Algeciras, 12th June

12th June 1999, Saturday 1300hrs Maroc, 1500hrs Espana. Ferry. Tangiers. After yesterday’s immense train journey, we were thankful that the youth hostel was open because it was a Friday night. We left Marrakech at 1145 – we reached the country’s only changing station, Sidi Kacem, at 1800. The other train was supposed to be there for 1830. At 2000, there was an announcement to the effect that the train had been delayed, but would now be here in two minutes, and there was a mad scramble for bags and erm, goats to get off the line and into the prime positions on the platform. All this meant that we arrived in Tangiers at around 2315 – way too late, we thought, to get into accommodation for the night.

On the train, I started a conversation with a Moroccan guy of about our age (in French) about our trip, Moroccan football, Manchester United, The World Cup, Moroccan ‘fauxguides’ as hustlers are referred to, and his work in Tangiers during the tourist season. Also in the compartment was a dishevelled-looking old Arabic man, curled up asleep in his djellaba. Gemma joined in the conversation, and we explained about our ‘bad tea’ experience. One moment, the compartment was quiet apart from three people, talking quietly with fluent and rusty school French, the next there was a cloaked apparition standing in the middle of the floor, shouting in Arabic. The old man had woken up and overheard the tale of tea in the mountains, and had gone crazy. He said (via Khalil, the guy I was talking to) that it ran against every tradition of Moroccan hospitality. He was really worked up, enraged even, and Khalil was having difficulty following him in Arabic. If he was a guide, he should have known about the water as well, he said, and he felt deeply ashamed that we would leave Morocco with this impression of its people.

Then he invited us to his house to eat yoghurt to help our stomachs. He reiterated that he was not a ‘fauxguide’ and that he genuinely wanted to make us welcome in his home. We were really overwhelmed but declined as politely as possible. We explained that we wanted to go to the hostel (if it was open) which was near the port. He said that the quickest and cheapest way was by bus straight from the station (rather than a taxi), and that he was taking it – he’d show us the stop...etc. At the terminus Khalil walked up with us to the hostel. (note – ripping off throughout, Khalil and old man standing up for us on the bus)

This morning we arrived at the port around 10ish to the huge array of complicated sailings they have. After a while we realised that the next ferry with the discount for our Interrail was at 1pm. Sitting as we were, in ‘fauxguide’ central, we watched and learned. The forms that had to be filled in, the FGs filled in for travellers, levying a charge each time, sometimes per form. They also took a larger amount that the ticket ‘tax’ off gullibles, then went and bought it with them. There were signs for 20dhm tax on tickets around the port, but it is included in the price, so they were paying it twice- once to the FGs, and once to the companies. A large proportion of them were official public helpers with badges, but even they levied charges for writing forms, for giving information and generally doing their jobs: abusing their positions.

Our ‘official’ chap looked severely annoyed, when we asked, wiser than then we arrived that morning, if we could write our own forms. He feigned ignorance of French, which we’d heard him speak already, so between us, Gemma and I tried English, Spanish, a bit of German and then French again until he gave us the forms and stomped off. When Gemma paid for her ticket in pesetas, the change she was given he suggested be given to him ‘for the service’. When she was actually at the counter, he asked me for a present from England. I told him I’d been in Morocco for a week, and I had run out of presents. It’s pleasant experience to be able to take the piss out of someone who deserves it in another language.

Morocco now lies behind us, and Europe welcomes us back once more. The wind farms of Tarifa on the coast of Spain are visible from my window, and Africa is a hazy shadow over the horizon. It’s certainly been an experience to visit – it would’ve been frightening without our knowledge of French and the practise we had through France.

Morocco is a country of great diversity. Our first taste, in Rabat, was almost half-European, half-Moroccan, as the nation’s capital. Neon signs for McDonald’s greeted us off the train, and skyscrapers stood the width of a road away from the souks of the old city. Marrakech was Moroccan to the core. The Djemaa El Fna and the food vendors crying out as they guessed the nationality of the people walking past... “Engleesh? Feesh and Chips! Feesh and Chips!” “Francais? Escargot! Escargot!” ...nowhere served them, they were like national catchphrases to catch your attention.

The custom of men holding hands or draping an arm over the other’s shoulders to indicate friendship seemed strange at first, but the longer we were there, it seemed to make more sense.

And (almost) always, “Aves-vous les dirhams?” from the children, beggars and women on the street. Even in the mountains we didn’t really escape it – after a cheery “Bonjour” and a cheeky grin came the inevitable question. And yet at other times, like meeting Khalil and the old man on the train, and in Marrakech when we were stopped by an incredibly light-hearted group of friends just for a chat, a comparison of lifestyle, the odd tale and a linguistic joust, the people of Morocco show themselves to be a warm-hearted, friendly, loving people with concern for others a priority. You just need to get past the obsession with money, yours in particular. From what I can gather, they are, above all, a mercantile nation, a tradition that so old that it dates more or less continuously from the Phoenicians, and the money-above-all mentality combined with tourism makes for a hostile manner where money is concerned, but if you attempt to speak a little Arabic, or haggle decently, you stop being looked at as just another cash cow to be milked, and the other side of the national personality begins to show itself.

Morocco is also a country with the challenge of Toubkal waiting still, the promise of the Sahara and my fascination with Arabic, the first non-Latin based language I’ve come across. I want to return, even though I’ve left with a stomach upset and diarrhoea and an empty taste in my mouth due to the attitude to tourists. If I do go back, it should be without my hat, with a better knowledge of Arabic, and a serious tan.