Day 0 - Every Journey Begins with the First Step

So there I was, sitting on this short ferry ride, sailing into the night, being a bit apprehensive - after all, I was completely unprepared for Morocco - I did not have the currency, had no map and no idea as to where I was going - and the lights of Spain were quickly fading. The words of the Spanish customs officer were echoing in my ear - he told me to be careful, especially at night. While still under Spanish cellphone coverage, I reserved a hotel close to the port, our destination being not the major city of Tangier, but the large port called Tangier Med, these being some 50km apart (I did not plan on riding into the city in the middle of the night - this turned out to be a good decision).

For those that know me will not be surprised by the fact that I struck up a conversation - not just one, which turned out to be another good decision, as I found out I had to register with the police while still on the ferry - someone was helpful enough (the first and definately not the last example of Moroccan hospitality) to lead me to the somewhat hidden desk of the officer, who stamped my passport.

Close to the port, one could not miss a gigantic neon sign on the side of the hill surrounding the port, with Arabic letters, showing three words. Ever curious, I asked some fellow passengers what it meant - and these were the three words "Allah, the King, the Country", the national motto. Allah is obvious, this is a Muslim country and then Morocco is a constitutional monarchy. These three words appeared often, written ever in huge letters, on side of dams, next to roads, on buildings. Now that I am back from the trip (I did not have the stamina to bike and write, I'll leave that for summer trips), I can attest this is something taken quite seriously - in the sense that the country is religious, you see mosques and people praying - sometimes even on the side of the road, during a trip - and the king, Mohamed VI, has his picture hanging literally everywhere, many of the main roads and motorways being named after him. This also means that the king's subjects are generally speaking law-abiding citizens, not trying to rip you off, not attacking you - it is a safe country, where the authorities have a lot of respect. When telling folks about my trip, one of the first questions is usually whether Morocco is a safe place - and I can say that I felt absolutely safe there - more about this later.

Allah, King, Country - this is Morocco's motto on this somewhat less than sharp picture

So I was glad to arrive, after a short passport check, I was on my way to the hotel - or so I thought. This is when my odessey began (what follows is not neccassrily the best press for Morocco, but this is how it happened...). The port was very strictly controlled, with policemen and guards standing all over. As I was heading towards a large "Exit" sign, one of them halted me and informed me I had to use the passenger exit. It turned out to be couple of kilometers (yes, no kidding, it is a large port) away, after a couple of round-abouts. The foot passengers were transported there by modern electric lowfloor buses and there was a long line before some x-ray machines, through which each bag was sent through. I was wondering how my bike would fit, when one of the officers walked up to me, informing me I had to use the car exit, where I was sent from. I protested, he refused to let me through. So I started riding back, rather frustrated - and managed to take the wrong road at one of the round-abouts, which led me back to the passenger terminal. I tried exiting there again, without success. The next attempt at finding the road where I came initially from was successful. I of course ran into my good old friend, the guard, who ordered me to halt and wanted to send me yet again back to the passenger terminal. A real Catch 22, not unlike under the dark times of the socialism of my native Hungary. By that time, I had quite regretted having made the crossing and was in an "I don't care" mindset, so I shouted at the guy and just rode uphill from him.

My ordeal was not over - now I got into as the last one in an long line of cars, with customs officers leisurely loitiring about. I heard some quite loud shouting, it was a driver scolding an officer, who was screaming back at him - guess they were not best friends. After quite some wait, one officer came up to me, asked me what I was carrying, told him it was my tent and my clothes - finally, I was free to go, some two hours after disembarking from the ship...

Now I was riding on a 4-lane highway, with fortunately light traffic and soon I arrived at the village of Ksar es-Seghir, seeing people happily enjoying their dinners at roadside grill restaurants, it smelled tempting - but my main goal was to reach my hotel. My guardian angels were on my side, I spotted a small sign leading me the right direction and soon I was in a cozy room of Villa Marina. It was nicely furbished, in bright orange and yellow colors with Moroccan art. I was quite happy being there - I thought the clock in my room was showing the wrong time, only to find out that Morocco is in the same time zone as the UK and Portugal, so one hour behind rest of Europe. OK, another lesson learned.

I took a cozy, hot shower, only to see that I had flooded half of the bedroom - this wasn't the first time that I experienced the sewers being on a somewhat different schedule. I dozed off watching some German TV show.

My hosts at Villa Marina