Category: Morocco 2018

I like it when people mean what they say and say what they mean. Otherwise I find it all too easy to misconstrue a situation. Mary-Ann says I’m naive.

Beastie gets reversed on to the ferry last. Not unreasonably, he expects to be off first. He’s not. He’s off last. Just as well. We don’t have the full paperwork completed for entry. He’d have held up the queue. Morocco non-nationals have to import their vehicles when entering and export them when leaving. So certain forms have to be filled in. They’re all in Arabic with French translations that we can’t fully translate. The customs officials take over. At one point there are four of them leaning over Beastie’s bonnet. Concentrated con-flab in process. Seems they’re not fully au-fait either. Then Beastie gets frisked. Fire-arms and illegal drones with cameras the big concern. He’s clean – of course. Just as well alcohol wasn’t today’s priority!

Our first priority. Cash and SIM cards. In that order. Park up Beastie and head up towards the Medina. A friendly “Rashid” joins our party of two. We become a threesome. A mix of English, but mainly French exchanged. He’s going to guide us through the Medina. We don’t have any dirhams I tell him. We’ve just got off the ferry. He doesn’t want any money. “We Moroccan people very friendly. We like help visitors to our country”. We draw cash out. All big notes. We feel we should at least give him something. We stop and buy a melon and some oranges to get smaller change. Rashid shows us where the Maroc telecom shop is. Small pieces of ripped paper get handed out by the security guard. Each one with a penned number. Ours is 65. I remember reading that we need our passports to get a SIM card. We’ve left them in Beastie. Rashid assures us our driving licences will suffice. Thirty minutes later we’re fed up of waiting. Rashid does a swap with another waiting customer. Gets us number 56. We jump the queue. Only to be told emphatically passports are a must. Doh!

Back at Beastie I thank Rashid and hand him 20 dirhams. He refuses. I insist. He’s told me about his family. Surely the money will help? Why is he refusing? I push the money back into his hands. “You have a family Rashid, please take it” He repeats over and over “No thank you my friend”. I think he’s being ultra kind. Mary-Ann cottons on before I do. The note is the wrong colour! It transpires he feels his time is worth much more. In fact ten times more. A big blue note requested. He eventually accepts a brown one. Five times more.

We move on. In more ways than one. Take the smooth coastal N1 route southwards towards our two nighter at Moulay Bousselham. Stop off at Larache. There’s a Maroc Telecom shop there. They’ve run out of SIM cards! Get directed opposite to OPPO – a standard phone shop. Leave with happy faces. Orange 4G SIMS on board. No passports or any ID required!

Mary-Ann only drinks decaff. Else she can’t sleep. We order in French. It’s their second language. We presume they speak it fluently. They probably do. But maybe a slight variation. The waiter serves us two normal. Takes one back. Much confusion behind the counter. A few minutes later he’s back with an instant Nescafe sachet. Tiny, tiny writing we can’t make out. Is it or isn’t it? A young woman kindly intercedes for us. Transpires this cafe doesn’t serve decaff. Mary-Ann settles for a Lipton’s tea to accompany her cheesecake.

The route down is pituresque. Unexpectedly so. Where’s all the sand? Not a camel in sight. Green rolling fields roll by.  Nearing our destination we take a short cut. The metalled road is severly pot-holed. More like sink holes. Beastie’s suspension is taking a battering. We’re bouncing around inside like a couple of bunjee jumpers. It’s slow going. The road surface narrows. Starts to disappear at both sides. Then it’s all gone.  Friendly faces follow.  A few smile and wave. Some cars flash “hello” – or is it “Are you crazy coming down here in that?”

We arrive at camp just before sunset. Like a couple of martini cocktails that have been shaken and stirred.

Bonjour Maroc!

We’re anticipating many of the sites are going to be “rustic”. The first one starts here at our first coastal stop in Moulay Bousselham. It doesn’t disappoint.

An interestingly looking toilet block has all the facilities you need. But not quite as you need them.

The tiny resort of Moulay Bousselham is quiet at this time of year. Sandy golden stretches lead across to a sandier “Hengistbury Head” that guards the waterway into the sandy harbour. The lagoon here is famous for its numerous types of bird life. You can hire an early morning “Bird-Man” to take you out and across. Too early for us.

Young men are at work cleaning their morning’s catch. Many sit on their haunches. Knives at work. Others hold flatter fish down on the sand with a foot, to get better leverage.

On our way back to camp a VW Golf phut-phut’s past us. Engine gasping on fumes. Comes to a halt. Only 300 metres short of the garage. A kind “monsieur” gets stuck in. Then joined by two others to make lighter work. (is there a joke hidden in there somewhere?) Thumbs up all around.

Our policy of steering clear of motorway driving is a double edged sword. Slower going versus more interesting. 

So we’re taking the slow scenic route. Hoping to get a better feel for this fascinating country and its residents. We take the N1 again. It’s going to be our best route to get down south towards Essaouira. Once there we’ll either head east towards Marrakech or continue south to Agadir. Both a few more days away and not on the radar. Today though, we’re heading for El Mansouria. Ideally placed between Rabat and Casablanca.

The N1 is a national highway with a difference. At times as smooth as a peeled hard boil egg. (Or even one that hasn’t been peeled) At others as rough as any track we’ve encountered in Iceland. Its route cuts towns and villages down the centre. We get to see non city life as is. Close up. What seems a frenetic mix on the surface, disguises an easy calm. Every type of transport utilised. Organic and mechanical constantly vying for road space. Everyone getting on with “business”.

Beastie rumbles on through and by the time we’ve reached Allal Tazi, so do our tums. Smells from roadside eateries exaggerate our hunger pangs. Time for our first tagine. The owner makes a huge fuss of his two European customers. Makes us feel really welcome. The majority of Mary-Ann’s meat gets palmed to the sad faced kitty clawing at her heart strings. It’s simple, but delicious. Washed down nicely with sweet minty tea.

Earlier in the day Beastie loses his first game of “chicken”.

At the following town the N1 bears left. A fork appears. The road signs are in Arabic. I only know numbers. I bear left. WRONG! Beastie’s being flashed. “Can’t believe it” eyes flash me. Arms wave. Time to do an about turn. The unexpected one way system not suited to Beastie’s size.

Last stop of the day is Jardins Exotique Sale Maroc. Just north of Rabat. We discover that if Mary-Ann was a tree, then she’d be due to celebrate her three hundredth shortly.

Then it’s time to baptise Beastie. We enter through Rabat’s old city wall.

I have reservations about tossing Beastie head first into the capitol’s cauldron at rush hour, but needs must. He passes with flying colours as does Mrs S. Her map skills improving daily.

We prove that the saying “lightning never strikes twice in the same place” is a myth. Although we’re not in the same place.

The exotically mis-named L’Ocean Bleu camp is where we’re currently pitched up. The route in, a mysterious passageway through a huge on-going development of six storey apartments. A mad mix of pristine, half-finshed or empty. Inter-connected by an angry grid of pot-holed ridden streets. Beastie enters through the wrong door. It’s in his nature. Interrupts an animated game of boules in progress. A critical point has been reached. Two mark their positions, golfing style, and remove their ball. Then Beastie is slowly and deliberately guided over. Over his shoulder the end-game continues.

Unable to buy a green card for Scoot in the UK and unable to buy one here, means we must rely on public transport, trains, buses, taxis or feet. Scoot won’t see the light of day again until next month.

Following morning our journey into the capitol commences on foot.  We have an 8K journey to get to the train station in Mohammedia. No pavement as such. Not much road in places either. We hope to flag down a passing taxi. None pass. 3K on we’re in luck. A “Grand Taxi” waits. A Grand Taxi takes five customers.  The cost split between the five. He leaves when he’s full, or if like us you have a train to catch you agree to cover the cost for five. Ten seconds before setting off a couple join us. Then on route a young lad is picked up. We get charged for only our two seats. 50p each. Perfect.

Our train is a little late – seems he knew it would be . . .

Once in town we leg it for Chellah. It’s on the outskirts. Like Malcolm Mclaren’s Buffalo Gals we go the long way, round the outside. From the outside it’s impressive. An ancient Muslim necropolis.

Once inside it’s a curious mix. Families and couples having fun and chilling out. Kids stone and paper painting. Picnickers. A dozen nesting storks almost steal the show. But the show is nestling in the woods . . .

Our walk back takes us into our first Medina. Narrow ways. We don’t have enough eyes to take it all in. Crowds casually mingle with the sellers’ colourful displays of wares. All compete to grab our attention. Friendly “Bonjours” exchanged. No real hassle.

With eyes firmly fixed on the rubbly “pavements” we walk straight past Rick’s Cafe, so Sam never gets to play it again.

There’s a knack to driving Beastie on these crazy mixed up roads. Hold your ground. Ignore (to a degree) the tooting horns (usually meant as a polite warning) and like a ship being tossed in a storm, stay steady as she blows. So we create our own eye in the hurricane. Slowly moving from A to B. The whirlwind of cars, bikes, dockers, lorries, buses, scooters, taxis, coaches, pedestrians, horse & donkey drawn carts get on with what they do best. Slowly spin around us from all sides and angles. All amiably sucked alongside Beastie in an osmosis of slow-motion, before being shot out at full speed ahead.

We should have realised we needn’t have parked Beastie so far away from our first port of call. We discover a massive empty coach car-park backs on to the entrance to the Hassan II Mosque. We walk the 3K port-way road. Pass ultra modern developments, again left crying out for completion of footpaths. It’s as if they’re trying to juggle too many balls at once.

It’s hard to miss this mosque. It looks huge from the outside.

Our walk back finds us treated with an acrobatic display of strength and balance

The writers of guide books like Lonely Planet and Rough Guides have us believe that there are sites of interest at almost every corner not to be missed, but we’re getting wise to their deceptively descriptive ways.

We are becoming more determined not to answer “Bonjour” to the charming “Bonjours” singing out to us from every trader, in every souk we pass through. This opens the door to “Where you from?” “England? Ah, I am part English, or I have a cousin in England, or I lived in Devon when I was young boy”  Followed by “What’s your name” & “You’re very welcome in Morocco” – “come visit my shop”. Multi-lingual Abdel, leads us up this particular path. He can sense we’re far too nice to tell him, as Michael McIntyre would say “Go and shove your shopping trolley”. We know we’re in deep trouble when a couple of drinks get poured and what looks like a leather dog’s sleeping basket, (  – to clarify – a leather sleeping basket, not a leather dog) gets placed at our feet and we’re asked to place all the items we want to buy in it before negotiations commence. Mary-Ann, AKA the family accountant has wisely come out with a basic amount of cash for our day’s ramblings. Abdel’s sixth sense picks up that we don’t really have enough cash on us to bring forward his retirement. He allows us to make our excuses on the pretext that we’ll use the local ATM and return later. Keep-net turns. Plop! We’re back in the water. He’s got a bigger fish to fry on the line. A Portuguese man and his friend walk in. He’s fluent in Portuguese too. Aah, Is that right? His granny lives in Lisbon? What? His grand-dad was Eusébio da Silva Ferreira – no way. Incredible.

So we climb and walk the Portuguese Ramparts. Say Cheese. Take a few photies. This one snapped by a young couple with a younger child in arms. He’s Moroccan, speaks Arabic, French and English. She’s German. Speaks English fluently too. Their 2 year old already understands all three! English a formality.

We leave it too late to enter the Portuguese Cistern at 12.45 of course. It closes at 1pm for two hours. Bien sûr. Enjoy the exquisite stuffed sardines for lunch at the boutique L’Iglesia Hotel – a converted church. Its counterpart, the converted American Consul building around the corner, equally charming. (you’ll have to Google for pics!!!) – sacré bleu!

We should have guessed that the Portuguese Cistern was not going to offer too much in the way of entertainment (just listen to me), as the entrance fee was only 10 dirham (less than one pound). Basement reflections offer the perfect photo shoot. We shoot up the place.

We change plans and tomorrow will head east to Marrakech.

It’s have another moan time. We will not be unhappy to leave this “International” camping site. The facilities are atrocious. Diabolical beyond belief. We don’t use them. Prefer Beastie’s on board. A shame, because the site is in a good location and spacious. We just don’t get why, or how they can get away with it.

Still, the swimming pool compensated . . .

Manzil la Tortue is not a camp site as such. It’s an out of town boutique hotel, restaurant and pool complex. Created, we imagine, for the local monied French community. It just happens to have add-on space for MOHOs.

We’re getting closer. It’s been another long and tiring drive.We skirt past Marrakech’s medina’s walls. The stunningly impressive red stone perimeter encircles the inner city. It’s rush hour. We daren’t take a short cut through. We need to double back on our tracks at one point when we can’t find or see any camp site signs. At this stage of today’s journey it’s the last thing we need. Eventually find it – we think. Not too sure. The ride into “camp” is way off the beaten track. It’s also on a beaten track. We stop and question ourselves as to whether we’re going to end up doing something really silly and embarrassing – again. Ah well, in for a penny . . .

The tightening in the pit of our stomachs starts to niggle. It just doesn’t look right or feel right. If it is down here somewhere then this is the weirdest way in to a site we’ll have ever experienced. The map shows us to be on a “white” road. We know that’s bad. We’ve agreed never to wander off a red or a yellow route. 2k down a winding, bouncy and muddy track we come to an unsigned junction. At least there’s life here. A scooter flies past.

I edge Beastie forward. Yippee. A sign to the left we recognise. Onwards and upwards.  A further K and Beastie is now passing alongside the front doors of a row of dwellings. Surely this is wrong? Did we miss-read the sign? Then a gang of four nippers spot us. They rush over. “Bon-bons, monsieur?” We’ve come prepared and duly oblige. They come over all Oliver, but we move on slowly. Then suddenly, voila? A walled bastion. We cross the divide and breath a sigh of relief.

It just so happens that today is this place’s birthday. It’s heaving with guests. The music and dancing goes on till mid-night. We’re promised it will be quieter tomorrow. We don’t mind, we have a taxi booked to take us into town.

Like the coming together of two competing tectonic plates Marrakech somehow manages to maintain its equilibrium. Holding together the old and the new. The haves and the have-nots. The young and the old. The past and the future. The religious and the secular. It epitomises current day Morocco.

Omar our taxi driver drops us right into the heart of the medina. It’s been an interesting conversation getting in. We exchange family situations, world views on peace and sharing, and although Ramadan is still a week away he’s already putting in training. Prayer beads hang down from his reversing mirror with a copy of the Quran close at hand. He’s been daytime fasting for the last three days, he tells us. Impressive.

The famous Jemaa el-Fnaa square is just starting to wake up as we enter. The early morning cloud coverage dissipates and the snake charmers warm their money making mis-fits. Drums, pipes, cymbals add to the growing cacophony. It’s time to take the tourist to town.

We follow the workings of this youngster with the blue bag. We call him “the thief”. A trader selling scarves, accidentally drops three. In a flash “the thief” has grabbed them and is off. Running hell for leather. The trader drops his remaining load and gives chase. Shouting. Arms waving. “the thief” panics, drops the scarves and carries on weaving away to safety. The trader picks up his scarves and saunters back to his pitch. “the thief” puts his-self about mingling with his cronies. Acting as if nothing has happened.

Like moths drawn to a flame we venture into the souk. As long as we’ve got some bread crumbs with us we can’t get lost. We practise our smiles and nods. Definitely not our “bonjours”. We’ve only ever seen small scooters or docker mopeds filter through and around the walkers. This guy seems determined to use the souk as a short cut. Even if it means creating a bit of a scene as he bounces over some groundwork planks. It seems all strangely normal.

We decide on a cross town walk to visit Jardin Majorelle. Famously bought by Yves St Laurent. An hour later we arrive to find a queue four deep and stretching back. It’s going to be at least a 30-40 minute wait in the heat. Why does every tourist at the ticket office seems to have more to say than “two please”. We save our dirhams, buy an ice cream and dawdle back. We retake the same route and cross through the “free and fab” Cyber Park gardens. Maroc Telecom sponsored WIFI service points set up throughout. Young and old find shady spots and exercise their thumbs.

Outside the old city wall the other more modern side to Marrakech could have saved our legs. It looks as though not many others fancy their chances either.

We’ve never come across a camper-site like this. It’s like the Moroccan equivalent of Chewton Glenn – almost. With proper grass, sun loungers and a fantastic pool. We’d be mad to move on – so we don’t. It’s a no-brainer.

The gentle knock just before 8am wakes us from our slumbers. Two  hot and freshly baked khobz delivered to the door. They get sliced, toasted and covered in Dave’s (our friend from over the road) delicious rhubarb and ginger jam. The perfect start to our sunny day of leisure. Cheers Dave!

Manzil la Tortue is so popular, you need to reserve a poolside spot. By lunchtime, virtually all places are allocated or taken. A mix of hotel guests, out of town workers making an early start to the week-end, and us. Campers extraordinaire. The workers appear to be in groups of three to five – females and males. That is goups of young 20s females and groups of young 20s bearded hipster look-alike males. Keep themselves to themselves until a few glasses of wine later. The French love to talk. There is never one still moment.

The pool is the best of any to date. Probably thirty or so metres and no worries about your swimming gear ending up a different colour if you stay in for too long. No chlorine. I can’t resist. Break the calm chatter as I trawl a few lengths. I’m not what you’d call a “tidy” swimmer. My feet spludush a unique syncopated rhythm as my trail sends an alternating splush of water six feet into the air. It’s like watching Moby Dick, but in reverse.

One of the French owners busies himself taking luncheon orders. Returns later for dinner orders. Not many swimming. Poolside legs dangle, drunkenly. Cooling off. The non-stop chatter continues. Only to be interspersed with an intermittent “spludush”

The Frenchies do have some competition on the “chatter front” though. At least twenty or so of their green slimy nemesis namesakes live in a pool-end pond. Although only two to three inches long, their Dizzy Gillespie bubbles reverberate throughout the site.

No matter how long we stay on one site, even when it’s top drawer like Manzil la Tortue, the feeling is always the same on departure. It’s freedom, coupled with curiosity and excitement of what the journey and next stop has in store for us.

The red wiggly lines on our Reise map (German made and virtually rip proof) [why aren’t all folding maps made like this one?] give us no real clue as to what’s in store for this first day of travel en route to the oasis town of Zagora.

Today’s target – Ouarzazate – get your teeth around that one if you can. It’s a straight drive, or to be exact, a direct drive down the N9 from Marrakech.

Much of the road is being repaired, rebuilt or simply re-routed through massive mountains of rock. It takes us up and over the Tizi n’ Tichka pass –  the highest major mountain pass in North Africa at 2,260 metres. We’re up in the High Atlas.

On the way down we we pull in at a remote spot. The small river valley below splattered with wild red poppies.

A Berber woman edges down, river side. Starts rummaging around the stony dry earth. Doubled over, she seems to be seeking out a certain type of green plant. Like a bloodhound she shuffles this way then that. Gathering as she does. They look like weeds.

She’s got enough. Then she’s off, leaving us scratching our heads.

We are just about to climb back inside Beastie when from nowhere a “seller” materialises. Surely he can’t be expecting to encounter too many potential customers out here? Is it going to be his lucky day? What’s in the bags? A mixture of fossils and what looks like small lumps of coal or coke.  The fossils don’t interest us, but what’s with the black stuff? He hands one over. It splits in half to reveal it’s inner beauty. We likes it. So HE starts our bidding at 150 dirham. No way! 100dh? No way!! He refuses our offer of 50dh and when we turn away he says “OK 60dh” and as we agree he adds “and a T-Shirt”. Hmm. It just so happens I have one with me that’s gone a bit bobbly on the front by being caught by my bag’s velcro straps. He has that one. By chance it was washed and ironed just yesterday. So it was his lucky day. He doesn’t exactly jump for joy over the transaction though.

Inside Mary-Ann says “Oh, did you see how he just scrubbled it up and shoved it into the bag”.

We wonder did he buy it or find it? We assume he got the better deal.

As we get closer another older boy pops out from behind some bushes. Is this the way in? Yes, he says and point us to a specific route. This leads to a covered way with the village the other side. Suddenly a man appears from the shadows and points to a poster on the wall. 10 dirham. This is news to us. “We have to pay to get in?” He points to the poster again. Not 100% convinced, we hand him 20 dirham and he lets us through.

Over twenty films have incorporated scenes from this village. No wonder. It’s real fantasy material. The climb through and up interrupted by “clicks” at every turn. Up on top we say cheese.

Still curious about that entrance fee I quiz some English speakers. “There’s no fee – we came in over the bridge down there with everyone else”

Sometimes it’s not about the destination. Today is all about the journey. Easily on a par with yesterdays.

We’re currently pitched up on the Oasis Palmerie site on the outskirts of Zagora. Like many towns in the dry south it’s an oasis town. Swamped in palm trees. Surviving on what the local river provides. However, Zagora’s river supply is also dependent upon the monthly opening of the dam upstream at Ouarzazate. Irrigation from the many artesian wells is paramount.

Once again we have difficulty locating the way in. Stop to inspect the map more closely. From nowhere a smiley face appears alongside Mary-Ann’s window. He’s perched side saddle on his phut-phut. “Where you from? Where you wanna go? Follow me, I know that place” – we obediently follow, even though we have sussed out where we went wrong. Once there he hands over his business card. “Come visit my jewellery shop, just up the road?” It’s been a long drive. We’re not in the mood. “A demain” I reply. His contented smiley face, indicating “job done” sidle-saddles off. Yet another “friendly” Moroccan with a hidden agenda.

Earlier, the start to this morning’s journey is delayed. We take a short detour. Go visit the huge Atlas Studios complex on the edge of town. It’s amazing how realistic the sets are. So much detail. Ultra tough polystyrene comes into its own. When we get back to UK we’re going to revisit some of the films made here, just to see if we can spot some of this scenery. And to say of course  “We were there”.

Then it’s drive time. Another day of spectacular views. Different to yesterday. This half, smooth tarmac. They’ve completed it. A mix of dead straight and curly stretches disappear into nowhere.

The type of road Clarkson and Co drool over as they let rip in their latest fantasy. Beastie on the other hand is happy at fifty. Then we go up, up up. Then Beastie is happy at anything over fifteen.

It’s a huge up. Laden lorries stagger slowly upwards. Some even slower on the way down. Beastie brims the top.  Eager to find a pull in and catch breath. They’re in short supply. We want to snap, snap snap while we’re still high. We do. A large lorry is also parked. Cab hinged forward like a Monty Python head, just before it gets stamped on and squelched. Raspberries all round? I drop down. They look over to me. Concerned faces. “De l’eau monsieur?” I assume they’re thirsty and they’ve run out. It’s bakeing hot. Mid to high thirties. I hop back into Beastie. Reach into the fridge. Don’t realise I haven’t fully engaged the hand brake. Beastie’s three and half ton slowly edges towards a small wall with a considerable drop the other side. I’m oblivious. I’m in my “do-do-run-run-goody mode”. The first I know something’s up and what’s about to go down is when Mary-Ann frantically screeches “Brian, quick, quick we’re moving” Beastie’s too young too die. I fasten my cape and fly (scramble clumsily) over my seat and save the day.  Three feet short. A bit like the Saturday Matinee. The caped crusader gets a slap on the wrist.

The ice cold bottle I hand over gets poured into the radiator. Oh. I miss-read the situation. What a waste. I go take a look. Looks like a mini Turkish baths. Steam hissing upwards, wasted water leaking downwards. I hand over a second, but this time a warm, 1.5 litre d’leau. Don’t think it’s going to do the trick. By the time we leave them to it, a couple of other lorries have parked up and hopefully come to the rescue.

The first we know about it, is at 3.45am. Mary-Ann looks at her alarm clock. I look at my phone clock. There’s an hour difference. Confused? We will be.

We’re on this really peaceful site. That’s because we’re the only ones on it. Edge of Zagora. Famous oasis town. Millions of palm trees everywhere. Our site has a few of them. They’re great shades. We need them. However, our blood’s simmering, soon to reach boiling point. There’s a marriage party on next door. It only “livened” up when we climbed into bed just after midnight. Every so often, there’s a false lull and we think TG. Then it starts up again. Drums and high pitched drunken squeels Clash. They’re trying to Rock the Casbah.

Apologies, that’s the best I can do after hardly any sleep. We decide to stay an extra night to recuperate. Make it an earlier one.

Rather than visit Mr Phut-phut’s shop, we decide to spend the afternoon poolside at the Riad Lamane Hotel, just over the road. “Road” as in raised baked mud walkway. A hidden mini complex that seamlessly blends in to the palm forest setting.

Later, we discover they’d put the clocks back to coincide with the fasting month of Ramadan. My phone auto adjusted. Mary-Ann’s alarm is analogue.

Wide brown flat expanses. High red mountains. Huge green filled gorges. All colour and brighten each day’s journey – today is no exception.

We slowly edge out of the Zagora site and onto the baked mud track that runs alongsdide an aquaduct. It looks as if it hasn’t seen water for centuries. It’s forty hours since our arrival. Suddenly “Phut-phut”!!! That bright smiley face pops up again and hope beams in at Mary-Ann’s window.  Monsieur Phut-phut,  AKA Barnacle Bill, must have attached his-self to Beastie. Either that or he’s been waiting outside the site perimeter wall all this time. Like sticky silky cobwebs these traders can be hard to shake off. At the end of the track he turns right. We turn left!

We’re on our way to Tazarine. Short journey today of 120K. The landscape switches from mountain to expansive flatland. The gathering heat takes effect. Swirling mini whirlwinds spring up before us. Caught up in their own invisible frenzy. Millions of grains of sand sucked up into golden candyfloss twists. They rush about in desperation. Forever searching. Barely floating above the earth like lost souls in this wilderness.

We arrive at our planned stopover mid-afternoon. Big doors firmly locked. Try a couple of numbers. Both switch to Arabic voicemail. We’re on a narrow “this track leads to nowhere” track. It turns out to be a bit tricky getting to point Beastie back to where we came from. Mary-Ann’s help outside at ground level prevents me from self-harming Beastie.

Several kilometres back we’d spotted a roadside sign advertising Camp Serdraw. We head back. Take a closer look at the sign. We’re in luck. A motorhome icon amongst the others. We turn left. It’s barren. It’s bumpy. Very bumpy. We’re seasoned bumponers. We almost enjoy it. Good job we don’t wear dentures. 2.5K into “the interior” and we spot a low level wall and buildings. It’s still bumpy.

Briham welcomes us with a “hospitality tea”. His family own and run this four hectares. A previous farm. In 2004 his father deciding to convert to camping, bivouacs, and excursions when a long dry period threatened their existence. Briham tells us we are near sand. We’re off!

We end what’s been a fab day with a candlelit tajine dinner.

There are certain things on this planet that fascinate man. Ice & Fire. Mountains & Seas. Lakes & Caves – and Sand!

We’ve dipped toes. Now it’s time for ankles. Today we’re on our way to where there’s lots of it. To a place near Merzouga called Erg Chebbi. A mere whisp of the Sahara at about 50K in length. We don’t need that much.

It’s still hot. We’re hoping for clear blue and calm. We want to walk and click. To pose with the sunset pics. The weatherman has something else in mind. The nearer we get, the windier it gets.

We get to within 1K of our destination. Stop at a T-Junction. Consult the map. Would you believe it? Another Monsieur Phut-phut appears out of nowhere. “Where you going? Where you from? I know that place. My cousin has a better place. It has this, that and some of the other. Come see, if you don’t like you can go to your first place. OK?” – “Have you been waiting at this junction for long?” – “No, course not. I’m just on my way back from the shops”. So we follow compliantly. Like a couple of puppy dogs learning how to keep heel. Are we being taken for another ride?

The Kasbah is delightful. We decide to stay. Bide our time around the small sun-trapped pool. But the wind kicks up again. Visibility drops as quickly as the setting sun. No pics this evening. A young German couple and their three kids join us. They arrived yesterday. Seems they had planned on staying at a different place too. That is until they coincidentally met up with Hassan at the same T-Junction. Makes us wonder if any of the other Kasbahs have guests?

Following morning sunrise set for 5.19am. I wake at 5.22am. Not a drop of wind. Creep out of bed and out. Silently make my way “into the desert”. Leave Mary-Ann to her slumbers.

I tread out and head towards the tallest dune within a thirty minute radius. I’ve got it’s apex in sight. It’s a joy to be first footing. I’m like a kid playing in the snow. No need for mitts though.

My high vantage point gets me clicking.

Just before retracing my steps, one of the resident crows appears. He’s out for an early morning stroll too. Of a different kind. Oh to be able to join him.

Downside to being here? The sand doesn’t stay in its place. It gets inside our place. Every exposed surface gets a fine golden covering. Beastie’s been given the final touch, like one of Mary Berry’s dusted mince pies.

I bring back a piece of my own desert art.

With no chance of Tommy Cooper sending us the wrong way, we aim for Fes. A hop, skip and one tiny jump should do it.

Leaving the sand to do what it does best, we head north. A municipal camper-stop in Midelt lined up. The French have their bikes and baguettes. The Moroccans have their Phut-Phuts and farine. Especially during Ramadan.

The N13 takes us from Erfoud and onwards past several oasis towns full of palm groves lining dried up river beds. The most spectacular on top of the Gorges du Ziz. A lunch stop where we also discover the inside of our prized black coal is fake! Artificially coloured to dazzle and amaze. It did. We still likes it though.

Following day sees us edge warily. The camp site manager warns about an en route storm. We spot it in the distance. A short lunch break and it moves west. We head north-west and up. Don’t suffer the full wrath. Witness the aftermath.

Up on top the temperature drops to 6C!! Severe rain joined by lightning and thunder. Generates hail. Lots of it. By the time we’re passing through the Col du Zad some cars occupants are out of their cars. We think they’re in trouble. No! They’re taking selfies. Obviously this is rare.

Beastie tucks his tum in and we breath a sigh of relief as we scrape through. On the way down we pass at least forty dogs. Lined up on either side of the road. Waiting for a handout that never comes. Where have they come from?

We arrive at Azrou mid-afternoon. The entrance builds our hopes. The Emirates Euro camping pulls them down again. It’s all show with no go.

It only takes a split second of oversight and the world can come crashing down on your head – or rather Beastie’s – and there’s absolutely nothing in your power to prevent it from happening.

I’ve only gone and done it again haven’t I? Beastie is wedged tightly against a huge tree. He’s unbudgeable. I step down to assess. What’s this? I’m wearing a long thigh hugging ruby red dress? It wildly accentuates my shape. It’s chilly, but fortunately I’m also wearing the fleecy blue and khaki checked lumberjack shirt that Mary-Ann bought me for Christmas. It barely covers my silhouetted credentials. I stagger towards the tree. I’m ankle deep in sand and suddenly I’m wearing matching stilettos. It’s absurdly weird. Yet somehow feels completely normal. I feel a thousand eyes searing into the back of my neck like burning embers and acutely exposed. Oh no. My shoulder length shiny brown hair. It’s not covered. It’s Ramadan. Miraculously my hair is now hidden. My turban bound head makes me look like Pierce Brosnan in The Deceivers. I turn and take in the gaze of the disapproving onlookers. They are dogs. Hundreds of them. All shapes and sizes. Lined up like soldiers on a parade ground waiting for inspection. Only it’s me that’s being inspected. They’re all wearing expectant faces. How’s he going to get himself out of this mess then? Now I’m at the foot of the tree. I have a huge axe ready. I swing with all my force. Like a child’s rubber hammer it rebounds and almost wraps itself around my waist. I try again. Same result. The dogs start howling, hyena like. “It’s not funny!” I scream. Then I’m holding a chain saw. It does the trick. But there’s a but. A big but. The huge tree crashes down with almighty force. Smashing into the roof of Beastie. He splits in half. In unison the dogs raise themselves up on their back legs and applaud . . . .

. . . without warning I’m brought back to consciousness and reality by the resounding crack of thunder overhead and the splattering raindrops bouncing on Beastie’s roof.  I lie for sometime going over what my “other-half” has concocted for me while I’ve been asleep. Fragments of the past, mixed mosaically with invention. In that split second seeming so real. I ponder. Slowly tracing the events of the last few days and before. Illuminating my sleeping mind’s view. Discovering where the ideas sprang from. Some pieces from our journeys. Some from the film we watched. Others from the book I’m reading. Not everything fits neatly into place though. I’m left wondering. Do I really have secret yearnings to be a transvestite lumberjack?

We’re in Fes. A short 80K journey sees us arrive earlier than usual. It’s FA Cup Final day. My BBC account doesn’t stretch this far. Ends at the EU border. No chance to close the curtains and shut the world out. We take a stroll around a new “posh” estate. Some houses wouldn’t seem out of place in Sandbanks.

Earlier, the highlight of our journey was the poppy and wild flower filled fields. The sight brought back memories of Flanders and Co. We reflect that even this mass of poppies doesn’t get anywhere near the number of lives lost.

We have a guide (we think/hope he’s a guide) organised for our trip into town tomorrow. Should be fun.

Having tootled around more than a few souks and medinas, did we really need to “do it again”, albeit in a different city? Would this be any different?

The guide for our trip into Fes today comes courtesy of yet another Monsieur Phut-phut. He pulls up along side us at traffic lights. Looks across. Smiles. Shouts “Welcome”. Seems the entrance to Diamante Vert camp site moved two years ago. He knows where the new entrance is. “Follow me”. How kind! Once deposited, it seems he has a “brother” who is an official guide. We agree to a 10.30am pick up tomorrow morning. The term “brother” we learn later is a reference to “brother in Islam”. Our Monsieur Phut-phut, it turns out, is one of many employed by our guide to seek out and capture! All for a small finder’s fee.

A knock on Beastie’s door yesterday evening sowed small doubts in our mind as to whether our arranged guide would in fact be legit. It’s the camp site rep trying to recruit as many willing tourists on a guided trip into town. Heavy frown and head shaking, implying we didn’t do good. As it turns out we did and he is 100% legit.

Abdullah greets us at exactly 10.30am as arranged. He has a “petit taxi” with him. These are taxis only licenced to work exclusively within their named town or city. So there can be no misunderstanding and because we’re more wise now, we lay down the law with Abdullah. We tell him we want this to be a sightseeing trip with information. It’s not a shopping trip. We do not expect him to take us to visit his special contacts.

First port of call is a high vantage point. We get to see the lovely setting of Fes and get to know which of it’s three parts we’ll be going into.

Back down at ground level, the beautiful Garden Jnan sbil whet’s our appetites even more. It wouldn’t be out of place back home in National Trust land.

Abdullah, who is fifty-eight, tells us he’s been an official guide for twenty-two years. Previously he’d been an unofficial guide until he’d got caught and spent a few days behind bars.

We follow Abdullah into the Medina. He’s walked the 9,000 plus streets and alleyways so many times he could do it in his sleep. He delivers a wealth of information. We pepper him with questions of our own. Not just about Fes. He’s open to discuss and answer many things. All with a good sense of patience and humour.

At our request, we halt at this weaver’s stall. He gives us a demo. He’s very proud of his designs. He has a good eye for detail. He also has a very good eye for a potential sale too. A red silk and cotton table cloth takes our fancy. His bidding starts at  850 dirham. Ours at 500. He comes down 50. We go up 50. He thinks that’s funny to copy him. He gets it. He comes down to 700. We go up another 50. Not what he expected. He’s not played Pontoon. We’re sticking. “650 he suggests”. 600 or no sale. A pause. Then it’s a done deal. Smiles all round.  We learn later from Abdullah that he wanted to start the bidding at 1400 dirham and that Abdullah had sternly advised him against that.

There are very certain advantages of a guide. Take this door for example. In fact it’s the entrance to two homes. Two door knockers. Each with their own distinct sound. The hand of Fatima, top right on many doors, wishes a good luck blessing on all who enter and leave.

Then it’s off to the famous Chouara Tannery. We’re each handed a stalk of fresh mint on entry. Apparently the stink is unpleasant. We don’t need it. Our nostrils are made of sterner stuff. We get handed over to another guide. Twenty years Abdullah’s junior. He explains everything clearly.

Hides still processed using traditional methods.  It’s run on a co-operative basis. Generations of families working their four vats for the good of all. It’s piecemeal wages. The more hides you process the more you earn. Simple and fair. Inside the co-op shop, Mary-Ann is interested in a super soft lambskin handbag. Guaranteed waterproof. It’s more than that though. Our tannery guide takes a cigarette lighter to its surface. Leaves not a mark. Another sale. Another “deal”.

Time is running away with us. We’re impressed with Abdullah’s stamina. It’s Ramadan. No water. No food. Apart from one short sit down for freshly squeezed orange juice, we haven’t stopped. We give him a hint. Abdullah’s on a mission though. “You can do Ramadan with me. It will be good for you!” We’ve had a really fun and interesting time with him. We think it’s been the same for him too. He relents and takes us for a minty tea. It’s a swanky place. We go to pay. Too late Abdullah has.

During our five and a half hours in Fes we learned a lot (or rather got to be told a lot – and now have forgotten a lot) about the city and it’s history. Abdullah learned a lot too. He learned how to put up with my incessant questions. At one point near the end of our visit, when we were all feeling tired, I asked him how an unfamiliar vegetable was cooked. “Do you have this in England?” – “no” – “then why do you want to know? You’re never going to cook it!”. And he didn’t tell me. It was the perfect answer. We all cracked up.

Stepping outside the European-ness of our usual existence and into an alien landscape, has on many levels been a most rewarding experience. Our final evening rewards us with an act of kindness that expects nothing in return. Something we’ve learned that in Morocco is a very rare commodity.

With our planned over-nighter at Motel Rif duly ignored as we sail by, we gain a day and carry on up to Chefchaouen. A further 70K. It’s still early afternoon. Chefchaouen is our last port of call before leaping back over the Strait.

The blue houses of Chefchaouen attract many visitors – homegrown and overseas. We share this viewpoint with a coachload of Koreans. From up here the blue painted walls are barely visible. We can’t see what all the fuss is about.

We’ve still to get to the site. We know it’s near. We can smell it. We just can’t see it. No signs to give us a clue. It’s not on our paper map. It’s not on our offline map. It is however showing on Google Maps. That’s not much help when the road to it is up for repair and not accessible. We go Google eyed. Google up this way. Google down that way. The streets are very narrow. They are steep. Porlock Hill steep. A couple of times Beastie’s tyres spin. Traction control needed. We’re getting hot and bothered. Stop again to try and get a handle on where we’re going wrong. Problem is there are no handles. We’ve lost them – along with our humour. Suddenly Roger Moore pulls up alongside. The Saint, isn’t driving a Volvo 1800 S. He’s in a Petit Taxi. “Looking for the camping? Follow me” . . . He picks up another customer on route. Takes us right to the door. Gives us another friendly wave and makes to leave. What!? He doesn’t want any money? Incredible. Now that’s kindness. We flag him down and handover an unexpected bonus. He’s over the moon. Smiles all round. And relief on our part.

Clinging to the overlooking mountain, the small old town is a mass of tiny alleyways. Randomly and tightly knitted together. Two shades of 4-ply applied everywhere. However, you can only go one of two ways. Down and up. We start by going down.

There’s a tension in the air. We can almost touch it. Less than an hour to sunset. Less than an hour before today’s Ramadan fast ends. Less than an hour to dinner. The kids feel it too. Five and six years old scamper around the lanes singing and dancing. Their fervour echoes. Bounces around the ancient walls. Adds to the excitement. Some men exchange harshly spoken words. Probably over something trivial. It’s all in their minds and not in their stomachs. We imagine that as Ramadan continues more and more frayed tempers will snap.

“Officialdom” and its authority in Morocco are visible on entering every town of considerable size. But never more so than when you’re entering or leaving the country.

Our earliest start to date sees Beastie thundering along and down the zig-zags from Chefchaouen and onwards through the Rif mountains to Tangier. Our 3pm crossing awaits.

We need to time it just right. 2pm arrive at port. 1pm arrive at Carrefour to get rid of our remaining 450 Dirhams. We do it. We’re second in the queue. Ticket and passport control – consisting of being moved on about 50 metres per check, involves four or five stop points all within spitting and eyeball distance from one another. What could possibly change our status within two minutes? At the second “Check-point-Charlie”, the main man has a right Charlie with him. A runner it seems. The main man takes our passports, gives them to Charlie. He then runs to an office. (we think to photocopy them) and runs back a few minutes later. As the main man hands back our passports he whispers “Monsieur, un petit cadeau pour le garcon” What? “Le garcon” – who is a young man in his twenties waits expectantly. Um. We’ve just spent our last Dirhams. “Will Euros be OK?” – “Oui” – I pass over a Euro. He looks shell-shocked. Or is it insulted? In any event I edge Beastie forward. My side mirror reveals him disdainfully showing the main man his “petit cadeau”.

Previously, at check-point one we discover Beastie is in very good health. He’s lead up onto a giant platform. A giant gantry attached to a lorry is attached to the biggest X-ray machine we’ve ever seen. There’s a 4×4 +trailer on the platform too. We hop out and the lorry very slowly reverses backwards. This will make a great photo for the blog. Click. But not for long. “Delete that photo now while I watch” says the man of power. I do as I’m told. Did I say we’re returning from Morocco, or is it Russia?

At the penultimate check-point we again climb down. We’re getting slightly peeved, in a humorous sort of way. Observing and experiencing the paranoia is getting to us. Maybe more to Mary-Ann than me. Three men plus an Alsation. (is there another joke hiding here somewhere?) “What are you searching for?” asks Mary-Ann. The taller of the three ignores her and asks me to open up the garage. The other two reveal to Mary-Ann it’s drugs. “Do I look like I’m on drugs” I hear her laugh – and then, as if just to emphasise the craziness of the thought, she proceeds to do a very weird and frightening impersonation of Pans People dancing to Tommy James & The Shondells’ ‘Mony Mony’. They get it. The taller man doesn’t and has to ask what’s going on. But then joins in the frivolity too. He goes off. Comes back with a multi-tool. Acts as if he’s not satisfied we’re not drug dealers. Intimates he’s going to slice open Beastie’s side. Search for the secret cache in his lining. They’re really enjoying themselves. Any second now and they’re going to turn into the three Goodies and start doing the Funky Gibbon. The Alsation is let loose inside Beastie, but comes out without any sausages. We go on our very merry way.

We shake off any remaining Moroccan dust and Saharan sand and board – Spain Part 2 here we come . . .