Arrival

Two years later: Our first day back in Morocco was full of valuable lessons and experiences – some we had anticipated and some we hadn’t – that once learnt would stand us in good stead for our day-to-day dealings in the future.

The first two hours after disembarking from the ferry in Tangier were spent in an excruciatingly slow-moving queue of cars but provided us with a wide spectrum of cultural teachings. One, Moroccan drivers like to use their horns. In this case it was one driver expressing his frustration at the stagnancy of the line, which was then taken up as a deafening chorus by other vehicles creating a cacophony of honking. Two, every person who does something mildly official in relation to your paperwork (and there were quite a few of them who turned up at our car window) expects baksheesh. Three, trying to circumvent the process and joining the cut-throat queue jumping strategy felt like progress in the short-term but eventually ended up taking the same amount of time anyway – which we have already applied to our decision-making regarding building: cutting corners may be quicker but the result is not as you’d hoped for. And four, in any given situation, any place, and any time, there is always mint tea available.

Having been unable to obtain car insurance (the ‘Carte Verte’) before arriving in Morocco, we had learned that you could get temporary cover from an office at the port upon arrival. This was our plan. However, after taking two hours to move 20m through customs and the officials eventually waving us on our way without mentioning it, we were in a hurry to hit the road and forgot to get insurance. I realised this as we were on our way out of Tangier and heading on to the highway, but rather than turning around and going back to the dreaded port we decided to wait until we got to Fes and drive carefully in the mean time. This would have been fine except in our impatience to get moving Vincent put his foot down a little too soon. No sooner did we feel like we were finally on our way than a white-gloved policeman waved us down and we reluctantly pulled over.

Of course, the first thing he asked for was our insurance documents. Vincent pulled out our English insurance papers and registration forms and handed them over, but from the look on the guys face and the way he was tapping the papers with dissatisfaction we knew it was not going to suffice.

“Where is your Carte Verte?” he asked. Bugger.

Vincent launched into his most diplomatic deferential mode and played the part to perfection. This was not the first or last time that his native French would prove invaluable.

“We don’t have it but we were also confused about this, because at the port they did not ask for it and just told us to go, go!” he explained.

“That is strange, they should have given you a five-day pass,” said Mr Policeman.

“I know, I know that very well sir,” Vincent replied plaintively.

“I will forget about the Carte Verte as long as you get insurance in Fes as soon as you arrive. However as you were also doing 73 in a 60 zone you need to pay me a 400dh fine,” said Mr Policeman. Double bugger!

“400dh? I don’t have this much on me after paying all the baksheesh in the port,” said Vincent.

“This is a much cheaper fine than you would pay in Europe,” Mr Policeman retorted.

“Yes sir, but I don’t have that in cash, do you take credit cards?” Vincent asked hopefully.

“Ahh, no,” Mr Policeman replied with a smile escaping.

“So, where can I find the nearest cash machine?” asked Vincent.

In the meantime another two cars had been pulled over so Vincent gathered up all the cash we had – 280dh – and offered it to him.

Distracted by the other cars he refused the money – whether it was   because he was wearying of us or was feeling generous we don’t know – and said, “Don’t worry. We will make the fine 100dh but just make sure you drive carefully and get insurance as soon as you get to Fes.”

Thanking the charmed luck that had been with us so far in all our Moroccan adventures, we drove off (much more slowly!) and were finally on our way to Fes.

The drive was filled with the fascinations of a new country – a foreign landscape dotted with passing images: grazing camels; a bent-backed old lady struggling to coerce a stubborn donkey stuck on a pass-over; people in rags by the side of the road selling buckets of nuts scavenged from a nearby forest.

We arrived in Fes late, wanting to collect the keys to our house before the agency closed, with no accommodation arranged and vague plans of camping in our house that night.

We eventually obtained the keys (the office was closed) and made our way back the house, anticipation building as we hadn’t seen it since we bought it two years earlier. We opened the front door and stepped inside a pitch-black hallway and groped our way to the courtyard. Of course the electricity had long since been cut-off so our first glimpse of the house was by the illumination of a mobile phone screen and a lighter…

The dimly-lit scene revealed piles of rubbish strewn throughout the room, dirt and dust galore. We quickly decided to find a accommodation for the night and to abandon any further exploration until the morning.

After installing ourselves in a guest house we made our way to the place where our journey had begun – Café Clock.

Our reunion with Mike (the cafe owner) was full of the energy and overflowing enthusiasm for which he is renowned – he excitedly introduced us to some other resident Aussies. The positivity with which our restaurant plans were received, amid welcoming exclamations about ‘new blood’ arriving in the medina, infused us with optimism and we ended our first day back in Morocco on a high.