Chefchaouen... hash capital of Morocco

When exploring our options for methods of entry into Africa from europe, Gord and i decided that taking the traditional ferry across the Straight of Gibraltar would be far more interesting than simply flying into a major Moroccan city. The "traditional" crossing however, has been replaced by a high speed cataraman service that makes the same trip that used to take four hours in an efficient hour and fifteen minutes, arriving at a massive brand new port just east of Tangiers. The Moroccan Immigration and Customs officials haven't quite kept up with the same pace of efficiency though, as each and every passenger on the ferry had to stand in line to have their passport examined and receive an entry stamp. Once the ferry had docked and we were ready to disembark, two Moroccan police officers wearing tacky white plastic jackets came on-board and checked for our stamp before allowing us to step foot on solid ground. The last step to official entry into the country involved putting our bags through an x-ray machine that wasn't really being monitored because the customs official was busy clipping his nails and chatting to a friend. Welcome to Africa.

Our taxi driver Hassan was waiting dilligently for us once we exited the building and advised us that the trip to guesthouse in Chefchaouen would take approximately two hours as we had to cross several mountain passes in what looked to be a sleezy dark green 1970's diesel Mercedes that was missing its window cranks and had a strip of leather for a door handle. We  asked Hassan about stopping for a bite/bathroom break after about an hour of driving inland from the Mediterrenean coast and in a mix of English, Arabic and French he said that he knew just a spot that a friend of his owned just down the road. Now usually when someone says their "friend" has a place what they usually mean is that they will take you to a dodgy, over-priced joint where they'll earn a commission but our first Moroccan lunch was quite a pleasant surprise. The fact that our meal (grilled ground beef and goat ribs) had been hanging from a hook baking in the sun for probably a few days seemed like a recipe for a tape worm at first but now almost twenty four hours later, our guts are still stable and we haven't had to dig into our emergency stash of toilet paper.

After lunch Hassan continued to try and engage us in conversation and told us that the police roadchecks that we passed every twenty minutes or so were set up to try and intercept people transporting marihuana and hash down from the Rif mountains. It was at that point that I realized that I had been mis-pronouncing the word Rif, that it was actually pronounced reef and that pronouncing words in the English language properly can lead to some important clues about where you choose to eat, sleep and basically do business. The mountain range around Chefchaouen is called the Rif and this is where the word reefer (or big ass marihuana joint in other words) came from. The name of our guesthouse was 'Rif for Everyone". Hmmm... suddenly I clued in and told Gord that the relatively cheap price we had paid for the night might be because it was more of a hippy hostel/flop house than a hotel and upon arrival, I hadn't been that far off. Our guesthouse was not only a hippy hostel where the other guests basically sat around chain-rolling and smoking massive reefers but also a mini grow-op that supplied Terry the Scottish owner with all the weed he could ever want. This guy had outdoor plants, an indoor hydroponic lab and looked to be setting up a few more rooms to expand his operation. With no other vacancy in the area for the night we had little choice but to lock ourselves in the smoke-free comfort of our room until we could get on the bus to Fes in the morning. It was an interesting night in a town where it is easier to buy an ounce of pot than it is to get a beer and when Terry told us he had no desire to ever return to Britain and that he was too old to be smuggling drugs anymore, only one word came to mind: warrant. I'll be checking the Interpol website soon to see if I might be able to collect me a reward for turning an international fugitive in, but for now we're off to catch a bus south to Fes... the most complete walled city in all of Morocco.

Our lunch... "hanging out"

Our lunch... smoking out any possible parasites

All the buildings in Chefchaouen are blue

The "garden" at our guesthouse

Gibraltar

Rock of Gibraltar as seen from Spain

Now it's a runway....

... and now it's a highway

Having read that the Gibraltar airport has one of the world's shortest runways for commerical aircraft o land on made the final approach on the $75 three hour flight from London a little more interesting as we wondered how on earth our Airbus A310 would come to a safe stop before skidding off into the azure waters of the Mediterrenean ocean. Luckily for us it seemed as if the Easyjet pilot whose life our hands were in had performed this feat of aeronautical wizardry before and to the boisterous applause of all on board, he touched us down with large thud and gut-turning application of brakes, averting almost certain disaster.

Gibraltar is so compact and the runway so short that it actually cuts across the main street in town... If you thought it was bad waiting for a train in to cross in the prairies, imagine having to wait 15 to 20 minutes while the police shut down the street so that a 747 can land on it. Only seven kilometers wide, Gibraltar is essentially a large rock at the entrance to the Mediterenean ocean that marks the shortest distance between continental Europe and Africa. Built directly into the rockface, the city climbs up steep winding roads and looks more like ancient mainland European than it does English. It isnt possible to actually visit the top of the rock as it is still an important strategic military base for the brits but there is a tram that takes you to viewing platforms about halfway up.

Deciding that neither of us felt like doing the equivalent of back to back Grouse Grinds for the sake of a few pictures,
Gord and I decided to be lazy and take the tram up the side of the rock. As we quickly rose above sea-level we could see Europe to the north, Africa to the south and down below, the rock's most infamous inhabitants: Barbary apes. Although Gord kept calling them monkeys, they are in fact apes... monkeys have tails, apes do not. Though with the ability to roller-skate, smoke cigars and go into space, monkeys do seem a lot cooler.

First imported by Arabs a few hundred years ago to be kept as household pets, the apes quickly outgrew their "cute" novelty and became less plesant to have around when they figured out how to break into and raid the pantry of all its contents. With their food bills sky-rocketting and children frightened by he increasingly agreesive apes, the owners would release them into the wild to rid themselves of the beasties. Homeless and hungry,the apes quickly banded together and colonized the upper side the rock and now terrorize passing motorists and pedestrians, stripping them of any food they may have in their possession.  Even though there are signs not to feed the apes posted all over, everyone seems to think that this doesnt apply to them and as cars pass through the ape gauntlet, the hairy little buggers jump on the cars, ride the side view mirrors and try sticking their hands in the window or even opening the doors. Others are content to chew on a car's antennea while the angrier ones rip off windshield wipers in their attempt to demand a food payment from the car's occupants.

While you might think the apes would be considered a nuisance and gassed by local authorities, they are actually revered by Gibraltarians and have been re-imported in the past when their numbers have started to dwindle. Winston Churchill once said that if the apes ever became extinct on the rock, Gibraltar would cease to be British territory. Judging by the numbers of thieves and beggars we saw today, the Brits have nothing to worry about.

Rock of Gibraltar

Keep your hands in  your pockets !

Don't forget to lock your doors !

Standing guard over the Mediterranean

Lazy day at the rock

A night in London

Squinting with one eye to try and focus my vision, i looked down at the small fortune of change
that had collected in my pockets in the short eight hours since I had been back in England and tried my best to pick out the five pounds needed to buy the next round of beers for Gord and I. After a short 5.5 hour red-eye flight from Montreal I had spent most of the afternoon trying to nap myself out of potential jetlag (and prepare myself for a night at the pub) while waiting for Gord and the extra four hours it would take him to catch up to me from Vancouver. By 530 Gord had finally arrived and after a brief 30 second "good to see you again" handshake we agreed that an immediate beer and a bite for a pre-trip briefing was in order.

Within a 5 minute walk of our hotel (and Gatwick airport itself if any of you ever have a layover here)
we found the quintensential British countryside freehouse, Ye Olde Six Bells Pub. Practically attached to the adjoining church (grave markers were out front where a parking lot would normally be) the Six Bells pub has the kind of character and charm youd normally only read about in travel books but never be able to find around the block back home. As the second oldest pub in all of Britain (700?? years to be exact), if the walls in this place could speak Im sure they would have many tales of hoolaganism, scandal and debauchery.
With the most awkward layout ever for a drinking/eating establishment, wooden beams that keep the structure standing dangle dangerously low and are all carefully marked to try and prevent patrons from knocking themselves out as they walk about. As the night progresses and the pints begin to flow, the "duck or grouse" warnings painted on the beams seem to fade and concussions seem an inevitable part of an evening out here. Pretty smart business model if you ask me, as the combination of intoxication and head-injury likely drives patrons to buy more beer to ease of the pain of the goosegg they suffered while
trying to make it to the bathroom and back doing their best impression of the hunchback of Notre Dame.

While Gord and I did manage to only bump our heads once or twice (yes the ceilings are so low even a dwarf like me need heed the warnings) we did comment that the cemetary next door is likely so close not only for the priest to take in his daily blood of christ but also so that drunken patrons who have literally drank themselves into a grave (or hit their heads so hard they had an anneurysm and died) didnt have far to go to their final resting place. 

Off to bed as we're up early and flying to the southern-most point in Europe: Gibraltar.

Preamble - Morocco 2010

Riding in El Valle Sagrado de los Incas, aka The Sacred Valley, Peru, 2007

Well here I am just a few days before jetting off on my next adventure and I've finally decided to move into the 21st century by using a blog instead of sending out emails from the road every few days. This will ensure I don't miss anyone on my mailing list and that I will crash as few computers as possible as the pictures are already uploaded here and don't have to be sent as an email attachment.

Gord, an old friend from Vancouver, and I will be heading for Morocco via London and Gibraltar just a few days from now and we'll be renting BMW 650GS motorbikes. Yes mom, motorbikes... but don't worry, I'll be wearing a helmet ! The plan is to ride to ride south over the Atlas mountains to the edge of the Sahara desert before riding west to the Atlantic coast and then back to Marrakesh. It should be quite an adventure so stay tuned and check back often for updates !

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