly made its way to the hot end of the scale. Though we stopped periodically, there was no breeze to blow through the motionless radiator. We stood in what shade we could find, whilst the engine pinged with the heat. Finally, as we neared the summit of the pass, the oil light flickered on and I stopped the engine dead.

We sat for moment, stunned into silence. Various scenarios raced through my mind, one having to pay some lucky local lots of cash, the other, cheaper option, had a box of matches at its centre-piece. Of all the things I had anticipated happening, this was not one of them.

OK, time for a cup of tea and a think. We had seen trucks driving with exposed engines so off came the bonnet and it was strapped to the roof. Half an hour later, with my heart in my mouth, I turned the key. A chuff of black smoke from the stinking Moroccan diesel, and we were running. No light! Hardly daring to breathe, we slowly made our way to the summit and shouted with delight as we tipped forward in our seats and began our descent. There was much laughter as we pulled up for some sweet, peppermint tea at a village café. ‘Kaput’ was the only word we understood.

Another night at Auberge Jaafar and with our engine seemingly OK, we headed to the imperial city of Meknes. A potentially interesting place, it was let down by an appalling campsite, dirty, dilapidated and one to be avoided.

The undoubted highlight on this part of the trip was the excavated Roman town of Volubilis. The ruins are the finest in Morocco. A local guide showed us around the fascinating remains and spectacular mosaics.

Slowly heading north, we made our way back over the Rif mountains to the Mediterranean, where we followed the stunning coastal route back to Ceuta.

Being back in Spain felt a real anti-climax. Even a couple of days in the beautiful Picos mountains didn’t help. Back in Europe, it was just another holiday. Morocco has an edge of excitement and adventure and we can’t wait to go back for more.