Last
updated: April 2005
A Mad dash to Morocco
For
most students the Easter break is a time to reflect on the last term
and how little work they've done, to panic about the fact that there
are only 3 weeks until end of year exams and spend some time with the
old folk -for most of us, but not all of us. For about 100 Leeds students
the wind-down of the Spring term signalled the beginning of a fantastic
adventure - The Morocco Hitch.
It is nothing more
technical than a mad dash to Morocco and then a 3 week holiday to explore
this fascinating country. All in the name of raising money for 'Link',
a charity which invests in education in Africa.
So, with this aim, my hitch-partner Lisa and myself boarded the 22:30
ferry from Portsmouth to Le Harve, France.
This had clearly been the ferry of choice for many of the hitchers,
as we were instantly greeted by a whole swathe of placard waving hitchers
all eager to get that elusive first lift off the ferry. The truckers
had all wisely taken refuge in the truckers lounge and were refusing
to show their faces to the hordes camped in a siege-like fashion by
the doors. Occasionally, a few would appear and dash swiftly off in
the direction of the exit plagued by a swarm of hitchers asking where
they were going. "Bed!" was invariably the answer. Rather
disheartened that the promise of an easy lift was now virtually nil,
we settled down for a 'strategic sleep', which consisted of uncomfortably
squirming in our seats and getting a bad back.
Disembarking
into the stiff chilly breeze at Le Harve was somewhat bewildering, and
amusing, as the herd of hitchers made their way towards the mass of
innocent French motorists, brandishing hitch-boards, big marker pens
and a catching enthusiasm - an enthusiasm which quickly waned as lifts
were not free and forthcoming. The French shrugged their shoulders and
gave the sort of expression that only the French can perfect which said,
"yes, but what am I going to do about it?"
We did eventually get a lift, and made good progress down the centre
of France from a series of relatively short hitches. Neither Lisa and
I spoke much French, and the drivers were often not fluent in English,
so I had developed a unique form of gesticulation involving my arms,
so that I looked like a deranged ape, and speaking perfect English with
an inexplicable French accent. Despite these obvious flaws in communication,
we did quite well to reach a grim service station just north of Lyon,
where we settled down for the night. That was until around 1am when
a guy walked in dressed in a red hoody. I chatted to him for a while,
and he told me he was headed for the south of Spain, but that his car
might be too small. Expecting a Mini or a Micra, I looked around for
things I might be able to leave behind, unfortunately Lisa was now awake,
it was going to be impossible to get away with leaving her; we were
just going to have to squeeze. A couple of minutes later up pulled a
Porsche.
Things got stranger
when I asked what his job was, "I play football", he said.
Even I knew this must be someone big, but my knowledge of football was
sadly lacking. We travelled very fast through the night from Lyon to
Almaria and as we chatted, I continued to get the impression that our
friend was more than just another lift. Since that night, I've looked
up his name. He's played for Argentina twice, and plays for Barcelona,
he is: Juan Roman Riquelme.
From Almaria it
was but a short way to Algeciras and then to Tangier by Ferry. We arrived
in Africa at 11am, having hitched for 60 hours, only to be greeted by
rain. Tangier was not a pleasant introduction to Morocco. Lisa and myself
were pick-pocketed on no less than three occasions, in one day, once
being my passport which was thankfully returned upon receipt of a small
'present'. On the other occasions they acquired a shredded map of Tangier
and one of Lisa's snotty tissues. We left for Fez the following morning.
Located close to
the Atlas mountains, Fez is virtually a fully functioning medieval city,
complete with bewildering narrow, twisting streets and relying on hard
worked mules to transport goods. We met up with 5 other hitchers at
the station and watched the sun fall over Fez's winding streets while
eating Tangine; a sort of glorified stew. In many of the more traditional
areas of Morocco, women can still be bought for marriage, and fair western
women are highly valued. In most areas of Morocco however, this is not
the case, and Moroccans have converted an offer of marriage into a chat-up
line. It was here that I got some offers for Lisa in the region of 10,000
camels and half a valley, which I was sorely tempted by, and had it
not been for the disapproving looks coming from Lisa's direction, I
may well have accepted. By far the best chat-up line in Fez however
was 'you are the image of fertility', which I hope to try in England
with the added challenge of trying not to get a slap.
When they were not
bartering for our women, the Moroccans were usually trying to sell us
something. They have perfected the art of seducing you to willingly
lift money from your wallet and then to pass it over, much like the
pickpockets in Tangier, only they miss out the middle man. Our pockets
already ravished though, we headed to Marrakesh, and from there, the
Sahara.
The desert has always
held a deep romantic attachment for Europeans, but particularly for
some unknown reason by the British. Maybe like it was for me, it is
the romantic notion of being far, far away from any other human; the
feeling of total isolation. I now declare that romantic notion, for
me, vanished. I now know better. The drive to the Sahara took us over
the spectacular Atlas mountains, with bleak red rocks and deep gorges
containing an oasis of life. The problem was that wherever we pulled
over long enough to admire the scenery we would be hounded by Berbers
(a North African, primarily Muslim people who live in settled or nomadic
tribes) perched ready to sell. We could be driving for three hours from
the nearest town, pull up and be instantly mobbed my hoards of people
selling cheap, tacky merchandise.
We arrived at the
border of the Sahara late afternoon the next day. I had expected a gradual
transition but this was not the case. The barren, black, dry rock which
extended for miles suddenly gave way, literally with a line of sorry
looking trees marking the boundary, into swirling, high, yellow dunes.
We put on our head scarves, and feeling just like Lawrence of Arabia,
mounted camels, and disappeared into the haze of endless dunes. Whoever
first looked upon the lowly camel, grazing upon the meagre scrubs making
a living in the hot, dry desert and thought, "I could ride that",
should be dragged out and shot, with no trial. The only reason to drag
them out at all would be to not make a mess on the carpet. They have
to be by far the most uncomfortable of beasts and certainly the most
bad-tempered.
The highlight of
the trip was an (attempted) climb of a dune of perhaps 100 metres. The
expression taking one step forward and moving two steps back has new
meaning for me as I collapsed in a fit of exhaustion half way up staring
at the clear starlit sky. Coming down was much quicker though as one
of the Berbers grabbed my leg and dragged me down the whole way. I know
now what sheer exhilaration and intense pain at the same time feels
like as sand busily wedged itself securely in every orifice. But I feel
cleared that in my own way, I have helped to make the Sahara slightly
smaller and in many ways it will always be with me, wedged deep in my
ear canals.
During the night the Sahara showed us its uncompromising power; it got
very, very windy, not helped by the fact that the tent had sand shaped
holes all over it. We woke and saw sunrise over the dunes, which sounds
romantic, but we felt half human and broken, desperate for a proper
bed. On remounting the camels our muscles remembered the positions they
had been in the previous day and instantly complained about it.
Offer me a trip
to the desert again and I'd be there in a flash, I just might not ride
any camels. Morocco, or Al-Magrib 'the furthest land of the setting
sun' in Arabic, is well worth a visit if you are looking for an exotic
destination next summer but find that your budget won't extend very
far. Just make sure the Moroccans are aware of this, they tend to think
all westerners are loaded, though most sellers will do 'student discounts'.
On the whole, I see much promise in Morocco. Its success (however controversial)
lies in the unique way it can bundle up and sell its culture and heritage,
usually in rug-shaped bags.
My advice for anyone
wanting to hitch is: we got out best lifts when we had all but given
up, which logically means that in future, give up earlier.
My advice for anyone
intending to visit Morocco is:
1. You WILL buy a carpet, it is only a matter of time, it's just best
to get it over with.
2. There are two types of Moroccans, those that want your time, and
those that want your money. The trick is in knowing which one is which.
by
Nicholas Brooks
