Into Africa

After disembarking the ferry in Ceuta, the Spanish enclave within Morocco, we filled up with duty-free fuel and made our way to the Moroccan border. It was at this precise moment we realized that we had not actually written down the telephone number and detailed address of our accommodation in Marrakech. These critical details happened to reside in our gmail, which is web-based and not on our laptop. This meant that, in the absence of an Internet connection, we were headed into Marrakech - that churning souk in the desert - on a wing and a prayer, with only the vaguest concept of where we would end up that night.

Now, we consider ourselves to be reasonably capable people, organizing our lives in such a fashion as to avoid most catastrophes fairly consistently. However, once in a while, we really blow it. Unfortunately, this time found us in Morocco. Nonetheless, despite highly elevated levels of all possible stress hormones coursing through us, we decided to just go for it.  With vague plans to find an Internet cafe once we got there, we set off.

At the border

After a couple of false starts (the main road to the border was blocked) we managed to find the crossing into Morocco. We fell into line with a bewildering assortment of vehicles, including buses, campers, dilapidated Mercedes, old wheezing wagons, cross-terrain motorcycles, vans stacked impossibly high with cargo, and 4x4 vehicles taken right out of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. The drivers and passengers were as varied as the vehicles.

We were immediately approached by a seemingly helpful and impressively multi-lingual fellow most anxious to sell us - at a very, very good price - the forms we would need to enter his country...fortunately, we knew these forms were available for free at the border station itself and we were able to resist his entreaties, pleas, and eventual dire warnings.

We parked, gathered the forms from harried and impatient immigration personnel, haphazardly filled out forms printed only in Arabic and French, and returned the forms to the same harried and impatient immigration personnel. We did this through trial and error, as Morocco is apparently facing a national shortage of helpful signage of any kind, and spent a lot of time simply waiting in line. Periodically, a vehicle would impatiently blow its horn, prompting a chain reaction eruption of horns that appeared more cathartic than effective.

After about one hour, we had jumped through the hoops, run the gauntlet of several checkpoints where our papers were repeatedly scrutinized, and finally allowed on our way.

On the road

We headed toward Tangiers and suffered immediate culture shock, from the perspective of driving. While we had it on good authority that one was to drive on the right in Morocco, no one had told the Moroccans. The total disregard for the niceties of driving - only overtaking when safe, staying out of on-coming traffic, maintaining at least some lane discipline, and signaling once in a while - led us to think that no one had told the Moroccans anything at all about driving. This, in addition to the local road conditions and encumbrances (boulder-sized debris, dogs, pedestrians, cows, goats, horse-drawn wagons, playing children, and wrecked cars), led us to revise our estimated time of arrival in Marrakech: we hoped we might get there eventually.

After about twenty kilometers of pure driving excitement (not the good kind), we beheld a most welcome sight: a motorway. A highway. A freeway. Whatever you want to call it, it promised motoring heaven, like an oasis promises a long, cool glass of water. A fast, well-paved, well-maintained road that was going our way. Our spirits soared, the sun shone, and bells rang as I put the hammer down.

And was immediately flagged down by the cops.

Okay buddy, where's the fire?

Now, I didn't know it was the police at first. I thought it was just another crazy pedestrian walking about on a high-speed roadway; but as his gestures became ever more frantic as we barrelled towards him, and I got close enough to discern his uniform, I simultaneously hit the brakes and the shoulder, churning to a stop in the gravel (kudos to the Renault engineers that had obviously been working hard at reducing the stopping distance of their cars). Kristine was jolted out her reverie and my heart was jolted into near arythmia by a generous dose of adrenaline.

In a perfectly pressed motorcycle police uniform, and wearing aviator sunglasses, we were approached by what I feared was the Moroccan version of the archetypical southern Sheriff at a speed trap. My mind took a short and break from reality to wonder if his name might be Sharif, and wouldn't that be a funny cross-lingual pun.

Reality returned when I heard the officer addressing me in French. I responded in kind, which prompted him to instantly switch to perfect English. He asked for my papers, which I - in a mild state of agitation - heard as 'peppers.' This confused me for a moment until Kristine, with a slightly incredulous look, said "papers!" and I handed over the customs documents and driver's license.

Now, at this point, I really didn't think he had pulled us over for speeding: I had set the cruise control at 120 (the legal limit). So, imagine my surprise when the officer asked, in his infuriatingly excellent English, "Sooooo, why were you driving so fast?" 

My mind instantly dissolved into a blur of catastrophizing thoughts that ranged from trip-ending fines to an indiscriminate search of our car to an indiscriminate search of my person to the inconvenience of securing a local, English-speaking lawyer.

However, I rallied and politely responded that I had been travelling at the legal limit (120), to which he countered that his radar gun, cradled in his arms, had read 136. I bluffed: my cruise control had been set at precisely 120 and could I please see the reading on the radar gun? He poked his head into the cabin to glance at my dash, as to somehow confirm in the now stopped car the settings of the cruise control.

He harrumphed, asked if this was our first trip to Morocco, and then abruptly handed back my "peppers" and bid us a solemn "you're welcome" before waving us on. We pulled onto the highway, and continued on our way...setting the cruise control at 110. Just to be safe.

You don't take Euros?

Not trusting the money changers at the border, we only exchanged 40 euros, which we thought was sufficient until we found a bank machine and could withdraw Dirhams at the official rate. As we approached Marrakech, we encountered our final toll booth...and discovered we were short about 50 Dirhams.

The toll booth attendant suggested we ask "somebody" to change money for us, which I thought might be interesting, since we were sitting at a toll booth in the middle of the highway. I decided to employ "helplessness" as my strategy...I shrugged and did my best to appear completely incapable of helping myself out of this jam.

The toll booth attendant then did something unexpected: she beckoned the driver behind us out of his car and asked that he change some money for us. He was most happy to oblige (perhaps just to get us out of his way) and we were soon on our way. Just another little blip on the road.

Entering Marrakech

Along the way we stopped several times for breaks and to sort out some strategy for finding our riad. Our GPS was useless here, as it did not cover Morocco. As such, we cross-referenced our road map with the guidebook in order to plan a route into the city that would end in the vicinity of our riad, where we hoped to find Internet access. The route seemed reasonably straightforward and previous communications with the owner suggested it was "easy" to find one's way to the nearest landmark. With a misplaced sense of confidence, we approached Marrakech, sprawling ahead of us on the desert plain.

On the outskirts of the city, we encountered - wait for it - an Ibis Hotel. We laughed and promised ourselves that we would find the riad and not end up there. Well, thirty minutes later, after encountering complete traffic chaos, no street signs, five near-collisions (including one with a donkey), and rapidly gathering darkness...we made a run for the Ibis and gratefully checked in. We'd sacrifice one night at the riad for the safety of a familiar hotel and try again in the morning... insha' Allah