“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 . . .
