ISSUE 167
NORTH AFRICA BY ROAD
Oops. After “encouraging” Charlie - the tour leader - to do “a little offloading” we’re now stuck up to the axles in sand. It takes two hours of back-breaking digging in 50C temperatures to move the truck back to solid ground. Suddenly everyone’s looking at me as if I’ve just confessed to shagging their sister.
It’s been one of those trips. On landing I find myself quizzed by Moroccan customs officials. Finally convinced that I am, in fact, carrying Persil, I’m belatedly allowed to meet the rest of the group - a curious collection of hardcore antipodean travellers together with a Brit and his Dutch girlfriend. Charlie gives us all the safety and trip information spiel… before launching into the merits of wank rags and geriatric sex. What the hell are we in for?
Deftly avoiding the armpit that is Casablanca, we pile into our six-wheeler truck and head for Fez, the first stop in our 1,000 mil plus circular tour of Morocco. “Visit the Tourist Office to make sure you get a licensed guide for the medina [market],” warns Charlie. And he’s not wrong - it’s a warren of stinking, miniscule alleys, noisy workshops and busy vendors. But Callum, our guide, deftly leads us through the labyrinth - straight into the clutches of his friend Khalifi’s carpet emporium where, somehow, I become the proud owner of a genuine Bedouin silk throw.
After escaping the medina, we are treated to a Moroccan cultural evening. This consists of lunatic drummers, epileptic hat twirlers and the obligatory belly dancer. Oh, and a guy who runs about with flaming glasses on his head. We leave Fez and head south - straight into a desert downpour. Fortunately, the rain relents by the time we reach Merzouga, where the Sahara proper begins. After our truck “incident” - where “the prick from FHM” invents the extreme sport of dune rafting - we then head out into the Chebbi dunes, on camelback to watch the sunset in silence. Spectacular it is too.
From there we head east, through the 300m cliffs of the Todra Gorge, to Marrakech; still very much a hippie hangout. Soon I hook up with four lovelies from, erm, Putney before heading off into the ten souks [streets] surrounding the main square. Whilst modern and relatively westernised, Marrakech has managed to keep much of its medieval charm. Nowhere is this more evident than in the souks where, wandering past snake charmers, fire eaters, and monkey handlers, you can buy literally anything. I opt for a fez and some slippers for the missus. Later, overcome by shopping and the eminently quaffable Moroccan Flag beer, I pass out, drooling at the bar of Hotel Tazi.
Next day, I make my way back to Casablanca to prepare for the hellish trip back to England. Just in time to get a dose of the squirts on the last night. That aside, I’m sorry to leave Morocco. As craggy-faced Bogart famously said, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…”
MOROCCAN FACTS
- Casablanca smells of piss.
- Don’t go to Morocco if you’re allergic to cats. Beloved of Allah, the country’s full of ‘em.
- Don’t throw Frisbees at Moroccan soldiers, they go absolutely mental.
- Moroccans are generally extremely friendly. Be prepared to wave and say hello a lot…
- ...unless they’re street vendors. Ignore them.
- Haggling is an accepted way of life. Start by offering 25 per cent of what they ask.