I thought the next time I was updating this blog would be when Piggy and I had set off on another journey to Morocco, via France and Spain. We had planned to go straight after the Christmas festivities; leaving family and friends to cope with the rigours of Winter in Britain alone!

But, as most of you know, certain health problems have intervened, and we are now hoping to get on the road round about mid February; assuming my recuperation period goes as planned. But, just for a short trip, mainly renewing our short acquaintance with the countryside of Portugal.

In the meantime, I thought some of you might be interested in an account of our first journey to Morocco; when we were young and innocent (well reasonably), over forty years ago. It was in November 1968 that we set off from Pete’s parents house in Staines . . . . . . .

MOROCCAN ADVENTURES 1968/69

PART 1: DOVER TO MARSEILLES

Landing in Africa was more difficult than we had expected. . . . .
The year was 1968 and we were innocents abroad. Unlike the politically aware, Rough Guide toting travellers of today, we had arrived in the African continent mainly because the cheapest ferry from Marseilles to anywhere was Algiers. We knew nothing of friction between old colonial powers and emerging native states. Although we had some hazy idea of their ‘foreignness’ the term Arab or Muslim held no especially uneasy connotations. We thought of them as Algerians or Moroccans; and sometimes Berbers. We could speak a smattering of French and assumed we would get by with that.

My future husband and I left Britain in November of that year. I have a picture in my head of the day we set off from Pete’s parents’ house in leafy Staines. It was late Autumn but cold for the time of year. We were warm and snug in our padded parkas; our stiff new rucksacks bulged with supplies; our shoulders adjusting to their weight. We had very little money; Currency restrictions were in operation at the time and you couldn’t take more than £50 each out of the country.
But I had a guilty secret. I had an extra £100 sewn into the furry lining of my waterproof boots. How I wasn’t stopped by Customs on the way out I’ll never know. Smuggling is not my forte and, if I looked as guilty as I felt, they should have clocked me straight away. It didn’t make me feel any better when Pete pointed out that just about every traveller leaving Britain for any length of time was probably doing the selfsame thing.

But we made it onto the ferry and then train to Paris. Here we had our first mild altercation. Pete had been to Paris before on a week’s school trip; and hated every minute of it. Consequently he was determined to leave as quickly as possible. I pleaded weakly that I would just like to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, wander along the Left Bank, perhaps have a coffee at a pavement café. But all to no avail.

The problem was we couldn’t afford to stay the night in Paris so had to stick to our itinerary of going South as quickly as possible. Originally we had planned to hitch to the Mediterranean but France was in the grip of freezing weather, with deep snow lying right through it’s central region. We decided to get our train tickets and have a hurried look at the sights if there was any time to spare. After a frustrating attempt to get a taxi to the station, (the only one that deigned to stop snarled “merde” upon hearing our halting English accents and drove off immediately) there was, of course, no tourist time and that evening found us ensconced on the night train to Marseilles.
Those latter day French trains were less efficient then than their streamlined counterparts of today and we had the uncomfortable experience of travelling in a train with no heating, through some of the worst weather we had ever encountered. The snow covered plains of central France receded into the Northern distance either side of us as we rumbled Southwards. Luckily our warm parkas kept out the worst of the chill.
Sometime before midnight, we arrived and stepped off the train and it was warm! For the first time I felt the warmth of a Mediterranean night. We stood at the top of the wide flight of stone steps from the station gazing at the starry navy blue sky above, while below us stretched the narrow foreign streets of Marseilles; beyond, the Mediterranean.

After the interminable freezing journey it seemed like paradise. In days to come we were to see the seedier side of Marseilles but that first night was magical. People smiled at us. We drank delicious cups of strong black coffee, ate wonderful crisp bread and creamy cheese and finally went in search of somewhere to lay our heads.

That first night we decided to leave the joys of youth hostelling until the next day and went in search of a room. We found a pension with clean rooms and reasonable rates. Even sleeping between foreign sheets was exciting; the strange bolster and quilt on the high oak bed; the furniture so large, carved and French; and wooden shutters on the narrow high window. In the morning we indulged in coffee and croissants, sitting outside at a pavement café, watching the Marseilles populace going about their lives. But our retreat into the luxury of hotel accommodation was brief and now over. We went in search of the youth hostel.

It turned out to be our first experience in realism. The bright sun glaringly highlighted the seedy nature of the area where the youth hostel was situated, far from the elegant walks of the bay. A utilitarian building where we had to sleep separately; I in the women’s’ dormitory and Pete with the men. It had a basic kitchen with several ovens and sinks and bathroom facilities. Unlike most youth hostels this one had a haphazard air.

The guests reflected it’s cosmopolitan nature. People of all languages and creeds drifted in and out The city was, then as now, a bit of a sink dump for the flotsam and jetsam trying to get into Europe. Not only Africans but many South Americans, fleeing the dictatorships that dominated their countries at that time. A few North Americans and quite a few Europeans like us who were also on the hippy trail to Morocco.

During the three days we had to wait to get on the ferry to Algiers we met some desperate characters. One who particularly sticks in both our minds was an Argentinian teenager who had fled his own country, then in the grip of the military junta and the horrors of the ‘disappeared’ who had had all his documents stolen not long after arriving in the city via boat; (at least that’s what he told us) and had no way of staying in the country except by stealth. He survived by catching cats and selling them to the university and hospital laboratories. Our comfortable British sensibilities were shaken by his matter of fact approach to staying alive and the desperate straits other members of the human race were driven to, to accomplish what we took for granted as a basic human right.

The Autumn climate suited me just fine; warm, dry and not too hot; luckily for us as we carried everything with us when we went out, suspicious of our neighbours honesty. This was unsurprising as evenings were spent listening to one hair raising tale after another as we were told of dirty dealing, dishonesty, theft and, very rarely, violence. We probably looked ridiculous struggling about with all our goods and chattels draped or affixed to our persons, but at least we still had them all when we finally arrived at the dock to board our boat to Africa!

Finally the morning came when we could get on the boat taking us over the water. Three days before we had tried several shipping offices, to find a boat that we could afford, to take us to the African continent. At one time we even toyed with the insane idea of taking the proverbial banana boat to South America, but cowardice prevailed and we ended up booking a passage on the cheapest tramp steamer travelling deck class.

I was the only female, of any nationality, on board. Our fellow passengers were almost exclusively Algerians returning to their capital city; many loaded down with goodies, for future resale, from the European continent. They were a noisy chattering crowd smoking and drinking mint tea under a small covered area on deck. I seem to remember the crossing was at least 12 hours.

There were male and female toilet facilities but I only visited ‘les dames’ twice; the first time in ignorance of the fact that the female toilet was used by the male passengers as a defecating facility, the male section being reserved for urinary relief. The stench was horrendous and did wonders for my bladder control for the rest of the night. The second reluctant visit was in absolute desperation much later during the early morning.

There was nowhere to sleep except the deck and, as the huge glittering stars appeared in the velvet night blue Mediterranean sky, it began to get quite cold. We huddled down in our parkas to try and get some sleep.
One of the Arabs settled down next to us, with two large sacks of what turned out to be army greatcoats. It soon became obvious that he was rather taken with Pete, who in those days was a dark haired handsome youth, and he engaged him in conversation, all the while tenderly covering him with greatcoats. He totally ignored me, and Pete had to wait until he had nodded off before surreptitiously sliding a couple of the garments over my shivering form.

PART 2: ARRIVAL IN AFRICA

Dawn arose and the deck was crowded with Arabs leaning on the rail and gazing towards the African shoreline. In the far distance, glowing pink as they gradually emerged out of the morning mist, we saw the walls of Algiers. As we approached the shore the mood among the passengers became more and more frenetic. Shouting ‘Algers Algers’ our fellow travellers excitedly gesticulated, climbing onto the railings of the boat and hanging precariously over the side. Indeed, as we finally pulled into the harbour, many of them leapt into the sea; as if unable to contain their impatience to touch their native soil again.

We realised later that they were probably hoping to elude the authorities rather than experiencing any uncontrollable nationalistic tendencies. But, at the time, this enthusiasm seemed remarkable to a reserved English couple. I tried to imagine a ferry docking at Dover with English passengers weeping with emotion, shouting the name of their beloved country and fighting tooth and claw to be the first to step onto the hallowed soil!

With true British phlegm we decided to wait until the queue had subsided. To call it a queue was not quite the right word to describe the frenzied heaving melee which surged and struggled to be first down the gangplank. The near riot conditions that ensued only served to produce a log jam that was restrained by officials at the end of the gangplank while mayhem reigned on deck.

Smugly we sat and waited for the crowd to disperse. When it seemed to be calming down we strolled to the end of the line to wait our turn. But, to our acute embarrassment, an official, patrolling the line, strode towards us and, politely but firmly, frog marched us to the front of the queue. Our fellow passengers watched our progress with seeming indifference and politely fell back to let us through, before resuming their efforts to beat their neighbours onto dry land. We felt like VIPs with our special treatment. Again, much later, we assumed that they preferred to get any Europeans out of the way before they started dealing with the locals.

A few steps onto the shore of Africa and we came down to earth with a bump. The first impression was the smell; rank and fishy with assorted detritus piled high along the wharf. Then we arrived at Customs. No special treatment here; only a bizarre and confusing altercation with two officials in military style uniform who sat behind their table examining our documents and insisting in talking to us in Arabic. When I say us I really mean Pete. This was my first experience of being an invisible female in a male dominated Muslim world. It transpired that they did not believe Pete was a British citizen.

As I have already said Pete was then dark haired and dark eyed and could easily have been taken for an Arab (we were to find this a useful asset in the weeks to come) But his total incomprehension of their language, plus at least an hour spent arguing with them in our halting French, finally seemed to convince them of his genuineness and, with much scowling and officious rubber stamping, we were waved through.

What in our innocence we had not realised was that they were probably waiting for us to offer money; in short a bribe; We were European after all and therefore rich. Luckily we were ignorant enough not to waste any of our precious cash and had finally been granted access to African shores with all our funds intact.
In chastened mood we left the dock and walked into Algiers. I have to say that, as our first experience of an African city Algiers was a great disappointment.

The white buildings that had glistened so invitingly when viewed from the ferry were shabby and run down when seen close to. An air of degeneration and depression seemed to hang like a pall. The colonial style architecture had once been elegant but was now crumbled and in need of paint. Most of the inhabitants looked at us with apparent suspicion, peering at us, as we passed, from the narrow alleyways. Later, when we became more aware of the past history of Algeria and France, we understood better the antipathy of the Algerians. But, at that time it just didn’t feel friendly and we decided not to stay as we had planned, but get on the road to the West straight away. We bought bread, cheese and tomatoes and started to walk out of the city.

It was still early morning as we finally left the industrial outskirts behind. The road lay before us, disappearing into the distance. Beyond the sand dunes to our right we could hear the crash of Mediterranean waves; to our left were rocky sand coloured outcrops sparsely covered with shrubby herbs that smelt smokily aromatic. The huge continent of Africa stretched away to the South; as far as the Cape of Good Hope. The enormous sky was all around us and we were suddenly both acutely aware that we were but pinpricks at the extreme North of this massive landmass. It felt as if we had been transported into a giants world as we perched, like ants, on the very tip of Africa.

The first thing we realised about hitching in Algeria was that lifts were a rare commodity. The wide straight road disappeared over the distant horizon. Either side were shallow sandy banks, sparsely covered with twiggy scrub and herbs. Occasionally a vehicle would roar past and the driver would glance incuriously in our direction as he sped on his way; but no lifts ensued. After several kilometres of weary walking we got a lift into Blida, the next town west of Algiers, with a friendly Algerian in an old truck. He insisted that we visit his vinery as he wanted to eat, but, this being Ramadan, he couldn’t do so in public.

We spent a pleasant hour at his cool white house, admiring his many bottles of wine and sampling one of them with bread and dates. Later he dropped us on the other side of Blida and we started walking again. Just out of the town there was a police road block. They appeared to be checking drivers’ papers before letting them on their way. We walked past and waited at a junction, in sight of the road block. As the lorries and trucks were let through we thumbed hopefully, but the few vehicles to pass thundered on, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.

The stony empty road stretched unendingly into the distance. We had no option but to hope for a lift eventually so we sat and waited. After about half an hour we noticed one of the police coming towards us. With trepidation we watched him approach.

He looked an ugly customer; heavy jowled and squat, with decidedly undesigner like stubble; but, far from the threatening behaviour we expected, he halted with a heel click, gave a small bow of the head and held up a hand to impede any flight that we might have been contemplating.

“Attende Monsieur et Madame” he said and, with apparent disregard for life and limb, he strolled casually into the path of a speeding lorry, recently freed from the shackles of the road block. With the confidence of authority he stood, only sidestepping the inevitable impact at the last moment, when it became obvious that, despite the driver’s best efforts, the lorry would not stop in time.

As the officer approached the cab the driver leant down, gesticulating and truculent but, after a furious tirade from the policeman, he subsided into a sullen grumble. Before we had realised what was happening the driver had jumped down and, letting down the backboard of his open truck, indicated that we were to get in. The luxury of the cab was not for us as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat. We thanked both the driver and the policeman, who once more inclined his head, said the Arab equivalent of ‘have nice day’ and marched, with heavy assured steps, back to the road block.

We tried to keep our balance as the truck rattled on at breakneck speed. The driver, having had two strangers foisted upon him, was not about to pander to our comfort. To make matters worse it started raining and,as the road climbed into the hills, the shower changed to snow. Without warning the journey finished as abruptly as it had started. The driver stopped at a side road junction and signalled to us to get down. Once rid of his burdens he raced out of our adventure with a brief ‘salut’.

By now it was late afternoon. About two miles up the side road we could see signs of habitation. We trudged towards it, having had enough of the open road for one day. It turned out to be quite a respectable sized township with French style buildings on either side of the narrow main street. We turned into the first house with a ‘pension’ sign outside.

It was built in French colonial style; and, standing in the gloomy hall, was indeed the original French colonial. Her black hair was strained back into a bun. Her clothes were of a nondescript drab appearance and her manner was cautiously civil. While we were signing the register her husband appeared on the scene. He also greeted us, but much more warmly. It rapidly became apparent that he, particularly, was starved of European company and found the natives a poor substitute for erudite Western views.

They had moved to this out of the way village from somewhere in mid France and, having burnt their boats purchasing the pension that they fondly hoped would be a magnet for tourists, were now stuck in the back of beyond in a country that was alien to them.

They insisted that we ate with them. It was bad French cuisine; a tough meat course preceded some overcooked vegetables. Anything else that was served was so unmemorable that I have forgotten it. After the meal the proprietor took Pete on a ‘Pernod’ crawl round the local cafes. Two drinks in each and then home; so it didn’t take long.

PART 3: CROSSING THE BORDER

The next morning found us having to make a decision. Would we carry on hitching or resort to public transport? West of the town the road carried on, vast and open through rocky countryside, with a few villages dotted sparsely along it’s route. The next large town was Oran, 400 kilometres away. We decided it would be cheaper to get the bus rather than drain our dwindling resources on bed and board along the road; so that afternoon found us rattling along on our way to Oran.

I don’t remember the journey, except for seeing live chickens and goats tied onto the roof of the coach. Their apparent unconcern at this treatment was more unnerving than the supposed cruelty.
We arrived in Oran in the early evening. This cosmopolitan city was a lot more prepossessing than the capital Algiers. Its white stone buildings and large open squares were reminiscent of it’s recent French occupation. We decided to break our journey here and treat ourselves to an evening meal before retiring to the local youth hostel.

We chose a pleasant looking establishment with tables and chairs parked on the outside pavement, looking across one of the leafy squares. The waiter was thrilled to have some tourists to wait on and treated us like royalty, piling our plates high with chicken and lentils cooked French style. Pete washed it all down with large amounts of local wine and we left after emotionally vowing eternal friendship with the cafe staff.

During the meal our table was visited by a girl with a tray of matches and other useless miscellanea. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she had the eyes of a businesswoman and didn’t leave us until my guilty conscience had purchased a few unnecessary odds and ends. Life is hard if you are working those sort of hours at six years old.

The next morning saw us hitching out of Oran. I felt great. Ahead lay the Algerian/Moroccan border. Pete felt dreadful; repeatedly retching behind the odd eucalyptus bush. He blamed the chicken from the night before but, as I was hale and hearty, we both knew it was the vino what had done it!

It was while trying to get out of Oran and back on the open road that we got one of the few lifts of the whole journey; it was from a young French woman driving the ubiquitous Renault. She was a schoolteacher and, as she drove us through the narrow streets on the city outskirts little children ran alongside with pleading eyes and hands outstretched for largesse. As my fingers groped for a few small coins she told us severely not to even consider giving them anything.

“They must learn that begging is not an acceptable way to live. Education is their way out of poverty”. Even in those apolitically aware days of my youth, and as an inexperienced tourist, I remember thinking that it was okay for her. An educated superior female, laying down the law in someone else’s country. And she knew where her next crust was coming from; but we meekly did as we were told.

She dropped us in Tlemcen, the border town that was to be our farewell to Algeria and our introduction into Morocco. This was a sizeable town, again showing the French influence in it’s architecture. We didn’t stop to look, but shared a taxi with other eager border crossers to be. Nowadays the border between Algeria and Morocco is closed to tourists. Back then you could cross over but neither side made it an easy process. The border, a dusty two lane road with two barriers about a hundred yards apart, was closed.

We mooched about for some two hours waiting for it to open, finding what shade we could under the trees along the highway. It was a hot dusty afternoon and the few houses either side of the highway were quiet and shuttered. It was Ramadan and nobody stirred.

Eventually a soldier came and unlocked the shed that served as customs. We lined up with the others to show passports and visas. These passed muster and we walked the few steps to the Moroccan border post. Any minute now we would be in another country with it’s subtly different character.
But it was not to be; not for a few more hours anyway.

The Moroccan border guard gave our documents a cursory glance and then demanded to know how much Moroccan money we were bringing in. Due to everything being closed for Ramadan we had not been able to change our Algerian dinars into Moroccan dhirams in Tlemcen and had naively assumed we would sort out our finances once in Morocco.

We had, in fact, changed much too much of our precious sterling into dinars at Algiers, assuming our stay in Algeria would be much longer and more expensive than it turned out to be. So it was a bit of a blow to find out that the Moroccan authorities wouldn’t let us in without Moroccan notes.

Morosely we returned to the Algerian hut but they were uninterested in our plight. They just shrugged and said we would have to return to Tlemcen and find a bank. We re-entered Tlemcen in the same taxi with a new set of passengers and found a bank; quite an imposing building, on the outskirts of town. It was shut and our enquiries revealed it would not open until six o’clock, the witching hour during Ramadan, when everything bursts into life once more. After an interminable wait drinking coffee in a dark little cafe (which probably should have been shut) we returned to the bank and were the first through the heavy wooden doors when they finally swung open.

It should have been a simple transaction; but no. Bureaucracy, and not a little bribery and corruption, ruled. I sat on a bench and waited, as behoved an obedient female companion, while the bank clerk told Peter that they would only change a third of our dinars to dhirams. Despite his protestations Pete returned to my side with a little Moroccan cash and a lot of useless dinars.

We wandered back outside and stood, nonplussed, in the dusty sunlight. We couldn’t afford to lose this much of our limited capital. My enforced non-participation in the transaction coupled with the frustration of the return journey from the border suddenly came to a head. With Pete following I marched back into the bank.

Approaching the bank clerk I demanded that he change the rest of our money. With a shrug and a deprecating air he assured me he could not. It was “impossible”.In that case I informed him I was going to stay in the bank until somebody found it “possible” to grant my request. I sat down on one of the many oak benches in the imposing, high ceilinged foyer in view of all the customers, who were, by now, quite numerous.

After about a quarter of an hour a smooth looking man approached me. He was obviously senior to the clerk and, although condescendingly polite, insisted that there as nothing to be done; I would have to leave.
I assured him, with equally indifferent civility, that I had no intention of moving until I had seen someone in authority. He visibly bridled with wounded dignity at my assumption that he was not sufficient ‘authority’ to move me on. His tone took on a more haranguing quality but I was determined that they would have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the door, to remove me from my bench.

By now a small crowd had gathered round us in interested anticipation. The oily man began to look look distinctly oilier. I stuck fast and asked for the manager. He ‘was out’. He ‘would not be in for some time’ I would ‘have to leave’; the mamselle ‘did not understand’. I understood enough to know I was getting under his skin. I gazed impassively at the ceiling fan slowly moving the stale air.

My antagonist suddenly stopped arguing and, rather unnecessarily, asked me to wait. He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bank screens. He returned eventually with yet another clerk in tow, and asked me to accompany him. Pete, by this time, had got bored and gone outside for a smoke; and to wait for events to take their course.

I was ushered into a side room and shown to a chair on one side of a huge leather topped desk. Going to another door my official opened it and through it came a slight little man with an apprehensive air. Another clerk I thought, but no! My official had undergone an amazing transformation.
He preceded the little man to a much larger chair than mine on the other side of the desk, and tenderly, with much reverential murmuring, bowing and scraping, ensconced him comfortably in it’s imposing leather seat.
This was the manager my official told me (I felt that this was not the time to point out that the manager was supposedly out) and he, in his great wisdom and infinite generosity, may Allah be praised, had decided to grant my request.

He went on for a while about his boss’s kindness and sympathy for my plight; about his desire that I should not leave their country in any way dissatisfied with my treatment. This manager was a lord among men and I was lucky that I had touched his heart with my distress.

While this wonderful display of boot licking was taking place the manager uttered not one word, only gazing owlishly at me over the enormous desk, smiling and nodding at his underling’s fervent flattery. I entered into the spirit of the thing and smiled back. Now we were friends and all went swimmingly; even to them giving me the correct rate of exchange.

The transaction over, we parted on the friendliest of terms with my official even saying finally, in a rather flirtatious manner, that the thing that had clinched the manager’s change of heart was the sight of my ‘beautiful blue eyes.’ I stifled the urge to laugh and returned to Pete’s side in triumph. He was about to re-enter the bank, being worried by my prolonged absence. When I emerged with the cash he was both relieved and suitably impressed at my achievement.

We got a lift in the same taxi, with other escapees, back to the border. This time we were let through. We had done it. We were in Morocco.

PART 4: AFTER THE BORDER

It must have been about 8 o’clock in the evening when we finally set off along a rocky road that wound slowly upward through open moorland. From our map we could see our next refuge was a town called Oujda, about 20 miles on. It also had a youth hostel; an essential for poverty stricken tourists. We walked and walked; and walked and walked; only pausing occasionally to gaze back the way we had come, vainly hoping some vehicle would hove into view.

Dusk was rapidly falling and we were beginning to wonder how we would find shelter in this bleak landscape. Glancing back once more we saw, in the far distance, a car approaching. We were determined to stop it somehow or other. We both stood in the middle of the road and waved frantically. For a minute I thought it was going to swerve round us. But, at the last second, in a shower of stones, it screeched to a halt. Thankfully we climbed into the back.

Our chauffeur was a middle aged German man with a kindly face. On discovering our nationality he insisted on conducting the conversation in very bad English. From this we deduced that our saviour was going right through Oujda and even knew where the youth hostel was. Surely, at last, our luck had turned. As we bowled along at some speed we found out that the German was a travelling salesman; of what I can’t remember, but it was something mundanely useful. We chatted on and relaxed into the comfortable interior as the darkened landscape slid swiftly past.

Suddenly, without warning, the car lurched sickeningly. With considerable skill our German friend managed to stop at the side of the road. On inspection it turned out we had a puncture, almost certainly caused by the shower of stones that occurred when he stopped so abruptly to pick us up.

With great cheerfulness our friend, with Pete’s assistance, put on the spare and on we went again. About five miles down the road the other tyre on the same side sprung a leak and once more we ground to a halt.
What to do? We were about five miles from Oujda and, after some discussion, we persuaded the German that we would go on ahead and try and get help. He smiled and agreed, although it was quite obvious that he didn’t believe us, assuming we were deserting the sinking ship. With a cheery wave he bid us farewell and settled down for a night’s sleep in the car.

Off we trudged, determined to prove him wrong. About two miles from Oujda we got a lift with a local from the town and, upon hearing our story, he took us to a garage. To our amazement the garage mechanic seemed to grasp the problem immediately; asked the make of the car, slung a couple of tyres into the back of his pick-up and we all trundled back up the road to rescue our friend.

It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. With the minimum of fuss the garage man changed both tyres and, after payment, we followed him back into Oujda in case of further mishap. Our German friend was now fulsome in his gratitude at our return; but we still felt guilty at having caused the problem in the first place.
And so, finally, we arrived in Oujda. Our new found friend insisted on taking us for a meal at a cafe that he frequented.

The locals were a friendly lot; definitely nicer to know than the Algerians we had left behind. Eventually he drove us to the youth hostel and we regretfully parted company, thanking him profusely for all his help. Another cheery wave and he was swiftly gone, into the darkness.

I hope Oujda is still a pleasant town. It was then. The youth hostel was set in what approximated to the leafy suburbs. The sunlit streets were wide thoroughfares bordered by square white villas set back in walled gardens full of exotic plants and palm trees. The whole place had an air of enjoyable somnolence.
The youth hostel was one of the larger villas and, because Oujda was close to the border, there was quite a mix of nationalities, mainly European, on the trail to and from Marrakesh. It was an easy going establishment with basic but adequate amenities.

The community kitchen was where we all gathered, chatting and making friends. It was the sixties; we all loved each other and were heady with the freedom of the open road.
The hostel warden or supervisor was a Moroccan man in his twenties called Mustapha. He was pleasant enough when not veering between temperamental complaint and the necessity to project and protect his cool ‘with it’ image. He rarely wore the traditional djellabah’s but favoured a natty line in western dress. This was usually finished off with a theatrical red silk lined cape, a garment of which he was inordinately fond.
Despite his overweening self admiration he was a likeable man, if only for his eagerness to live in the modern world.

He was a good looking guy and probably had some success with the free living European and American girls that passed through the town. About the third day we were there he tried his technique on me; and appeared astonished and hurt when I turned him down.

The next day Pete couldn’t resist teasing him with his failure and Mustapha’s wounded dignity was worthy of RADA. However, the next time we happened to be alone he asked me, indignantly, why I had told Pete and seemed to find it inconceivable that we actually talked about such things. I think he genuinely thought I should have shown a little more consideration for his reputation!

The day after we arrived who should appear back on the doorstep than our travelling salesman. He had turned round and come all the way back when he had discovered one of my plastic boots in his car; the boots of currency smuggling fame; the boots I had not worn since Marseilles. They had proved totally unsuitable in warm climates and had spent most of the journey tied to my rucksack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this so we had a coffee with him instead, thanked him again and waved him goodbye once more; this time for ever.

Pete’s teeth rate a mention here. Pete had lost several of his top front teeth while still at school, after a combination of a nasty bicycle accident and a rugby injury He had a false set which were the bane of his life. One day he got these teeth stuck down one of the hostel’s unguarded basin plug holes.

We tried everything to get them out., with most of the hostel residents, and Mustapha, milling about with helpful suggestions. Several implements were tried but those teeth were stuck fast. Eventually, when it became obvious that half measures would not do, I took my courage in both hands and just wrenched them out. Amazingly they didn’t break. This was not the last adventure for Pete’s teeth; but more of that later.

We enjoyed our few days of readjustment at Oujda. From this point we really started to appreciate our surroundings and situation. Algeria had been an experience, if rather a short tense one, but in Morocco we were able to relax. The people were friendly and open; they really seemed to like us, whereas in Algeria they had appeared to just tolerate us or hustle.

We decided to use the bus to get to Fez, our next port of call. This form of transport was so cheap that it didn’t seem worth spending hours sitting at the side of the road. Besides, the bus journeys were an experience in themselves. For a start they were always jam packed. Every imaginable possession was tied onto the roof rack, including live chickens and goats.

At every stop street vendors would swarm on, selling anything and everything. Beggars would hang on the sides, entreating us to part with small change, only jumping off when the driver had picked up a bit of speed. The bus that took us to Fez had seen better days and, as it creaked and groaned up the steep winding road, I tried not to imagine what might happen if it didn’t make the next hairpin bend.

The landscape was stunning. We were travelling just north of the Atlas mountains and some of the villages looked remarkably like alpine hamlets in Switzerland. It was hard to believe that, not many miles South stretched the vast expanse of the Sahara.

About a mile from the city walls of Fez, the bus finally gave up and ground to a halt. Whereupon most of the passengers surged to the front to give the driver the benefit of their advice. A noisy throng gathered round the gearbox, which was generally regarded as the cause of the breakdown.

We sat and watched as chaos reigned. Would be mechanics removed various oily parts and discarded them round the drivers seat. He was in there shouting with the best of them. It was all very good natured and everybody was obviously enjoying it. But the fun had to stop eventually and, as one man, they decided to do the only thing possible. Every able bodied person piled out the bus and, assisted by interested passers by, they pushed the bus to the walls of Fez. As we departed to see the sights, the heads were back down to dismantle the remains of the gearbox.

PART 5: BEYOND FEZ

To visit Fez in those days was like going back in time. The huge stone walls interspersed with massive gateways into the city looked as if they were ready to repel marauders, much as they did in centuries past. When you entered and explored the narrow alleyways of the souk, hung with colourful cloths, smelling of exotic spices piled high on round pottery dishes, selling every conceivable vegetable, fruit, fish and fowl and teeming with white robed people, you knew it must have looked much the same in medieval times.

It is Morocco’s holiest city and once was the most powerful politically, being a famous seat of learning of the Arab world. We were too young and inexperienced to appreciate this all those years ago and began to feel rather uncomfortable at the curious stares we got as we wandered through it’s narrow ancient streets. We had been going to stay in Fez but, after an unnerving interlude when we got hopelessly lost and had to pay a small boy to guide us back to a main thoroughfare, we decided to push on to Marrakesh.

So, late afternoon of that day found us alighting from another bus in the small mountain town of Azrou. It was really a large village on the edge of the Atlas range with the characteristic architecture of that region. Beautiful wooden chalet like houses with a backdrop of snowy peaks and evergreens once again reminded us of Alpine scenes. The main street climbed steeply through white washed stone houses, many with little open fronted cafes whose interiors dissolved into darkness against the brightness of the sun.

This was Berber country. The people looked different. They were dark and handsome. The women were some of the most beautiful we had ever seen. Unveiled, their strong features and stately walk made them truly arresting as they glided effortlessly up the sharp inclines, dressed in gorgeous wraps and headdresses. And these people were friendly. On almost every face was a broad grin of welcome.

Our first stop was the market, which was a modest affair on a small piece of flattened earth at one end of the main street. We wandered round the stalls, practising our newly acquired bargaining skills. They didn’t have a lot to sell but every stall had the ubiquitous oranges.

We had quickly become addicted to this fruit, so different to the pallid tasteless version available in shops back home. Small and sweet, warm to the tongue, you could taste the sunshine. But here, in this mountain region, they were relatively expensive. Vainly we went from stall to stall, trying to get the price down; until we realised that the stallholders were gently pulling our legs, sending us from one to the other, confident we would not do better, as they had all agreed on the price. We gave in and bought some anyway.

Wandering back up the main street we were struck by the numbers of inhabitants sitting motionless at the outside tables of the little street cafes. They all had, in front of them, a bowl of chick pea soup, bread, dates, a pipe of keef and a pot of mint tea. Suddenly the end of the daily fast was signalled by the unearthly chanting from the mosque. Immediately everywhere was activity. People ate, drank, smoked and talked; all at once. We were invited to join one table of old men and spent a pleasant hour with them.

While we there a young man came and sat down, joining in the conversation. The old men were friendly enough, even bantering with him, but Pete and I both felt he was not really welcome. We asked if they knew of a place to stay and were directed to a large cafe at the top of the town. The place had a French feel to it, with wooden chairs and tables to one side of a small bar. We were offered a room above the cafe, which turned out to be clean and neat; rather reminiscent of our Marseilles pension.

After a wash we went downstairs for a meal. The place was pretty full and was obviously very popular with the locals. The waitress was, of course, a handsome Berber girl, swapping lively banter with her customers. In front of their foreign guests they all showed off shamelessly and we had one of the most entertaining evenings of our trip so far.

As the evening progressed we noticed that the waitress conducted a kind of game with some of her favourite customers. This consisted of her clapping just as one or other of them attempted to smoke a cigarette or drink some mint tea. The customer immediately had to stop their smoking or drinking and match her clap for clap, until the whole cafe were laughing at her persistence.

When she pretended to stop and turn away the customer would affect an air of exaggerated relief and attempt to get down one mouthful of tea or smoke, before she wheeled around and started them off clapping again. It was a simple pastime that for some reason was hilariously funny; no doubt because of the theatrical nature of the waitress’s insistent clapping and the mock eye – rolling misery of the chosen customer. The keefe laden atmosphere probably helped as well.

In the middle of it all the door opened and in came the same young man we had seen at the open air cafe. Although nobody actually stopped what they were doing, the atmosphere subtly changed.

The waitress went over to his table and sat with him, laughing and chatting; indeed they seemed to be indulging in a little light hearted flirtation. The young man smiled at us and asked in a friendly manner about our journey and whether we liked Morocco. We said we liked it very much, especially this little town of Azrou.
He seemed pleased at our response. Later, when he got up to use the toilet, the minute he had left the room, the waitress came over to us and hissed “Garde; le Police. Comprend? We ‘comprended’ and, when he returned, the whole cafe, which had sunk to guarded whispers while he was out of the room, came to life again; and put on an admirable act of including him in the festivities. Eventually he left and everybody relaxed and continued the clapping game.

The next morning saw us on another bus, still aiming for Marrakesh, 400 kilometres to the South. Our next port of call was Khenifra, a village built entirely of hot red clay bricks. Between the low flat roofed buildings ran beaten dirt streets and the orange dust coated everything, including us. It looked like a shanty town, hastily thrown up. It was as raw as its red brick dwellings and a harsh contrast after the appeal of Azrou.
Back on the bus again and late afternoon found us at Beni Mellal, a nondescript town of shabby white buildings. We were tired and dirty after another bone shaking ride on local transport and only wanted to find somewhere to rest for the night.

We entered the nearest cafe, a cool deserted shop with a food bar to one side. and, upon enquiry the proprietor confirmed they had got a room for the night. Thankfully we followed the owner to the back of the cafe and into a side room. Inside was an old iron bedstead and not much else, although the proprietor did proudly point out the extra facility of an ancient washbasin. We didn’t care as long as we could put our heads down and sleep.

There was nothing on the bed except a lumpy mattress. While we were getting settled in a teenage boy appeared at the door. His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried sheets and blankets. We thanked him, but, when we came to make up the bed, we discovered the sheets were wet; and I don’t mean damp; I mean wet. We took them back and the proprietor assured us he would supply more. Once more the boy arrived, grinning from ear to ear, with more sheets; also wet and probably the same ones. We abandoned the unlooked for luxury of sheets and, after a snack, decided to call it a day.

While we were eating the cafe began to fill up. It was after 6 o’clock and time to eat and drink. Many customers filed past us to the back of the cafe where there was a large communal room, (next to ours) carpeted with raffia mats. Here men sat in groups, around their hubbles, eating and talking and drinking tea. When we returned to our room we noticed many more white robed customers, sitting around the walls of the cafe. They gazed at us impassively as we passed between them.

At last we were able to shut our door and sink onto the unforgiving mattress, sans sheets. We had tried to wash off some of the days grime in the washbasin but, on turning on the tap, the pipes had rattled so alarmingly we had abandoned the attempt.

Never mind; we were too tired to care. We could sleep through anything, even the ever increasing noise from the cafe, now added to by a radio turned up full volume. We were just sinking into uneasy slumber when a terrible clattering and hissing wrenched us from the arms of Morpheus.

That was some of the noisiest plumbing I’ve ever come across. It transpired that, when the Espresso machine on the counter was utilised, our pipes groaned and howled in sympathy. Shaken, we tried to ignore the constant din, telling ourselves that, sooner or later, the noise would die down as people went home to bed. We dozed on and off for hours but, if anything, the noise got louder and more frantic. The radio wailed; the customers shouted and laughed; the plumbing clanged and hissed.

It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when I finally broke and decided, with the stupidity induced by exhaustion, to complain about the noise! The cafe was full to overflowing, exclusively with men all robed in white djellabahs. I marched up to the bar, my step slowing as all eyes turned in my direction. It dawned on me that I, a bare headed, red haired freckle faced European female must have looked a trifle out of place! Arriving at the bar I gazed at the waiter; and every ear in the room waited for my words.

So, I asked for two cups of hot chocolate. Grinning broadly and nodding knowingly to his customers as he passed, the waiter insisted on preceding me with the steaming cups arranged on a round silver tray, a towel draped over his arm. Meekly I followed him back to our room, picking my way through the groups of smiling customers. With a flourish he served our chocolate and left. Resignedly we settled down to wait for the morning. Just before dawn broke Pete added insult to injury by falling asleep; and snoring!

We found out later that this night had been the only one in the month of Ramadan when all good Muslims stayed awake till sunrise. As light filled the sky our neighbours disappeared, to their beds presumably, and we snatched a few hours before we had to leave

PART 6: A FEW WEEKS IN MARRAKESH

Marrakesh was now within a days journey. We should have been keyed up with excitement but, after our sleepless night in Beni Mellal, all we could think of was to get on yet another bus, curl up on the back seat and sleep. But we had reckoned without our tourist status. As soon as we climbed on board we made for the back seat. The driver immediately stopped us and, with much gesticulating and smiling, he showed us to the very front of the bus. We reluctantly complied and were the centre of attention as the bus filled up behind us. We had a panoramic view of the road ahead as the driver rattled serenely on.

The road grew steeper and began to wind round hairpin bends with a sheer drop to one side. On the straight our driver had seemed competent and relaxed. As the route grew more tortuous he became more distracted, especially when passengers found it necessary to come to the front of the bus and shout advice in his ear. We hung on to our seats, mesmerised with terror, as we veered from side to side when the driver turned round in his seat to shout back at his critics.

There was nothing between us and the stony road except that brittle windscreen. Tired as we were we could not, dare not, shut our eyes; only pray that the driver would, somehow, get us to Marrakesh in one piece.
And, of course, he did. A few hours later found us standing in Djemaa el Fna, the now famous main square of Marrakesh . We were still exhausted; but who could fail not to be immediately overtaken with the strange exciting atmosphere of Morocco’s most romantic and cosmopolitan city.

There we were in that famous square with it’s balcony cafe and the narrow streets of the souk disappearing in all directions. All around us was noisy life, music and colour. We itched to start exploring straight away, but accommodation was our first priority. All around the square were modest looking hotels. We went through the entrance arch of the nearest one, the Hotel Central, and found ourselves in the cool inner courtyard with its sunken garden of palm trees that reached up to the sky. The building was one of the now famous riads, built on three stories with a flat roof terrace. The rooms were reached by a series of stone staircases, which joined with galleries on each of the floors. We got a room for the night on the ground floor. Although shabby, the hotel was generally clean and our room was tidy and quiet.

After a few hours of exhausted slumber we ventured out to experience our first evening in Marrakesh. We wandered among the many stalls selling everything any tourist could possibly want. We were hungry and so, for the first time, but definitely not the last, we sampled the delicious Conga eel steaks, shallow fried in front of us and served with a hot sweet dipping sauce; which seemed to consist of orange and chilli; a taste which I have tried (and failed) to recreate many times since.

For a few small coins you could have a deep bowl of harrisa stew served with hard wholemeal bread; a satisfyingly filling and cheap meal. And Marrakesh was the first place where we ate delicious goats milk yoghurt which had a lemony tang and stuffed ourselves with exquisitely cooked doughnuts smothered in sugar; the best I have ever tasted.

Everywhere there were crowds of people; the traditional Arabs in flowing white; the Berber musicians and acrobats and many tourists like us. All nationalities mingled and seemed to rub along together pretty well.
We listened to the music, wandered among the little shops which lined every narrow alley of the Souk, gazing at the wrought metal artifacts, leather, jewellery and colourful cloths hanging under the awnings. Little pavement cafes sold glasses of hot sweet mint tea; a taste I never acquired due to the excessive amounts of lump sugar that were considered necessary additions before serving; but we both quickly got addicted to the alternative; small strong cups of black coffee that were both refreshing and reviving. Eventually we dragged ourselves away to our bed, secure in the knowledge that it would all still be there in the morning. Now we had reached Marrakesh and our adventure had really begun.

The Hotel Central proved to be an economical and comfortable berth during our stay in Marrakesh. Once I had got over the shock of the ubiquitous cockroaches in the communal toilet, that scurried out of sight whenever this facility was used, we both adjusted to this new way of living. Despite the cockroaches, the standards of cleanliness were perfectly adequate; indeed we were both struck by the practice of washing down the courtyard every morning, so that the tiled area always looked clean and inviting.

After a few days we came to a financial arrangement with the hotel manager which gave us a substantial discount for an extended stay. This suited the management as well as us because there were many cheap hotels vying for the custom of tourists like ourselves who were travelling on a very tight budget.

Marrakesh was (and still is) a city of two halves; the Arab quarter and the French built new city; not far in distance but miles apart in cultures and economy. Moneyed tourists, who stayed in the continental style hotels and shopped in the broad boulevards of the French district, were not to know that the Arab quarter was not only much cheaper but much more exciting and closer to the heart of the indigenous population of the city.

We quickly established a routine. All meals were eaten from the food stalls that were so prolific all around Djemaa el Fna. We would spend a lot of time just strolling about the square, listening and watching the many musicians, acrobats, drummers and dancers who kept the local populace, and the tourists, entertained.
Marrakesh has long had the reputation of being the most laid back city in Morocco; a reputation gained mainly because of the large population of Southern tribesmen and Berbers who bring in their goods to trade and spend their money in the souks. As the days went by we started to meet and make friends with other travellers.

There were many Americans; the flower power children of the sixties, who were very popular with the traders, due to their relative wealth compared to the assets of the average European backpacker. Most of them were open and friendly; two characteristics that struck a chord with the Moroccan locals, who were also welcoming to the strangers in their midst. We met Danish, Dutch, Swedish, German and French nationals. And, of course, many British just like us, living on a shoestring. But our most valued friend was a Moroccan; another Mustapha.

Mustapha worked on and off in the hotel. He appeared to be a general dogsbody, turning his hand to maintenance, cleaning and errands. He was keen to make friends with us, having an avid curiosity for what was going on in the world outside Morocco; indeed he had only a hazy idea of life outside the locality of the city, Like most citizens of working age he had to conform to imposed travel restrictions and a journey of any distance required a visa or permit; something for which you had to pay.

The easy going appeal of Marrakesh was only skin deep for the locals. Life for most was not an easy ride and they found it difficult to understand how the tourists could so order their lives to be able to travel far from home. Mustapha was no different but, in his way, he also was a child of the sixties and was open minded about different cultures. His natural friendly disposition and curiosity meant we spent many hours just chatting with him, in our rapidly improving French, about all sorts; he in his turn, acted as our guide to the city. We didn’t get hustled when we went out with Mustapha.

And so we spent a pleasant few weeks in Marrakesh. Nearly forty years is a long way back to remember but certain scenes and events stick in the memory. It was still Ramadan in Marrakesh and you did not see Muslims eating or drinking during the day. Musicians in the square ‘adopted’ the odd tourist to sit in their circle, to add cachet to their performance.

One such group made our acquaintance and insisted that we accept bottles of coke while they sang and danced in enforced abstinence. We felt bound to accept their hospitality, although uncomfortably; and we hadn’t the heart to tell them that we didn’t even like the sugary drink so loved all over the world.

Police were everywhere. We never got used to their habit of going round in pairs, holding hands. Without exception they were heavily built and badly shaved. The locals didn’t mess with them and I do remember, vividly, seeing one of these uniformed law enforcers beating a middle aged woman in a blue djellabah, who had dared to argue back, quite viciously with his baton, while onlookers passed by with barely a backward glance. But, to be honest, the reality of being a Moroccan in Morocco rarely impinged. We were young, ignorant and were having too good a time to be aware of the social issues.
On the evening Ramadan finished, the manager of the hotel called Pete into the office. I was left sitting in our room, wondering what was going on. At least an hour later Pete returned, somewhat the worse for wear. It transpired that the manager had decided to include Pete in his liberation from abstinence: evidently the Muslim rule about alcohol didn’t impinge upon his conscience. They sat opposite each other and the manager kept filling up two tumblers of wine, knocking his own straight back then waiting with evident impatience while Pete followed suit. It was more of a contest than a shared tipple but the manager evidently felt it was his role to show his guest the hospitality of the house as soon as he legitimately could.
As a celebration of the end of Ramadan a small local cinema showed ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for several nights. Quite a large contingent of tourists went to see it, along with most of the young population of Marrakesh. To my shame I remember the Europeans and Americans sitting at the back of the hall and being convulsed with laughter most of the time at the strange image of Elvis being dubbed into French with Arabic subtitles.
The Arabs, however, took it all very seriously and stared disapprovingly at the back stalls after each burst of merriment.

PART 7: A VISIT TO ESSAOUIRA

We celebrated Christmas in Marrakesh. Our group of friends got together and we all took on the task of producing one item each for the feast. It fell to me to produce the Christmas pudding and so, with only a few days in hand, I sourced dried fruit, spices, flour and honey to create quite a credible imitation of a boiled pudding. The actual cooking was done at our American friends rooms who had the luxury of a rudimentary kitchen. They also provided the only relatively expensive item, a scraggy fowl. This, with lashings of fresh vegetables made for a good day, although poor Pete was laid low with a debilitating bug and missed the festivities.

The only cloud on our horizon at this time was our acute shortage of funds. We wanted to see more of Morocco before we were forced to go home. After Christmas many of our more affluent friends decamped to Essaouira,

Nowadays this attractive resort on the Atlantic coast is a favourite haunt for tourists, especially surfers. In those days it was a modest fishing village that was gaining in popularity as an alternative to Agadir, which had been a popular holiday destination until a devastating earthquake in 1960; And so, when we came to the end of time for our room rental at the hotel, we managed to scrape together enough funds to make the journey Westwards.

It wasn’t easy. What made it possible was Mustapha arranging a loan for us of a hundred dhiram; the equivalent of ten pounds. We didn’t ask him. When he realised we were going West he came to us and insisted we accept it.

Even still we wouldn’t have taken him up on it, knowing he would have had to stand as guarantor for the sum, if it wasn’t for the fact that were expecting some top up funds from Pete’s parents through the post; the only option for acquiring cash in those pre ‘hole in the wall’ days. Transferring funds by post was risky. Once or twice friends and relatives got some cash out to us, but sometimes this mysteriously disappeared between the sender and the Poste Restante box number where you picked up post. However, the odd tenner here and there kept our heads above water.

We promised Mustapha we would repay him, although, much like our German friend on the road to Oujda, I don’t think he expected to see us again. His generosity and trust in us was all the more appreciated when you took into account that he survived on very modest means. The day we left, on the inevitable bus, he came and waved us goodbye; sad that he couldn’t make the journey himself.

We loved Essaouira from the word go. It was a charming seaside town where you could stroll down to the harbour area and watch the fishermen sorting their catches and tending their wooden boats. It had some ancient ramparts that could be strolled along and the streets were flanked by white houses and shops, selling all sorts of goods; from arts and crafts to goat meat. The locals were friendly and we quickly settled into our temporary home.

Details are hazy as to our arrival but we very quickly found some lodgings. This consisted of two rooms on the first floor of a three storey house with a communal roof area. We did the deal with a middle aged woman who lived on the second floor with her teenage daughter.

We found out later that, although the woman ran and managed the letting side of the house, it was actually owned by an older daughter, who lived on the ground floor and plied the oldest trade in the world. Her chief clientele were the local constabulary; more of this later.

Our two rooms consisted of one large communal area, where we slept, cooked and generally lived in, and a smaller back room where was housed a ‘squat’ toilet, a basin and a bath. Before you get carried away by this apparent luxury dear reader, I hasten to point out that the bath was purely for water storage. We quickly learnt that the water supply was only available for a few hours a day; and so you made sure you kept the bath topped up when the taps were on.

The main room was sparsely furnished with a bed and some cooking facility, a table, chairs and, I think, a wardrobe. The shuttered window overlooked the street. On our second night in residence we were awoken by someone throwing stones at our window and shouting in Arabic.

Pete opened the shutters and looked out to see one of the local policemen standing below, swearing angrily and incomprehensibly at him. Before matters took an even nastier turn a ground floor window opened and the house owner started shouting, as angrily, at the client; one of her regular customers. We found out the next day that he had assumed Pete was a rival for the lady’s affections and had harboured some sort of proprietorial grudge at a perceived conflict of interests.

There was a lively social scene among the visiting tourists. Many of our friends from Marrakesh had rented apartments and we would socialise most days with parties, beach trips and meetings at one of the local cafes. We never tired of wandering down the narrow streets indulging in good natured bartering with the tradesmen for everyday items, who followed the common practice that we had first experienced in Azrou; of sending us from one to the other as we attempted to get the price down a few more centimes. It was all good fun; and good experience.

I think now is the time for the second tale of Pete’s teeth. An American friend called on us one day and, while indulging in some desultory and inept orange juggling, managed to snap Pete’s denture, (which he had left on the table) clean in half with one of the dropped fruits. Jerry, our American friend was truly mortified and offered to pay for a repair, if it could be arranged. It just so happened that, during one of our many rambles through the back streets of the town, we had come across what had appeared to be a dental surgery.

We visited it, with the offending denture, and gazed in the window where an artistic arrangement of antique dentistry and tools were on display. We entered the shop and explained our problem to the young dentist (presumably) who appeared from the back of the shop. Could he mend the denture we wanted to know. He assured us he could. Negotiations regarding price ensued.

They started at a hundred dhirams on his part; ten from our side of the counter. The two extremes gradually drew nearer to each other but, all the while this bargaining was batting back and forth, the presumed dental technician had, with a look of puzzled concentration on his face, been manoeuvring the two clean cut halves in an unsuccessful attempt to fit them back together. Our confidence in his ability to affect the repair gave out just as he had finally agreed to our limit of ten dhirams.

Offering apologies for wasting his time we left the shop hastily, only pausing to gaze once again on the supposed antiques, which were probably the latest models of Moroccan dental skill. The broken tooth bridge was consigned to the rucksack for the duration of our remaining journey and Pete went front toothless from then on.

One day our landlady, or rather her Mother, who lived on the next floor, invited us in for a meal. This had been instigated by the younger daughter, who was a serious bookish sort of girl and the apple of her Mother’s eye. She was a student and liked nothing better than to engage us in conversation. They depended on the other sister’s trade for all of life’s necessities, but kept themselves very much apart from the goings on on the ground floor. I suspect that the younger daughter was seen by the Mother as a chance to cast off the slur of the elder sister’s reputation.

And so we, very politely, socialised and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with the two of them in their spotlessly clean and tidy front room with the ubiquitous stunning tiled floor and wall decoration. It was a formal, but friendly interchange of different cultures. In fact, the two women would have, probably, been less out of place than ourselves, at a vicar’s tea party back home. In an attempt to show our appreciation I had taken with me a small gift for the daughter. Knowing how much western clothes were valued I presented her with a blue and white polka dot dress from Marks and Spencers that had inextricably found it’s way into my rucksack before we left home.

Actually my Mother had insisted that I pack this one ‘good frock’ in case I ‘needed’ to dress up at any stage. It was not the sort of garment I would have been seen dead in anywhere and I was very glad to get a chance to hand it over to someone who might appreciate it. The teenager seemed overwhelmed at my generosity and kept thanking me for the dress, to the point where I started feeling quite guilty at palming off such a ghastly example of western woman’s fashion.

But beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. About half an hour after we had returned to our rooms, the student knocked on our door and presented me with something wrapped up in tissue paper. Upon unwrapping it I discovered she had given me the most exquisite Moroccan dress, or djellabah. It was made of some gauzy silver material, embroidered all over in silver and lime green leaves and flowers and all the edgings were in silver braid. I protested that I couldn’t possibly accept such a precious gift but she insisted, saying that she would never wear it; indeed I got the impression that she regarded it as rather vulgar; perhaps it was an unwanted present from her sister; a woman who had no inhibitions regarding dress and was always to be seen, indoors, in gorgeous silks and satins. So, with many thanks I accepted it.

We lived in our little apartment in Essaouria for a month and, during that time, Pete casually suggested, when we got back home, we should get married. I thought it was a good idea and, just over a year later, the gift of the silver tissue and green embroidered djellabah became my wedding dress; a much treasured garment that I still have safely packed away.

PART 8: ESSAOURIA

On the roof of the house was another flat occupied by a Danish couple. I remember them because, for the duration of our stay, they were at daggers drawn with the occupant of an adjoining house. The bone of contention (an apt metaphor) was an unhappy dog that was chained up all the time on the roof of the neighbouring house. When it wasn’t having stones thrown at it by children it was howling or barking. The Danish man eventually made friends with this miserable canine and finally entered into protracted negotiations with the owner to buy it from him. The owner rooked him for a sizeable sum for supposed necessary vaccinations and papers to enable the couple to take the dog back to Denmark. But they stuck to their guns and the dog eventually departed with them for a, presumably, better life in more Northern climes.

One day Pete arrived back home with a paper parcel which, when unwrapped on the table, turned out to contain several small live crabs which scuttled away upon their release. I refused to kill them and Pete, the hardened fisherman, had to do the dreadful deed of chucking them into boiling water, prior to our seafood supper.

We would spend quite a lot of time sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the grey Atlantic; I would stay close to shore but Pete would give me palpitations swimming well out to sea while I had visions of shark attacks; a phenomenon not unknown in that part of the coast. Pete also indulged in a hilarious camel ride; a pleasure that I didn’t fancy, being of a much more timid nature and not taking to the camel’s habit of disdainfully spitting at potential riders.

One day, when we were walking to the beach along a dirt road, on the outskirts of a small settlement of low white houses, we were witnesses to an accident. A youth, careering along on his bike, hit a huge pot hole at the side of a bridge over a dried up river bed. He and the bike disappeared over the side of the bridge and several people, us included, rushed to his aid.

All was mayhem as villagers surged round his unconscious form. Mindful of internal injuries we managed to dissuade the crowd from moving him until the ambulance arrived. But when this vehicle, a grubby white van, turned up, the driver hoisted the injured party onto his shoulders and, surrounded by a large and vociferous crowd, ran up and out of the ravine and deposited him, none too gently, into the back of the van; whereupon he drove off at the customary breakneck speed.

We feared for the outcome to this incident and went back to the village the next day to get news of the invalid. We were greeted like long lost friends by his various relatives and were invited into his brother’s little white house to take refreshment. The unprepossessing exterior opened into a cosy tiled room, bright with rugs and ceramic decoration. We sat on low couches and shared in the communal dish of couscous with goat meat and drank sweet mint tea. According to the relatives, the youth had not sustained any major injury and was well on the way to recovery. They acted as if we had played a major role in saving his life; but we knew that luck had played the main part.

It was nearing the time when we had to return to Marrakesh, to pay Mustapha back and to start, reluctantly, on the way homeward. Before we left we were invited to a party by some acquaintances who were renting a whole floor of a rhiad in the town. They were Londoners but, unlike us, were not short of a bob or two.

The flat, which overlooked the central courtyard on three sides, was tastefully adorned with rugs, knick-knacks and ceramics. The floor was a stunning pattern of Moroccan tiling. The whole place had an air of comfort and the tenants, a couple of well heeled hippies whom we hardly knew, greeted us with distant friendliness.

This probably had something to do with the industrial quantities of kif that were being smoked. We were sixties children after all and we took our alternative lifestyle credentials seriously. That night a veritable cornucopia of drugs were available including some acid trips. I had taken LSD on occasion back home and had enjoyed the unhinging effects most of the time. And so I indulged, as did Pete.

At first everything seemed to be going along okay. The room was quite crowded and people drifted in and out. Suddenly I realised that the tiled floor of many colours had become liquid. Amazed I put my hand into it and swirled the colours around. It was while I was experiencing this phenomenon that I began to feel a sensation of what I can only call paranoia. The symmetrical patterns on the curtains and throws seemed vaguely threatening and I found I couldn’t look at them.

Pete, who had always had a much stronger resistance to drugs, picked up on my panic straight away and tried to reassure me that it was a temporary angst and everything would turn out fine. But, the harder I tried, the less I seemed able to keep my grip on reality. By now others were concernedly offering advice as I struggled to keep the demons at bay. But I seemed to be slipping away from my companions and surroundings down a long dark tunnel.

I truly believe that, at that moment, I was on the point of losing it completely. Gradually I became aware of an insistent voice coming from the mouth of a young American man who I could just discern at the end of the black tunnel that separated me from the rest of the room. I could hear him saying, over and over again, “whatever you are seeing turn and face it; confront it; whatever it is look at it and it will go.” All the while I was aware of him gazing at me intently; concentrating with all his being on bringing me back.

Suddenly I got it and faced up to the unknown dread. With what felt like a physical whoosh I shot back up the tunnel and emerged into the light and warmth of the room again. The relief was overwhelming.
But my travails were not yet over. I went immediately from a ‘bad’ trip to an amazingly enlightening ‘good’ one. The room appeared to have morphed into an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful treasures. Precious jewels were stacked in glittering heaps on the low tables. Lions and tigers lounged regally on the couches and did not appear averse to being stroked and admired. Everybody looked beautiful; and I told them so, illustrating my words with actions that were designed to make me curl up with embarrassment the next morning, when I was regaled with what had gone on the night before.

But the strangest occurrence on this never to be forgotten ‘trip’ was my speaking in tongues. As it was told to me the next day, during my ‘enlightened’ period I was making quite a lot of noise and the Moroccan landlady came upstairs to complain. I remember her standing at the door and berating the assembly; and I remember answering her and explaining that there was nothing to worry about. I can see her now, shrugging her shoulders, turning from the door and going back downstairs. As far as I was concerned she spoke to me in English but several people confirmed the next day that I had replied to her in Arabic.

I also remember hearing lots of different voices, speaking in different languages, in my head. It was as if I had become a radio receiver for a worldwide conversation. At one point I remember distinctly, saying, in an Ozzie accent, “Come in Australia”!

In days to come I was to remember one particular ‘happening’ during that long night. As it was explained to me the next day, when I had returned to lucidity, it had been necessary to keep me calm, to avoid me returning to the frightening darkness of the tunnel. At the time I interpreted these soothing conversations in a much more meaningful way. It seemed that people around me were telling me that I had finally emerged from a lifelong delusion of living in a world full of wars, famine, bigotry and disharmony. Evidently all the ills of the world had only been in my head; the reality was a world of happiness, prosperity and harmony.

The euphoria of this revelation was wonderful and, amazingly, logical. How could I have been so silly as to believe that the world was a place of conflict and unhappiness? It was so much more likely that we would utilise the joy of living in the most practical way possible, instead of wasting lives and time making each other miserable.

Imagine my feelings in the morning when I realised the ‘revelation’ was the delusion. Before I became aware of this sorry truth, in the grey light of dawn, I had reached a giddy plain, common to many who have indulged in hallucinogens, of being on the cusp of understanding the creation of the whole universe. But, just as I reached this crucial final understanding, I started to come down, quite rapidly.

All around me were sleeping forms. The flat looked seedy and very untidy with several broken ornaments lying about; evidence of the carnage I had caused. I felt grubby and very depressed. Pete had returned to normality long before me and we crept away to our lodgings, before our fellow party goers woke up.

We found out later that this particular batch of acid had been ‘cut’ with speed, which explained why the trip had come on so fast and been so ‘jagged’. The American boy, who had talked me out of my tunnel, had taken one two days before and had to fight out his demons all on his own on the beach. Hence his knowledge of rescue tactics.

As you have probably gathered this trip made a lasting impression on me; to the point that I can still remember it vividly nearly forty years later. When we returned home I did take acid once or twice again, but my reactions were stale and repetitive and I lost interest in mind altering drugs.
Before we returned to Marrakesh; we visited the flat of the party givers once more, to apologise for my behaviour. I was greeted very coolly and left feeling suitably deflated; but relieved that they hadn’t taken us up on our offer to pay for the carnage I had caused.

PART 9: FROM MARRAKESH . . TO BARCELONA

A few days later we were back in the main square of Marrakesh and reinstated in our old hotel room in the Central. Mustapha was very pleased to see us and, very tactfully, didn’t mention the money we still owed his moneylender. It was several days before the expected lifeline funds turned up; some from Pete’s parents and an unexpected bonus tenner from a good friend back home. Meanwhile, desperate for cash, we took all our spare clothes to the buy and sell market, where anything of western design commanded good money. In this way we kept our heads above water and paid our hotel bill.

Thankfully our funds turned up and we were able pay our debt to Mustapha. With the little money we had left, we had to make it back home post haste. Now we had to steel ourselves to return to our former lives in grey Great Britain. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to our hotel friends and started the long walk out of Marrakesh. This time we had to hitch. No expensive luxuries like bus rides for us. I remember our last sight of the dusty, sunny road out of the Arab quarter, with traders parked under orange trees selling everything and anything, including oranges, to the colourful and noisy throng of Berbers, Arabs and tourists. We turned our backs on it all and began the long trek home.

We had only walked a few kilometres out of the town when a car pulled up. Amazingly it was a Rolls Royce and a very English voice enquired of us as to where we were aiming for. We said Tangier; and couldn’t believe our luck when the driver said that was their destination. In no time at all we were ensconced in the unbelievably luxurious interior of leather seats and air conditioning; and chatting with our benefactors like old friends.

The couple lived in Eastbourne and were both doctors. They appeared to be in their forties; he was blonde with a bony frame dressed in expensive well cut clothes. His wife was an attractive dark haired Indian lady dressed appropriately in a colourful silk sari. It turned out that they had ‘popped over’ for a long weekend, hired the Rolls at Tangier airport and driven down to Marrakesh to stay at a top price hotel in the French quarter.

They were absolutely charming and we spent the next few hours swapping experiences of Marrakesh and Morocco as the Rolls ate up the miles. They were astonished at the difference in prices between the French and Arab quarter. They had spent more in a few days than we had on our whole trip. They shared with us the hamper of delicious French cuisine that had been provided by the hotel and we quizzed them about life on the south coast of England. Curious, I asked the wife if she always wore Indian dress. “Usually” she replied. “Except when I walk the dog.” How English is that!
They dropped us just outside Tangier and, before they departed, pressed into our hands a ten shilling note, (equivalent to 50 pence nowadays). We thanked them wholeheartedly for all their kindness and went our separate ways.
I don’t remember much about Tangier, except it had the same ‘edgy’ feel as Algiers had. We felt uncomfortable walking through it’s seedy streets. We were eager to get on the ferry to Algeciras, but first, we had to get our remaining dhirams changed into pesetas. This was not an operation that could be undertaken legally. With the usual protective attitude of the native state, Morocco didn’t like to see money leaving the country and so we had to take advantage of the black market.

There was no shortage of volunteers offering us a ‘fair’ rate of exchange. In those days Tangier had a decidedly dodgy reputation, being a favoured drug and illegal immigrant route; ( I am tempted to say so what else is new!) Reluctantly we engaged in negotiations with the most trustworthy looking character vying for our attention and, even more reluctantly, followed him through the seedy streets, redolent with the heavy odour of keef, to meet with his ‘broker’.

Eventually he led us up some steps between two flat roofed terraces and, smiling reassuringly, ushered us into a room where another man sat behind a table. By now, although we had convinced ourselves that we were going to be robbed, or worse, we had to go through with it and advanced to face whatever lay ahead. Ten minutes later we were walking away with a distinct feeling of anticlimax, after getting a perfectly adequate rate of exchange conducted with formal courtesy and mutual satisfaction. The anti climax was swiftly overlain with relief and we hurried to the ferry terminal.

It was here we met Big John and Mr T. That sounds a bit theatrical but we never knew them by any other names. They were two Americans, both ex Vietnam war veterans, who had been travelling through Morocco and had just spent most of their cash on a VW van, in which they intended to travel through Europe. It transpired that we could do each other a favour. If we travelled as passengers in their van we could all get over much more cheaply; the ferry charge being based on the vehicle not the occupants. And so we spent the short crossing time getting to know our new acquaintances.

We deduced that both Big John and Mr T had suffered acute trauma in Vietnam but, after a brief allusion, neither talked about it. They dealt with it in their different ways. Mr T was a taciturn man, who was pleasant, but preferred his own company and rarely opened up.
Big John couldn’t have been more different. At least six foot six and very gangly he had that rare human ability to endear himself to whosoever crossed his path. And so he covered up by being extremely humorous and gregarious.

Once over the other side we successfully negotiated customs; or so we thought, but, rounding a corner we came upon a road barrier manned by the Guardia; the scary Spanish police of Franco’s Spain. They stood, cold eyed and watchful, with machine guns at the ready, to search out any suspicious visitors. Despite a certain amount of tension on our part we passed with no incident.

So here we were in yet another country. In 1969 Spain was a completely different kettle of fish to the overcrowded tourist ridden Costas of today. The country was still largely rural and, except for the main cities, the coastal route consisted of large stretches of rugged terrain, interspersed with run down white walled villages, usually with a huge wedding cake of a church perched on the hills above, But the first stirrings of the commercialisation (instigated by Franco I believe) that was to come were plain to see. Buildings were going up all along the coast; an opportunity for us as it turned out.

When we drove out of the port town of Algeceras, I don’t remember any discussion about the four of us joining forces. We just did. The VW van was an empty shell at the start of our journey. Every time we drove past a deserted building site (siesta time was favourite) somebody, usually John, would leap out and gather any building material they could find, so that, not many days later, the van was kitted out with rudimentary bunk beds, shelves and cupboards.

We cooked on fires of brushwood and waste timber. Our main diet also came from the fields around us where vegetables grew; I remember artichokes figuring large on our menu. I write these words rather unbelievingly now; being an upright citizen who wouldn’t dream of half inching anything! But, in those couple of weeks of getting through Spain, it was definitely a case of proving Darwin right; i.e. the survival of the fittest. Pete and I were just trying to get home on the very small sum of money that we had left. Mr T. and Big John, however, intended to drive round Europe on almost no funds. So we roughed it together.

The first few nights were spent sleeping on the bare metal floor of the van, except for the lucky person whose turn it was to sample the relative luxury of the the long front seat. It was early February and bitterly cold at night. Many times in the next few days we thanked our lucky stars that we had resisted the temptation to sell our Parkas in Marrakesh.

One incident which sticks in my memory, as painful ones often do, was when I managed to crack my elbow, very painfully, on the van door one freezing night during my turn in the front seat; a seemingly minor injury which caused me much pain for the rest of the journey; and for many years later.

We drove North up the coast and didn’t stop anywhere more than a night, until we got to Barcelona. All these years later details of our journey are a hazy memory. I seem to remember that the natives were not particularly friendly and we were very aware of the heavy and ubiquitous presence of the Spanish police. People looked poor and shabby and seemed to avoid us;

The majority of women were clothed in black and heavily shawled. Once again, our ignorance of the politics of the day meant were were not conversant with the physical reality of repression that the average Spanish citizen had to put up with. How different to the open society of Spain today.

It turned out that Mr T. wanted to visit the American Embassy in Barcelona, where he had hopes of some funds; a pension payment as a wounded veteran I seem to remember. He had been the one who had paid our way as regards to petrol and minimal food up to then. He and John were depending on this money, to get them on the next stage of their journey So we drove down to the harbour and parked up on the docks for the night.

PART 10: THE FINAL STRETCH

In the morning Mr T. set off on his errand; and John accompanied Pete and I on an exploration of the labyrinth of narrow streets that led down to the docks. These shabby thoroughfares were full of that unique life and character that so typifies Barcelona. Here we met, at last, Spaniards who did not shrink from enjoying life. The Spanish tavernas loved John, who responded enthusiastically to their ‘in your face’ approach to life. When we left to return to the dock and meet up with Mr T, there were several emotional farewells from our Spanish hosts. We parted from them full of bonhomie and love for our fellow man.

We were a little surprised not to find Mr T waiting for us at the van, as it was quite late in the afternoon. But he did not appear at all and, eventually, we fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. John’s assumption was that some friends that he had intended to meet up with at the Embassy, had invited him to sleep over. But the next morning arrived and went without Mr T. John had spent most of what spare cash he had the day before; in anticipation of replenishment from the USA army pension pot.

Pete and I felt we had to try and contribute in some fashion and hit upon the idea of selling some blood. We trekked across the city to the hospital, admiring on the way the eccentric architecture of Gaudi and the imposing classical buildings which make Barcelona such a stunning place to visit to this day. But when we got to the hospital it was to find the blood donor facility was closed for the afternoon; the only afternoon of the week that it did.

We had taken the bus to the hospital and now decided to get back to the docks on the underground; evidently a cheaper option. With our limited Spanish we very nearly got totally lost, until a kind hearted young girl who looked like an office clerk, not only put us on the right track but insisted on giving us enough small change to afford the fare. We had arranged to meet John in one of the tavernas we had frequented the day before but, despite searching down many similar looking streets, we could not find it again.

We were getting desperate until, suddenly, there it was before us. Inside all was gaiety and noise. John was performing an individual style of flamenco with a more than compliant señorita and the crowd were clapping encouragingly. When we managed to fight our way to John’s side he greeted us with “Thank goodness you’re back. I can’t put off paying the bill much longer.”

It was obvious that his fellow revellers would be quite happy if he never left; so we did not take this statement to heart. Instead we all had a plate of filling soup and bread for almost nothing, only paying for the wine that had to be drunk as a matter of course. Our first experience of that eminently civilised custom of tapas.

Then it was back to the docks; and still no show from Mr T. We were seriously worried now, imagining the worst; mugging; a heart problem or even a psychotic attack as Mr T’s mental health was known to be delicate. It was too late to do anything that day so we settled down for our third night in the van, resolving to do something in the morning.

The next day saw us visiting the American embassy to make enquiries. On stating our business we were asked to wait and an official came out to question us. It turned out that Mr T, far from being in any trouble, had in fact , reported to the Embassy that he suspected Pete, John and I of abandoning him and stealing the van!

It transpired that he had returned to the dock the same day he had left and had not been able to find the van; because he had, unknowingly, gone to the wrong dock! How we laughed.

Once we were reunited and all relevant explanations had been made, Mr T. couldn’t apologise enough. He had been successful in his mission of acquiring funds and we spent our last night in Barcelona introducing him to the delights of Spanish bar life and, for the rest of our journey together, he was much more friendly and forthcoming.

Another day saw us across the Spanish border and well into France. We eventually said goodbye to each other at Arles; the parting of the ways. Our American friends were crossing into Italy but we were hitching up through France to home. It was a sad farewell. Our meeting had made the penultimate leg of our journey a memorable time. We were never to meet again; and we only ever had one communication, from John, when were home again. I hope their journeyings helped to expunge the horrors of the war that left so many young American men so traumatised.

As the little VW van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home.

Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies. The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.
With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.

As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.

At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilised version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters. Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realised that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn broke, we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel. The snow lay thick along the side of the road and was kept pristine by constant flurries. After all these years details are hazy but I know we had to walk several more kilometres before we were on the road bound for Calais.

We trudged along, again not attracting much attention from the cars that sped past. But then a car screeched to a halt in front of us. As we approached it suddenly sped off as quickly as it had come; obviously gaining some amusement from our discomfiture. When another car pulled up quite soon after, we approached cautiously and with cynicism; but this one was genuine.

We almost wished that he had been a prankster during the next few hair raising miles. At phenomenal speed he raced through the icy wastes of North West France towards Calais. Paralysed with terror, we cowered in the back seat, as the driver indulged his motor racing fantasies on the slippery road. Had we come all this way just to meet our deaths on the home stretch? Amazingly we arrived, all in one piece, at the dock. Soon after saw us on the ferry bound for Dover.

And that’s about it. The journey across the channel was predictably uneventful; no emotional Brits greeting their native shores with tears and cries of joy; just phlegmatic acceptance of grey skies and customs administration.

My last memory of our three month journey is a meal, prior to hitching up to London, in a transport cafe just outside Dover. We had managed to save the ten shilling note, given to us by our fellow Brits from Eastbourne, for some spending money through England and it had acquired a sort of talisman quality.
I will never forget the plates of greasy egg and chips, rubbery white bread smeared thinly with margarine and cups of stewed brown tea that we were served with, by an indifferent waitress on grubby plastic tables.
If anything was destined to bring us down to earth with a bump it was that meal. We had spent our last money on this culinary travesty and, at the time, it seemed to sum up all our disappointment at returning to our old way of life. We were back in the UK, homeless and jobless. Where did we go from here?

Well; that’s another story.

MOROCCAN ADVENTURES 1968/69

PART 1: DOVER TO MARSEILLES

Landing in Africa was more difficult than we had expected. . . . .
The year was 1969 and we were innocents abroad. Unlike the politically aware, Rough Guide toting travellers of today, we had arrived in the African continent mainly because the cheapest ferry from Marseilles to anywhere was Algiers. We knew nothing of friction between old colonial powers and emerging native states. Although we had some hazy idea of their ‘foreignness’ the term Arab or Muslim held no especially uneasy connotations. We thought of them as Algerians or Moroccans; and sometimes Berbers. We could speak a smattering of French and assumed we would get by with that.
My future husband and I left Britain in November of that year. I have a picture in my head of the day we set off from Pete’s parents’ house in leafy Staines. It was late Autumn but cold for the time of year. We were warm and snug in our padded parkas; our stiff new rucksacks bulged with supplies; our shoulders adjusting to their weight. We had very little money; Currency restrictions were in operation at the time and you couldn’t take more than £50 each out of the country.
But I had a guilty secret. I had an extra £100 sewn into the furry lining of my waterproof boots. How I wasn’t stopped by Customs on the way out I’ll never know. Smuggling is not my forte and, if I looked as guilty as I felt, they should have clocked me straight away. It didn’t make me feel any better when Pete pointed out that just about every traveller leaving Britain for any length of time was probably doing the selfsame thing.

But we made it onto the ferry and then train to Paris. Here we had our first mild altercation. Pete had been to Paris before on a week’s school trip; and hated every minute of it. Consequently he was determined to leave as quickly as possible. I pleaded weakly that I would just like to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, wander along the Left Bank, perhaps have a coffee at a pavement café. But all to no avail.

The problem was we couldn’t afford to stay the night in Paris so had to stick to our itinerary of going South as quickly as possible. Originally we had planned to hitch to the Mediterranean but France was in the grip of freezing weather, with deep snow lying right through it’s central region. We decided to get our train tickets and have a hurried look at the sights if there was any time to spare. After a frustrating attempt to get a taxi to the station, (the only one that deigned to stop snarled “merde” upon hearing our halting English accents and drove off immediately) there was, of course, no tourist time and that evening found us ensconced on the night train to Marseilles.
Those latter day French trains were less efficient then than their streamlined counterparts of today and we had the uncomfortable experience of travelling in a train with no heating, through some of the worst weather we had ever encountered. The snow covered plains of central France receded into the Northern distance either side of us as we rumbled Southwards. Luckily our warm parkas kept out the worst of the chill.
Sometime before midnight, we arrived and stepped off the train and it was warm! For the first time I felt the warmth of a Mediterranean night. We stood at the top of the wide flight of stone steps from the station gazing at the starry navy blue sky above, while below us stretched the narrow foreign streets of Marseilles; beyond, the Mediterranean.

After the interminable freezing journey it seemed like paradise. In days to come we were to see the seedier side of Marseilles but that first night was magical. People smiled at us. We drank delicious cups of strong black coffee, ate wonderful crisp bread and creamy cheese and finally went in search of somewhere to lay our heads.

That first night we decided to leave the joys of youth hostelling until the next day and went in search of a room. We found a pension with clean rooms and reasonable rates. Even sleeping between foreign sheets was exciting; the strange bolster and quilt on the high oak bed; the furniture so large, carved and French; and wooden shutters on the narrow high window. In the morning we indulged in coffee and croissants, sitting outside at a pavement café, watching the Marseilles populace going about their lives. But our retreat into the luxury of hotel accommodation was brief and now over. We went in search of the youth hostel.
It turned out to be our first experience in realism. The bright sun glaringly highlighted the seedy nature of the area where the youth hostel was situated, far from the elegant walks of the bay. A utilitarian building where we had to sleep separately; I in the women’s’ dormitory and Pete with the men. It had a basic kitchen with several ovens and sinks and bathroom facilities. Unlike most youth hostels this one had a haphazard air.
The guests reflected it’s cosmopolitan nature. People of all languages and creeds drifted in and out The city was, then as now, a bit of a sink dump for the flotsam and jetsam trying to get into Europe. Not only Africans but many South Americans, fleeing the dictatorships that dominated their countries at that time. A few North Americans and quite a few Europeans like us who were also on the hippy trail to Morocco.

During the three days we had to wait to get on the ferry to Algiers we met some desperate characters. One who particularly sticks in both our minds was an Argentinian teenager who had fled his own country, then in the grip of the military junta and the horrors of the ‘disappeared’ who had had all his documents stolen not long after arriving in the city via boat; (at least that’s what he told us) and had no way of staying in the country except by stealth. He survived by catching cats and selling them to the university and hospital laboratories. Our comfortable British sensibilities were shaken by his matter of fact approach to staying alive and the desperate straits other members of the human race were driven to, to accomplish what we took for granted as a basic human right.
The Autumn climate suited me just fine; warm, dry and not too hot; luckily for us as we carried everything with us when we went out, suspicious of our neighbours honesty. This was unsurprising as evenings were spent listening to one hair raising tale after another as we were told of dirty dealing, dishonesty, theft and, very rarely, violence. We probably looked ridiculous struggling about with all our goods and chattels draped or affixed to our persons, but at least we still had them all when we finally arrived at the dock to board our boat to Africa!
Finally the morning came when we could get on the boat taking us over the water. Three days before we had tried several shipping offices, to find a boat that we could afford, to take us to the African continent. At one time we even toyed with the insane idea of taking the proverbial banana boat to South America, but cowardice prevailed and we ended up booking a passage on the cheapest tramp steamer travelling deck class.

I was the only female, of any nationality, on board. Our fellow passengers were almost exclusively Algerians returning to their capital city; many loaded down with goodies, for future resale, from the European continent. They were a noisy chattering crowd smoking and drinking mint tea under a small covered area on deck. I seem to remember the crossing was at least 12 hours.
There were male and female toilet facilities but I only visited ‘les dames’ twice; the first time in ignorance of the fact that the female toilet was used by the male passengers as a defecating facility, the male section being reserved for urinary relief. The stench was horrendous and did wonders for my bladder control for the rest of the night. The second reluctant visit was in absolute desperation much later during the early morning. There was nowhere to sleep except the deck and, as the huge glittering stars appeared in the velvet night blue Mediterranean sky, it began to get quite cold. We huddled down in our parkas to try and get some sleep.
One of the Arabs settled down next to us, with two large sacks of what turned out to be army greatcoats. It soon became obvious that he was rather taken with Pete, who in those days was a dark haired handsome youth, and he engaged him in conversation, all the while tenderly covering him with greatcoats. He totally ignored me, and Pete had to wait until he had nodded off before surreptitiously sliding a couple of the garments over my shivering form.

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PART 2: ARRIVAL IN AFRICA

Dawn arose and the deck was crowded with Arabs leaning on the rail and gazing towards the African shoreline. In the far distance, glowing pink as they gradually emerged out of the morning mist, we saw the walls of Algiers. As we approached the shore the mood among the passengers became more and more frenetic. Shouting ‘Algers Algers’ our fellow travellers excitedly gesticulated, climbing onto the railings of the boat and hanging precariously over the side. Indeed, as we finally pulled into the harbour, many of them leapt into the sea; as if unable to contain their impatience to touch their native soil again.
We realised later that they were probably hoping to elude the authorities rather than experiencing any uncontrollable nationalistic tendencies. But, at the time, this enthusiasm seemed remarkable to a reserved English couple. I tried to imagine a ferry docking at Dover with English passengers weeping with emotion, shouting the name of their beloved country and fighting tooth and claw to be the first to step onto the hallowed soil!
With true British phlegm we decided to wait until the queue had subsided. To call it a queue was not quite the right word to describe the frenzied heaving melee which surged and struggled to be first down the gangplank. The near riot conditions that ensued only served to produce a log jam that was restrained by officials at the end of the gangplank while mayhem reigned on deck.

Smugly we sat and waited for the crowd to disperse. When it seemed to be calming down we strolled to the end of the line to wait our turn. But, to our acute embarrassment, an official, patrolling the line, strode towards us and, politely but firmly, frog marched us to the front of the queue. Our fellow passengers watched our progress with seeming indifference and politely fell back to let us through, before resuming their efforts to beat their neighbours onto dry land. We felt like VIPs with our special treatment. Again, much later, we assumed that they preferred to get any Europeans out of the way before they started dealing with the locals.
A few steps onto the shore of Africa and we came down to earth with a bump. The first impression was the smell; rank and fishy with assorted detritus piled high along the wharf. Then we arrived at Customs. No special treatment here; only a bizarre and confusing altercation with two officials in military style uniform who sat behind their table examining our documents and insisting in talking to us in Arabic. When I say us I really mean Pete. This was my first experience of being an invisible female in a male dominated Muslim world. It transpired that they did not believe Pete was a British citizen.
As I have already said Pete was then dark haired and dark eyed and could easily have been taken for an Arab (we were to find this a useful asset in the weeks to come) But his total incomprehension of their language, plus at least an hour spent arguing with them in our halting French, finally seemed to convince them of his genuineness and, with much scowling and officious rubber stamping, we were waved through.

What in our innocence we had not realised was that they were probably waiting for us to offer money; in short a bribe; We were European after all and therefore rich. Luckily we were ignorant enough not to waste any of our precious cash and had finally been granted access to African shores with all our funds intact.
In chastened mood we left the dock and walked into Algiers. I have to say that, as our first experience of an African city Algiers was a great disappointment. The white buildings that had glistened so invitingly when viewed from the ferry were shabby and run down when seen close to. An air of degeneration and depression seemed to hang like a pall. The colonial style architecture had once been elegant but was now crumbled and in need of paint. Most of the inhabitants looked at us with apparent suspicion, peering at us, as we passed, from the narrow alleyways. Later, when we became more aware of the past history of Algeria and France, we understood better the antipathy of the Algerians. But, at that time it just didn’t feel friendly and we decided not to stay as we had planned, but get on the road to the West straight away. We bought bread, cheese and tomatoes and started to walk out of the city.
It was still early morning as we finally left the industrial outskirts behind. The road lay before us, disappearing into the distance. Beyond the sand dunes to our right we could hear the crash of Mediterranean waves; to our left were rocky sand coloured outcrops sparsely covered with shrubby herbs that smelt smokily aromatic. The huge continent of Africa stretched away to the South; as far as the Cape of Good Hope. The enormous sky was all around us and we were suddenly both acutely aware that we were but pinpricks at the extreme North of this massive landmass. It felt as if we had been transported into a giants world as we perched, like ants, on the very tip of Africa.

The first thing we realised about hitching in Algeria was that lifts were a rare commodity. The wide straight road disappeared over the distant horizon. Either side were shallow sandy banks, sparsely covered with twiggy scrub and herbs. Occasionally a vehicle would roar past and the driver would glance incuriously in our direction as he sped on his way; but no lifts ensued. After several kilometres of weary walking we got a lift into Blida, the next town west of Algiers, with a friendly Algerian in an old truck. He insisted that we visit his vinery as he wanted to eat, but, this being Ramadan, he couldn’t do so in public.
We spent a pleasant hour at his cool white house, admiring his many bottles of wine and sampling one of them with bread and dates. Later he dropped us on the other side of Blida and we started walking again. Just out of the town there was a police road block. They appeared to be checking drivers’ papers before letting them on their way. We walked past and waited at a junction, in sight of the road block. As the lorries and trucks were let through we thumbed hopefully, but the few vehicles to pass thundered on, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
The stony empty road stretched unendingly into the distance. We had no option but to hope for a lift eventually so we sat and waited. After about half an hour we noticed one of the police coming towards us. With trepidation we watched him approach.
He looked an ugly customer; heavy jowled and squat, with decidedly undesigner like stubble; but, far from the threatening behaviour we expected, he halted with a heel click, gave a small bow of the head and held up a hand to impede any flight that we might have been contemplating.

“Attende Monsieur et Madame” he said and, with apparent disregard for life and limb, he strolled casually into the path of a speeding lorry, recently freed from the shackles of the road block. With the confidence of authority he stood, only sidestepping the inevitable impact at the last moment, when it became obvious that, despite the driver’s best efforts, the lorry would not stop in time.
As the officer approached the cab the driver leant down, gesticulating and truculent but, after a furious tirade from the policeman, he subsided into a sullen grumble. Before we had realised what was happening the driver had jumped down and, letting down the backboard of his open truck, indicated that we were to get in. The luxury of the cab was not for us as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat. We thanked both the driver and the policeman, who once more inclined his head, said the Arab equivalent of ‘have nice day’ and marched, with heavy assured steps, back to the road block.
We tried to keep our balance as the truck rattled on at breakneck speed. The driver, having had two strangers foisted upon him, was not about to pander to our comfort. To make matters worse it started raining and,as the road climbed into the hills, the shower changed to snow. Without warning the journey finished as abruptly as it had started. The driver stopped at a side road junction and signalled to us to get down. Once rid of his burdens he raced out of our adventure with a brief ‘salut’.

By now it was late afternoon. About two miles up the side road we could see signs of habitation. We trudged towards it, having had enough of the open road for one day. It turned out to be quite a respectable sized township with French style buildings on either side of the narrow main street. We turned into the first house with a ‘pension’ sign outside.
It was built in French colonial style; and, standing in the gloomy hall, was indeed the original French colonial. Her black hair was strained back into a bun. Her clothes were of a nondescript drab appearance and her manner was cautiously civil. While we were signing the register her husband appeared on the scene. He also greeted us, but much more warmly. It rapidly became apparent that he, particularly, was starved of European company and found the natives a poor substitute for erudite Western views.
They had moved to this out of the way village from somewhere in mid France and, having burnt their boats purchasing the pension that they fondly hoped would be a magnet for tourists, were now stuck in the back of beyond in a country that was alien to them.
They insisted that we ate with them. It was bad French cuisine; a tough meat course preceded some overcooked vegetables. Anything else that was served was so unmemorable that I have forgotten it. After the meal the proprietor took Pete on a ‘Pernod’ crawl round the local cafes. Two drinks in each and then home; so it didn’t take long.

word count 1719

PART 3: CROSSING THE BORDER

The next morning found us having to make a decision. Would we carry on hitching or resort to public transport? West of the town the road carried on, vast and open through rocky countryside, with a few villages dotted sparsely along it’s route. The next large town was Oran, 400 kilometres away.
We decided it would be cheaper to get the bus rather than drain our dwindling resources on bed and board along the road; so that afternoon found us rattling along on our way to Oran.
I don’t remember the journey, except for seeing live chickens and goats tied onto the roof of the coach. Their apparent unconcern at this treatment was more unnerving than the supposed cruelty.
We arrived in Oran in the early evening. This cosmopolitan city was a lot more prepossessing than the capital Algiers. Its white stone buildings and large open squares were reminiscent of it’s recent French occupation. We decided to break our journey here and treat ourselves to an evening meal before retiring to the local youth hostel.
We chose a pleasant looking establishment with tables and chairs parked on the outside pavement, looking across one of the leafy squares. The waiter was thrilled to have some tourists to wait on and treated us like royalty, piling our plates high with chicken and lentils cooked French style. Pete washed it all down with large amounts of local wine and we left after emotionally vowing eternal friendship with the cafe staff.

During the meal our table was visited by a girl with a tray of matches and other useless miscellanea. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she had the eyes of a businesswoman and didn’t leave us until my guilty conscience had purchased a few unnecessary odds and ends. Life is hard if you are working those sort of hours at six years old.
The next morning saw us hitching out of Oran. I felt great. Ahead lay the Algerian/Moroccan border. Pete felt dreadful; repeatedly retching behind the odd eucalyptus bush. He blamed the chicken from the night before but, as I was hale and hearty, we both knew it was the vino what had done it!
It was while trying to get out of Oran and back on the open road that we got one of the few lifts of the whole journey; it was from a young French woman driving the ubiquitous Renault. She was a schoolteacher and, as she drove us through the narrow streets on the city outskirts little children ran alongside with pleading eyes and hands outstretched for largesse. As my fingers groped for a few small coins she told us severely not to even consider giving them anything.
“They must learn that begging is not an acceptable way to live. Education is their way out of poverty”. Even in those apolitically aware days of my youth, and as an inexperienced tourist, I remember thinking that it was okay for her. An educated superior female, laying down the law in someone else’s country. And she knew where her next crust was coming from; but we meekly did as we were told.

She dropped us in Tlemcen, the border town that was to be our introduction into Morocco. This was a sizeable town, again showing the French influence in it’s architecture. We didn’t stop to look, but shared a taxi with other eager border crossers to be.
Nowadays the border between Algeria and Morocco is closed to tourists. Back then you could cross over but neither side made it an easy process. The border, a dusty two lane road with two barriers about a hundred yards apart, was closed.
We mooched about for some two hours waiting for it to open, finding what shade we could under the trees along the highway. It was a hot dusty afternoon and the few houses either side of the highway were quiet and shuttered. It was Ramadan and nobody stirred.
Eventually a soldier came and unlocked the shed that served as customs. We lined up with the others to show passports and visas. These passed muster and we walked the few steps to the Moroccan border post. Any minute now we would be in another country with it’s subtly different character.
But it was not to be; not for a few more hours anyway.
The Moroccan border guard gave our documents a cursory glance and then demanded to know how much Moroccan money we were bringing in. Due to everything being closed for Ramadan we had not been able to change our Algerian dinars into Moroccan dhirams in Tlemcen and had naively assumed we would sort out our finances once in Morocco.

We had, in fact, changed much too much of our precious sterling into dinars at Algiers, assuming our stay in Algeria would be much longer and more expensive than it turned out to be. So it was a bit of a blow to find out that the Moroccan authorities wouldn’t let us in without Moroccan notes.
Morosely we returned to the Algerian hut but they were uninterested in our plight. They just shrugged and said we would have to return to Tlemcen and find a bank. We re-entered Tlemcen in the same taxi with a new set of passengers and found a bank; quite an imposing building, on the outskirts of town. It was shut and our enquiries revealed it would not open until six o’clock, the witching hour during Ramadan, when everything bursts into life once more. After an interminable wait drinking coffee in a dark little cafe (which probably should have been shut) we returned to the bank and were the first through the heavy wooden doors when they finally swung open.
It should have been a simple transaction; but no. Bureaucracy, and not a little bribery and corruption, ruled. I sat on a bench and waited, as behoved an obedient female companion, while the bank clerk told Peter that they would only change a third of our dinars to dhirams. Despite his protestations Pete returned to my side with a little Moroccan cash and a lot of useless dinars.
We wandered back outside and stood, nonplussed, in the dusty sunlight. We couldn’t afford to lose this much of our limited capital. My enforced non-participation in the transaction coupled with the frustration of the return journey from the border suddenly came to a head. With Pete following I marched back into the bank.

Approaching the bank clerk I demanded that he change the rest of our money. With a shrug and a deprecating air he assured me he could not. It was “impossible”.In that case I informed him I was going to stay in the bank until somebody found it “possible” to grant my request. I sat down on one of the many oak benches in the imposing, high ceilinged foyer in view of all the customers, who were, by now, quite numerous.
After about a quarter of an hour a smooth looking man approached me. He was obviously senior to the clerk and, although condescendingly polite, insisted that there as nothing to be done; I would have to leave.
I assured him, with equally indifferent civility, that I had no intention of moving until I had seen someone in authority. He visibly bridled with wounded dignity at my assumption that he was not sufficient ‘authority’ to move me on. His tone took on a more haranguing quality but I was determined that they would have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the door, to remove me from my bench.
By now a small crowd had gathered round us in interested anticipation. The oily man began to look look distinctly oilier. I stuck fast and asked for the manager. He ‘was out’. He ‘would not be in for some time’ I would ‘have to leave’; the mamselle ‘did not understand’. I understood enough to know I was getting under his skin. I gazed impassively at the ceiling fan slowly moving the stale air.
My antagonist suddenly stopped arguing and, rather unnecessarily, asked me to wait. He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bank screens. He returned eventually with yet another clerk in tow, and asked me to accompany him. Pete, by this time, had got bored and gone outside for a smoke; and to wait for events to take their course.

I was ushered into a side room and shown to a chair on one side of a huge leather topped desk. Going to another door my official opened it and through it came a slight little man with an apprehensive air. Another clerk I thought, but no! My official had undergone an amazing transformation.
He preceded the little man to a much larger chair than mine on the other side of the desk, and tenderly, with much reverential murmuring, bowing and scraping, ensconced him comfortably in it’s imposing leather seat.
This was the manager my official told me (I felt that this was not the time to point out that the manager was supposedly out) and he, in his great wisdom and infinite generosity, may Allah be praised, had decided to grant my request.
He went on for a while about his boss’s kindness and sympathy for my plight; about his desire that I should not leave their country in any way dissatisfied with my treatment. This manager was a lord among men and I was lucky that I had touched his heart with my distress.
While this wonderful display of boot licking was taking place the manager uttered not one word, only gazing owlishly at me over the enormous desk, smiling and nodding at his underling’s fervent flattery. I entered into the spirit of the thing and smiled back. Now we were friends and all went swimmingly; even to them giving me the correct rate of exchange.
The transaction over, we parted on the friendliest of terms with my official even saying finally, in a rather flirtatious manner, that the thing that had clinched the manager’s change of heart was the sight of my ‘beautiful blue eyes.’

I stifled the urge to laugh and returned to Pete’s side in triumph. He was about to re-enter the bank, being worried by my prolonged absence. When I emerged with the cash he was both relieved and suitably impressed at my achievement.
We got a lift in the same taxi, with other escapees, back to the border. This time we were let through. We had done it. We were in Morocco.

word count 1765

PART 4: AFTER THE BORDER

It must have been about 8 o’clock in the evening when we finally set off along a rocky road that wound slowly upward through open moorland. From our map we could see our next refuge was a town called Oujda, about 20 miles on. It also had a youth hostel; an essential for poverty stricken tourists. We walked and walked; and walked and walked; only pausing occasionally to gaze back the way we had come, vainly hoping some vehicle would hove into view.
Dusk was rapidly falling and we were beginning to wonder how we would find shelter in this bleak landscape. Glancing back once more we saw, in the far distance, a car approaching. We were determined to stop it somehow or other. We both stood in the middle of the road and waved frantically. For a minute I thought it was going to swerve round us. But, at the last second, in a shower of stones, it screeched to a halt. Thankfully we climbed into the back.
Our chauffeur was a middle aged German man with a kindly face. On discovering our nationality he insisted on conducting the conversation in very bad English. From this we deduced that our saviour was going right through Oujda and even knew where the youth hostel was. Surely, at last, our luck had turned. As we bowled along at some speed we found out that the German was a travelling salesman; of what I can’t remember, but it was something mundanely useful. We chatted on and relaxed into the comfortable interior as the darkened landscape slid swiftly past.

Suddenly, without warning, the car lurched sickeningly. With considerable skill our German friend managed to stop at the side of the road. On inspection it turned out we had a puncture, almost certainly caused by the shower of stones that occurred when he stopped so abruptly to pick us up.
With great cheerfulness our friend, with Pete’s assistance, put on the spare and on we went again. About five miles down the road the other tyre on the same side sprung a leak and once more we ground to a halt.
What to do? We were about five miles from Oujda and, after some discussion, we persuaded the German that we would go on ahead and try and get help. He smiled and agreed, although it was quite obvious that he didn’t believe us, assuming we were deserting the sinking ship. With a cheery wave he bid us farewell and settled down for a night’s sleep in the car. Off we trudged, determined to prove him wrong. About two miles from Oujda we got a lift with a local from the town and, upon hearing our story, he took us to a garage.
To our amazement the garage mechanic seemed to grasp the problem immediately; asked the make of the car, slung a couple of tyres into the back of his pick-up and we all trundled back up the road to rescue our friend.
It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. With the minimum of fuss the garage man changed both tyres and, after payment, we followed him back into Oujda in case of further mishap. Our German friend was now fulsome in his gratitude at our return; but we still felt guilty at having caused the problem in the first place.

And so, finally, we arrived in Oujda. Our new found friend insisted on taking us for a meal at a cafe that he frequented.
The locals were a friendly lot; definitely nicer to know than the Algerians we had left behind. Eventually he drove us to the youth hostel and we regretfully parted company, thanking him profusely for all his help. Another cheery wave and he was swiftly gone, into the darkness.
I hope Oujda is still a pleasant town. It was then. The youth hostel was set in what approximated to the leafy suburbs. The sunlit streets were wide thoroughfares bordered by square white villas set back in walled gardens full of exotic plants and palm trees. The whole place had an air of enjoyable somnolence.
The youth hostel was one of the larger villas and, because Oujda was close to the border, there was quite a mix of nationalities, mainly European, on the trail to and from Marrakesh. It was an easy going establishment with basic but adequate amenities. The community kitchen was where we all gathered, chatting and making friends. It was the sixties; we all loved each other and were heady with the freedom of the open road.
The hostel warden or supervisor was a Moroccan man in his twenties called Mustapha. He was pleasant enough when not veering between temperamental complaint and the necessity to project and protect his cool ‘with it’ image. He rarely wore the traditional djellabah’s but favoured a natty line in western dress. This was usually finished off with a theatrical red silk lined cape, a garment of which he was inordinately fond.
Despite his overweening self admiration he was a likeable man, if only for his eagerness to live in the modern world.

He was a good looking guy and probably had some success with the free living European and American girls that passed through the town. About the third day we were there he tried his technique on me; and appeared astonished and hurt when I turned him down.
The next day Pete couldn’t resist teasing him with his failure and Mustapha’s wounded dignity was worthy of RADA. However, the next time we happened to be alone he asked me, indignantly, why I had told Pete and seemed to find it inconceivable that we actually talked about such things. I think he genuinely thought I should have shown a little more consideration for his reputation!
The day after we arrived who should appear back on the doorstep than our travelling salesman. He had turned round and come all the way back when he had discovered one of my plastic boots in his car; the boots of currency smuggling fame; the boots I had not worn since Marseilles. They had proved totally unsuitable in warm climates and had spent most of the journey tied to my rucksack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this so we had a coffee with him instead, thanked him again and waved him goodbye once more; this time for ever.
Pete’s teeth rate a mention here. Pete had lost several of his top front teeth while still at school, after a combination of a nasty bicycle accident and a rugby injury He had a false set which were the bane of his life. One day he got these teeth stuck down one of the hostel’s unguarded basin plug holes.

We tried everything to get them out., with most of the hostel residents, and Mustapha, milling about with helpful suggestions. Several implements were tried but those teeth were stuck fast. Eventually, when it became obvious that half measures would not do, I took my courage in both hands and just wrenched them out. Amazingly they didn’t break. This was not the last adventure for Pete’s teeth; but more of that later.
We enjoyed our few days of readjustment at Oujda. From this point we really started to appreciate our surroundings and situation. Algeria had been an experience, if rather a short tense one, but in Morocco we were able to relax. The people were friendly and open; they really seemed to like us, whereas in Algeria they had appeared to just tolerate us or hustle.
We decided to use the bus to get to Fez, our next port of call. This form of transport was so cheap that it didn’t seem worth spending hours sitting at the side of the road. Besides, the bus journeys were an experience in themselves. For a start they were always jam packed. Every imaginable possession was tied onto the roof rack, including live chickens and goats.
At every stop street vendors would swarm on, selling anything and everything. Beggars would hang on the sides, entreating us to part with small change, only jumping off when the driver had picked up a bit of speed. The bus that took us to Fez had seen better days and, as it creaked and groaned up the steep winding road, I tried not to imagine what might happen if it didn’t make the next hairpin bend.

The landscape was beautiful in places. We were travelling just north of the Atlas mountains and some of the villages looked remarkably like alpine hamlets in Switzerland. It was hard to believe that, not many miles South stretched the vast expanse of the Sahara.
About a mile from the city walls of Fez, the bus finally gave up and ground to a halt. Whereupon most of the passengers surged to the front to give the driver the benefit of their advice. A noisy throng gathered round the gearbox, which was generally regarded as the cause of the breakdown.
We sat and watched as chaos reigned. Would be mechanics removed various oily parts and discarded them round the drivers seat. He was in there shouting with the best of them. It was all very good natured and everybody was obviously enjoying it. But the fun had to stop eventually and, as one man, they decided to do the only thing possible. Every able bodied person piled out the bus and, assisted by interested passers by, they pushed the bus to the walls of Fez. As we departed to see the sights, the heads were back down to dismantle the remains of the gearbox.

WORD COUNT 1604

PART 5: BEYOND FEZ

To visit Fez in those days was like going back in time. The huge stone walls interspersed with massive gateways into the city looked as if they were ready to repel marauders, much as they did in centuries past. When you entered and explored the narrow alleyways of the souk, hung with colourful cloths, smelling of exotic spices piled high on round pottery dishes, selling every conceivable vegetable, fruit, fish and fowl and teeming with white robed people, you knew it must have looked much the same in medieval times.
It is Morocco’s holiest city and once was the most powerful politically, being a famous seat of learning of the Arab world. We were too young and inexperienced to appreciate this all those years ago and began to feel rather uncomfortable at the curious stares we got as we wandered through it’s narrow ancient streets. We had been going to stay in Fez but, after an unnerving interlude when we got hopelessly lost and had to pay a small boy to guide us back to a main thoroughfare, we decided to push on to Marrakesh.
So, late afternoon of that day found us alighting from another bus in the small mountain town of Azrou. It was really a large village on the edge of the Atlas range with the characteristic architecture of that region. Beautiful wooden chalet like houses with a backdrop of snowy peaks and evergreens once again reminded us of Alpine scenes. The main street climbed steeply through white washed stone houses, many with little open fronted cafes whose interiors dissolved into darkness against the brightness of the sun.

This was Berber country. The people looked different. They were dark and handsome. The women were some of the most beautiful we had ever seen. Unveiled, their strong features and stately walk made them truly arresting as they glided effortlessly up the sharp inclines, dressed in gorgeous wraps and headdresses. And these people were friendly. On almost every face was a broad grin of welcome.
Our first stop was the market, which was a modest affair on a small piece of flattened earth at one end of the main street. We wandered round the stalls, practising our newly acquired bargaining skills. They didn’t have a lot to sell but every stall had the ubiquitous oranges.
We had quickly become addicted to this fruit, so different to the pallid tasteless version available in shops back home. Small and sweet, warm to the tongue, you could taste the sunshine. But here, in this mountain region, they were relatively expensive. Vainly we went from stall to stall, trying to get the price down; until we realised that the stallholders were gently pulling our legs, sending us from one to the other, confident we would not do better, as they had all agreed on the price. We gave in and bought some anyway.
Wandering back up the main street we were struck by the numbers of inhabitants sitting motionless at the outside tables of the little street cafes. They all had, in front of them, a bowl of chick pea soup, bread, dates, a pipe of keef and a pot of mint tea. Suddenly the end of the daily fast was signalled by the unearthly chanting from the mosque. Immediately everywhere was activity. People ate, drank, smoked and talked; all at once. We were invited to join one table of old men and spent a pleasant hour with them.

While we there a young man came and sat down, joining in the conversation. The old men were friendly enough, even bantering with him, but Pete and I both felt he was not really welcome.
We asked if they knew of a place to stay and were directed to a large cafe at the top of the town. The place had a French feel to it, with wooden chairs and tables to one side of a small bar. We were offered a room above the cafe, which turned out to be clean and neat; rather reminiscent of our Marseilles pension. After a wash we went downstairs for a meal. The place was pretty full and was obviously very popular with the locals. The waitress was, of course, a handsome Berber girl, swapping lively banter with her customers. In front of their foreign guests they all showed off shamelessly and we had one of the most entertaining evenings of our trip so far.
As the evening progressed we noticed that the waitress conducted a kind of game with some of her favourite customers. This consisted of her clapping just as one or other of them attempted to smoke a cigarette or drink some mint tea. The customer immediately had to stop their smoking or drinking and match her clap for clap, until the whole cafe were laughing at her persistence.
When she pretended to stop and turn away the customer would affect an air of exaggerated relief and attempt to get down one mouthful of tea or smoke, before she wheeled around and started them off clapping again. It was a simple pastime that for some reason was hilariously funny; no doubt because of the theatrical nature of the waitress’s insistent clapping and the mock eye – rolling misery of the chosen customer. The keefe laden atmosphere probably helped as well.

In the middle of it all the door opened and in came the same young man we had seen at the open air cafe. Although nobody actually stopped what they were doing, the atmosphere subtly changed.
The waitress went over to his table and sat with him, laughing and chatting; indeed they seemed to be indulging in a little light hearted flirtation. The young man smiled at us and asked in a friendly manner about our journey and whether we liked Morocco. We said we liked it very much, especially this little town of Azrou.
He seemed pleased at our response. Later, when he got up to use the toilet, the minute he had left the room, the waitress came over to us and hissed “Garde; le Police. Comprend? We ‘comprended’ and, when he returned, the whole cafe, which had sunk to guarded whispers while he was out of the room, came to life again; and put on an admirable act of including him in the festivities. Eventually he left and everybody relaxed and continued the clapping game.
The next morning saw us on another bus, still aiming for Marrakesh, 400 kilometres to the South. Our next port of call was Khenifra, a village built entirely of hot red clay bricks. Between the low flat roofed buildings ran beaten dirt streets and the orange dust coated everything, including us. It looked like a shanty town, hastily thrown up. It was as raw as its red brick dwellings and a harsh contrast after the appeal of Azrou.
Back on the bus again and late afternoon found us at Beni Mellal, a nondescript town of shabby white buildings. We were tired and dirty after another bone shaking ride on local transport and only wanted to find somewhere to rest for the night.

We entered the nearest cafe, a cool deserted shop with a food bar to one side. and, upon enquiry the proprietor confirmed they had got a room for the night.
Thankfully we followed the owner to the back of the cafe and into a side room. Inside was an old iron bedstead and not much else, although the proprietor did proudly point out the extra facility of an ancient washbasin. We didn’t care as long as we could put our heads down and sleep.
There was nothing on the bed except a lumpy mattress. While we were getting settled in a teenage boy appeared at the door. His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried sheets and blankets. We thanked him, but, when we came to make up the bed, we discovered the sheets were wet; and I don’t mean damp; I mean wet. We took them back and the proprietor assured us he would supply more.
Once more the boy arrived, grinning from ear to ear, with more sheets; also wet and probably the same ones. We abandoned the unlooked for luxury of sheets and, after a snack, decided to call it a day.
While we were eating the cafe began to fill up. It was after 6 o’clock and time to eat and drink. Many customers filed past us to the back of the cafe where there was a large communal room, (next to ours) carpeted with raffia mats. Here men sat in groups, around their hubbles, eating and talking and drinking tea. When we returned to our room we noticed many more white robed customers, sitting around the walls of the cafe. They gazed at us impassively as we passed between them.
At last we were able to shut our door and sink onto the unforgiving mattress, sans sheets. We had tried to wash off some of the days grime in the washbasin but, on turning on the tap, the pipes had rattled so alarmingly we had abandoned the attempt.

Never mind; we were too tired to care. We could sleep through anything, even the ever increasing noise from the cafe, now added to by a radio turned up full volume.
We were just sinking into uneasy slumber when a terrible clattering and hissing wrenched us from the arms of Morpheus.
That was some of the noisiest plumbing I’ve ever come across. It transpired that, when the Espresso machine on the counter was utilised, our pipes groaned and howled in sympathy. Shaken, we tried to ignore the constant din, telling ourselves that, sooner or later, the noise would die down as people went home to bed. We dozed on and off for hours but, if anything, the noise got louder and more frantic. The radio wailed; the customers shouted and laughed; the plumbing clanged and hissed.
It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when I finally broke and decided, with the stupidity induced by exhaustion, to complain about the noise!
The cafe was full to overflowing, exclusively with men all robed in white djellabahs. I marched up to the bar, my step slowing as all eyes turned in my direction. It dawned on me that I, a bare headed, red haired freckle faced European female must have looked a trifle out of place! Arriving at the bar I gazed at the waiter and every ear in the room waited for my words.
So, I asked for two cups of hot chocolate. Grinning broadly and nodding knowingly to his customers as he passed, the waiter insisted on preceding me with the steaming cups arranged on a round silver tray, a towel draped over his arm. Meekly I followed him back to our room, picking my way through the groups of smiling customers. With a flourish he served our chocolate and left.

Resignedly we settled down to wait for the morning. Just before dawn broke Pete added insult to injury by falling asleep; and snoring!
We found out later that this night had been the only one in the month of Ramadan when all good Muslims stayed awake till sunrise. As light filled the sky our neighbours disappeared, to their beds presumably, and we snatched a few hours before we had to leave

word count 1893.

PART 6: A FEW WEEKS IN MARRAKESH

Marrakesh was now within a days journey. We should have been keyed up with excitement but, after our sleepless night in Beni Mellal, all we could think of was to get on yet another bus, curl up on the back seat and sleep. But we had reckoned without our tourist status. As soon as we climbed on board we made for the back seat. The driver immediately stopped us and, with much gesticulating and smiling, he showed us to the very front of the bus. We reluctantly complied and were the centre of attention as the bus filled up behind us. We had a panoramic view of the road ahead as the driver rattled serenely on.
The road grew steeper and began to wind round hairpin bends with a sheer drop to one side. On the straight our driver had seemed competent and relaxed. As the route grew more tortuous he became more distracted, especially when passengers found it necessary to come to the front of the bus and shout advice in his ear. We hung on to our seats, mesmerised with terror, as we veered from side to side when the driver turned round in his seat to shout back at his critics.
There was nothing between us and the stony road except that brittle windscreen. Tired as we were we could not, dare not, shut our eyes; only pray that the driver would, somehow, get us to Marrakesh in one piece.
And, of course, he did. A few hours later found us standing in Djemaa el Fna, the now famous main square of Marrakesh . We were still exhausted; but who could fail not to be immediately overtaken with the strange exciting atmosphere of Morocco’s most romantic and cosmopolitan city.

There we were in that famous square with it’s balcony cafe and the narrow streets of the souk disappearing in all directions. All around us was noisy life, music and colour. We itched to start exploring straight away, but accommodation was our first priority.
All around the square were modest looking hotels. We went through the entrance arch of the nearest one, the Hotel Central, and found ourselves in the cool inner courtyard with its sunken garden of palm trees that reached up to the sky. The building was one of the now famous riads, built on three stories with a flat roof terrace. The rooms were reached by a series of stone staircases, which joined with galleries on each of the floors. We got a room for the night on the ground floor. Although shabby, the hotel was generally clean and our room was tidy and quiet.
After a few hours of exhausted slumber we ventured out to experience our first evening in Marrakesh. We wandered among the many stalls selling everything any tourist could possibly want. We were hungry and so, for the first time, but definitely not the last, we sampled the delicious Conga eel steaks, shallow fried in front of us and served with a hot sweet dipping sauce; which seemed to consist of orange and chilli; a taste which I have tried (and failed) to recreate many times since.
For a few small coins you could have a deep bowl of harrisa stew served with hard wholemeal bread; a satisfyingly filling and cheap meal. And Marrakesh was the first place where we ate delicious goats milk yoghurt which had a lemony tang and stuffed ourselves with exquisitely cooked doughnuts smothered in sugar; the best I have ever tasted.

Everywhere there were crowds of people; the traditional Arabs in flowing white; the Berber musicians and acrobats and many tourists like us. All nationalities mingled and seemed to rub along together pretty well.
We listened to the music, wandered among the little shops which lined every narrow alley of the Souk, gazing at the wrought metal artifacts, leather, jewellery and colourful cloths hanging under the awnings. Little pavement cafes sold glasses of hot sweet mint tea; a taste I never acquired due to the excessive amounts of lump sugar that were considered necessary additions before serving; but we both quickly got addicted to the alternative; small strong cups of black coffee that were both refreshing and reviving. Eventually we dragged ourselves away to our bed, secure in the knowledge that it would all still be there in the morning. Now we had reached Marrakesh and our adventure had really begun.
The Hotel Central proved to be an economical and comfortable berth during our stay in Marrakesh. Once I had got over the shock of the ubiquitous cockroaches in the communal toilet, that scurried out of sight whenever this facility was used, we both adjusted to this new way of living. Despite the cockroaches, the standards of cleanliness were perfectly adequate; indeed we were both struck by the practice of washing down the courtyard every morning, so that the tiled area always looked clean and inviting.
After a few days we came to a financial arrangement with the hotel manager which gave us a substantial discount for an extended stay. This suited the management as well as us because there were many cheap hotels vying for the custom of tourists like ourselves who were travelling on a very tight budget.

Marrakesh was (and still is) a city of two halves; the Arab quarter and the French built new city; not far in distance but miles apart in cultures and economy. Moneyed tourists, who stayed in the continental style hotels and shopped in the broad boulevards of the French district, were not to know that the Arab quarter was not only much cheaper but much more exciting and closer to the heart of the indigenous population of the city.
We quickly established a routine. All meals were eaten from the food stalls that were so prolific all around Djemaa el Fna. We would spend a lot of time just strolling about the square, listening and watching the many musicians, acrobats, drummers and dancers who kept the local populace, and the tourists, entertained.
Marrakesh has long had the reputation of being the most laid back city in Morocco; a reputation gained mainly because of the large population of Southern tribesmen and Berbers who bring in their goods to trade and spend their money in the souks. As the days went by we started to meet and make friends with other travellers.
There were many Americans; the flower power children of the sixties who were very popular with the traders, due to their relative wealth compared to the assets of the average European backpacker. Most of them were open and friendly; two characteristics that struck a chord with the Moroccan locals, who were also welcoming to the strangers in their midst. We met Danish, Dutch, Swedish, German and French nationals. And, of course, many British just like us, living on a shoestring. But our most valued friend was a Moroccan; another Mustapha.
Mustapha worked on and off in the hotel. He appeared to be a general dogsbody, turning his hand to maintenance, cleaning and errands.

He was keen to make friends with us, having an avid curiosity for what was going on in the world outside Morocco; indeed he had only a hazy idea of life outside the locality of the city, Like most citizens of working age he had to conform to imposed travel restrictions and a journey of any distance required a visa or permit; something for which you had to pay.
The easy going appeal of Marrakesh was only skin deep for the locals. Life for most was not an easy ride and they found it difficult to understand how the tourists could so order their lives to be able to travel far from home.
Mustapha was no different but, in his way, he also was a child of the sixties and was open minded about different cultures. His natural friendly disposition and curiosity meant we spent many hours just chatting with him, in our rapidly improving French, about all sorts; he in his turn, acted as our guide to the city. We didn’t get hustled when we went out with Mustapha.
And so we spent a pleasant few weeks in Marrakesh. Nearly forty years is a long way back to remember but certain scenes and events stick in the memory. It was still Ramadan in Marrakesh and you did not see Muslims eating or drinking during the day. Musicians in the square ‘adopted’ the odd tourist to sit in their circle, to add cachet to their performance.
One such group made our acquaintance and insisted that we accept bottles of coke while they sang and danced in enforced abstinence. We felt bound to accept their hospitality, although uncomfortably; and we hadn’t the heart to tell them that we didn’t even like the sugary drink so loved all over the world.

Police were everywhere. We never got used to their habit of going round in pairs, holding hands. Without exception they were heavily built and badly shaved. The locals didn’t mess with them and I do remember, vividly, seeing one of these uniformed law enforcers beating a middle aged woman in a blue djellabah, who had dared to argue back, quite viciously with his baton, while onlookers passed by with barely a backward glance. But, to be honest, the reality of being a Moroccan in Morocco rarely impinged. We were young, ignorant and were having too good a time to be aware of the social issues.
On the evening Ramadan finished, the manager of the hotel called Pete into the office. I was left sitting in our room, wondering what was going on. At least an hour later Pete returned, somewhat the worse for wear. It transpired that the manager had decided to include Pete in his liberation from abstinence: evidently the Muslim rule about alcohol didn’t impinge upon his conscience. They sat opposite each other and the manager kept filling up two tumblers of wine, knocking his own straight back then waiting with evident impatience while Pete followed suit. It was more of a contest than a shared tipple but the manager evidently felt it was his role to show his guest the hospitality of the house as soon as he legitimately could.
As a celebration of the end of Ramadan a small local cinema showed ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for several nights. Quite a large contingent of tourists went to see it, along with most of the young population of Marrakesh. To my shame I remember the Europeans and Americans sitting at the back of the hall and being convulsed with laughter most of the time at the strange image of Elvis being dubbed into French with Arabic subtitles.
The Arabs, however, took it all very seriously and stared disapprovingly at the back stalls after each burst of merriment.

PART 7: A VISIT TO ESSAOUIRA

We celebrated Christmas in Marrakesh. Our group of friends got together and we all took on the task of producing one item each for the feast. It fell to me to produce the Christmas pudding and so, with only a few days in hand, I sourced dried fruit, spices,
flour and honey to create quite a credible imitation of a boiled pudding. The actual cooking was done at our American friends rooms who had the luxury of a rudimentary kitchen. They also provided the only relatively expensive item, a scraggy fowl. This, with lashings of fresh vegetables made for a good day, although poor Pete was laid low with a debilitating bug and missed the festivities.
The only cloud on our horizon at this time was our acute shortage of funds. We wanted to see more of Morocco before we were forced to go home. After Christmas many of our more affluent friends decamped to Essaouira,
Nowadays this attractive resort on the Atlantic coast is a favourite haunt for tourists, especially surfers. In those days it was a modest fishing village that was gaining in popularity as an alternative to Agadir, which had been a popular holiday destination until a devastating earthquake in 1960; And so, when we came to the end of time for our room rental at the hotel, we managed to scrape together enough funds to make the journey Westwards.
It wasn’t easy. What made it possible was Mustapha arranging a loan for us of a hundred dhiram; the equivalent of ten pounds. We didn’t ask him. When he realised we were going West he came to us and insisted we accept it.

Even still we wouldn’t have taken him up on it, knowing he would have had to stand as guarantor for the sum, if it wasn’t for the fact that were expecting some top up funds from Pete’s parents through the post; the only option for acquiring cash in those pre ‘hole in the wall’ days.
Transferring funds by post was risky. Once or twice friends and relatives got some cash out to us, but sometimes this mysteriously disappeared between the sender and the Poste Restante box number where you picked up post. However, the odd tenner here and there kept our heads above water.
We promised Mustapha we would repay him, although, much like our German friend on the road to Oujda, I don’t think he expected to see us again. His generosity and trust in us was all the more appreciated when you took into account that he survived on very modest means. The day we left, on the inevitable bus, he came and waved us goodbye; sad that he couldn’t make the journey himself.
We loved Essaouira from the word go. It was a charming seaside town where you could stroll down to the harbour area and watch the fishermen sorting their catches and tending their wooden boats. It had some ancient ramparts that could be strolled along and the streets were flanked by white houses and shops, selling all sorts of goods; from arts and crafts to goat meat. The locals were friendly and we quickly settled into our temporary home.
Details are hazy as to our arrival but we very quickly found some lodgings. This consisted of two rooms on the first floor of a three storey house with a communal roof area. We did the deal with a middle aged woman who lived on the second floor with her teenage daughter.

We found out later that, although the woman ran and managed the letting side of the house, it was actually owned by an older daughter, who lived on the ground floor and plied the oldest trade in the world. Her chief clientele were the local constabulary; more of this later.
Our two rooms consisted of one large communal area, where we slept, cooked and generally lived in, and a smaller back room where was housed a ‘squat’ toilet, a basin and a bath. Before you get carried away by this apparent luxury dear reader, I hasten to point out that the bath was purely for water storage. We quickly learnt that the water supply was only available for a few hours a day; and so you made sure you kept the bath topped up when the taps were on.
The main room was sparsely furnished with a bed and some cooking facility, a table, chairs and, I think, a wardrobe. The shuttered window overlooked the street. On our second night in residence we were awoken by someone throwing stones at our window and shouting in Arabic.
Pete opened the shutters and looked out to see one of the local policemen standing below, swearing angrily and incomprehensibly at him. Before matters took an even nastier turn a ground floor window opened and the house owner started shouting, as angrily, at the client; one of her regular customers.
We found out the next day that he had assumed Pete was a rival for the lady’s affections and had harboured some sort of proprietorial grudge at a perceived conflict of interests.
There was a lively social scene among the visiting tourists. Many of our friends from Marrakesh had rented apartments and we would socialise most days with parties, beach trips and meetings at one of the local cafes.

We never tired of wandering down the narrow streets indulging in good natured bartering with the tradesmen for everyday items, who followed the common practice that we had first experienced in Azrou; of sending us from one to the other as we attempted to get the price down a few more centimes. It was all good fun; and good experience.
I think now is the time for the second tale of Pete’s teeth. An American friend called on us one day and, while indulging in some desultory and inept orange juggling, managed to snap Pete’s denture, (which he had left on the table) clean in half with one of the dropped fruits. Jerry, our American friend was truly mortified and offered to pay for a repair, if it could be arranged.
It just so happened that, during one of our many rambles through the back streets of the town, we had come across what had appeared to be a dental surgery.
We visited it, with the offending denture, and gazed in the window where an artistic arrangement of antique dentistry and tools were on display. We entered the shop and explained our problem to the young dentist (presumably) who appeared from the back of the shop. Could he mend the denture we wanted to know. He assured us he could. Negotiations regarding price ensued.
They started at a hundred dhirams on his part; ten from our side of the counter. The two extremes gradually drew nearer to each other but, all the while this bargaining was batting back and forth, the presumed dental technician had, with a look of puzzled concentration on his face, been manoeuvring the two clean cut halves in an unsuccessful attempt to fit them back together. Our confidence in his ability to affect the repair gave out just as he had finally agreed to our limit of ten dhirams.

Offering apologies for wasting his time we left the shop hastily, only pausing to gaze once again on the supposed antiques, which were probably the latest models of Moroccan dental skill. The broken tooth bridge was consigned to the rucksack for the duration of our remaining journey and Pete went front toothless from then on.
One day our landlady, or rather her Mother, who lived on the next floor, invited us in for a meal. This had been instigated by the younger daughter, who was a serious bookish sort of girl and the apple of her Mother’s eye. She was a student and liked nothing better than to engage us in conversation. They depended on the other sister’s trade for all of life’s necessities, but kept themselves very much apart from the goings on on the ground floor. I suspect that the younger daughter was seen by the Mother as a chance to cast off the slur of the elder sister’s reputation.
And so we, very politely, socialised and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with the two of them in their spotlessly clean and tidy front room with the ubiquitous stunning tiled floor and wall decoration. It was a formal, but friendly interchange of different cultures. In fact, the two women would have, probably, been less out of place than ourselves, at a vicar’s tea party back home. In an attempt to show our appreciation I had taken with me a small gift for the daughter. Knowing how much western clothes were valued I presented her with a blue and white polka dot dress from Marks and Spencers that had inextricably found it’s way into my rucksack before we left home.
Actually my Mother had insisted that I pack this one ‘good frock’ in case I ‘needed’ to dress up at any stage. It was not the sort of garment I would have been seen dead in anywhere and I was very glad to get a chance to hand it over to someone who might appreciate it. The teenager seemed overwhelmed at my generosity and kept thanking me for the dress, to the point where I started feeling quite guilty at palming off such a ghastly example of western woman’s fashion.

But beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. About half an hour after we had returned to our rooms, the student knocked on our door and presented me with something wrapped up in tissue paper.
Upon unwrapping it I discovered she had given me the most exquisite Moroccan dress, or djellabah. It was made of some gauzy silver material, embroidered all over in silver and lime green leaves and flowers and all the edgings were in silver braid. I protested that I couldn’t possibly accept such a precious gift but she insisted, saying that she would never wear it; indeed I got the impression that she regarded it as rather vulgar; perhaps it was an unwanted present from her sister; a woman who had no inhibitions regarding dress and was always to be seen, indoors, in gorgeous silks and satins.
So, with many thanks I accepted it.
We lived in our little apartment in Essaouria for a month and, during that time, Pete casually suggested, when we got back home, we should get married. I thought it was a good idea and, just over a year later, the gift of the silver tissue and green embroidered djellabah became my wedding dress; a much treasured garment that I still have packed away somewhere.

WORD COUNT 1746

PART 8: ESSAOURIA

On the roof of the house was another flat occupied by a Danish couple. I remember them because, for the duration of our stay, they were at daggers drawn with the occupant of an adjoining house. The bone of contention (an apt metaphor) was an unhappy dog that was chained up all the time on the roof of the neighbouring house. When it wasn’t having stones thrown at it by children it was howling or barking. The Danish man eventually made friends with this miserable canine and finally entered into protracted negotiations with the owner to buy it from him. The owner rooked him for a sizeable sum for supposed necessary vaccinations and papers to enable the couple to take the dog back to Denmark. But they stuck to their guns and the dog eventually departed with them for a, presumably, better life in more Northern climes.
One day Pete arrived back home with a paper parcel which, when unwrapped on the table, turned out to contain several small live crabs which scuttled away upon their release. I refused to kill them and Pete, the hardened fisherman, had to do the dreadful deed of chucking them into boiling water, prior to our seafood supper.
We would spend quite a lot of time sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the grey Atlantic; I would stay close to shore but Pete would give me palpitations swimming well out to sea while I had visions of shark attacks; a phenomenon not unknown in that part of the coast. Pete also indulged in a hilarious camel ride; a pleasure that I didn’t fancy, being of a much more timid nature and not taking to the camel’s habit of disdainfully spitting at potential riders.

One day, when we were walking to the beach along a dirt road, on the outskirts of a small settlement of low white houses, we were witnesses to an accident. A youth, careering along on his bike, hit a huge pot hole at the side of a bridge over a dried up river bed. He and the bike disappeared over the side of the bridge and several people, us included, rushed to his aid.
All was mayhem as villagers surged round his unconscious form. Mindful of internal injuries we managed to dissuade the crowd from moving him until the ambulance arrived. But when this vehicle, a grubby white van, turned up, the driver hoisted the injured party onto his shoulders and, surrounded by a large and vociferous crowd, ran up and out of the ravine and deposited him, none too gently, into the back of the van; whereupon he drove off at the customary breakneck speed.
We feared for the outcome to this incident and went back to the village the next day to get news of the invalid. We were greeted like long lost friends by his various relatives and were invited into his brother’s little white house to take refreshment. The unprepossessing exterior opened into a cosy tiled room, bright with rugs and ceramic decoration. We sat on low couches and shared in the communal dish of couscous with goat meat and drank sweet mint tea. According to the relatives, the youth had not sustained any major injury and was well on the way to recovery. They acted as if we had played a major role in saving his life; but we knew that luck had played the main part.
It was nearing the time when we had to return to Marrakesh, to pay Mustapha back and to start, reluctantly, on the way homeward. Before we left we were invited to a party by some acquaintances who were renting a whole floor of a rhiad in the town. They were Londoners but, unlike us, were not short of a bob or two.

The flat, which overlooked the central courtyard on three sides, was tastefully adorned with rugs, knick-knacks and ceramics. The floor was a stunning pattern of Moroccan tiling. The whole place had an air of comfort and the tenants, a couple of well heeled hippies whom we hardly knew, greeted us with distant friendliness.
This probably had something to do with the industrial quantities of keef that were being smoked. We were sixties children after all and we took our alternative lifestyle credentials seriously. That night a veritable cornucopia of drugs were available including some acid trips. I had taken LSD on occasion back home and had enjoyed the unhinging effects most of the time. And so I indulged, as did Pete.
At first everything seemed to be going along okay. The room was quite crowded and people drifted in and out. Suddenly I realised that the tiled floor of many colours had become liquid. Amazed I put my hand into it and swirled the colours around. It was while I was experiencing this phenomenon that I began to feel a sensation of what I can only call paranoia. The symmetrical patterns on the curtains and throws seemed vaguely threatening and I found I couldn’t look at them.
Pete, who had always had a much stronger resistance to drugs, picked up on my panic straight away and tried to reassure me that it was a temporary angst and everything would turn out fine.
But, the harder I tried, the less I seemed able to keep my grip on reality. By now others were concernedly offering advice as I struggled to keep the demons at bay. But I seemed to be slipping away from my companions and surroundings down a long dark tunnel.

I truly believe that, at that moment, I was on the point of losing it completely. Gradually I became aware of an insistent voice coming from the mouth of a young American man who I could just discern at the end of the black tunnel that separated me from the rest of the room. I could hear him saying, over and over again, “whatever you are seeing turn and face it; confront it; whatever it is look at it and it will go.” All the while I was aware of him gazing at me intently; concentrating with all his being on bringing me back.
Suddenly I got it and faced up to the unknown dread. With what felt like a physical whoosh I shot back up the tunnel and emerged into the light and warmth of the room again. The relief was overwhelming.
But my travails were not yet over. I went immediately from a ‘bad’ trip to an amazingly enlightening ‘good’ one. The room appeared to have morphed into an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful treasures. Precious jewels were stacked in glittering heaps on the low tables. Lions and tigers lounged regally on the couches and did not appear averse to being stroked and admired. Everybody looked beautiful; and I told them so, illustrating my words with actions that were designed to make me curl up with embarrassment the next morning, when I was regaled with what had gone on the night before.
But the strangest occurrence on this never to be forgotten ‘trip’ was my speaking in tongues. As it was told to me the next day, during my ‘enlightened’ period I was making quite a lot of noise and the Moroccan landlady came upstairs to complain. I remember her standing at the door and berating the assembly; and I remember answering her and explaining that there was nothing to worry about.
I can see her now, shrugging her shoulders, turning from the door and going back downstairs. As far as I was concerned she spoke to me in English but several people confirmed the next day that I had replied to her in Arabic.

I also remember hearing lots of different voices, speaking in different languages, in my head. It was as if I had become a radio receiver for a worldwide conversation. At one point I remember distinctly, saying, in an Ozzie accent, “Come in Australia”!
In days to come I was to remember one particular ‘happening’ during that long night. As it was explained to me the next day, when I had returned to lucidity, it had been necessary to keep me calm, to avoid me returning to the frightening darkness of the tunnel. At the time I interpreted these soothing conversations in a much more meaningful way. It seemed that people around me were telling me that I had finally emerged from a lifelong delusion of living in a world full of wars, famine, bigotry and disharmony. Evidently all the ills of the world had only been in my head; the reality was a world of happiness, prosperity and harmony.
The euphoria of this revelation was wonderful and, amazingly, logical. How could I have been so silly as to believe that the world was a place of conflict and unhappiness? It was so much more likely that we would utilise the joy of living in the most practical way possible, instead of wasting lives and time making each other miserable.
Imagine my feelings in the morning when I realised the ‘revelation’ was the delusion. Before I became aware of this sorry truth, in the grey light of dawn, I had reached a giddy plain, common to many who have indulged in hallucinogens, of being on the cusp of understanding the creation of the whole universe. But, just as I reached this crucial final understanding, I started to come down, quite rapidly.
All around me were sleeping forms; the flat looked seedy and very untidy with several broken ornaments lying about (evidently a lot of the disarray was caused by me) and I felt grubby and very depressed. Pete had returned to normality long before me and we crept away to our lodgings, before our fellow party goers woke up.

We found out later that this particular batch of acid had been ‘cut’ with speed, which explained why the trip had come on so fast and been so ‘jagged’. The American boy, who had talked me out of my tunnel, had taken one two days before and had to fight out his demons all on his own on the beach. Hence his knowledge of rescue tactics.
As you have probably gathered this trip made a lasting impression on me; to the point that I can still remember it vividly nearly forty years later. When we returned home I did take acid once or twice again, but my reactions were stale and repetitive and I lost interest in mind altering drugs.
Before we returned to Marrakesh; we visited the flat of the party givers once more, to apologise for my behaviour. I was greeted very coolly and left feeling suitably deflated; but relieved that they hadn’t taken us up on our offer to pay for the carnage I had caused.

Word count 1792

PART 9: FROM MARRAKESH . . TO BARCELONA

A few days later we were back in the main square of Marrakesh and reinstated in our old hotel room in the Central. Mustapha was very pleased to see us and, very tactfully, didn’t mention the money we still owed his moneylender. It was several days before the expected lifeline funds turned up; some from Pete’s parents and an unexpected bonus tenner from a good friend back home. Meanwhile, desperate for cash, we took all our spare clothes to the buy and sell market, where anything of western design commanded good money. In this way we kept our heads above water and paid our hotel bill.
Thankfully our funds turned up and we were able pay our debt to Mustapha. With the little money we had left, we had to make it back home post haste. So now we steeled ourselves to return to our former lives in grey Great Britain. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to our hotel friends and started the long walk out of Marrakesh. This time we had to hitch. No expensive luxuries like bus rides for us. I remember our last sight of the dusty, sunny road out of the Arab quarter with traders parked under orange trees selling everything and anything, including oranges, to the colourful and noisy throng of Berbers, Arabs and tourists. We turned our backs on it all and began the long trek home.
We had only walked a few kilometres out of the town when a car pulled up. Amazingly it was a Rolls Royce and a very English voice enquired of us as to where we were aiming for. We said Tangier and couldn’t believe our luck when the driver said that was their destination. In no time at all we were ensconced in the unbelievably luxurious interior of leather seats and air conditioning and chatting with our benefactors like old friends.

The couple lived in Eastbourne and were both doctors. They appeared to be in their forties; he was blonde with a bony frame dressed in expensive well cut clothes. His wife was an attractive dark haired Indian lady dressed appropriately in a colourful silk sari. It turned out that they had ‘popped over’ for a long weekend, hired the Rolls at Tangier airport and driven down to Marrakesh to stay at a top price hotel in the French quarter.
They were absolutely charming and we spent the next few hours swapping experiences of Marrakesh and Morocco as the Rolls ate up the miles. They were astonished at the difference in prices between the French and Arab quarter. They had spent more in a few days than we had on our whole trip. They shared with us the hamper of delicious French cuisine that had been provided by the hotel and we quizzed them about life on the south coast of England. Curious, I asked the wife if she always wore Indian dress. “Usually” she replied. “Except when I walk the dog.” How English is that!
They dropped us just outside Tangier and, before they departed, pressed into our hands a ten shilling note, (equivalent to 50 pence nowadays). We thanked them wholeheartedly for all their kindness and went our separate ways.
I don’t remember much about Tangier, except it had the same ‘edgy’ feel as Algiers had. We felt uncomfortable walking through it’s seedy streets. We were eager to get on the ferry to Algeciras, but first, we had to get our remaining dhirams changed into pesetas.
This was not an operation that could be undertaken legally. With the usual protective attitude of the native state, Morocco didn’t like to see money leaving the country and so we had to take advantage of the black market.

There was no shortage of volunteers offering us a ‘fair’ rate of exchange. In those days Tangier had a decidedly dodgy reputation, being a favoured drug and illegal immigrant route; ( I am tempted to say so what else is new!) Reluctantly we engaged in negotiations with the most trustworthy looking character vying for our attention and, even more reluctantly, followed him through the seedy streets, redolent with the heavy odour of keef, to meet with his ‘broker’.
Eventually he led us up some steps between two flat roofed terraces and, smiling reassuringly, ushered us into a room where another man sat behind a table. By now, although we had convinced ourselves that we were going to be robbed, or worse, we had to go through with it and advanced to face whatever lay ahead. Ten minutes later we were walking away with a distinct feeling of anticlimax, after getting a perfectly adequate rate of exchange conducted with formal courtesy and mutual satisfaction. The anti climax was swiftly overlain with relief and we hurried to the ferry terminal.

It was here we met Big John and Mr T. That sounds a bit theatrical but we never knew them by any other names. They were two Americans, both ex Vietnam war veterans, who had been travelling through Morocco and had just spent most of their cash on a VW van, in which they intended to travel through Europe. It transpired that we could do each other a favour. If we travelled as passengers in their van we could all get over much more cheaply; the ferry charge being based on the vehicle not the occupants. And so we spent the short crossing time getting to know our new acquaintances.
We deduced that both Big John and Mr T had suffered acute trauma in Vietnam but, after a brief allusion, neither talked about it.

They dealt with it in their different ways. Mr T was a taciturn man who was pleasant but preferred his own company and rarely opened up.
Big John couldn’t have been more different. At least six foot six and very gangly he had that rare human ability to endear himself to whosoever crossed his path. And so he covered up by being extremely humorous and gregarious.
Once over the other side we successfully negotiated customs; or so we thought, but, rounding a corner we came upon a road barrier manned by the Guardia; the scary Spanish police of Franco’s Spain. They stood, cold eyed and watchful, with machine guns at the ready, to search out any suspicious visitors. Despite a certain amount of tension on our part we passed with no incident.
So here we were in yet another country. In 1969 Spain was a completely different kettle of fish to the overcrowded tourist ridden Costas of today. The country was still largely rural and, except for the main cities, the coastal route consisted of large stretches of rugged terrain, interspersed with run down white walled villages, usually with a huge wedding cake of a church perched on the hills above, But the first stirrings of the commercialisation (instigated by Franco I believe) that was to come were plain to see. Buildings were going up all along the coast; an opportunity for us as it turned out.
When we drove out of the port town of Algeceras I don’t remember any discussion about the four of us joining forces. We just did. The VW van was an empty shell at the start of our journey. Every time we drove past a deserted building site (siesta time was favourite) somebody, usually John, would leap out and gather any building material they could find, so that, not many days later, the van was kitted out with rudimentary bunk beds, shelves and cupboards.

We cooked on fires of brushwood and waste timber. Our main diet also came from the fields around us where vegetables grew; I remember artichokes figuring large on our menu.
I write these words rather unbelievingly now; being an upright citizen who wouldn’t dream of half inching anything! But, in those couple of weeks of getting through Spain it was definitely a case of proving Darwin right; i.e. the survival of the fittest. Pete and I were just trying to get home on the very small sum of money that we had left. Mr T. and Big John, however, intended to drive round Europe on almost no funds. So we roughed it together.
The first few nights were spent sleeping on the bare metal floor of the van, except for the lucky person whose turn it was to sample the relative luxury of the the long front seat. It was early February and bitterly cold at night. Many times in the next few days we thanked our lucky stars that we had resisted the temptation to sell our Parkas in Marrakesh.
One incident which sticks in my memory, as painful ones often do, was when I managed to crack my elbow, very painfully, on the van door one freezing night during my turn in the front seat; a seemingly minor injury which caused me much pain for the rest of the journey; and for many years later.
We drove North up the coast and didn’t stop anywhere more than a night, until we got to Barcelona. All these years later details of our journey are a hazy memory. I seem to remember that the natives were not particularly friendly and we were very aware of the heavy and ubiquitous presence of the Spanish police. People looked poor and shabby and seemed to avoid us;

The majority of women were clothed in black and heavily shawled. Once again, our ignorance of the politics of the day meant were were not conversant with the physical reality of repression that the average Spanish citizen had to put up with. How different to the open society of Spain today.
It turned out that Mr T. wanted to visit the American Embassy in Barcelona, where he had hopes of some funds; a pension payment as a wounded veteran I seem to remember. He had been the one who had paid our way as regards to petrol and minimal food up to then. He and John were depending on this money, to get them on the next stage of their journey So we drove down to the harbour and parked up on the docks for the night.

(WORD COUNT 1664)

PART 10: THE FINAL STRETCH

In the morning Mr T. set off on his errand and John accompanied Pete and I on an exploration of the labyrinth of narrow streets that led down to the docks. These shabby thoroughfares were full of that unique life and character that so typifies Barcelona. Here we met, at last, Spaniards who did not shrink from enjoying life. The Spanish tavernas loved John, who responded enthusiastically to their ‘in your face’ approach to life. When we left to return to the dock and meet up with Mr T, there were several emotional farewells from our Spanish hosts. We parted from them full of bonhomie and love for our fellow man.
We were a little surprised not to find Mr T waiting for us at the van, as it was quite late in the afternoon. But he did not appear at all and, eventually, we fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. John’s assumption was that some friends that he had intended to meet up with at the Embassy, had invited him to sleep over. But the next morning arrived and went without Mr T. John had spent most of what spare cash he had the day before; in anticipation of replenishment from the USA army pension pot.
Pete and I felt we had to try and contribute in some fashion and hit upon the idea of selling some blood. We trekked across the city to the hospital, admiring on the way the eccentric architecture of Gaudi and the imposing classical buildings which make Barcelona such a stunning place to visit to this day. But when we got to the hospital it was to find the blood donor facility was closed for the afternoon; the only afternoon of the week that it did.

We had taken the bus to the hospital and now decided to get back to the docks on the underground; evidently a cheaper option. With our limited Spanish we very nearly got totally lost, until a kind hearted young girl who looked like an office clerk, not only put us on the right track but insisted on giving us enough small change to afford the fare. We had arranged to meet John in one of the tavernas we had frequented the day before but, despite searching down many similar looking streets, we could not find it again.
We were getting desperate until, suddenly, there it was before us. Inside all was gaiety and noise. John was performing an individual style of flamenco with a more than compliant señorita and the crowd were clapping encouragingly. When we managed to fight our way to John’s side he greeted us with “Thank goodness you’re back. I can’t put off paying the bill much longer.”
It was obvious that his fellow revellers would be quite happy if he never left, so we did not take this statement to heart. Instead we all had a plate of hearty soup and bread for almost nothing and only paid for the wine that had to be drunk as a matter of course. Our first experience of that eminently civilised custom of tapas. Then it was back to the docks; and still no show from Mr T. We were seriously worried now, imagining the worst; mugging; a heart problem or even a psychotic attack as Mr T’s mental health was known to be delicate. It was too late to do anything that day so we settled down for our third night in the van, resolving to do something in the morning.
The next day saw us visiting the American embassy to make enquiries. On stating our business we were asked to wait and an official came out to question us. It turned out that Mr T, far from being in any trouble, had in fact , reported to the Embassy that he suspected Pete, John and I of abandoning him and stealing the van!

It transpired that he had returned to the dock the same day he had left and had not been able to find the van; because he had, unknowingly, gone to the wrong dock!
How we laughed! Once we were reunited and all relevant explanations had been made Mr T. couldn’t apologise enough. He had been successful in his mission of acquiring funds and we spent our last night in Barcelona introducing him to the delights of Spanish bar life and, for the rest of our journey together, he was much more friendly and forthcoming.
Another day saw us across the Spanish border and well into France. We eventually said goodbye to each other at Arles; the parting of the ways. Our American friends were crossing into Italy but we were hitching up through France to home. It was a sad farewell. Our meeting had made the penultimate leg of our journey a memorable time. We were never to meet again; and we only ever had one communication, from John, when were home again. I hope their journeyings helped to expunge the horrors of the war that left so many young American men so traumatised.
As the little VW van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home.
Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies. The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.
With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.
As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.
At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilised version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters.
Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realised that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn was breaking we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel.
The snow lay thick along the side of the road and was kept pristine by constant flurries. After all these years details are hazy but I know we had to walk several more kilometres before we were on the road bound for Calais.
We trudged along, again not attracting much attention from the cars that sped past. But then a car screeched to a halt in front of us. As we approached it suddenly sped off as quickly as it had come; obviously gaining some amusement from our discomfiture. When another car pulled up quite soon after we approached cautiously and with cynicism; but this one was genuine.
We almost wished that he had been a prankster during the next few hair raising miles. At phenomenal speed he raced through the icy wastes of North West France towards Calais. Paralysed with terror we cowered in the back seat as the driver indulged his motor racing fantasies on the slippery road. Had we come all this way just to meet our deaths on the home stretch? Amazingly we arrived, all in one piece, at the dock. Soon after saw us on the ferry bound for Dover.

And that’s about it. The journey across the channel was predictably uneventful; no emotional Brits greeting their native shores with tears and cries of joy; just phlegmatic acceptance of grey skies and customs administration.
My last memory of our three month journey is a meal, prior to hitching up to London, in a transport cafe just outside Dover. All through our travels we had saved a ten shilling note (now equivalent to fifty pence) for some spending money through England and it had acquired a sort of talisman quality.
I will never forget the plates of greasy egg and chips, rubbery white bread smeared thinly with margarine and cups of stewed brown tea that we were served with, by an indifferent waitress on grubby plastic tables.
If anything was destined to bring us down to earth with a bump it was that meal. We had spent our last money on this culinary travesty and, at the time, it seemed to sum up all our disappointment at returning to our old way of life. We were back in the UK, homeless and jobless. Where did we go from here?

Well; that’s another story.

Word count 1743

MOROCCAN ADVENTURES 1968/69

PART 1: DOVER TO MARSEILLES

Landing in Africa was more difficult than we had expected. . . . .
The year was 1969 and we were innocents abroad. Unlike the politically aware, Rough Guide toting travellers of today, we had arrived in the African continent mainly because the cheapest ferry from Marseilles to anywhere was Algiers. We knew nothing of friction between old colonial powers and emerging native states. Although we had some hazy idea of their ‘foreignness’ the term Arab or Muslim held no especially uneasy connotations. We thought of them as Algerians or Moroccans; and sometimes Berbers. We could speak a smattering of French and assumed we would get by with that.
My future husband and I left Britain in November of that year. I have a picture in my head of the day we set off from Pete’s parents’ house in leafy Staines. It was late Autumn but cold for the time of year. We were warm and snug in our padded parkas; our stiff new rucksacks bulged with supplies; our shoulders adjusting to their weight. We had very little money; Currency restrictions were in operation at the time and you couldn’t take more than £50 each out of the country.
But I had a guilty secret. I had an extra £100 sewn into the furry lining of my waterproof boots. How I wasn’t stopped by Customs on the way out I’ll never know. Smuggling is not my forte and, if I looked as guilty as I felt, they should have clocked me straight away. It didn’t make me feel any better when Pete pointed out that just about every traveller leaving Britain for any length of time was probably doing the selfsame thing.

But we made it onto the ferry and then train to Paris. Here we had our first mild altercation. Pete had been to Paris before on a week’s school trip; and hated every minute of it. Consequently he was determined to leave as quickly as possible. I pleaded weakly that I would just like to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, wander along the Left Bank, perhaps have a coffee at a pavement café. But all to no avail.

The problem was we couldn’t afford to stay the night in Paris so had to stick to our itinerary of going South as quickly as possible. Originally we had planned to hitch to the Mediterranean but France was in the grip of freezing weather, with deep snow lying right through it’s central region. We decided to get our train tickets and have a hurried look at the sights if there was any time to spare. After a frustrating attempt to get a taxi to the station, (the only one that deigned to stop snarled “merde” upon hearing our halting English accents and drove off immediately) there was, of course, no tourist time and that evening found us ensconced on the night train to Marseilles.
Those latter day French trains were less efficient then than their streamlined counterparts of today and we had the uncomfortable experience of travelling in a train with no heating, through some of the worst weather we had ever encountered. The snow covered plains of central France receded into the Northern distance either side of us as we rumbled Southwards. Luckily our warm parkas kept out the worst of the chill.
Sometime before midnight, we arrived and stepped off the train and it was warm! For the first time I felt the warmth of a Mediterranean night. We stood at the top of the wide flight of stone steps from the station gazing at the starry navy blue sky above, while below us stretched the narrow foreign streets of Marseilles; beyond, the Mediterranean.

After the interminable freezing journey it seemed like paradise. In days to come we were to see the seedier side of Marseilles but that first night was magical. People smiled at us. We drank delicious cups of strong black coffee, ate wonderful crisp bread and creamy cheese and finally went in search of somewhere to lay our heads.

That first night we decided to leave the joys of youth hostelling until the next day and went in search of a room. We found a pension with clean rooms and reasonable rates. Even sleeping between foreign sheets was exciting; the strange bolster and quilt on the high oak bed; the furniture so large, carved and French; and wooden shutters on the narrow high window. In the morning we indulged in coffee and croissants, sitting outside at a pavement café, watching the Marseilles populace going about their lives. But our retreat into the luxury of hotel accommodation was brief and now over. We went in search of the youth hostel.
It turned out to be our first experience in realism. The bright sun glaringly highlighted the seedy nature of the area where the youth hostel was situated, far from the elegant walks of the bay. A utilitarian building where we had to sleep separately; I in the women’s’ dormitory and Pete with the men. It had a basic kitchen with several ovens and sinks and bathroom facilities. Unlike most youth hostels this one had a haphazard air.
The guests reflected it’s cosmopolitan nature. People of all languages and creeds drifted in and out The city was, then as now, a bit of a sink dump for the flotsam and jetsam trying to get into Europe. Not only Africans but many South Americans, fleeing the dictatorships that dominated their countries at that time. A few North Americans and quite a few Europeans like us who were also on the hippy trail to Morocco.

During the three days we had to wait to get on the ferry to Algiers we met some desperate characters. One who particularly sticks in both our minds was an Argentinian teenager who had fled his own country, then in the grip of the military junta and the horrors of the ‘disappeared’ who had had all his documents stolen not long after arriving in the city via boat; (at least that’s what he told us) and had no way of staying in the country except by stealth. He survived by catching cats and selling them to the university and hospital laboratories. Our comfortable British sensibilities were shaken by his matter of fact approach to staying alive and the desperate straits other members of the human race were driven to, to accomplish what we took for granted as a basic human right.
The Autumn climate suited me just fine; warm, dry and not too hot; luckily for us as we carried everything with us when we went out, suspicious of our neighbours honesty. This was unsurprising as evenings were spent listening to one hair raising tale after another as we were told of dirty dealing, dishonesty, theft and, very rarely, violence. We probably looked ridiculous struggling about with all our goods and chattels draped or affixed to our persons, but at least we still had them all when we finally arrived at the dock to board our boat to Africa!
Finally the morning came when we could get on the boat taking us over the water. Three days before we had tried several shipping offices, to find a boat that we could afford, to take us to the African continent. At one time we even toyed with the insane idea of taking the proverbial banana boat to South America, but cowardice prevailed and we ended up booking a passage on the cheapest tramp steamer travelling deck class.

I was the only female, of any nationality, on board. Our fellow passengers were almost exclusively Algerians returning to their capital city; many loaded down with goodies, for future resale, from the European continent. They were a noisy chattering crowd smoking and drinking mint tea under a small covered area on deck. I seem to remember the crossing was at least 12 hours.
There were male and female toilet facilities but I only visited ‘les dames’ twice; the first time in ignorance of the fact that the female toilet was used by the male passengers as a defecating facility, the male section being reserved for urinary relief. The stench was horrendous and did wonders for my bladder control for the rest of the night. The second reluctant visit was in absolute desperation much later during the early morning. There was nowhere to sleep except the deck and, as the huge glittering stars appeared in the velvet night blue Mediterranean sky, it began to get quite cold. We huddled down in our parkas to try and get some sleep.
One of the Arabs settled down next to us, with two large sacks of what turned out to be army greatcoats. It soon became obvious that he was rather taken with Pete, who in those days was a dark haired handsome youth, and he engaged him in conversation, all the while tenderly covering him with greatcoats. He totally ignored me, and Pete had to wait until he had nodded off before surreptitiously sliding a couple of the garments over my shivering form.

word count 1515

PART 2: ARRIVAL IN AFRICA

Dawn arose and the deck was crowded with Arabs leaning on the rail and gazing towards the African shoreline. In the far distance, glowing pink as they gradually emerged out of the morning mist, we saw the walls of Algiers. As we approached the shore the mood among the passengers became more and more frenetic. Shouting ‘Algers Algers’ our fellow travellers excitedly gesticulated, climbing onto the railings of the boat and hanging precariously over the side. Indeed, as we finally pulled into the harbour, many of them leapt into the sea; as if unable to contain their impatience to touch their native soil again.
We realised later that they were probably hoping to elude the authorities rather than experiencing any uncontrollable nationalistic tendencies. But, at the time, this enthusiasm seemed remarkable to a reserved English couple. I tried to imagine a ferry docking at Dover with English passengers weeping with emotion, shouting the name of their beloved country and fighting tooth and claw to be the first to step onto the hallowed soil!
With true British phlegm we decided to wait until the queue had subsided. To call it a queue was not quite the right word to describe the frenzied heaving melee which surged and struggled to be first down the gangplank. The near riot conditions that ensued only served to produce a log jam that was restrained by officials at the end of the gangplank while mayhem reigned on deck.

Smugly we sat and waited for the crowd to disperse. When it seemed to be calming down we strolled to the end of the line to wait our turn. But, to our acute embarrassment, an official, patrolling the line, strode towards us and, politely but firmly, frog marched us to the front of the queue. Our fellow passengers watched our progress with seeming indifference and politely fell back to let us through, before resuming their efforts to beat their neighbours onto dry land. We felt like VIPs with our special treatment. Again, much later, we assumed that they preferred to get any Europeans out of the way before they started dealing with the locals.
A few steps onto the shore of Africa and we came down to earth with a bump. The first impression was the smell; rank and fishy with assorted detritus piled high along the wharf. Then we arrived at Customs. No special treatment here; only a bizarre and confusing altercation with two officials in military style uniform who sat behind their table examining our documents and insisting in talking to us in Arabic. When I say us I really mean Pete. This was my first experience of being an invisible female in a male dominated Muslim world. It transpired that they did not believe Pete was a British citizen.
As I have already said Pete was then dark haired and dark eyed and could easily have been taken for an Arab (we were to find this a useful asset in the weeks to come) But his total incomprehension of their language, plus at least an hour spent arguing with them in our halting French, finally seemed to convince them of his genuineness and, with much scowling and officious rubber stamping, we were waved through.

What in our innocence we had not realised was that they were probably waiting for us to offer money; in short a bribe; We were European after all and therefore rich. Luckily we were ignorant enough not to waste any of our precious cash and had finally been granted access to African shores with all our funds intact.
In chastened mood we left the dock and walked into Algiers. I have to say that, as our first experience of an African city Algiers was a great disappointment. The white buildings that had glistened so invitingly when viewed from the ferry were shabby and run down when seen close to. An air of degeneration and depression seemed to hang like a pall. The colonial style architecture had once been elegant but was now crumbled and in need of paint. Most of the inhabitants looked at us with apparent suspicion, peering at us, as we passed, from the narrow alleyways. Later, when we became more aware of the past history of Algeria and France, we understood better the antipathy of the Algerians. But, at that time it just didn’t feel friendly and we decided not to stay as we had planned, but get on the road to the West straight away. We bought bread, cheese and tomatoes and started to walk out of the city.
It was still early morning as we finally left the industrial outskirts behind. The road lay before us, disappearing into the distance. Beyond the sand dunes to our right we could hear the crash of Mediterranean waves; to our left were rocky sand coloured outcrops sparsely covered with shrubby herbs that smelt smokily aromatic. The huge continent of Africa stretched away to the South; as far as the Cape of Good Hope. The enormous sky was all around us and we were suddenly both acutely aware that we were but pinpricks at the extreme North of this massive landmass. It felt as if we had been transported into a giants world as we perched, like ants, on the very tip of Africa.

The first thing we realised about hitching in Algeria was that lifts were a rare commodity. The wide straight road disappeared over the distant horizon. Either side were shallow sandy banks, sparsely covered with twiggy scrub and herbs. Occasionally a vehicle would roar past and the driver would glance incuriously in our direction as he sped on his way; but no lifts ensued. After several kilometres of weary walking we got a lift into Blida, the next town west of Algiers, with a friendly Algerian in an old truck. He insisted that we visit his vinery as he wanted to eat, but, this being Ramadan, he couldn’t do so in public.
We spent a pleasant hour at his cool white house, admiring his many bottles of wine and sampling one of them with bread and dates. Later he dropped us on the other side of Blida and we started walking again. Just out of the town there was a police road block. They appeared to be checking drivers’ papers before letting them on their way. We walked past and waited at a junction, in sight of the road block. As the lorries and trucks were let through we thumbed hopefully, but the few vehicles to pass thundered on, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
The stony empty road stretched unendingly into the distance. We had no option but to hope for a lift eventually so we sat and waited. After about half an hour we noticed one of the police coming towards us. With trepidation we watched him approach.
He looked an ugly customer; heavy jowled and squat, with decidedly undesigner like stubble; but, far from the threatening behaviour we expected, he halted with a heel click, gave a small bow of the head and held up a hand to impede any flight that we might have been contemplating.

“Attende Monsieur et Madame” he said and, with apparent disregard for life and limb, he strolled casually into the path of a speeding lorry, recently freed from the shackles of the road block. With the confidence of authority he stood, only sidestepping the inevitable impact at the last moment, when it became obvious that, despite the driver’s best efforts, the lorry would not stop in time.
As the officer approached the cab the driver leant down, gesticulating and truculent but, after a furious tirade from the policeman, he subsided into a sullen grumble. Before we had realised what was happening the driver had jumped down and, letting down the backboard of his open truck, indicated that we were to get in. The luxury of the cab was not for us as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat. We thanked both the driver and the policeman, who once more inclined his head, said the Arab equivalent of ‘have nice day’ and marched, with heavy assured steps, back to the road block.
We tried to keep our balance as the truck rattled on at breakneck speed. The driver, having had two strangers foisted upon him, was not about to pander to our comfort. To make matters worse it started raining and,as the road climbed into the hills, the shower changed to snow. Without warning the journey finished as abruptly as it had started. The driver stopped at a side road junction and signalled to us to get down. Once rid of his burdens he raced out of our adventure with a brief ‘salut’.

By now it was late afternoon. About two miles up the side road we could see signs of habitation. We trudged towards it, having had enough of the open road for one day. It turned out to be quite a respectable sized township with French style buildings on either side of the narrow main street. We turned into the first house with a ‘pension’ sign outside.
It was built in French colonial style; and, standing in the gloomy hall, was indeed the original French colonial. Her black hair was strained back into a bun. Her clothes were of a nondescript drab appearance and her manner was cautiously civil. While we were signing the register her husband appeared on the scene. He also greeted us, but much more warmly. It rapidly became apparent that he, particularly, was starved of European company and found the natives a poor substitute for erudite Western views.
They had moved to this out of the way village from somewhere in mid France and, having burnt their boats purchasing the pension that they fondly hoped would be a magnet for tourists, were now stuck in the back of beyond in a country that was alien to them.
They insisted that we ate with them. It was bad French cuisine; a tough meat course preceded some overcooked vegetables. Anything else that was served was so unmemorable that I have forgotten it. After the meal the proprietor took Pete on a ‘Pernod’ crawl round the local cafes. Two drinks in each and then home; so it didn’t take long.

word count 1719

PART 3: CROSSING THE BORDER

The next morning found us having to make a decision. Would we carry on hitching or resort to public transport? West of the town the road carried on, vast and open through rocky countryside, with a few villages dotted sparsely along it’s route. The next large town was Oran, 400 kilometres away.
We decided it would be cheaper to get the bus rather than drain our dwindling resources on bed and board along the road; so that afternoon found us rattling along on our way to Oran.
I don’t remember the journey, except for seeing live chickens and goats tied onto the roof of the coach. Their apparent unconcern at this treatment was more unnerving than the supposed cruelty.
We arrived in Oran in the early evening. This cosmopolitan city was a lot more prepossessing than the capital Algiers. Its white stone buildings and large open squares were reminiscent of it’s recent French occupation. We decided to break our journey here and treat ourselves to an evening meal before retiring to the local youth hostel.
We chose a pleasant looking establishment with tables and chairs parked on the outside pavement, looking across one of the leafy squares. The waiter was thrilled to have some tourists to wait on and treated us like royalty, piling our plates high with chicken and lentils cooked French style. Pete washed it all down with large amounts of local wine and we left after emotionally vowing eternal friendship with the cafe staff.

During the meal our table was visited by a girl with a tray of matches and other useless miscellanea. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she had the eyes of a businesswoman and didn’t leave us until my guilty conscience had purchased a few unnecessary odds and ends. Life is hard if you are working those sort of hours at six years old.
The next morning saw us hitching out of Oran. I felt great. Ahead lay the Algerian/Moroccan border. Pete felt dreadful; repeatedly retching behind the odd eucalyptus bush. He blamed the chicken from the night before but, as I was hale and hearty, we both knew it was the vino what had done it!
It was while trying to get out of Oran and back on the open road that we got one of the few lifts of the whole journey; it was from a young French woman driving the ubiquitous Renault. She was a schoolteacher and, as she drove us through the narrow streets on the city outskirts little children ran alongside with pleading eyes and hands outstretched for largesse. As my fingers groped for a few small coins she told us severely not to even consider giving them anything.
“They must learn that begging is not an acceptable way to live. Education is their way out of poverty”. Even in those apolitically aware days of my youth, and as an inexperienced tourist, I remember thinking that it was okay for her. An educated superior female, laying down the law in someone else’s country. And she knew where her next crust was coming from; but we meekly did as we were told.

She dropped us in Tlemcen, the border town that was to be our introduction into Morocco. This was a sizeable town, again showing the French influence in it’s architecture. We didn’t stop to look, but shared a taxi with other eager border crossers to be.
Nowadays the border between Algeria and Morocco is closed to tourists. Back then you could cross over but neither side made it an easy process. The border, a dusty two lane road with two barriers about a hundred yards apart, was closed.
We mooched about for some two hours waiting for it to open, finding what shade we could under the trees along the highway. It was a hot dusty afternoon and the few houses either side of the highway were quiet and shuttered. It was Ramadan and nobody stirred.
Eventually a soldier came and unlocked the shed that served as customs. We lined up with the others to show passports and visas. These passed muster and we walked the few steps to the Moroccan border post. Any minute now we would be in another country with it’s subtly different character.
But it was not to be; not for a few more hours anyway.
The Moroccan border guard gave our documents a cursory glance and then demanded to know how much Moroccan money we were bringing in. Due to everything being closed for Ramadan we had not been able to change our Algerian dinars into Moroccan dhirams in Tlemcen and had naively assumed we would sort out our finances once in Morocco.

We had, in fact, changed much too much of our precious sterling into dinars at Algiers, assuming our stay in Algeria would be much longer and more expensive than it turned out to be. So it was a bit of a blow to find out that the Moroccan authorities wouldn’t let us in without Moroccan notes.
Morosely we returned to the Algerian hut but they were uninterested in our plight. They just shrugged and said we would have to return to Tlemcen and find a bank. We re-entered Tlemcen in the same taxi with a new set of passengers and found a bank; quite an imposing building, on the outskirts of town. It was shut and our enquiries revealed it would not open until six o’clock, the witching hour during Ramadan, when everything bursts into life once more. After an interminable wait drinking coffee in a dark little cafe (which probably should have been shut) we returned to the bank and were the first through the heavy wooden doors when they finally swung open.
It should have been a simple transaction; but no. Bureaucracy, and not a little bribery and corruption, ruled. I sat on a bench and waited, as behoved an obedient female companion, while the bank clerk told Peter that they would only change a third of our dinars to dhirams. Despite his protestations Pete returned to my side with a little Moroccan cash and a lot of useless dinars.
We wandered back outside and stood, nonplussed, in the dusty sunlight. We couldn’t afford to lose this much of our limited capital. My enforced non-participation in the transaction coupled with the frustration of the return journey from the border suddenly came to a head. With Pete following I marched back into the bank.

Approaching the bank clerk I demanded that he change the rest of our money. With a shrug and a deprecating air he assured me he could not. It was “impossible”.In that case I informed him I was going to stay in the bank until somebody found it “possible” to grant my request. I sat down on one of the many oak benches in the imposing, high ceilinged foyer in view of all the customers, who were, by now, quite numerous.
After about a quarter of an hour a smooth looking man approached me. He was obviously senior to the clerk and, although condescendingly polite, insisted that there as nothing to be done; I would have to leave.
I assured him, with equally indifferent civility, that I had no intention of moving until I had seen someone in authority. He visibly bridled with wounded dignity at my assumption that he was not sufficient ‘authority’ to move me on. His tone took on a more haranguing quality but I was determined that they would have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the door, to remove me from my bench.
By now a small crowd had gathered round us in interested anticipation. The oily man began to look look distinctly oilier. I stuck fast and asked for the manager. He ‘was out’. He ‘would not be in for some time’ I would ‘have to leave’; the mamselle ‘did not understand’. I understood enough to know I was getting under his skin. I gazed impassively at the ceiling fan slowly moving the stale air.
My antagonist suddenly stopped arguing and, rather unnecessarily, asked me to wait. He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bank screens. He returned eventually with yet another clerk in tow, and asked me to accompany him. Pete, by this time, had got bored and gone outside for a smoke; and to wait for events to take their course.

I was ushered into a side room and shown to a chair on one side of a huge leather topped desk. Going to another door my official opened it and through it came a slight little man with an apprehensive air. Another clerk I thought, but no! My official had undergone an amazing transformation.
He preceded the little man to a much larger chair than mine on the other side of the desk, and tenderly, with much reverential murmuring, bowing and scraping, ensconced him comfortably in it’s imposing leather seat.
This was the manager my official told me (I felt that this was not the time to point out that the manager was supposedly out) and he, in his great wisdom and infinite generosity, may Allah be praised, had decided to grant my request.
He went on for a while about his boss’s kindness and sympathy for my plight; about his desire that I should not leave their country in any way dissatisfied with my treatment. This manager was a lord among men and I was lucky that I had touched his heart with my distress.
While this wonderful display of boot licking was taking place the manager uttered not one word, only gazing owlishly at me over the enormous desk, smiling and nodding at his underling’s fervent flattery. I entered into the spirit of the thing and smiled back. Now we were friends and all went swimmingly; even to them giving me the correct rate of exchange.
The transaction over, we parted on the friendliest of terms with my official even saying finally, in a rather flirtatious manner, that the thing that had clinched the manager’s change of heart was the sight of my ‘beautiful blue eyes.’

I stifled the urge to laugh and returned to Pete’s side in triumph. He was about to re-enter the bank, being worried by my prolonged absence. When I emerged with the cash he was both relieved and suitably impressed at my achievement.
We got a lift in the same taxi, with other escapees, back to the border. This time we were let through. We had done it. We were in Morocco.

word count 1765

PART 4: AFTER THE BORDER

It must have been about 8 o’clock in the evening when we finally set off along a rocky road that wound slowly upward through open moorland. From our map we could see our next refuge was a town called Oujda, about 20 miles on. It also had a youth hostel; an essential for poverty stricken tourists. We walked and walked; and walked and walked; only pausing occasionally to gaze back the way we had come, vainly hoping some vehicle would hove into view.
Dusk was rapidly falling and we were beginning to wonder how we would find shelter in this bleak landscape. Glancing back once more we saw, in the far distance, a car approaching. We were determined to stop it somehow or other. We both stood in the middle of the road and waved frantically. For a minute I thought it was going to swerve round us. But, at the last second, in a shower of stones, it screeched to a halt. Thankfully we climbed into the back.
Our chauffeur was a middle aged German man with a kindly face. On discovering our nationality he insisted on conducting the conversation in very bad English. From this we deduced that our saviour was going right through Oujda and even knew where the youth hostel was. Surely, at last, our luck had turned. As we bowled along at some speed we found out that the German was a travelling salesman; of what I can’t remember, but it was something mundanely useful. We chatted on and relaxed into the comfortable interior as the darkened landscape slid swiftly past.

Suddenly, without warning, the car lurched sickeningly. With considerable skill our German friend managed to stop at the side of the road. On inspection it turned out we had a puncture, almost certainly caused by the shower of stones that occurred when he stopped so abruptly to pick us up.
With great cheerfulness our friend, with Pete’s assistance, put on the spare and on we went again. About five miles down the road the other tyre on the same side sprung a leak and once more we ground to a halt.
What to do? We were about five miles from Oujda and, after some discussion, we persuaded the German that we would go on ahead and try and get help. He smiled and agreed, although it was quite obvious that he didn’t believe us, assuming we were deserting the sinking ship. With a cheery wave he bid us farewell and settled down for a night’s sleep in the car. Off we trudged, determined to prove him wrong. About two miles from Oujda we got a lift with a local from the town and, upon hearing our story, he took us to a garage.
To our amazement the garage mechanic seemed to grasp the problem immediately; asked the make of the car, slung a couple of tyres into the back of his pick-up and we all trundled back up the road to rescue our friend.
It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. With the minimum of fuss the garage man changed both tyres and, after payment, we followed him back into Oujda in case of further mishap. Our German friend was now fulsome in his gratitude at our return; but we still felt guilty at having caused the problem in the first place.

And so, finally, we arrived in Oujda. Our new found friend insisted on taking us for a meal at a cafe that he frequented.
The locals were a friendly lot; definitely nicer to know than the Algerians we had left behind. Eventually he drove us to the youth hostel and we regretfully parted company, thanking him profusely for all his help. Another cheery wave and he was swiftly gone, into the darkness.
I hope Oujda is still a pleasant town. It was then. The youth hostel was set in what approximated to the leafy suburbs. The sunlit streets were wide thoroughfares bordered by square white villas set back in walled gardens full of exotic plants and palm trees. The whole place had an air of enjoyable somnolence.
The youth hostel was one of the larger villas and, because Oujda was close to the border, there was quite a mix of nationalities, mainly European, on the trail to and from Marrakesh. It was an easy going establishment with basic but adequate amenities. The community kitchen was where we all gathered, chatting and making friends. It was the sixties; we all loved each other and were heady with the freedom of the open road.
The hostel warden or supervisor was a Moroccan man in his twenties called Mustapha. He was pleasant enough when not veering between temperamental complaint and the necessity to project and protect his cool ‘with it’ image. He rarely wore the traditional djellabah’s but favoured a natty line in western dress. This was usually finished off with a theatrical red silk lined cape, a garment of which he was inordinately fond.
Despite his overweening self admiration he was a likeable man, if only for his eagerness to live in the modern world.

He was a good looking guy and probably had some success with the free living European and American girls that passed through the town. About the third day we were there he tried his technique on me; and appeared astonished and hurt when I turned him down.
The next day Pete couldn’t resist teasing him with his failure and Mustapha’s wounded dignity was worthy of RADA. However, the next time we happened to be alone he asked me, indignantly, why I had told Pete and seemed to find it inconceivable that we actually talked about such things. I think he genuinely thought I should have shown a little more consideration for his reputation!
The day after we arrived who should appear back on the doorstep than our travelling salesman. He had turned round and come all the way back when he had discovered one of my plastic boots in his car; the boots of currency smuggling fame; the boots I had not worn since Marseilles. They had proved totally unsuitable in warm climates and had spent most of the journey tied to my rucksack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this so we had a coffee with him instead, thanked him again and waved him goodbye once more; this time for ever.
Pete’s teeth rate a mention here. Pete had lost several of his top front teeth while still at school, after a combination of a nasty bicycle accident and a rugby injury He had a false set which were the bane of his life. One day he got these teeth stuck down one of the hostel’s unguarded basin plug holes.

We tried everything to get them out., with most of the hostel residents, and Mustapha, milling about with helpful suggestions. Several implements were tried but those teeth were stuck fast. Eventually, when it became obvious that half measures would not do, I took my courage in both hands and just wrenched them out. Amazingly they didn’t break. This was not the last adventure for Pete’s teeth; but more of that later.
We enjoyed our few days of readjustment at Oujda. From this point we really started to appreciate our surroundings and situation. Algeria had been an experience, if rather a short tense one, but in Morocco we were able to relax. The people were friendly and open; they really seemed to like us, whereas in Algeria they had appeared to just tolerate us or hustle.
We decided to use the bus to get to Fez, our next port of call. This form of transport was so cheap that it didn’t seem worth spending hours sitting at the side of the road. Besides, the bus journeys were an experience in themselves. For a start they were always jam packed. Every imaginable possession was tied onto the roof rack, including live chickens and goats.
At every stop street vendors would swarm on, selling anything and everything. Beggars would hang on the sides, entreating us to part with small change, only jumping off when the driver had picked up a bit of speed. The bus that took us to Fez had seen better days and, as it creaked and groaned up the steep winding road, I tried not to imagine what might happen if it didn’t make the next hairpin bend.

The landscape was beautiful in places. We were travelling just north of the Atlas mountains and some of the villages looked remarkably like alpine hamlets in Switzerland. It was hard to believe that, not many miles South stretched the vast expanse of the Sahara.
About a mile from the city walls of Fez, the bus finally gave up and ground to a halt. Whereupon most of the passengers surged to the front to give the driver the benefit of their advice. A noisy throng gathered round the gearbox, which was generally regarded as the cause of the breakdown.
We sat and watched as chaos reigned. Would be mechanics removed various oily parts and discarded them round the drivers seat. He was in there shouting with the best of them. It was all very good natured and everybody was obviously enjoying it. But the fun had to stop eventually and, as one man, they decided to do the only thing possible. Every able bodied person piled out the bus and, assisted by interested passers by, they pushed the bus to the walls of Fez. As we departed to see the sights, the heads were back down to dismantle the remains of the gearbox.

WORD COUNT 1604

PART 5: BEYOND FEZ

To visit Fez in those days was like going back in time. The huge stone walls interspersed with massive gateways into the city looked as if they were ready to repel marauders, much as they did in centuries past. When you entered and explored the narrow alleyways of the souk, hung with colourful cloths, smelling of exotic spices piled high on round pottery dishes, selling every conceivable vegetable, fruit, fish and fowl and teeming with white robed people, you knew it must have looked much the same in medieval times.
It is Morocco’s holiest city and once was the most powerful politically, being a famous seat of learning of the Arab world. We were too young and inexperienced to appreciate this all those years ago and began to feel rather uncomfortable at the curious stares we got as we wandered through it’s narrow ancient streets. We had been going to stay in Fez but, after an unnerving interlude when we got hopelessly lost and had to pay a small boy to guide us back to a main thoroughfare, we decided to push on to Marrakesh.
So, late afternoon of that day found us alighting from another bus in the small mountain town of Azrou. It was really a large village on the edge of the Atlas range with the characteristic architecture of that region. Beautiful wooden chalet like houses with a backdrop of snowy peaks and evergreens once again reminded us of Alpine scenes. The main street climbed steeply through white washed stone houses, many with little open fronted cafes whose interiors dissolved into darkness against the brightness of the sun.

This was Berber country. The people looked different. They were dark and handsome. The women were some of the most beautiful we had ever seen. Unveiled, their strong features and stately walk made them truly arresting as they glided effortlessly up the sharp inclines, dressed in gorgeous wraps and headdresses. And these people were friendly. On almost every face was a broad grin of welcome.
Our first stop was the market, which was a modest affair on a small piece of flattened earth at one end of the main street. We wandered round the stalls, practising our newly acquired bargaining skills. They didn’t have a lot to sell but every stall had the ubiquitous oranges.
We had quickly become addicted to this fruit, so different to the pallid tasteless version available in shops back home. Small and sweet, warm to the tongue, you could taste the sunshine. But here, in this mountain region, they were relatively expensive. Vainly we went from stall to stall, trying to get the price down; until we realised that the stallholders were gently pulling our legs, sending us from one to the other, confident we would not do better, as they had all agreed on the price. We gave in and bought some anyway.
Wandering back up the main street we were struck by the numbers of inhabitants sitting motionless at the outside tables of the little street cafes. They all had, in front of them, a bowl of chick pea soup, bread, dates, a pipe of keef and a pot of mint tea. Suddenly the end of the daily fast was signalled by the unearthly chanting from the mosque. Immediately everywhere was activity. People ate, drank, smoked and talked; all at once. We were invited to join one table of old men and spent a pleasant hour with them.

While we there a young man came and sat down, joining in the conversation. The old men were friendly enough, even bantering with him, but Pete and I both felt he was not really welcome.
We asked if they knew of a place to stay and were directed to a large cafe at the top of the town. The place had a French feel to it, with wooden chairs and tables to one side of a small bar. We were offered a room above the cafe, which turned out to be clean and neat; rather reminiscent of our Marseilles pension. After a wash we went downstairs for a meal. The place was pretty full and was obviously very popular with the locals. The waitress was, of course, a handsome Berber girl, swapping lively banter with her customers. In front of their foreign guests they all showed off shamelessly and we had one of the most entertaining evenings of our trip so far.
As the evening progressed we noticed that the waitress conducted a kind of game with some of her favourite customers. This consisted of her clapping just as one or other of them attempted to smoke a cigarette or drink some mint tea. The customer immediately had to stop their smoking or drinking and match her clap for clap, until the whole cafe were laughing at her persistence.
When she pretended to stop and turn away the customer would affect an air of exaggerated relief and attempt to get down one mouthful of tea or smoke, before she wheeled around and started them off clapping again. It was a simple pastime that for some reason was hilariously funny; no doubt because of the theatrical nature of the waitress’s insistent clapping and the mock eye – rolling misery of the chosen customer. The keefe laden atmosphere probably helped as well.

In the middle of it all the door opened and in came the same young man we had seen at the open air cafe. Although nobody actually stopped what they were doing, the atmosphere subtly changed.
The waitress went over to his table and sat with him, laughing and chatting; indeed they seemed to be indulging in a little light hearted flirtation. The young man smiled at us and asked in a friendly manner about our journey and whether we liked Morocco. We said we liked it very much, especially this little town of Azrou.
He seemed pleased at our response. Later, when he got up to use the toilet, the minute he had left the room, the waitress came over to us and hissed “Garde; le Police. Comprend? We ‘comprended’ and, when he returned, the whole cafe, which had sunk to guarded whispers while he was out of the room, came to life again; and put on an admirable act of including him in the festivities. Eventually he left and everybody relaxed and continued the clapping game.
The next morning saw us on another bus, still aiming for Marrakesh, 400 kilometres to the South. Our next port of call was Khenifra, a village built entirely of hot red clay bricks. Between the low flat roofed buildings ran beaten dirt streets and the orange dust coated everything, including us. It looked like a shanty town, hastily thrown up. It was as raw as its red brick dwellings and a harsh contrast after the appeal of Azrou.
Back on the bus again and late afternoon found us at Beni Mellal, a nondescript town of shabby white buildings. We were tired and dirty after another bone shaking ride on local transport and only wanted to find somewhere to rest for the night.

We entered the nearest cafe, a cool deserted shop with a food bar to one side. and, upon enquiry the proprietor confirmed they had got a room for the night.
Thankfully we followed the owner to the back of the cafe and into a side room. Inside was an old iron bedstead and not much else, although the proprietor did proudly point out the extra facility of an ancient washbasin. We didn’t care as long as we could put our heads down and sleep.
There was nothing on the bed except a lumpy mattress. While we were getting settled in a teenage boy appeared at the door. His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried sheets and blankets. We thanked him, but, when we came to make up the bed, we discovered the sheets were wet; and I don’t mean damp; I mean wet. We took them back and the proprietor assured us he would supply more.
Once more the boy arrived, grinning from ear to ear, with more sheets; also wet and probably the same ones. We abandoned the unlooked for luxury of sheets and, after a snack, decided to call it a day.
While we were eating the cafe began to fill up. It was after 6 o’clock and time to eat and drink. Many customers filed past us to the back of the cafe where there was a large communal room, (next to ours) carpeted with raffia mats. Here men sat in groups, around their hubbles, eating and talking and drinking tea. When we returned to our room we noticed many more white robed customers, sitting around the walls of the cafe. They gazed at us impassively as we passed between them.
At last we were able to shut our door and sink onto the unforgiving mattress, sans sheets. We had tried to wash off some of the days grime in the washbasin but, on turning on the tap, the pipes had rattled so alarmingly we had abandoned the attempt.

Never mind; we were too tired to care. We could sleep through anything, even the ever increasing noise from the cafe, now added to by a radio turned up full volume.
We were just sinking into uneasy slumber when a terrible clattering and hissing wrenched us from the arms of Morpheus.
That was some of the noisiest plumbing I’ve ever come across. It transpired that, when the Espresso machine on the counter was utilised, our pipes groaned and howled in sympathy. Shaken, we tried to ignore the constant din, telling ourselves that, sooner or later, the noise would die down as people went home to bed. We dozed on and off for hours but, if anything, the noise got louder and more frantic. The radio wailed; the customers shouted and laughed; the plumbing clanged and hissed.
It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when I finally broke and decided, with the stupidity induced by exhaustion, to complain about the noise!
The cafe was full to overflowing, exclusively with men all robed in white djellabahs. I marched up to the bar, my step slowing as all eyes turned in my direction. It dawned on me that I, a bare headed, red haired freckle faced European female must have looked a trifle out of place! Arriving at the bar I gazed at the waiter and every ear in the room waited for my words.
So, I asked for two cups of hot chocolate. Grinning broadly and nodding knowingly to his customers as he passed, the waiter insisted on preceding me with the steaming cups arranged on a round silver tray, a towel draped over his arm. Meekly I followed him back to our room, picking my way through the groups of smiling customers. With a flourish he served our chocolate and left.

Resignedly we settled down to wait for the morning. Just before dawn broke Pete added insult to injury by falling asleep; and snoring!
We found out later that this night had been the only one in the month of Ramadan when all good Muslims stayed awake till sunrise. As light filled the sky our neighbours disappeared, to their beds presumably, and we snatched a few hours before we had to leave

word count 1893.

PART 6: A FEW WEEKS IN MARRAKESH

Marrakesh was now within a days journey. We should have been keyed up with excitement but, after our sleepless night in Beni Mellal, all we could think of was to get on yet another bus, curl up on the back seat and sleep. But we had reckoned without our tourist status. As soon as we climbed on board we made for the back seat. The driver immediately stopped us and, with much gesticulating and smiling, he showed us to the very front of the bus. We reluctantly complied and were the centre of attention as the bus filled up behind us. We had a panoramic view of the road ahead as the driver rattled serenely on.
The road grew steeper and began to wind round hairpin bends with a sheer drop to one side. On the straight our driver had seemed competent and relaxed. As the route grew more tortuous he became more distracted, especially when passengers found it necessary to come to the front of the bus and shout advice in his ear. We hung on to our seats, mesmerised with terror, as we veered from side to side when the driver turned round in his seat to shout back at his critics.
There was nothing between us and the stony road except that brittle windscreen. Tired as we were we could not, dare not, shut our eyes; only pray that the driver would, somehow, get us to Marrakesh in one piece.
And, of course, he did. A few hours later found us standing in Djemaa el Fna, the now famous main square of Marrakesh . We were still exhausted; but who could fail not to be immediately overtaken with the strange exciting atmosphere of Morocco’s most romantic and cosmopolitan city.

There we were in that famous square with it’s balcony cafe and the narrow streets of the souk disappearing in all directions. All around us was noisy life, music and colour. We itched to start exploring straight away, but accommodation was our first priority.
All around the square were modest looking hotels. We went through the entrance arch of the nearest one, the Hotel Central, and found ourselves in the cool inner courtyard with its sunken garden of palm trees that reached up to the sky. The building was one of the now famous riads, built on three stories with a flat roof terrace. The rooms were reached by a series of stone staircases, which joined with galleries on each of the floors. We got a room for the night on the ground floor. Although shabby, the hotel was generally clean and our room was tidy and quiet.
After a few hours of exhausted slumber we ventured out to experience our first evening in Marrakesh. We wandered among the many stalls selling everything any tourist could possibly want. We were hungry and so, for the first time, but definitely not the last, we sampled the delicious Conga eel steaks, shallow fried in front of us and served with a hot sweet dipping sauce; which seemed to consist of orange and chilli; a taste which I have tried (and failed) to recreate many times since.
For a few small coins you could have a deep bowl of harrisa stew served with hard wholemeal bread; a satisfyingly filling and cheap meal. And Marrakesh was the first place where we ate delicious goats milk yoghurt which had a lemony tang and stuffed ourselves with exquisitely cooked doughnuts smothered in sugar; the best I have ever tasted.

Everywhere there were crowds of people; the traditional Arabs in flowing white; the Berber musicians and acrobats and many tourists like us. All nationalities mingled and seemed to rub along together pretty well.
We listened to the music, wandered among the little shops which lined every narrow alley of the Souk, gazing at the wrought metal artifacts, leather, jewellery and colourful cloths hanging under the awnings. Little pavement cafes sold glasses of hot sweet mint tea; a taste I never acquired due to the excessive amounts of lump sugar that were considered necessary additions before serving; but we both quickly got addicted to the alternative; small strong cups of black coffee that were both refreshing and reviving. Eventually we dragged ourselves away to our bed, secure in the knowledge that it would all still be there in the morning. Now we had reached Marrakesh and our adventure had really begun.
The Hotel Central proved to be an economical and comfortable berth during our stay in Marrakesh. Once I had got over the shock of the ubiquitous cockroaches in the communal toilet, that scurried out of sight whenever this facility was used, we both adjusted to this new way of living. Despite the cockroaches, the standards of cleanliness were perfectly adequate; indeed we were both struck by the practice of washing down the courtyard every morning, so that the tiled area always looked clean and inviting.
After a few days we came to a financial arrangement with the hotel manager which gave us a substantial discount for an extended stay. This suited the management as well as us because there were many cheap hotels vying for the custom of tourists like ourselves who were travelling on a very tight budget.

Marrakesh was (and still is) a city of two halves; the Arab quarter and the French built new city; not far in distance but miles apart in cultures and economy. Moneyed tourists, who stayed in the continental style hotels and shopped in the broad boulevards of the French district, were not to know that the Arab quarter was not only much cheaper but much more exciting and closer to the heart of the indigenous population of the city.
We quickly established a routine. All meals were eaten from the food stalls that were so prolific all around Djemaa el Fna. We would spend a lot of time just strolling about the square, listening and watching the many musicians, acrobats, drummers and dancers who kept the local populace, and the tourists, entertained.
Marrakesh has long had the reputation of being the most laid back city in Morocco; a reputation gained mainly because of the large population of Southern tribesmen and Berbers who bring in their goods to trade and spend their money in the souks. As the days went by we started to meet and make friends with other travellers.
There were many Americans; the flower power children of the sixties who were very popular with the traders, due to their relative wealth compared to the assets of the average European backpacker. Most of them were open and friendly; two characteristics that struck a chord with the Moroccan locals, who were also welcoming to the strangers in their midst. We met Danish, Dutch, Swedish, German and French nationals. And, of course, many British just like us, living on a shoestring. But our most valued friend was a Moroccan; another Mustapha.
Mustapha worked on and off in the hotel. He appeared to be a general dogsbody, turning his hand to maintenance, cleaning and errands.

He was keen to make friends with us, having an avid curiosity for what was going on in the world outside Morocco; indeed he had only a hazy idea of life outside the locality of the city, Like most citizens of working age he had to conform to imposed travel restrictions and a journey of any distance required a visa or permit; something for which you had to pay.
The easy going appeal of Marrakesh was only skin deep for the locals. Life for most was not an easy ride and they found it difficult to understand how the tourists could so order their lives to be able to travel far from home.
Mustapha was no different but, in his way, he also was a child of the sixties and was open minded about different cultures. His natural friendly disposition and curiosity meant we spent many hours just chatting with him, in our rapidly improving French, about all sorts; he in his turn, acted as our guide to the city. We didn’t get hustled when we went out with Mustapha.
And so we spent a pleasant few weeks in Marrakesh. Nearly forty years is a long way back to remember but certain scenes and events stick in the memory. It was still Ramadan in Marrakesh and you did not see Muslims eating or drinking during the day. Musicians in the square ‘adopted’ the odd tourist to sit in their circle, to add cachet to their performance.
One such group made our acquaintance and insisted that we accept bottles of coke while they sang and danced in enforced abstinence. We felt bound to accept their hospitality, although uncomfortably; and we hadn’t the heart to tell them that we didn’t even like the sugary drink so loved all over the world.

Police were everywhere. We never got used to their habit of going round in pairs, holding hands. Without exception they were heavily built and badly shaved. The locals didn’t mess with them and I do remember, vividly, seeing one of these uniformed law enforcers beating a middle aged woman in a blue djellabah, who had dared to argue back, quite viciously with his baton, while onlookers passed by with barely a backward glance. But, to be honest, the reality of being a Moroccan in Morocco rarely impinged. We were young, ignorant and were having too good a time to be aware of the social issues.
On the evening Ramadan finished, the manager of the hotel called Pete into the office. I was left sitting in our room, wondering what was going on. At least an hour later Pete returned, somewhat the worse for wear. It transpired that the manager had decided to include Pete in his liberation from abstinence: evidently the Muslim rule about alcohol didn’t impinge upon his conscience. They sat opposite each other and the manager kept filling up two tumblers of wine, knocking his own straight back then waiting with evident impatience while Pete followed suit. It was more of a contest than a shared tipple but the manager evidently felt it was his role to show his guest the hospitality of the house as soon as he legitimately could.
As a celebration of the end of Ramadan a small local cinema showed ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for several nights. Quite a large contingent of tourists went to see it, along with most of the young population of Marrakesh. To my shame I remember the Europeans and Americans sitting at the back of the hall and being convulsed with laughter most of the time at the strange image of Elvis being dubbed into French with Arabic subtitles.
The Arabs, however, took it all very seriously and stared disapprovingly at the back stalls after each burst of merriment.

PART 7: A VISIT TO ESSAOUIRA

We celebrated Christmas in Marrakesh. Our group of friends got together and we all took on the task of producing one item each for the feast. It fell to me to produce the Christmas pudding and so, with only a few days in hand, I sourced dried fruit, spices,
flour and honey to create quite a credible imitation of a boiled pudding. The actual cooking was done at our American friends rooms who had the luxury of a rudimentary kitchen. They also provided the only relatively expensive item, a scraggy fowl. This, with lashings of fresh vegetables made for a good day, although poor Pete was laid low with a debilitating bug and missed the festivities.
The only cloud on our horizon at this time was our acute shortage of funds. We wanted to see more of Morocco before we were forced to go home. After Christmas many of our more affluent friends decamped to Essaouira,
Nowadays this attractive resort on the Atlantic coast is a favourite haunt for tourists, especially surfers. In those days it was a modest fishing village that was gaining in popularity as an alternative to Agadir, which had been a popular holiday destination until a devastating earthquake in 1960; And so, when we came to the end of time for our room rental at the hotel, we managed to scrape together enough funds to make the journey Westwards.
It wasn’t easy. What made it possible was Mustapha arranging a loan for us of a hundred dhiram; the equivalent of ten pounds. We didn’t ask him. When he realised we were going West he came to us and insisted we accept it.

Even still we wouldn’t have taken him up on it, knowing he would have had to stand as guarantor for the sum, if it wasn’t for the fact that were expecting some top up funds from Pete’s parents through the post; the only option for acquiring cash in those pre ‘hole in the wall’ days.
Transferring funds by post was risky. Once or twice friends and relatives got some cash out to us, but sometimes this mysteriously disappeared between the sender and the Poste Restante box number where you picked up post. However, the odd tenner here and there kept our heads above water.
We promised Mustapha we would repay him, although, much like our German friend on the road to Oujda, I don’t think he expected to see us again. His generosity and trust in us was all the more appreciated when you took into account that he survived on very modest means. The day we left, on the inevitable bus, he came and waved us goodbye; sad that he couldn’t make the journey himself.
We loved Essaouira from the word go. It was a charming seaside town where you could stroll down to the harbour area and watch the fishermen sorting their catches and tending their wooden boats. It had some ancient ramparts that could be strolled along and the streets were flanked by white houses and shops, selling all sorts of goods; from arts and crafts to goat meat. The locals were friendly and we quickly settled into our temporary home.
Details are hazy as to our arrival but we very quickly found some lodgings. This consisted of two rooms on the first floor of a three storey house with a communal roof area. We did the deal with a middle aged woman who lived on the second floor with her teenage daughter.

We found out later that, although the woman ran and managed the letting side of the house, it was actually owned by an older daughter, who lived on the ground floor and plied the oldest trade in the world. Her chief clientele were the local constabulary; more of this later.
Our two rooms consisted of one large communal area, where we slept, cooked and generally lived in, and a smaller back room where was housed a ‘squat’ toilet, a basin and a bath. Before you get carried away by this apparent luxury dear reader, I hasten to point out that the bath was purely for water storage. We quickly learnt that the water supply was only available for a few hours a day; and so you made sure you kept the bath topped up when the taps were on.
The main room was sparsely furnished with a bed and some cooking facility, a table, chairs and, I think, a wardrobe. The shuttered window overlooked the street. On our second night in residence we were awoken by someone throwing stones at our window and shouting in Arabic.
Pete opened the shutters and looked out to see one of the local policemen standing below, swearing angrily and incomprehensibly at him. Before matters took an even nastier turn a ground floor window opened and the house owner started shouting, as angrily, at the client; one of her regular customers.
We found out the next day that he had assumed Pete was a rival for the lady’s affections and had harboured some sort of proprietorial grudge at a perceived conflict of interests.
There was a lively social scene among the visiting tourists. Many of our friends from Marrakesh had rented apartments and we would socialise most days with parties, beach trips and meetings at one of the local cafes.

We never tired of wandering down the narrow streets indulging in good natured bartering with the tradesmen for everyday items, who followed the common practice that we had first experienced in Azrou; of sending us from one to the other as we attempted to get the price down a few more centimes. It was all good fun; and good experience.
I think now is the time for the second tale of Pete’s teeth. An American friend called on us one day and, while indulging in some desultory and inept orange juggling, managed to snap Pete’s denture, (which he had left on the table) clean in half with one of the dropped fruits. Jerry, our American friend was truly mortified and offered to pay for a repair, if it could be arranged.
It just so happened that, during one of our many rambles through the back streets of the town, we had come across what had appeared to be a dental surgery.
We visited it, with the offending denture, and gazed in the window where an artistic arrangement of antique dentistry and tools were on display. We entered the shop and explained our problem to the young dentist (presumably) who appeared from the back of the shop. Could he mend the denture we wanted to know. He assured us he could. Negotiations regarding price ensued.
They started at a hundred dhirams on his part; ten from our side of the counter. The two extremes gradually drew nearer to each other but, all the while this bargaining was batting back and forth, the presumed dental technician had, with a look of puzzled concentration on his face, been manoeuvring the two clean cut halves in an unsuccessful attempt to fit them back together. Our confidence in his ability to affect the repair gave out just as he had finally agreed to our limit of ten dhirams.

Offering apologies for wasting his time we left the shop hastily, only pausing to gaze once again on the supposed antiques, which were probably the latest models of Moroccan dental skill. The broken tooth bridge was consigned to the rucksack for the duration of our remaining journey and Pete went front toothless from then on.
One day our landlady, or rather her Mother, who lived on the next floor, invited us in for a meal. This had been instigated by the younger daughter, who was a serious bookish sort of girl and the apple of her Mother’s eye. She was a student and liked nothing better than to engage us in conversation. They depended on the other sister’s trade for all of life’s necessities, but kept themselves very much apart from the goings on on the ground floor. I suspect that the younger daughter was seen by the Mother as a chance to cast off the slur of the elder sister’s reputation.
And so we, very politely, socialised and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with the two of them in their spotlessly clean and tidy front room with the ubiquitous stunning tiled floor and wall decoration. It was a formal, but friendly interchange of different cultures. In fact, the two women would have, probably, been less out of place than ourselves, at a vicar’s tea party back home. In an attempt to show our appreciation I had taken with me a small gift for the daughter. Knowing how much western clothes were valued I presented her with a blue and white polka dot dress from Marks and Spencers that had inextricably found it’s way into my rucksack before we left home.
Actually my Mother had insisted that I pack this one ‘good frock’ in case I ‘needed’ to dress up at any stage. It was not the sort of garment I would have been seen dead in anywhere and I was very glad to get a chance to hand it over to someone who might appreciate it. The teenager seemed overwhelmed at my generosity and kept thanking me for the dress, to the point where I started feeling quite guilty at palming off such a ghastly example of western woman’s fashion.

But beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. About half an hour after we had returned to our rooms, the student knocked on our door and presented me with something wrapped up in tissue paper.
Upon unwrapping it I discovered she had given me the most exquisite Moroccan dress, or djellabah. It was made of some gauzy silver material, embroidered all over in silver and lime green leaves and flowers and all the edgings were in silver braid. I protested that I couldn’t possibly accept such a precious gift but she insisted, saying that she would never wear it; indeed I got the impression that she regarded it as rather vulgar; perhaps it was an unwanted present from her sister; a woman who had no inhibitions regarding dress and was always to be seen, indoors, in gorgeous silks and satins.
So, with many thanks I accepted it.
We lived in our little apartment in Essaouria for a month and, during that time, Pete casually suggested, when we got back home, we should get married. I thought it was a good idea and, just over a year later, the gift of the silver tissue and green embroidered djellabah became my wedding dress; a much treasured garment that I still have packed away somewhere.

WORD COUNT 1746

PART 8: ESSAOURIA

On the roof of the house was another flat occupied by a Danish couple. I remember them because, for the duration of our stay, they were at daggers drawn with the occupant of an adjoining house. The bone of contention (an apt metaphor) was an unhappy dog that was chained up all the time on the roof of the neighbouring house. When it wasn’t having stones thrown at it by children it was howling or barking. The Danish man eventually made friends with this miserable canine and finally entered into protracted negotiations with the owner to buy it from him. The owner rooked him for a sizeable sum for supposed necessary vaccinations and papers to enable the couple to take the dog back to Denmark. But they stuck to their guns and the dog eventually departed with them for a, presumably, better life in more Northern climes.
One day Pete arrived back home with a paper parcel which, when unwrapped on the table, turned out to contain several small live crabs which scuttled away upon their release. I refused to kill them and Pete, the hardened fisherman, had to do the dreadful deed of chucking them into boiling water, prior to our seafood supper.
We would spend quite a lot of time sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the grey Atlantic; I would stay close to shore but Pete would give me palpitations swimming well out to sea while I had visions of shark attacks; a phenomenon not unknown in that part of the coast. Pete also indulged in a hilarious camel ride; a pleasure that I didn’t fancy, being of a much more timid nature and not taking to the camel’s habit of disdainfully spitting at potential riders.

One day, when we were walking to the beach along a dirt road, on the outskirts of a small settlement of low white houses, we were witnesses to an accident. A youth, careering along on his bike, hit a huge pot hole at the side of a bridge over a dried up river bed. He and the bike disappeared over the side of the bridge and several people, us included, rushed to his aid.
All was mayhem as villagers surged round his unconscious form. Mindful of internal injuries we managed to dissuade the crowd from moving him until the ambulance arrived. But when this vehicle, a grubby white van, turned up, the driver hoisted the injured party onto his shoulders and, surrounded by a large and vociferous crowd, ran up and out of the ravine and deposited him, none too gently, into the back of the van; whereupon he drove off at the customary breakneck speed.
We feared for the outcome to this incident and went back to the village the next day to get news of the invalid. We were greeted like long lost friends by his various relatives and were invited into his brother’s little white house to take refreshment. The unprepossessing exterior opened into a cosy tiled room, bright with rugs and ceramic decoration. We sat on low couches and shared in the communal dish of couscous with goat meat and drank sweet mint tea. According to the relatives, the youth had not sustained any major injury and was well on the way to recovery. They acted as if we had played a major role in saving his life; but we knew that luck had played the main part.
It was nearing the time when we had to return to Marrakesh, to pay Mustapha back and to start, reluctantly, on the way homeward. Before we left we were invited to a party by some acquaintances who were renting a whole floor of a rhiad in the town. They were Londoners but, unlike us, were not short of a bob or two.

The flat, which overlooked the central courtyard on three sides, was tastefully adorned with rugs, knick-knacks and ceramics. The floor was a stunning pattern of Moroccan tiling. The whole place had an air of comfort and the tenants, a couple of well heeled hippies whom we hardly knew, greeted us with distant friendliness.
This probably had something to do with the industrial quantities of keef that were being smoked. We were sixties children after all and we took our alternative lifestyle credentials seriously. That night a veritable cornucopia of drugs were available including some acid trips. I had taken LSD on occasion back home and had enjoyed the unhinging effects most of the time. And so I indulged, as did Pete.
At first everything seemed to be going along okay. The room was quite crowded and people drifted in and out. Suddenly I realised that the tiled floor of many colours had become liquid. Amazed I put my hand into it and swirled the colours around. It was while I was experiencing this phenomenon that I began to feel a sensation of what I can only call paranoia. The symmetrical patterns on the curtains and throws seemed vaguely threatening and I found I couldn’t look at them.
Pete, who had always had a much stronger resistance to drugs, picked up on my panic straight away and tried to reassure me that it was a temporary angst and everything would turn out fine.
But, the harder I tried, the less I seemed able to keep my grip on reality. By now others were concernedly offering advice as I struggled to keep the demons at bay. But I seemed to be slipping away from my companions and surroundings down a long dark tunnel.

I truly believe that, at that moment, I was on the point of losing it completely. Gradually I became aware of an insistent voice coming from the mouth of a young American man who I could just discern at the end of the black tunnel that separated me from the rest of the room. I could hear him saying, over and over again, “whatever you are seeing turn and face it; confront it; whatever it is look at it and it will go.” All the while I was aware of him gazing at me intently; concentrating with all his being on bringing me back.
Suddenly I got it and faced up to the unknown dread. With what felt like a physical whoosh I shot back up the tunnel and emerged into the light and warmth of the room again. The relief was overwhelming.
But my travails were not yet over. I went immediately from a ‘bad’ trip to an amazingly enlightening ‘good’ one. The room appeared to have morphed into an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful treasures. Precious jewels were stacked in glittering heaps on the low tables. Lions and tigers lounged regally on the couches and did not appear averse to being stroked and admired. Everybody looked beautiful; and I told them so, illustrating my words with actions that were designed to make me curl up with embarrassment the next morning, when I was regaled with what had gone on the night before.
But the strangest occurrence on this never to be forgotten ‘trip’ was my speaking in tongues. As it was told to me the next day, during my ‘enlightened’ period I was making quite a lot of noise and the Moroccan landlady came upstairs to complain. I remember her standing at the door and berating the assembly; and I remember answering her and explaining that there was nothing to worry about.
I can see her now, shrugging her shoulders, turning from the door and going back downstairs. As far as I was concerned she spoke to me in English but several people confirmed the next day that I had replied to her in Arabic.

I also remember hearing lots of different voices, speaking in different languages, in my head. It was as if I had become a radio receiver for a worldwide conversation. At one point I remember distinctly, saying, in an Ozzie accent, “Come in Australia”!
In days to come I was to remember one particular ‘happening’ during that long night. As it was explained to me the next day, when I had returned to lucidity, it had been necessary to keep me calm, to avoid me returning to the frightening darkness of the tunnel. At the time I interpreted these soothing conversations in a much more meaningful way. It seemed that people around me were telling me that I had finally emerged from a lifelong delusion of living in a world full of wars, famine, bigotry and disharmony. Evidently all the ills of the world had only been in my head; the reality was a world of happiness, prosperity and harmony.
The euphoria of this revelation was wonderful and, amazingly, logical. How could I have been so silly as to believe that the world was a place of conflict and unhappiness? It was so much more likely that we would utilise the joy of living in the most practical way possible, instead of wasting lives and time making each other miserable.
Imagine my feelings in the morning when I realised the ‘revelation’ was the delusion. Before I became aware of this sorry truth, in the grey light of dawn, I had reached a giddy plain, common to many who have indulged in hallucinogens, of being on the cusp of understanding the creation of the whole universe. But, just as I reached this crucial final understanding, I started to come down, quite rapidly.
All around me were sleeping forms; the flat looked seedy and very untidy with several broken ornaments lying about (evidently a lot of the disarray was caused by me) and I felt grubby and very depressed. Pete had returned to normality long before me and we crept away to our lodgings, before our fellow party goers woke up.

We found out later that this particular batch of acid had been ‘cut’ with speed, which explained why the trip had come on so fast and been so ‘jagged’. The American boy, who had talked me out of my tunnel, had taken one two days before and had to fight out his demons all on his own on the beach. Hence his knowledge of rescue tactics.
As you have probably gathered this trip made a lasting impression on me; to the point that I can still remember it vividly nearly forty years later. When we returned home I did take acid once or twice again, but my reactions were stale and repetitive and I lost interest in mind altering drugs.
Before we returned to Marrakesh; we visited the flat of the party givers once more, to apologise for my behaviour. I was greeted very coolly and left feeling suitably deflated; but relieved that they hadn’t taken us up on our offer to pay for the carnage I had caused.

Word count 1792

PART 9: FROM MARRAKESH . . TO BARCELONA

A few days later we were back in the main square of Marrakesh and reinstated in our old hotel room in the Central. Mustapha was very pleased to see us and, very tactfully, didn’t mention the money we still owed his moneylender. It was several days before the expected lifeline funds turned up; some from Pete’s parents and an unexpected bonus tenner from a good friend back home. Meanwhile, desperate for cash, we took all our spare clothes to the buy and sell market, where anything of western design commanded good money. In this way we kept our heads above water and paid our hotel bill.
Thankfully our funds turned up and we were able pay our debt to Mustapha. With the little money we had left, we had to make it back home post haste. So now we steeled ourselves to return to our former lives in grey Great Britain. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to our hotel friends and started the long walk out of Marrakesh. This time we had to hitch. No expensive luxuries like bus rides for us. I remember our last sight of the dusty, sunny road out of the Arab quarter with traders parked under orange trees selling everything and anything, including oranges, to the colourful and noisy throng of Berbers, Arabs and tourists. We turned our backs on it all and began the long trek home.
We had only walked a few kilometres out of the town when a car pulled up. Amazingly it was a Rolls Royce and a very English voice enquired of us as to where we were aiming for. We said Tangier and couldn’t believe our luck when the driver said that was their destination. In no time at all we were ensconced in the unbelievably luxurious interior of leather seats and air conditioning and chatting with our benefactors like old friends.

The couple lived in Eastbourne and were both doctors. They appeared to be in their forties; he was blonde with a bony frame dressed in expensive well cut clothes. His wife was an attractive dark haired Indian lady dressed appropriately in a colourful silk sari. It turned out that they had ‘popped over’ for a long weekend, hired the Rolls at Tangier airport and driven down to Marrakesh to stay at a top price hotel in the French quarter.
They were absolutely charming and we spent the next few hours swapping experiences of Marrakesh and Morocco as the Rolls ate up the miles. They were astonished at the difference in prices between the French and Arab quarter. They had spent more in a few days than we had on our whole trip. They shared with us the hamper of delicious French cuisine that had been provided by the hotel and we quizzed them about life on the south coast of England. Curious, I asked the wife if she always wore Indian dress. “Usually” she replied. “Except when I walk the dog.” How English is that!
They dropped us just outside Tangier and, before they departed, pressed into our hands a ten shilling note, (equivalent to 50 pence nowadays). We thanked them wholeheartedly for all their kindness and went our separate ways.
I don’t remember much about Tangier, except it had the same ‘edgy’ feel as Algiers had. We felt uncomfortable walking through it’s seedy streets. We were eager to get on the ferry to Algeciras, but first, we had to get our remaining dhirams changed into pesetas.
This was not an operation that could be undertaken legally. With the usual protective attitude of the native state, Morocco didn’t like to see money leaving the country and so we had to take advantage of the black market.

There was no shortage of volunteers offering us a ‘fair’ rate of exchange. In those days Tangier had a decidedly dodgy reputation, being a favoured drug and illegal immigrant route; ( I am tempted to say so what else is new!) Reluctantly we engaged in negotiations with the most trustworthy looking character vying for our attention and, even more reluctantly, followed him through the seedy streets, redolent with the heavy odour of keef, to meet with his ‘broker’.
Eventually he led us up some steps between two flat roofed terraces and, smiling reassuringly, ushered us into a room where another man sat behind a table. By now, although we had convinced ourselves that we were going to be robbed, or worse, we had to go through with it and advanced to face whatever lay ahead. Ten minutes later we were walking away with a distinct feeling of anticlimax, after getting a perfectly adequate rate of exchange conducted with formal courtesy and mutual satisfaction. The anti climax was swiftly overlain with relief and we hurried to the ferry terminal.

It was here we met Big John and Mr T. That sounds a bit theatrical but we never knew them by any other names. They were two Americans, both ex Vietnam war veterans, who had been travelling through Morocco and had just spent most of their cash on a VW van, in which they intended to travel through Europe. It transpired that we could do each other a favour. If we travelled as passengers in their van we could all get over much more cheaply; the ferry charge being based on the vehicle not the occupants. And so we spent the short crossing time getting to know our new acquaintances.
We deduced that both Big John and Mr T had suffered acute trauma in Vietnam but, after a brief allusion, neither talked about it.

They dealt with it in their different ways. Mr T was a taciturn man who was pleasant but preferred his own company and rarely opened up.
Big John couldn’t have been more different. At least six foot six and very gangly he had that rare human ability to endear himself to whosoever crossed his path. And so he covered up by being extremely humorous and gregarious.
Once over the other side we successfully negotiated customs; or so we thought, but, rounding a corner we came upon a road barrier manned by the Guardia; the scary Spanish police of Franco’s Spain. They stood, cold eyed and watchful, with machine guns at the ready, to search out any suspicious visitors. Despite a certain amount of tension on our part we passed with no incident.
So here we were in yet another country. In 1969 Spain was a completely different kettle of fish to the overcrowded tourist ridden Costas of today. The country was still largely rural and, except for the main cities, the coastal route consisted of large stretches of rugged terrain, interspersed with run down white walled villages, usually with a huge wedding cake of a church perched on the hills above, But the first stirrings of the commercialisation (instigated by Franco I believe) that was to come were plain to see. Buildings were going up all along the coast; an opportunity for us as it turned out.
When we drove out of the port town of Algeceras I don’t remember any discussion about the four of us joining forces. We just did. The VW van was an empty shell at the start of our journey. Every time we drove past a deserted building site (siesta time was favourite) somebody, usually John, would leap out and gather any building material they could find, so that, not many days later, the van was kitted out with rudimentary bunk beds, shelves and cupboards.

We cooked on fires of brushwood and waste timber. Our main diet also came from the fields around us where vegetables grew; I remember artichokes figuring large on our menu.
I write these words rather unbelievingly now; being an upright citizen who wouldn’t dream of half inching anything! But, in those couple of weeks of getting through Spain it was definitely a case of proving Darwin right; i.e. the survival of the fittest. Pete and I were just trying to get home on the very small sum of money that we had left. Mr T. and Big John, however, intended to drive round Europe on almost no funds. So we roughed it together.
The first few nights were spent sleeping on the bare metal floor of the van, except for the lucky person whose turn it was to sample the relative luxury of the the long front seat. It was early February and bitterly cold at night. Many times in the next few days we thanked our lucky stars that we had resisted the temptation to sell our Parkas in Marrakesh.
One incident which sticks in my memory, as painful ones often do, was when I managed to crack my elbow, very painfully, on the van door one freezing night during my turn in the front seat; a seemingly minor injury which caused me much pain for the rest of the journey; and for many years later.
We drove North up the coast and didn’t stop anywhere more than a night, until we got to Barcelona. All these years later details of our journey are a hazy memory. I seem to remember that the natives were not particularly friendly and we were very aware of the heavy and ubiquitous presence of the Spanish police. People looked poor and shabby and seemed to avoid us;

The majority of women were clothed in black and heavily shawled. Once again, our ignorance of the politics of the day meant were were not conversant with the physical reality of repression that the average Spanish citizen had to put up with. How different to the open society of Spain today.
It turned out that Mr T. wanted to visit the American Embassy in Barcelona, where he had hopes of some funds; a pension payment as a wounded veteran I seem to remember. He had been the one who had paid our way as regards to petrol and minimal food up to then. He and John were depending on this money, to get them on the next stage of their journey So we drove down to the harbour and parked up on the docks for the night.

(WORD COUNT 1664)

PART 10: THE FINAL STRETCH

In the morning Mr T. set off on his errand and John accompanied Pete and I on an exploration of the labyrinth of narrow streets that led down to the docks. These shabby thoroughfares were full of that unique life and character that so typifies Barcelona. Here we met, at last, Spaniards who did not shrink from enjoying life. The Spanish tavernas loved John, who responded enthusiastically to their ‘in your face’ approach to life. When we left to return to the dock and meet up with Mr T, there were several emotional farewells from our Spanish hosts. We parted from them full of bonhomie and love for our fellow man.
We were a little surprised not to find Mr T waiting for us at the van, as it was quite late in the afternoon. But he did not appear at all and, eventually, we fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. John’s assumption was that some friends that he had intended to meet up with at the Embassy, had invited him to sleep over. But the next morning arrived and went without Mr T. John had spent most of what spare cash he had the day before; in anticipation of replenishment from the USA army pension pot.
Pete and I felt we had to try and contribute in some fashion and hit upon the idea of selling some blood. We trekked across the city to the hospital, admiring on the way the eccentric architecture of Gaudi and the imposing classical buildings which make Barcelona such a stunning place to visit to this day. But when we got to the hospital it was to find the blood donor facility was closed for the afternoon; the only afternoon of the week that it did.

We had taken the bus to the hospital and now decided to get back to the docks on the underground; evidently a cheaper option. With our limited Spanish we very nearly got totally lost, until a kind hearted young girl who looked like an office clerk, not only put us on the right track but insisted on giving us enough small change to afford the fare. We had arranged to meet John in one of the tavernas we had frequented the day before but, despite searching down many similar looking streets, we could not find it again.
We were getting desperate until, suddenly, there it was before us. Inside all was gaiety and noise. John was performing an individual style of flamenco with a more than compliant señorita and the crowd were clapping encouragingly. When we managed to fight our way to John’s side he greeted us with “Thank goodness you’re back. I can’t put off paying the bill much longer.”
It was obvious that his fellow revellers would be quite happy if he never left, so we did not take this statement to heart. Instead we all had a plate of hearty soup and bread for almost nothing and only paid for the wine that had to be drunk as a matter of course. Our first experience of that eminently civilised custom of tapas. Then it was back to the docks; and still no show from Mr T. We were seriously worried now, imagining the worst; mugging; a heart problem or even a psychotic attack as Mr T’s mental health was known to be delicate. It was too late to do anything that day so we settled down for our third night in the van, resolving to do something in the morning.
The next day saw us visiting the American embassy to make enquiries. On stating our business we were asked to wait and an official came out to question us. It turned out that Mr T, far from being in any trouble, had in fact , reported to the Embassy that he suspected Pete, John and I of abandoning him and stealing the van!

It transpired that he had returned to the dock the same day he had left and had not been able to find the van; because he had, unknowingly, gone to the wrong dock!
How we laughed! Once we were reunited and all relevant explanations had been made Mr T. couldn’t apologise enough. He had been successful in his mission of acquiring funds and we spent our last night in Barcelona introducing him to the delights of Spanish bar life and, for the rest of our journey together, he was much more friendly and forthcoming.
Another day saw us across the Spanish border and well into France. We eventually said goodbye to each other at Arles; the parting of the ways. Our American friends were crossing into Italy but we were hitching up through France to home. It was a sad farewell. Our meeting had made the penultimate leg of our journey a memorable time. We were never to meet again; and we only ever had one communication, from John, when were home again. I hope their journeyings helped to expunge the horrors of the war that left so many young American men so traumatised.
As the little VW van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home.
Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies. The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.
With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.
As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.
At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilised version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters.
Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realised that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn was breaking we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel.
The snow lay thick along the side of the road and was kept pristine by constant flurries. After all these years details are hazy but I know we had to walk several more kilometres before we were on the road bound for Calais.
We trudged along, again not attracting much attention from the cars that sped past. But then a car screeched to a halt in front of us. As we approached it suddenly sped off as quickly as it had come; obviously gaining some amusement from our discomfiture. When another car pulled up quite soon after we approached cautiously and with cynicism; but this one was genuine.
We almost wished that he had been a prankster during the next few hair raising miles. At phenomenal speed he raced through the icy wastes of North West France towards Calais. Paralysed with terror we cowered in the back seat as the driver indulged his motor racing fantasies on the slippery road. Had we come all this way just to meet our deaths on the home stretch? Amazingly we arrived, all in one piece, at the dock. Soon after saw us on the ferry bound for Dover.

And that’s about it. The journey across the channel was predictably uneventful; no emotional Brits greeting their native shores with tears and cries of joy; just phlegmatic acceptance of grey skies and customs administration.
My last memory of our three month journey is a meal, prior to hitching up to London, in a transport cafe just outside Dover. All through our travels we had saved a ten shilling note (now equivalent to fifty pence) for some spending money through England and it had acquired a sort of talisman quality.
I will never forget the plates of greasy egg and chips, rubbery white bread smeared thinly with margarine and cups of stewed brown tea that we were served with, by an indifferent waitress on grubby plastic tables.
If anything was destined to bring us down to earth with a bump it was that meal. We had spent our last money on this culinary travesty and, at the time, it seemed to sum up all our disappointment at returning to our old way of life. We were back in the UK, homeless and jobless. Where did we go from here?

Well; that’s another story.

Word count 1743

MOROCCAN ADVENTURES 1968/69

PART 1: DOVER TO MARSEILLES

Landing in Africa was more difficult than we had expected. . . . .
The year was 1969 and we were innocents abroad. Unlike the politically aware, Rough Guide toting travellers of today, we had arrived in the African continent mainly because the cheapest ferry from Marseilles to anywhere was Algiers. We knew nothing of friction between old colonial powers and emerging native states. Although we had some hazy idea of their ‘foreignness’ the term Arab or Muslim held no especially uneasy connotations. We thought of them as Algerians or Moroccans; and sometimes Berbers. We could speak a smattering of French and assumed we would get by with that.
My future husband and I left Britain in November of that year. I have a picture in my head of the day we set off from Pete’s parents’ house in leafy Staines. It was late Autumn but cold for the time of year. We were warm and snug in our padded parkas; our stiff new rucksacks bulged with supplies; our shoulders adjusting to their weight. We had very little money; Currency restrictions were in operation at the time and you couldn’t take more than £50 each out of the country.
But I had a guilty secret. I had an extra £100 sewn into the furry lining of my waterproof boots. How I wasn’t stopped by Customs on the way out I’ll never know. Smuggling is not my forte and, if I looked as guilty as I felt, they should have clocked me straight away. It didn’t make me feel any better when Pete pointed out that just about every traveller leaving Britain for any length of time was probably doing the selfsame thing.

But we made it onto the ferry and then train to Paris. Here we had our first mild altercation. Pete had been to Paris before on a week’s school trip; and hated every minute of it. Consequently he was determined to leave as quickly as possible. I pleaded weakly that I would just like to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, wander along the Left Bank, perhaps have a coffee at a pavement café. But all to no avail.

The problem was we couldn’t afford to stay the night in Paris so had to stick to our itinerary of going South as quickly as possible. Originally we had planned to hitch to the Mediterranean but France was in the grip of freezing weather, with deep snow lying right through it’s central region. We decided to get our train tickets and have a hurried look at the sights if there was any time to spare. After a frustrating attempt to get a taxi to the station, (the only one that deigned to stop snarled “merde” upon hearing our halting English accents and drove off immediately) there was, of course, no tourist time and that evening found us ensconced on the night train to Marseilles.
Those latter day French trains were less efficient then than their streamlined counterparts of today and we had the uncomfortable experience of travelling in a train with no heating, through some of the worst weather we had ever encountered. The snow covered plains of central France receded into the Northern distance either side of us as we rumbled Southwards. Luckily our warm parkas kept out the worst of the chill.
Sometime before midnight, we arrived and stepped off the train and it was warm! For the first time I felt the warmth of a Mediterranean night. We stood at the top of the wide flight of stone steps from the station gazing at the starry navy blue sky above, while below us stretched the narrow foreign streets of Marseilles; beyond, the Mediterranean.

After the interminable freezing journey it seemed like paradise. In days to come we were to see the seedier side of Marseilles but that first night was magical. People smiled at us. We drank delicious cups of strong black coffee, ate wonderful crisp bread and creamy cheese and finally went in search of somewhere to lay our heads.

That first night we decided to leave the joys of youth hostelling until the next day and went in search of a room. We found a pension with clean rooms and reasonable rates. Even sleeping between foreign sheets was exciting; the strange bolster and quilt on the high oak bed; the furniture so large, carved and French; and wooden shutters on the narrow high window. In the morning we indulged in coffee and croissants, sitting outside at a pavement café, watching the Marseilles populace going about their lives. But our retreat into the luxury of hotel accommodation was brief and now over. We went in search of the youth hostel.
It turned out to be our first experience in realism. The bright sun glaringly highlighted the seedy nature of the area where the youth hostel was situated, far from the elegant walks of the bay. A utilitarian building where we had to sleep separately; I in the women’s’ dormitory and Pete with the men. It had a basic kitchen with several ovens and sinks and bathroom facilities. Unlike most youth hostels this one had a haphazard air.
The guests reflected it’s cosmopolitan nature. People of all languages and creeds drifted in and out The city was, then as now, a bit of a sink dump for the flotsam and jetsam trying to get into Europe. Not only Africans but many South Americans, fleeing the dictatorships that dominated their countries at that time. A few North Americans and quite a few Europeans like us who were also on the hippy trail to Morocco.

During the three days we had to wait to get on the ferry to Algiers we met some desperate characters. One who particularly sticks in both our minds was an Argentinian teenager who had fled his own country, then in the grip of the military junta and the horrors of the ‘disappeared’ who had had all his documents stolen not long after arriving in the city via boat; (at least that’s what he told us) and had no way of staying in the country except by stealth. He survived by catching cats and selling them to the university and hospital laboratories. Our comfortable British sensibilities were shaken by his matter of fact approach to staying alive and the desperate straits other members of the human race were driven to, to accomplish what we took for granted as a basic human right.
The Autumn climate suited me just fine; warm, dry and not too hot; luckily for us as we carried everything with us when we went out, suspicious of our neighbours honesty. This was unsurprising as evenings were spent listening to one hair raising tale after another as we were told of dirty dealing, dishonesty, theft and, very rarely, violence. We probably looked ridiculous struggling about with all our goods and chattels draped or affixed to our persons, but at least we still had them all when we finally arrived at the dock to board our boat to Africa!
Finally the morning came when we could get on the boat taking us over the water. Three days before we had tried several shipping offices, to find a boat that we could afford, to take us to the African continent. At one time we even toyed with the insane idea of taking the proverbial banana boat to South America, but cowardice prevailed and we ended up booking a passage on the cheapest tramp steamer travelling deck class.

I was the only female, of any nationality, on board. Our fellow passengers were almost exclusively Algerians returning to their capital city; many loaded down with goodies, for future resale, from the European continent. They were a noisy chattering crowd smoking and drinking mint tea under a small covered area on deck. I seem to remember the crossing was at least 12 hours.
There were male and female toilet facilities but I only visited ‘les dames’ twice; the first time in ignorance of the fact that the female toilet was used by the male passengers as a defecating facility, the male section being reserved for urinary relief. The stench was horrendous and did wonders for my bladder control for the rest of the night. The second reluctant visit was in absolute desperation much later during the early morning. There was nowhere to sleep except the deck and, as the huge glittering stars appeared in the velvet night blue Mediterranean sky, it began to get quite cold. We huddled down in our parkas to try and get some sleep.
One of the Arabs settled down next to us, with two large sacks of what turned out to be army greatcoats. It soon became obvious that he was rather taken with Pete, who in those days was a dark haired handsome youth, and he engaged him in conversation, all the while tenderly covering him with greatcoats. He totally ignored me, and Pete had to wait until he had nodded off before surreptitiously sliding a couple of the garments over my shivering form.

word count 1515

PART 2: ARRIVAL IN AFRICA

Dawn arose and the deck was crowded with Arabs leaning on the rail and gazing towards the African shoreline. In the far distance, glowing pink as they gradually emerged out of the morning mist, we saw the walls of Algiers. As we approached the shore the mood among the passengers became more and more frenetic. Shouting ‘Algers Algers’ our fellow travellers excitedly gesticulated, climbing onto the railings of the boat and hanging precariously over the side. Indeed, as we finally pulled into the harbour, many of them leapt into the sea; as if unable to contain their impatience to touch their native soil again.
We realised later that they were probably hoping to elude the authorities rather than experiencing any uncontrollable nationalistic tendencies. But, at the time, this enthusiasm seemed remarkable to a reserved English couple. I tried to imagine a ferry docking at Dover with English passengers weeping with emotion, shouting the name of their beloved country and fighting tooth and claw to be the first to step onto the hallowed soil!
With true British phlegm we decided to wait until the queue had subsided. To call it a queue was not quite the right word to describe the frenzied heaving melee which surged and struggled to be first down the gangplank. The near riot conditions that ensued only served to produce a log jam that was restrained by officials at the end of the gangplank while mayhem reigned on deck.

Smugly we sat and waited for the crowd to disperse. When it seemed to be calming down we strolled to the end of the line to wait our turn. But, to our acute embarrassment, an official, patrolling the line, strode towards us and, politely but firmly, frog marched us to the front of the queue. Our fellow passengers watched our progress with seeming indifference and politely fell back to let us through, before resuming their efforts to beat their neighbours onto dry land. We felt like VIPs with our special treatment. Again, much later, we assumed that they preferred to get any Europeans out of the way before they started dealing with the locals.
A few steps onto the shore of Africa and we came down to earth with a bump. The first impression was the smell; rank and fishy with assorted detritus piled high along the wharf. Then we arrived at Customs. No special treatment here; only a bizarre and confusing altercation with two officials in military style uniform who sat behind their table examining our documents and insisting in talking to us in Arabic. When I say us I really mean Pete. This was my first experience of being an invisible female in a male dominated Muslim world. It transpired that they did not believe Pete was a British citizen.
As I have already said Pete was then dark haired and dark eyed and could easily have been taken for an Arab (we were to find this a useful asset in the weeks to come) But his total incomprehension of their language, plus at least an hour spent arguing with them in our halting French, finally seemed to convince them of his genuineness and, with much scowling and officious rubber stamping, we were waved through.

What in our innocence we had not realised was that they were probably waiting for us to offer money; in short a bribe; We were European after all and therefore rich. Luckily we were ignorant enough not to waste any of our precious cash and had finally been granted access to African shores with all our funds intact.
In chastened mood we left the dock and walked into Algiers. I have to say that, as our first experience of an African city Algiers was a great disappointment. The white buildings that had glistened so invitingly when viewed from the ferry were shabby and run down when seen close to. An air of degeneration and depression seemed to hang like a pall. The colonial style architecture had once been elegant but was now crumbled and in need of paint. Most of the inhabitants looked at us with apparent suspicion, peering at us, as we passed, from the narrow alleyways. Later, when we became more aware of the past history of Algeria and France, we understood better the antipathy of the Algerians. But, at that time it just didn’t feel friendly and we decided not to stay as we had planned, but get on the road to the West straight away. We bought bread, cheese and tomatoes and started to walk out of the city.
It was still early morning as we finally left the industrial outskirts behind. The road lay before us, disappearing into the distance. Beyond the sand dunes to our right we could hear the crash of Mediterranean waves; to our left were rocky sand coloured outcrops sparsely covered with shrubby herbs that smelt smokily aromatic. The huge continent of Africa stretched away to the South; as far as the Cape of Good Hope. The enormous sky was all around us and we were suddenly both acutely aware that we were but pinpricks at the extreme North of this massive landmass. It felt as if we had been transported into a giants world as we perched, like ants, on the very tip of Africa.

The first thing we realised about hitching in Algeria was that lifts were a rare commodity. The wide straight road disappeared over the distant horizon. Either side were shallow sandy banks, sparsely covered with twiggy scrub and herbs. Occasionally a vehicle would roar past and the driver would glance incuriously in our direction as he sped on his way; but no lifts ensued. After several kilometres of weary walking we got a lift into Blida, the next town west of Algiers, with a friendly Algerian in an old truck. He insisted that we visit his vinery as he wanted to eat, but, this being Ramadan, he couldn’t do so in public.
We spent a pleasant hour at his cool white house, admiring his many bottles of wine and sampling one of them with bread and dates. Later he dropped us on the other side of Blida and we started walking again. Just out of the town there was a police road block. They appeared to be checking drivers’ papers before letting them on their way. We walked past and waited at a junction, in sight of the road block. As the lorries and trucks were let through we thumbed hopefully, but the few vehicles to pass thundered on, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
The stony empty road stretched unendingly into the distance. We had no option but to hope for a lift eventually so we sat and waited. After about half an hour we noticed one of the police coming towards us. With trepidation we watched him approach.
He looked an ugly customer; heavy jowled and squat, with decidedly undesigner like stubble; but, far from the threatening behaviour we expected, he halted with a heel click, gave a small bow of the head and held up a hand to impede any flight that we might have been contemplating.

“Attende Monsieur et Madame” he said and, with apparent disregard for life and limb, he strolled casually into the path of a speeding lorry, recently freed from the shackles of the road block. With the confidence of authority he stood, only sidestepping the inevitable impact at the last moment, when it became obvious that, despite the driver’s best efforts, the lorry would not stop in time.
As the officer approached the cab the driver leant down, gesticulating and truculent but, after a furious tirade from the policeman, he subsided into a sullen grumble. Before we had realised what was happening the driver had jumped down and, letting down the backboard of his open truck, indicated that we were to get in. The luxury of the cab was not for us as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat. We thanked both the driver and the policeman, who once more inclined his head, said the Arab equivalent of ‘have nice day’ and marched, with heavy assured steps, back to the road block.
We tried to keep our balance as the truck rattled on at breakneck speed. The driver, having had two strangers foisted upon him, was not about to pander to our comfort. To make matters worse it started raining and,as the road climbed into the hills, the shower changed to snow. Without warning the journey finished as abruptly as it had started. The driver stopped at a side road junction and signalled to us to get down. Once rid of his burdens he raced out of our adventure with a brief ‘salut’.

By now it was late afternoon. About two miles up the side road we could see signs of habitation. We trudged towards it, having had enough of the open road for one day. It turned out to be quite a respectable sized township with French style buildings on either side of the narrow main street. We turned into the first house with a ‘pension’ sign outside.
It was built in French colonial style; and, standing in the gloomy hall, was indeed the original French colonial. Her black hair was strained back into a bun. Her clothes were of a nondescript drab appearance and her manner was cautiously civil. While we were signing the register her husband appeared on the scene. He also greeted us, but much more warmly. It rapidly became apparent that he, particularly, was starved of European company and found the natives a poor substitute for erudite Western views.
They had moved to this out of the way village from somewhere in mid France and, having burnt their boats purchasing the pension that they fondly hoped would be a magnet for tourists, were now stuck in the back of beyond in a country that was alien to them.
They insisted that we ate with them. It was bad French cuisine; a tough meat course preceded some overcooked vegetables. Anything else that was served was so unmemorable that I have forgotten it. After the meal the proprietor took Pete on a ‘Pernod’ crawl round the local cafes. Two drinks in each and then home; so it didn’t take long.

word count 1719

PART 3: CROSSING THE BORDER

The next morning found us having to make a decision. Would we carry on hitching or resort to public transport? West of the town the road carried on, vast and open through rocky countryside, with a few villages dotted sparsely along it’s route. The next large town was Oran, 400 kilometres away.
We decided it would be cheaper to get the bus rather than drain our dwindling resources on bed and board along the road; so that afternoon found us rattling along on our way to Oran.
I don’t remember the journey, except for seeing live chickens and goats tied onto the roof of the coach. Their apparent unconcern at this treatment was more unnerving than the supposed cruelty.
We arrived in Oran in the early evening. This cosmopolitan city was a lot more prepossessing than the capital Algiers. Its white stone buildings and large open squares were reminiscent of it’s recent French occupation. We decided to break our journey here and treat ourselves to an evening meal before retiring to the local youth hostel.
We chose a pleasant looking establishment with tables and chairs parked on the outside pavement, looking across one of the leafy squares. The waiter was thrilled to have some tourists to wait on and treated us like royalty, piling our plates high with chicken and lentils cooked French style. Pete washed it all down with large amounts of local wine and we left after emotionally vowing eternal friendship with the cafe staff.

During the meal our table was visited by a girl with a tray of matches and other useless miscellanea. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she had the eyes of a businesswoman and didn’t leave us until my guilty conscience had purchased a few unnecessary odds and ends. Life is hard if you are working those sort of hours at six years old.
The next morning saw us hitching out of Oran. I felt great. Ahead lay the Algerian/Moroccan border. Pete felt dreadful; repeatedly retching behind the odd eucalyptus bush. He blamed the chicken from the night before but, as I was hale and hearty, we both knew it was the vino what had done it!
It was while trying to get out of Oran and back on the open road that we got one of the few lifts of the whole journey; it was from a young French woman driving the ubiquitous Renault. She was a schoolteacher and, as she drove us through the narrow streets on the city outskirts little children ran alongside with pleading eyes and hands outstretched for largesse. As my fingers groped for a few small coins she told us severely not to even consider giving them anything.
“They must learn that begging is not an acceptable way to live. Education is their way out of poverty”. Even in those apolitically aware days of my youth, and as an inexperienced tourist, I remember thinking that it was okay for her. An educated superior female, laying down the law in someone else’s country. And she knew where her next crust was coming from; but we meekly did as we were told.

She dropped us in Tlemcen, the border town that was to be our introduction into Morocco. This was a sizeable town, again showing the French influence in it’s architecture. We didn’t stop to look, but shared a taxi with other eager border crossers to be.
Nowadays the border between Algeria and Morocco is closed to tourists. Back then you could cross over but neither side made it an easy process. The border, a dusty two lane road with two barriers about a hundred yards apart, was closed.
We mooched about for some two hours waiting for it to open, finding what shade we could under the trees along the highway. It was a hot dusty afternoon and the few houses either side of the highway were quiet and shuttered. It was Ramadan and nobody stirred.
Eventually a soldier came and unlocked the shed that served as customs. We lined up with the others to show passports and visas. These passed muster and we walked the few steps to the Moroccan border post. Any minute now we would be in another country with it’s subtly different character.
But it was not to be; not for a few more hours anyway.
The Moroccan border guard gave our documents a cursory glance and then demanded to know how much Moroccan money we were bringing in. Due to everything being closed for Ramadan we had not been able to change our Algerian dinars into Moroccan dhirams in Tlemcen and had naively assumed we would sort out our finances once in Morocco.

We had, in fact, changed much too much of our precious sterling into dinars at Algiers, assuming our stay in Algeria would be much longer and more expensive than it turned out to be. So it was a bit of a blow to find out that the Moroccan authorities wouldn’t let us in without Moroccan notes.
Morosely we returned to the Algerian hut but they were uninterested in our plight. They just shrugged and said we would have to return to Tlemcen and find a bank. We re-entered Tlemcen in the same taxi with a new set of passengers and found a bank; quite an imposing building, on the outskirts of town. It was shut and our enquiries revealed it would not open until six o’clock, the witching hour during Ramadan, when everything bursts into life once more. After an interminable wait drinking coffee in a dark little cafe (which probably should have been shut) we returned to the bank and were the first through the heavy wooden doors when they finally swung open.
It should have been a simple transaction; but no. Bureaucracy, and not a little bribery and corruption, ruled. I sat on a bench and waited, as behoved an obedient female companion, while the bank clerk told Peter that they would only change a third of our dinars to dhirams. Despite his protestations Pete returned to my side with a little Moroccan cash and a lot of useless dinars.
We wandered back outside and stood, nonplussed, in the dusty sunlight. We couldn’t afford to lose this much of our limited capital. My enforced non-participation in the transaction coupled with the frustration of the return journey from the border suddenly came to a head. With Pete following I marched back into the bank.

Approaching the bank clerk I demanded that he change the rest of our money. With a shrug and a deprecating air he assured me he could not. It was “impossible”.In that case I informed him I was going to stay in the bank until somebody found it “possible” to grant my request. I sat down on one of the many oak benches in the imposing, high ceilinged foyer in view of all the customers, who were, by now, quite numerous.
After about a quarter of an hour a smooth looking man approached me. He was obviously senior to the clerk and, although condescendingly polite, insisted that there as nothing to be done; I would have to leave.
I assured him, with equally indifferent civility, that I had no intention of moving until I had seen someone in authority. He visibly bridled with wounded dignity at my assumption that he was not sufficient ‘authority’ to move me on. His tone took on a more haranguing quality but I was determined that they would have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the door, to remove me from my bench.
By now a small crowd had gathered round us in interested anticipation. The oily man began to look look distinctly oilier. I stuck fast and asked for the manager. He ‘was out’. He ‘would not be in for some time’ I would ‘have to leave’; the mamselle ‘did not understand’. I understood enough to know I was getting under his skin. I gazed impassively at the ceiling fan slowly moving the stale air.
My antagonist suddenly stopped arguing and, rather unnecessarily, asked me to wait. He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bank screens. He returned eventually with yet another clerk in tow, and asked me to accompany him. Pete, by this time, had got bored and gone outside for a smoke; and to wait for events to take their course.

I was ushered into a side room and shown to a chair on one side of a huge leather topped desk. Going to another door my official opened it and through it came a slight little man with an apprehensive air. Another clerk I thought, but no! My official had undergone an amazing transformation.
He preceded the little man to a much larger chair than mine on the other side of the desk, and tenderly, with much reverential murmuring, bowing and scraping, ensconced him comfortably in it’s imposing leather seat.
This was the manager my official told me (I felt that this was not the time to point out that the manager was supposedly out) and he, in his great wisdom and infinite generosity, may Allah be praised, had decided to grant my request.
He went on for a while about his boss’s kindness and sympathy for my plight; about his desire that I should not leave their country in any way dissatisfied with my treatment. This manager was a lord among men and I was lucky that I had touched his heart with my distress.
While this wonderful display of boot licking was taking place the manager uttered not one word, only gazing owlishly at me over the enormous desk, smiling and nodding at his underling’s fervent flattery. I entered into the spirit of the thing and smiled back. Now we were friends and all went swimmingly; even to them giving me the correct rate of exchange.
The transaction over, we parted on the friendliest of terms with my official even saying finally, in a rather flirtatious manner, that the thing that had clinched the manager’s change of heart was the sight of my ‘beautiful blue eyes.’

I stifled the urge to laugh and returned to Pete’s side in triumph. He was about to re-enter the bank, being worried by my prolonged absence. When I emerged with the cash he was both relieved and suitably impressed at my achievement.
We got a lift in the same taxi, with other escapees, back to the border. This time we were let through. We had done it. We were in Morocco.

word count 1765

PART 4: AFTER THE BORDER

It must have been about 8 o’clock in the evening when we finally set off along a rocky road that wound slowly upward through open moorland. From our map we could see our next refuge was a town called Oujda, about 20 miles on. It also had a youth hostel; an essential for poverty stricken tourists. We walked and walked; and walked and walked; only pausing occasionally to gaze back the way we had come, vainly hoping some vehicle would hove into view.
Dusk was rapidly falling and we were beginning to wonder how we would find shelter in this bleak landscape. Glancing back once more we saw, in the far distance, a car approaching. We were determined to stop it somehow or other. We both stood in the middle of the road and waved frantically. For a minute I thought it was going to swerve round us. But, at the last second, in a shower of stones, it screeched to a halt. Thankfully we climbed into the back.
Our chauffeur was a middle aged German man with a kindly face. On discovering our nationality he insisted on conducting the conversation in very bad English. From this we deduced that our saviour was going right through Oujda and even knew where the youth hostel was. Surely, at last, our luck had turned. As we bowled along at some speed we found out that the German was a travelling salesman; of what I can’t remember, but it was something mundanely useful. We chatted on and relaxed into the comfortable interior as the darkened landscape slid swiftly past.

Suddenly, without warning, the car lurched sickeningly. With considerable skill our German friend managed to stop at the side of the road. On inspection it turned out we had a puncture, almost certainly caused by the shower of stones that occurred when he stopped so abruptly to pick us up.
With great cheerfulness our friend, with Pete’s assistance, put on the spare and on we went again. About five miles down the road the other tyre on the same side sprung a leak and once more we ground to a halt.
What to do? We were about five miles from Oujda and, after some discussion, we persuaded the German that we would go on ahead and try and get help. He smiled and agreed, although it was quite obvious that he didn’t believe us, assuming we were deserting the sinking ship. With a cheery wave he bid us farewell and settled down for a night’s sleep in the car. Off we trudged, determined to prove him wrong. About two miles from Oujda we got a lift with a local from the town and, upon hearing our story, he took us to a garage.
To our amazement the garage mechanic seemed to grasp the problem immediately; asked the make of the car, slung a couple of tyres into the back of his pick-up and we all trundled back up the road to rescue our friend.
It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. With the minimum of fuss the garage man changed both tyres and, after payment, we followed him back into Oujda in case of further mishap. Our German friend was now fulsome in his gratitude at our return; but we still felt guilty at having caused the problem in the first place.

And so, finally, we arrived in Oujda. Our new found friend insisted on taking us for a meal at a cafe that he frequented.
The locals were a friendly lot; definitely nicer to know than the Algerians we had left behind. Eventually he drove us to the youth hostel and we regretfully parted company, thanking him profusely for all his help. Another cheery wave and he was swiftly gone, into the darkness.
I hope Oujda is still a pleasant town. It was then. The youth hostel was set in what approximated to the leafy suburbs. The sunlit streets were wide thoroughfares bordered by square white villas set back in walled gardens full of exotic plants and palm trees. The whole place had an air of enjoyable somnolence.
The youth hostel was one of the larger villas and, because Oujda was close to the border, there was quite a mix of nationalities, mainly European, on the trail to and from Marrakesh. It was an easy going establishment with basic but adequate amenities. The community kitchen was where we all gathered, chatting and making friends. It was the sixties; we all loved each other and were heady with the freedom of the open road.
The hostel warden or supervisor was a Moroccan man in his twenties called Mustapha. He was pleasant enough when not veering between temperamental complaint and the necessity to project and protect his cool ‘with it’ image. He rarely wore the traditional djellabah’s but favoured a natty line in western dress. This was usually finished off with a theatrical red silk lined cape, a garment of which he was inordinately fond.
Despite his overweening self admiration he was a likeable man, if only for his eagerness to live in the modern world.

He was a good looking guy and probably had some success with the free living European and American girls that passed through the town. About the third day we were there he tried his technique on me; and appeared astonished and hurt when I turned him down.
The next day Pete couldn’t resist teasing him with his failure and Mustapha’s wounded dignity was worthy of RADA. However, the next time we happened to be alone he asked me, indignantly, why I had told Pete and seemed to find it inconceivable that we actually talked about such things. I think he genuinely thought I should have shown a little more consideration for his reputation!
The day after we arrived who should appear back on the doorstep than our travelling salesman. He had turned round and come all the way back when he had discovered one of my plastic boots in his car; the boots of currency smuggling fame; the boots I had not worn since Marseilles. They had proved totally unsuitable in warm climates and had spent most of the journey tied to my rucksack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this so we had a coffee with him instead, thanked him again and waved him goodbye once more; this time for ever.
Pete’s teeth rate a mention here. Pete had lost several of his top front teeth while still at school, after a combination of a nasty bicycle accident and a rugby injury He had a false set which were the bane of his life. One day he got these teeth stuck down one of the hostel’s unguarded basin plug holes.

We tried everything to get them out., with most of the hostel residents, and Mustapha, milling about with helpful suggestions. Several implements were tried but those teeth were stuck fast. Eventually, when it became obvious that half measures would not do, I took my courage in both hands and just wrenched them out. Amazingly they didn’t break. This was not the last adventure for Pete’s teeth; but more of that later.
We enjoyed our few days of readjustment at Oujda. From this point we really started to appreciate our surroundings and situation. Algeria had been an experience, if rather a short tense one, but in Morocco we were able to relax. The people were friendly and open; they really seemed to like us, whereas in Algeria they had appeared to just tolerate us or hustle.
We decided to use the bus to get to Fez, our next port of call. This form of transport was so cheap that it didn’t seem worth spending hours sitting at the side of the road. Besides, the bus journeys were an experience in themselves. For a start they were always jam packed. Every imaginable possession was tied onto the roof rack, including live chickens and goats.
At every stop street vendors would swarm on, selling anything and everything. Beggars would hang on the sides, entreating us to part with small change, only jumping off when the driver had picked up a bit of speed. The bus that took us to Fez had seen better days and, as it creaked and groaned up the steep winding road, I tried not to imagine what might happen if it didn’t make the next hairpin bend.

The landscape was beautiful in places. We were travelling just north of the Atlas mountains and some of the villages looked remarkably like alpine hamlets in Switzerland. It was hard to believe that, not many miles South stretched the vast expanse of the Sahara.
About a mile from the city walls of Fez, the bus finally gave up and ground to a halt. Whereupon most of the passengers surged to the front to give the driver the benefit of their advice. A noisy throng gathered round the gearbox, which was generally regarded as the cause of the breakdown.
We sat and watched as chaos reigned. Would be mechanics removed various oily parts and discarded them round the drivers seat. He was in there shouting with the best of them. It was all very good natured and everybody was obviously enjoying it. But the fun had to stop eventually and, as one man, they decided to do the only thing possible. Every able bodied person piled out the bus and, assisted by interested passers by, they pushed the bus to the walls of Fez. As we departed to see the sights, the heads were back down to dismantle the remains of the gearbox.

WORD COUNT 1604

PART 5: BEYOND FEZ

To visit Fez in those days was like going back in time. The huge stone walls interspersed with massive gateways into the city looked as if they were ready to repel marauders, much as they did in centuries past. When you entered and explored the narrow alleyways of the souk, hung with colourful cloths, smelling of exotic spices piled high on round pottery dishes, selling every conceivable vegetable, fruit, fish and fowl and teeming with white robed people, you knew it must have looked much the same in medieval times.
It is Morocco’s holiest city and once was the most powerful politically, being a famous seat of learning of the Arab world. We were too young and inexperienced to appreciate this all those years ago and began to feel rather uncomfortable at the curious stares we got as we wandered through it’s narrow ancient streets. We had been going to stay in Fez but, after an unnerving interlude when we got hopelessly lost and had to pay a small boy to guide us back to a main thoroughfare, we decided to push on to Marrakesh.
So, late afternoon of that day found us alighting from another bus in the small mountain town of Azrou. It was really a large village on the edge of the Atlas range with the characteristic architecture of that region. Beautiful wooden chalet like houses with a backdrop of snowy peaks and evergreens once again reminded us of Alpine scenes. The main street climbed steeply through white washed stone houses, many with little open fronted cafes whose interiors dissolved into darkness against the brightness of the sun.

This was Berber country. The people looked different. They were dark and handsome. The women were some of the most beautiful we had ever seen. Unveiled, their strong features and stately walk made them truly arresting as they glided effortlessly up the sharp inclines, dressed in gorgeous wraps and headdresses. And these people were friendly. On almost every face was a broad grin of welcome.
Our first stop was the market, which was a modest affair on a small piece of flattened earth at one end of the main street. We wandered round the stalls, practising our newly acquired bargaining skills. They didn’t have a lot to sell but every stall had the ubiquitous oranges.
We had quickly become addicted to this fruit, so different to the pallid tasteless version available in shops back home. Small and sweet, warm to the tongue, you could taste the sunshine. But here, in this mountain region, they were relatively expensive. Vainly we went from stall to stall, trying to get the price down; until we realised that the stallholders were gently pulling our legs, sending us from one to the other, confident we would not do better, as they had all agreed on the price. We gave in and bought some anyway.
Wandering back up the main street we were struck by the numbers of inhabitants sitting motionless at the outside tables of the little street cafes. They all had, in front of them, a bowl of chick pea soup, bread, dates, a pipe of keef and a pot of mint tea. Suddenly the end of the daily fast was signalled by the unearthly chanting from the mosque. Immediately everywhere was activity. People ate, drank, smoked and talked; all at once. We were invited to join one table of old men and spent a pleasant hour with them.

While we there a young man came and sat down, joining in the conversation. The old men were friendly enough, even bantering with him, but Pete and I both felt he was not really welcome.
We asked if they knew of a place to stay and were directed to a large cafe at the top of the town. The place had a French feel to it, with wooden chairs and tables to one side of a small bar. We were offered a room above the cafe, which turned out to be clean and neat; rather reminiscent of our Marseilles pension. After a wash we went downstairs for a meal. The place was pretty full and was obviously very popular with the locals. The waitress was, of course, a handsome Berber girl, swapping lively banter with her customers. In front of their foreign guests they all showed off shamelessly and we had one of the most entertaining evenings of our trip so far.
As the evening progressed we noticed that the waitress conducted a kind of game with some of her favourite customers. This consisted of her clapping just as one or other of them attempted to smoke a cigarette or drink some mint tea. The customer immediately had to stop their smoking or drinking and match her clap for clap, until the whole cafe were laughing at her persistence.
When she pretended to stop and turn away the customer would affect an air of exaggerated relief and attempt to get down one mouthful of tea or smoke, before she wheeled around and started them off clapping again. It was a simple pastime that for some reason was hilariously funny; no doubt because of the theatrical nature of the waitress’s insistent clapping and the mock eye – rolling misery of the chosen customer. The keefe laden atmosphere probably helped as well.

In the middle of it all the door opened and in came the same young man we had seen at the open air cafe. Although nobody actually stopped what they were doing, the atmosphere subtly changed.
The waitress went over to his table and sat with him, laughing and chatting; indeed they seemed to be indulging in a little light hearted flirtation. The young man smiled at us and asked in a friendly manner about our journey and whether we liked Morocco. We said we liked it very much, especially this little town of Azrou.
He seemed pleased at our response. Later, when he got up to use the toilet, the minute he had left the room, the waitress came over to us and hissed “Garde; le Police. Comprend? We ‘comprended’ and, when he returned, the whole cafe, which had sunk to guarded whispers while he was out of the room, came to life again; and put on an admirable act of including him in the festivities. Eventually he left and everybody relaxed and continued the clapping game.
The next morning saw us on another bus, still aiming for Marrakesh, 400 kilometres to the South. Our next port of call was Khenifra, a village built entirely of hot red clay bricks. Between the low flat roofed buildings ran beaten dirt streets and the orange dust coated everything, including us. It looked like a shanty town, hastily thrown up. It was as raw as its red brick dwellings and a harsh contrast after the appeal of Azrou.
Back on the bus again and late afternoon found us at Beni Mellal, a nondescript town of shabby white buildings. We were tired and dirty after another bone shaking ride on local transport and only wanted to find somewhere to rest for the night.

We entered the nearest cafe, a cool deserted shop with a food bar to one side. and, upon enquiry the proprietor confirmed they had got a room for the night.
Thankfully we followed the owner to the back of the cafe and into a side room. Inside was an old iron bedstead and not much else, although the proprietor did proudly point out the extra facility of an ancient washbasin. We didn’t care as long as we could put our heads down and sleep.
There was nothing on the bed except a lumpy mattress. While we were getting settled in a teenage boy appeared at the door. His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried sheets and blankets. We thanked him, but, when we came to make up the bed, we discovered the sheets were wet; and I don’t mean damp; I mean wet. We took them back and the proprietor assured us he would supply more.
Once more the boy arrived, grinning from ear to ear, with more sheets; also wet and probably the same ones. We abandoned the unlooked for luxury of sheets and, after a snack, decided to call it a day.
While we were eating the cafe began to fill up. It was after 6 o’clock and time to eat and drink. Many customers filed past us to the back of the cafe where there was a large communal room, (next to ours) carpeted with raffia mats. Here men sat in groups, around their hubbles, eating and talking and drinking tea. When we returned to our room we noticed many more white robed customers, sitting around the walls of the cafe. They gazed at us impassively as we passed between them.
At last we were able to shut our door and sink onto the unforgiving mattress, sans sheets. We had tried to wash off some of the days grime in the washbasin but, on turning on the tap, the pipes had rattled so alarmingly we had abandoned the attempt.

Never mind; we were too tired to care. We could sleep through anything, even the ever increasing noise from the cafe, now added to by a radio turned up full volume.
We were just sinking into uneasy slumber when a terrible clattering and hissing wrenched us from the arms of Morpheus.
That was some of the noisiest plumbing I’ve ever come across. It transpired that, when the Espresso machine on the counter was utilised, our pipes groaned and howled in sympathy. Shaken, we tried to ignore the constant din, telling ourselves that, sooner or later, the noise would die down as people went home to bed. We dozed on and off for hours but, if anything, the noise got louder and more frantic. The radio wailed; the customers shouted and laughed; the plumbing clanged and hissed.
It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when I finally broke and decided, with the stupidity induced by exhaustion, to complain about the noise!
The cafe was full to overflowing, exclusively with men all robed in white djellabahs. I marched up to the bar, my step slowing as all eyes turned in my direction. It dawned on me that I, a bare headed, red haired freckle faced European female must have looked a trifle out of place! Arriving at the bar I gazed at the waiter and every ear in the room waited for my words.
So, I asked for two cups of hot chocolate. Grinning broadly and nodding knowingly to his customers as he passed, the waiter insisted on preceding me with the steaming cups arranged on a round silver tray, a towel draped over his arm. Meekly I followed him back to our room, picking my way through the groups of smiling customers. With a flourish he served our chocolate and left.

Resignedly we settled down to wait for the morning. Just before dawn broke Pete added insult to injury by falling asleep; and snoring!
We found out later that this night had been the only one in the month of Ramadan when all good Muslims stayed awake till sunrise. As light filled the sky our neighbours disappeared, to their beds presumably, and we snatched a few hours before we had to leave

word count 1893.

PART 6: A FEW WEEKS IN MARRAKESH

Marrakesh was now within a days journey. We should have been keyed up with excitement but, after our sleepless night in Beni Mellal, all we could think of was to get on yet another bus, curl up on the back seat and sleep. But we had reckoned without our tourist status. As soon as we climbed on board we made for the back seat. The driver immediately stopped us and, with much gesticulating and smiling, he showed us to the very front of the bus. We reluctantly complied and were the centre of attention as the bus filled up behind us. We had a panoramic view of the road ahead as the driver rattled serenely on.
The road grew steeper and began to wind round hairpin bends with a sheer drop to one side. On the straight our driver had seemed competent and relaxed. As the route grew more tortuous he became more distracted, especially when passengers found it necessary to come to the front of the bus and shout advice in his ear. We hung on to our seats, mesmerised with terror, as we veered from side to side when the driver turned round in his seat to shout back at his critics.
There was nothing between us and the stony road except that brittle windscreen. Tired as we were we could not, dare not, shut our eyes; only pray that the driver would, somehow, get us to Marrakesh in one piece.
And, of course, he did. A few hours later found us standing in Djemaa el Fna, the now famous main square of Marrakesh . We were still exhausted; but who could fail not to be immediately overtaken with the strange exciting atmosphere of Morocco’s most romantic and cosmopolitan city.

There we were in that famous square with it’s balcony cafe and the narrow streets of the souk disappearing in all directions. All around us was noisy life, music and colour. We itched to start exploring straight away, but accommodation was our first priority.
All around the square were modest looking hotels. We went through the entrance arch of the nearest one, the Hotel Central, and found ourselves in the cool inner courtyard with its sunken garden of palm trees that reached up to the sky. The building was one of the now famous riads, built on three stories with a flat roof terrace. The rooms were reached by a series of stone staircases, which joined with galleries on each of the floors. We got a room for the night on the ground floor. Although shabby, the hotel was generally clean and our room was tidy and quiet.
After a few hours of exhausted slumber we ventured out to experience our first evening in Marrakesh. We wandered among the many stalls selling everything any tourist could possibly want. We were hungry and so, for the first time, but definitely not the last, we sampled the delicious Conga eel steaks, shallow fried in front of us and served with a hot sweet dipping sauce; which seemed to consist of orange and chilli; a taste which I have tried (and failed) to recreate many times since.
For a few small coins you could have a deep bowl of harrisa stew served with hard wholemeal bread; a satisfyingly filling and cheap meal. And Marrakesh was the first place where we ate delicious goats milk yoghurt which had a lemony tang and stuffed ourselves with exquisitely cooked doughnuts smothered in sugar; the best I have ever tasted.

Everywhere there were crowds of people; the traditional Arabs in flowing white; the Berber musicians and acrobats and many tourists like us. All nationalities mingled and seemed to rub along together pretty well.
We listened to the music, wandered among the little shops which lined every narrow alley of the Souk, gazing at the wrought metal artifacts, leather, jewellery and colourful cloths hanging under the awnings. Little pavement cafes sold glasses of hot sweet mint tea; a taste I never acquired due to the excessive amounts of lump sugar that were considered necessary additions before serving; but we both quickly got addicted to the alternative; small strong cups of black coffee that were both refreshing and reviving. Eventually we dragged ourselves away to our bed, secure in the knowledge that it would all still be there in the morning. Now we had reached Marrakesh and our adventure had really begun.
The Hotel Central proved to be an economical and comfortable berth during our stay in Marrakesh. Once I had got over the shock of the ubiquitous cockroaches in the communal toilet, that scurried out of sight whenever this facility was used, we both adjusted to this new way of living. Despite the cockroaches, the standards of cleanliness were perfectly adequate; indeed we were both struck by the practice of washing down the courtyard every morning, so that the tiled area always looked clean and inviting.
After a few days we came to a financial arrangement with the hotel manager which gave us a substantial discount for an extended stay. This suited the management as well as us because there were many cheap hotels vying for the custom of tourists like ourselves who were travelling on a very tight budget.

Marrakesh was (and still is) a city of two halves; the Arab quarter and the French built new city; not far in distance but miles apart in cultures and economy. Moneyed tourists, who stayed in the continental style hotels and shopped in the broad boulevards of the French district, were not to know that the Arab quarter was not only much cheaper but much more exciting and closer to the heart of the indigenous population of the city.
We quickly established a routine. All meals were eaten from the food stalls that were so prolific all around Djemaa el Fna. We would spend a lot of time just strolling about the square, listening and watching the many musicians, acrobats, drummers and dancers who kept the local populace, and the tourists, entertained.
Marrakesh has long had the reputation of being the most laid back city in Morocco; a reputation gained mainly because of the large population of Southern tribesmen and Berbers who bring in their goods to trade and spend their money in the souks. As the days went by we started to meet and make friends with other travellers.
There were many Americans; the flower power children of the sixties who were very popular with the traders, due to their relative wealth compared to the assets of the average European backpacker. Most of them were open and friendly; two characteristics that struck a chord with the Moroccan locals, who were also welcoming to the strangers in their midst. We met Danish, Dutch, Swedish, German and French nationals. And, of course, many British just like us, living on a shoestring. But our most valued friend was a Moroccan; another Mustapha.
Mustapha worked on and off in the hotel. He appeared to be a general dogsbody, turning his hand to maintenance, cleaning and errands.

He was keen to make friends with us, having an avid curiosity for what was going on in the world outside Morocco; indeed he had only a hazy idea of life outside the locality of the city, Like most citizens of working age he had to conform to imposed travel restrictions and a journey of any distance required a visa or permit; something for which you had to pay.
The easy going appeal of Marrakesh was only skin deep for the locals. Life for most was not an easy ride and they found it difficult to understand how the tourists could so order their lives to be able to travel far from home.
Mustapha was no different but, in his way, he also was a child of the sixties and was open minded about different cultures. His natural friendly disposition and curiosity meant we spent many hours just chatting with him, in our rapidly improving French, about all sorts; he in his turn, acted as our guide to the city. We didn’t get hustled when we went out with Mustapha.
And so we spent a pleasant few weeks in Marrakesh. Nearly forty years is a long way back to remember but certain scenes and events stick in the memory. It was still Ramadan in Marrakesh and you did not see Muslims eating or drinking during the day. Musicians in the square ‘adopted’ the odd tourist to sit in their circle, to add cachet to their performance.
One such group made our acquaintance and insisted that we accept bottles of coke while they sang and danced in enforced abstinence. We felt bound to accept their hospitality, although uncomfortably; and we hadn’t the heart to tell them that we didn’t even like the sugary drink so loved all over the world.

Police were everywhere. We never got used to their habit of going round in pairs, holding hands. Without exception they were heavily built and badly shaved. The locals didn’t mess with them and I do remember, vividly, seeing one of these uniformed law enforcers beating a middle aged woman in a blue djellabah, who had dared to argue back, quite viciously with his baton, while onlookers passed by with barely a backward glance. But, to be honest, the reality of being a Moroccan in Morocco rarely impinged. We were young, ignorant and were having too good a time to be aware of the social issues.
On the evening Ramadan finished, the manager of the hotel called Pete into the office. I was left sitting in our room, wondering what was going on. At least an hour later Pete returned, somewhat the worse for wear. It transpired that the manager had decided to include Pete in his liberation from abstinence: evidently the Muslim rule about alcohol didn’t impinge upon his conscience. They sat opposite each other and the manager kept filling up two tumblers of wine, knocking his own straight back then waiting with evident impatience while Pete followed suit. It was more of a contest than a shared tipple but the manager evidently felt it was his role to show his guest the hospitality of the house as soon as he legitimately could.
As a celebration of the end of Ramadan a small local cinema showed ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for several nights. Quite a large contingent of tourists went to see it, along with most of the young population of Marrakesh. To my shame I remember the Europeans and Americans sitting at the back of the hall and being convulsed with laughter most of the time at the strange image of Elvis being dubbed into French with Arabic subtitles.
The Arabs, however, took it all very seriously and stared disapprovingly at the back stalls after each burst of merriment.

PART 7: A VISIT TO ESSAOUIRA

We celebrated Christmas in Marrakesh. Our group of friends got together and we all took on the task of producing one item each for the feast. It fell to me to produce the Christmas pudding and so, with only a few days in hand, I sourced dried fruit, spices,
flour and honey to create quite a credible imitation of a boiled pudding. The actual cooking was done at our American friends rooms who had the luxury of a rudimentary kitchen. They also provided the only relatively expensive item, a scraggy fowl. This, with lashings of fresh vegetables made for a good day, although poor Pete was laid low with a debilitating bug and missed the festivities.
The only cloud on our horizon at this time was our acute shortage of funds. We wanted to see more of Morocco before we were forced to go home. After Christmas many of our more affluent friends decamped to Essaouira,
Nowadays this attractive resort on the Atlantic coast is a favourite haunt for tourists, especially surfers. In those days it was a modest fishing village that was gaining in popularity as an alternative to Agadir, which had been a popular holiday destination until a devastating earthquake in 1960; And so, when we came to the end of time for our room rental at the hotel, we managed to scrape together enough funds to make the journey Westwards.
It wasn’t easy. What made it possible was Mustapha arranging a loan for us of a hundred dhiram; the equivalent of ten pounds. We didn’t ask him. When he realised we were going West he came to us and insisted we accept it.

Even still we wouldn’t have taken him up on it, knowing he would have had to stand as guarantor for the sum, if it wasn’t for the fact that were expecting some top up funds from Pete’s parents through the post; the only option for acquiring cash in those pre ‘hole in the wall’ days.
Transferring funds by post was risky. Once or twice friends and relatives got some cash out to us, but sometimes this mysteriously disappeared between the sender and the Poste Restante box number where you picked up post. However, the odd tenner here and there kept our heads above water.
We promised Mustapha we would repay him, although, much like our German friend on the road to Oujda, I don’t think he expected to see us again. His generosity and trust in us was all the more appreciated when you took into account that he survived on very modest means. The day we left, on the inevitable bus, he came and waved us goodbye; sad that he couldn’t make the journey himself.
We loved Essaouira from the word go. It was a charming seaside town where you could stroll down to the harbour area and watch the fishermen sorting their catches and tending their wooden boats. It had some ancient ramparts that could be strolled along and the streets were flanked by white houses and shops, selling all sorts of goods; from arts and crafts to goat meat. The locals were friendly and we quickly settled into our temporary home.
Details are hazy as to our arrival but we very quickly found some lodgings. This consisted of two rooms on the first floor of a three storey house with a communal roof area. We did the deal with a middle aged woman who lived on the second floor with her teenage daughter.

We found out later that, although the woman ran and managed the letting side of the house, it was actually owned by an older daughter, who lived on the ground floor and plied the oldest trade in the world. Her chief clientele were the local constabulary; more of this later.
Our two rooms consisted of one large communal area, where we slept, cooked and generally lived in, and a smaller back room where was housed a ‘squat’ toilet, a basin and a bath. Before you get carried away by this apparent luxury dear reader, I hasten to point out that the bath was purely for water storage. We quickly learnt that the water supply was only available for a few hours a day; and so you made sure you kept the bath topped up when the taps were on.
The main room was sparsely furnished with a bed and some cooking facility, a table, chairs and, I think, a wardrobe. The shuttered window overlooked the street. On our second night in residence we were awoken by someone throwing stones at our window and shouting in Arabic.
Pete opened the shutters and looked out to see one of the local policemen standing below, swearing angrily and incomprehensibly at him. Before matters took an even nastier turn a ground floor window opened and the house owner started shouting, as angrily, at the client; one of her regular customers.
We found out the next day that he had assumed Pete was a rival for the lady’s affections and had harboured some sort of proprietorial grudge at a perceived conflict of interests.
There was a lively social scene among the visiting tourists. Many of our friends from Marrakesh had rented apartments and we would socialise most days with parties, beach trips and meetings at one of the local cafes.

We never tired of wandering down the narrow streets indulging in good natured bartering with the tradesmen for everyday items, who followed the common practice that we had first experienced in Azrou; of sending us from one to the other as we attempted to get the price down a few more centimes. It was all good fun; and good experience.
I think now is the time for the second tale of Pete’s teeth. An American friend called on us one day and, while indulging in some desultory and inept orange juggling, managed to snap Pete’s denture, (which he had left on the table) clean in half with one of the dropped fruits. Jerry, our American friend was truly mortified and offered to pay for a repair, if it could be arranged.
It just so happened that, during one of our many rambles through the back streets of the town, we had come across what had appeared to be a dental surgery.
We visited it, with the offending denture, and gazed in the window where an artistic arrangement of antique dentistry and tools were on display. We entered the shop and explained our problem to the young dentist (presumably) who appeared from the back of the shop. Could he mend the denture we wanted to know. He assured us he could. Negotiations regarding price ensued.
They started at a hundred dhirams on his part; ten from our side of the counter. The two extremes gradually drew nearer to each other but, all the while this bargaining was batting back and forth, the presumed dental technician had, with a look of puzzled concentration on his face, been manoeuvring the two clean cut halves in an unsuccessful attempt to fit them back together. Our confidence in his ability to affect the repair gave out just as he had finally agreed to our limit of ten dhirams.

Offering apologies for wasting his time we left the shop hastily, only pausing to gaze once again on the supposed antiques, which were probably the latest models of Moroccan dental skill. The broken tooth bridge was consigned to the rucksack for the duration of our remaining journey and Pete went front toothless from then on.
One day our landlady, or rather her Mother, who lived on the next floor, invited us in for a meal. This had been instigated by the younger daughter, who was a serious bookish sort of girl and the apple of her Mother’s eye. She was a student and liked nothing better than to engage us in conversation. They depended on the other sister’s trade for all of life’s necessities, but kept themselves very much apart from the goings on on the ground floor. I suspect that the younger daughter was seen by the Mother as a chance to cast off the slur of the elder sister’s reputation.
And so we, very politely, socialised and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with the two of them in their spotlessly clean and tidy front room with the ubiquitous stunning tiled floor and wall decoration. It was a formal, but friendly interchange of different cultures. In fact, the two women would have, probably, been less out of place than ourselves, at a vicar’s tea party back home. In an attempt to show our appreciation I had taken with me a small gift for the daughter. Knowing how much western clothes were valued I presented her with a blue and white polka dot dress from Marks and Spencers that had inextricably found it’s way into my rucksack before we left home.
Actually my Mother had insisted that I pack this one ‘good frock’ in case I ‘needed’ to dress up at any stage. It was not the sort of garment I would have been seen dead in anywhere and I was very glad to get a chance to hand it over to someone who might appreciate it. The teenager seemed overwhelmed at my generosity and kept thanking me for the dress, to the point where I started feeling quite guilty at palming off such a ghastly example of western woman’s fashion.

But beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. About half an hour after we had returned to our rooms, the student knocked on our door and presented me with something wrapped up in tissue paper.
Upon unwrapping it I discovered she had given me the most exquisite Moroccan dress, or djellabah. It was made of some gauzy silver material, embroidered all over in silver and lime green leaves and flowers and all the edgings were in silver braid. I protested that I couldn’t possibly accept such a precious gift but she insisted, saying that she would never wear it; indeed I got the impression that she regarded it as rather vulgar; perhaps it was an unwanted present from her sister; a woman who had no inhibitions regarding dress and was always to be seen, indoors, in gorgeous silks and satins.
So, with many thanks I accepted it.
We lived in our little apartment in Essaouria for a month and, during that time, Pete casually suggested, when we got back home, we should get married. I thought it was a good idea and, just over a year later, the gift of the silver tissue and green embroidered djellabah became my wedding dress; a much treasured garment that I still have packed away somewhere.

WORD COUNT 1746

PART 8: ESSAOURIA

On the roof of the house was another flat occupied by a Danish couple. I remember them because, for the duration of our stay, they were at daggers drawn with the occupant of an adjoining house. The bone of contention (an apt metaphor) was an unhappy dog that was chained up all the time on the roof of the neighbouring house. When it wasn’t having stones thrown at it by children it was howling or barking. The Danish man eventually made friends with this miserable canine and finally entered into protracted negotiations with the owner to buy it from him. The owner rooked him for a sizeable sum for supposed necessary vaccinations and papers to enable the couple to take the dog back to Denmark. But they stuck to their guns and the dog eventually departed with them for a, presumably, better life in more Northern climes.
One day Pete arrived back home with a paper parcel which, when unwrapped on the table, turned out to contain several small live crabs which scuttled away upon their release. I refused to kill them and Pete, the hardened fisherman, had to do the dreadful deed of chucking them into boiling water, prior to our seafood supper.
We would spend quite a lot of time sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the grey Atlantic; I would stay close to shore but Pete would give me palpitations swimming well out to sea while I had visions of shark attacks; a phenomenon not unknown in that part of the coast. Pete also indulged in a hilarious camel ride; a pleasure that I didn’t fancy, being of a much more timid nature and not taking to the camel’s habit of disdainfully spitting at potential riders.

One day, when we were walking to the beach along a dirt road, on the outskirts of a small settlement of low white houses, we were witnesses to an accident. A youth, careering along on his bike, hit a huge pot hole at the side of a bridge over a dried up river bed. He and the bike disappeared over the side of the bridge and several people, us included, rushed to his aid.
All was mayhem as villagers surged round his unconscious form. Mindful of internal injuries we managed to dissuade the crowd from moving him until the ambulance arrived. But when this vehicle, a grubby white van, turned up, the driver hoisted the injured party onto his shoulders and, surrounded by a large and vociferous crowd, ran up and out of the ravine and deposited him, none too gently, into the back of the van; whereupon he drove off at the customary breakneck speed.
We feared for the outcome to this incident and went back to the village the next day to get news of the invalid. We were greeted like long lost friends by his various relatives and were invited into his brother’s little white house to take refreshment. The unprepossessing exterior opened into a cosy tiled room, bright with rugs and ceramic decoration. We sat on low couches and shared in the communal dish of couscous with goat meat and drank sweet mint tea. According to the relatives, the youth had not sustained any major injury and was well on the way to recovery. They acted as if we had played a major role in saving his life; but we knew that luck had played the main part.
It was nearing the time when we had to return to Marrakesh, to pay Mustapha back and to start, reluctantly, on the way homeward. Before we left we were invited to a party by some acquaintances who were renting a whole floor of a rhiad in the town. They were Londoners but, unlike us, were not short of a bob or two.

The flat, which overlooked the central courtyard on three sides, was tastefully adorned with rugs, knick-knacks and ceramics. The floor was a stunning pattern of Moroccan tiling. The whole place had an air of comfort and the tenants, a couple of well heeled hippies whom we hardly knew, greeted us with distant friendliness.
This probably had something to do with the industrial quantities of keef that were being smoked. We were sixties children after all and we took our alternative lifestyle credentials seriously. That night a veritable cornucopia of drugs were available including some acid trips. I had taken LSD on occasion back home and had enjoyed the unhinging effects most of the time. And so I indulged, as did Pete.
At first everything seemed to be going along okay. The room was quite crowded and people drifted in and out. Suddenly I realised that the tiled floor of many colours had become liquid. Amazed I put my hand into it and swirled the colours around. It was while I was experiencing this phenomenon that I began to feel a sensation of what I can only call paranoia. The symmetrical patterns on the curtains and throws seemed vaguely threatening and I found I couldn’t look at them.
Pete, who had always had a much stronger resistance to drugs, picked up on my panic straight away and tried to reassure me that it was a temporary angst and everything would turn out fine.
But, the harder I tried, the less I seemed able to keep my grip on reality. By now others were concernedly offering advice as I struggled to keep the demons at bay. But I seemed to be slipping away from my companions and surroundings down a long dark tunnel.

I truly believe that, at that moment, I was on the point of losing it completely. Gradually I became aware of an insistent voice coming from the mouth of a young American man who I could just discern at the end of the black tunnel that separated me from the rest of the room. I could hear him saying, over and over again, “whatever you are seeing turn and face it; confront it; whatever it is look at it and it will go.” All the while I was aware of him gazing at me intently; concentrating with all his being on bringing me back.
Suddenly I got it and faced up to the unknown dread. With what felt like a physical whoosh I shot back up the tunnel and emerged into the light and warmth of the room again. The relief was overwhelming.
But my travails were not yet over. I went immediately from a ‘bad’ trip to an amazingly enlightening ‘good’ one. The room appeared to have morphed into an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful treasures. Precious jewels were stacked in glittering heaps on the low tables. Lions and tigers lounged regally on the couches and did not appear averse to being stroked and admired. Everybody looked beautiful; and I told them so, illustrating my words with actions that were designed to make me curl up with embarrassment the next morning, when I was regaled with what had gone on the night before.
But the strangest occurrence on this never to be forgotten ‘trip’ was my speaking in tongues. As it was told to me the next day, during my ‘enlightened’ period I was making quite a lot of noise and the Moroccan landlady came upstairs to complain. I remember her standing at the door and berating the assembly; and I remember answering her and explaining that there was nothing to worry about.
I can see her now, shrugging her shoulders, turning from the door and going back downstairs. As far as I was concerned she spoke to me in English but several people confirmed the next day that I had replied to her in Arabic.

I also remember hearing lots of different voices, speaking in different languages, in my head. It was as if I had become a radio receiver for a worldwide conversation. At one point I remember distinctly, saying, in an Ozzie accent, “Come in Australia”!
In days to come I was to remember one particular ‘happening’ during that long night. As it was explained to me the next day, when I had returned to lucidity, it had been necessary to keep me calm, to avoid me returning to the frightening darkness of the tunnel. At the time I interpreted these soothing conversations in a much more meaningful way. It seemed that people around me were telling me that I had finally emerged from a lifelong delusion of living in a world full of wars, famine, bigotry and disharmony. Evidently all the ills of the world had only been in my head; the reality was a world of happiness, prosperity and harmony.
The euphoria of this revelation was wonderful and, amazingly, logical. How could I have been so silly as to believe that the world was a place of conflict and unhappiness? It was so much more likely that we would utilise the joy of living in the most practical way possible, instead of wasting lives and time making each other miserable.
Imagine my feelings in the morning when I realised the ‘revelation’ was the delusion. Before I became aware of this sorry truth, in the grey light of dawn, I had reached a giddy plain, common to many who have indulged in hallucinogens, of being on the cusp of understanding the creation of the whole universe. But, just as I reached this crucial final understanding, I started to come down, quite rapidly.
All around me were sleeping forms; the flat looked seedy and very untidy with several broken ornaments lying about (evidently a lot of the disarray was caused by me) and I felt grubby and very depressed. Pete had returned to normality long before me and we crept away to our lodgings, before our fellow party goers woke up.

We found out later that this particular batch of acid had been ‘cut’ with speed, which explained why the trip had come on so fast and been so ‘jagged’. The American boy, who had talked me out of my tunnel, had taken one two days before and had to fight out his demons all on his own on the beach. Hence his knowledge of rescue tactics.
As you have probably gathered this trip made a lasting impression on me; to the point that I can still remember it vividly nearly forty years later. When we returned home I did take acid once or twice again, but my reactions were stale and repetitive and I lost interest in mind altering drugs.
Before we returned to Marrakesh; we visited the flat of the party givers once more, to apologise for my behaviour. I was greeted very coolly and left feeling suitably deflated; but relieved that they hadn’t taken us up on our offer to pay for the carnage I had caused.

Word count 1792

PART 9: FROM MARRAKESH . . TO BARCELONA

A few days later we were back in the main square of Marrakesh and reinstated in our old hotel room in the Central. Mustapha was very pleased to see us and, very tactfully, didn’t mention the money we still owed his moneylender. It was several days before the expected lifeline funds turned up; some from Pete’s parents and an unexpected bonus tenner from a good friend back home. Meanwhile, desperate for cash, we took all our spare clothes to the buy and sell market, where anything of western design commanded good money. In this way we kept our heads above water and paid our hotel bill.
Thankfully our funds turned up and we were able pay our debt to Mustapha. With the little money we had left, we had to make it back home post haste. So now we steeled ourselves to return to our former lives in grey Great Britain. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to our hotel friends and started the long walk out of Marrakesh. This time we had to hitch. No expensive luxuries like bus rides for us. I remember our last sight of the dusty, sunny road out of the Arab quarter with traders parked under orange trees selling everything and anything, including oranges, to the colourful and noisy throng of Berbers, Arabs and tourists. We turned our backs on it all and began the long trek home.
We had only walked a few kilometres out of the town when a car pulled up. Amazingly it was a Rolls Royce and a very English voice enquired of us as to where we were aiming for. We said Tangier and couldn’t believe our luck when the driver said that was their destination. In no time at all we were ensconced in the unbelievably luxurious interior of leather seats and air conditioning and chatting with our benefactors like old friends.

The couple lived in Eastbourne and were both doctors. They appeared to be in their forties; he was blonde with a bony frame dressed in expensive well cut clothes. His wife was an attractive dark haired Indian lady dressed appropriately in a colourful silk sari. It turned out that they had ‘popped over’ for a long weekend, hired the Rolls at Tangier airport and driven down to Marrakesh to stay at a top price hotel in the French quarter.
They were absolutely charming and we spent the next few hours swapping experiences of Marrakesh and Morocco as the Rolls ate up the miles. They were astonished at the difference in prices between the French and Arab quarter. They had spent more in a few days than we had on our whole trip. They shared with us the hamper of delicious French cuisine that had been provided by the hotel and we quizzed them about life on the south coast of England. Curious, I asked the wife if she always wore Indian dress. “Usually” she replied. “Except when I walk the dog.” How English is that!
They dropped us just outside Tangier and, before they departed, pressed into our hands a ten shilling note, (equivalent to 50 pence nowadays). We thanked them wholeheartedly for all their kindness and went our separate ways.
I don’t remember much about Tangier, except it had the same ‘edgy’ feel as Algiers had. We felt uncomfortable walking through it’s seedy streets. We were eager to get on the ferry to Algeciras, but first, we had to get our remaining dhirams changed into pesetas.
This was not an operation that could be undertaken legally. With the usual protective attitude of the native state, Morocco didn’t like to see money leaving the country and so we had to take advantage of the black market.

There was no shortage of volunteers offering us a ‘fair’ rate of exchange. In those days Tangier had a decidedly dodgy reputation, being a favoured drug and illegal immigrant route; ( I am tempted to say so what else is new!) Reluctantly we engaged in negotiations with the most trustworthy looking character vying for our attention and, even more reluctantly, followed him through the seedy streets, redolent with the heavy odour of keef, to meet with his ‘broker’.
Eventually he led us up some steps between two flat roofed terraces and, smiling reassuringly, ushered us into a room where another man sat behind a table. By now, although we had convinced ourselves that we were going to be robbed, or worse, we had to go through with it and advanced to face whatever lay ahead. Ten minutes later we were walking away with a distinct feeling of anticlimax, after getting a perfectly adequate rate of exchange conducted with formal courtesy and mutual satisfaction. The anti climax was swiftly overlain with relief and we hurried to the ferry terminal.

It was here we met Big John and Mr T. That sounds a bit theatrical but we never knew them by any other names. They were two Americans, both ex Vietnam war veterans, who had been travelling through Morocco and had just spent most of their cash on a VW van, in which they intended to travel through Europe. It transpired that we could do each other a favour. If we travelled as passengers in their van we could all get over much more cheaply; the ferry charge being based on the vehicle not the occupants. And so we spent the short crossing time getting to know our new acquaintances.
We deduced that both Big John and Mr T had suffered acute trauma in Vietnam but, after a brief allusion, neither talked about it.

They dealt with it in their different ways. Mr T was a taciturn man who was pleasant but preferred his own company and rarely opened up.
Big John couldn’t have been more different. At least six foot six and very gangly he had that rare human ability to endear himself to whosoever crossed his path. And so he covered up by being extremely humorous and gregarious.
Once over the other side we successfully negotiated customs; or so we thought, but, rounding a corner we came upon a road barrier manned by the Guardia; the scary Spanish police of Franco’s Spain. They stood, cold eyed and watchful, with machine guns at the ready, to search out any suspicious visitors. Despite a certain amount of tension on our part we passed with no incident.
So here we were in yet another country. In 1969 Spain was a completely different kettle of fish to the overcrowded tourist ridden Costas of today. The country was still largely rural and, except for the main cities, the coastal route consisted of large stretches of rugged terrain, interspersed with run down white walled villages, usually with a huge wedding cake of a church perched on the hills above, But the first stirrings of the commercialisation (instigated by Franco I believe) that was to come were plain to see. Buildings were going up all along the coast; an opportunity for us as it turned out.
When we drove out of the port town of Algeceras I don’t remember any discussion about the four of us joining forces. We just did. The VW van was an empty shell at the start of our journey. Every time we drove past a deserted building site (siesta time was favourite) somebody, usually John, would leap out and gather any building material they could find, so that, not many days later, the van was kitted out with rudimentary bunk beds, shelves and cupboards.

We cooked on fires of brushwood and waste timber. Our main diet also came from the fields around us where vegetables grew; I remember artichokes figuring large on our menu.
I write these words rather unbelievingly now; being an upright citizen who wouldn’t dream of half inching anything! But, in those couple of weeks of getting through Spain it was definitely a case of proving Darwin right; i.e. the survival of the fittest. Pete and I were just trying to get home on the very small sum of money that we had left. Mr T. and Big John, however, intended to drive round Europe on almost no funds. So we roughed it together.
The first few nights were spent sleeping on the bare metal floor of the van, except for the lucky person whose turn it was to sample the relative luxury of the the long front seat. It was early February and bitterly cold at night. Many times in the next few days we thanked our lucky stars that we had resisted the temptation to sell our Parkas in Marrakesh.
One incident which sticks in my memory, as painful ones often do, was when I managed to crack my elbow, very painfully, on the van door one freezing night during my turn in the front seat; a seemingly minor injury which caused me much pain for the rest of the journey; and for many years later.
We drove North up the coast and didn’t stop anywhere more than a night, until we got to Barcelona. All these years later details of our journey are a hazy memory. I seem to remember that the natives were not particularly friendly and we were very aware of the heavy and ubiquitous presence of the Spanish police. People looked poor and shabby and seemed to avoid us;

The majority of women were clothed in black and heavily shawled. Once again, our ignorance of the politics of the day meant were were not conversant with the physical reality of repression that the average Spanish citizen had to put up with. How different to the open society of Spain today.
It turned out that Mr T. wanted to visit the American Embassy in Barcelona, where he had hopes of some funds; a pension payment as a wounded veteran I seem to remember. He had been the one who had paid our way as regards to petrol and minimal food up to then. He and John were depending on this money, to get them on the next stage of their journey So we drove down to the harbour and parked up on the docks for the night.

(WORD COUNT 1664)

PART 10: THE FINAL STRETCH

In the morning Mr T. set off on his errand and John accompanied Pete and I on an exploration of the labyrinth of narrow streets that led down to the docks. These shabby thoroughfares were full of that unique life and character that so typifies Barcelona. Here we met, at last, Spaniards who did not shrink from enjoying life. The Spanish tavernas loved John, who responded enthusiastically to their ‘in your face’ approach to life. When we left to return to the dock and meet up with Mr T, there were several emotional farewells from our Spanish hosts. We parted from them full of bonhomie and love for our fellow man.
We were a little surprised not to find Mr T waiting for us at the van, as it was quite late in the afternoon. But he did not appear at all and, eventually, we fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. John’s assumption was that some friends that he had intended to meet up with at the Embassy, had invited him to sleep over. But the next morning arrived and went without Mr T. John had spent most of what spare cash he had the day before; in anticipation of replenishment from the USA army pension pot.
Pete and I felt we had to try and contribute in some fashion and hit upon the idea of selling some blood. We trekked across the city to the hospital, admiring on the way the eccentric architecture of Gaudi and the imposing classical buildings which make Barcelona such a stunning place to visit to this day. But when we got to the hospital it was to find the blood donor facility was closed for the afternoon; the only afternoon of the week that it did.

We had taken the bus to the hospital and now decided to get back to the docks on the underground; evidently a cheaper option. With our limited Spanish we very nearly got totally lost, until a kind hearted young girl who looked like an office clerk, not only put us on the right track but insisted on giving us enough small change to afford the fare. We had arranged to meet John in one of the tavernas we had frequented the day before but, despite searching down many similar looking streets, we could not find it again.
We were getting desperate until, suddenly, there it was before us. Inside all was gaiety and noise. John was performing an individual style of flamenco with a more than compliant señorita and the crowd were clapping encouragingly. When we managed to fight our way to John’s side he greeted us with “Thank goodness you’re back. I can’t put off paying the bill much longer.”
It was obvious that his fellow revellers would be quite happy if he never left, so we did not take this statement to heart. Instead we all had a plate of hearty soup and bread for almost nothing and only paid for the wine that had to be drunk as a matter of course. Our first experience of that eminently civilised custom of tapas. Then it was back to the docks; and still no show from Mr T. We were seriously worried now, imagining the worst; mugging; a heart problem or even a psychotic attack as Mr T’s mental health was known to be delicate. It was too late to do anything that day so we settled down for our third night in the van, resolving to do something in the morning.
The next day saw us visiting the American embassy to make enquiries. On stating our business we were asked to wait and an official came out to question us. It turned out that Mr T, far from being in any trouble, had in fact , reported to the Embassy that he suspected Pete, John and I of abandoning him and stealing the van!

It transpired that he had returned to the dock the same day he had left and had not been able to find the van; because he had, unknowingly, gone to the wrong dock!
How we laughed! Once we were reunited and all relevant explanations had been made Mr T. couldn’t apologise enough. He had been successful in his mission of acquiring funds and we spent our last night in Barcelona introducing him to the delights of Spanish bar life and, for the rest of our journey together, he was much more friendly and forthcoming.
Another day saw us across the Spanish border and well into France. We eventually said goodbye to each other at Arles; the parting of the ways. Our American friends were crossing into Italy but we were hitching up through France to home. It was a sad farewell. Our meeting had made the penultimate leg of our journey a memorable time. We were never to meet again; and we only ever had one communication, from John, when were home again. I hope their journeyings helped to expunge the horrors of the war that left so many young American men so traumatised.
As the little VW van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home.
Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies. The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.
With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.
As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.
At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilised version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters.
Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realised that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn was breaking we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel.
The snow lay thick along the side of the road and was kept pristine by constant flurries. After all these years details are hazy but I know we had to walk several more kilometres before we were on the road bound for Calais.
We trudged along, again not attracting much attention from the cars that sped past. But then a car screeched to a halt in front of us. As we approached it suddenly sped off as quickly as it had come; obviously gaining some amusement from our discomfiture. When another car pulled up quite soon after we approached cautiously and with cynicism; but this one was genuine.
We almost wished that he had been a prankster during the next few hair raising miles. At phenomenal speed he raced through the icy wastes of North West France towards Calais. Paralysed with terror we cowered in the back seat as the driver indulged his motor racing fantasies on the slippery road. Had we come all this way just to meet our deaths on the home stretch? Amazingly we arrived, all in one piece, at the dock. Soon after saw us on the ferry bound for Dover.

And that’s about it. The journey across the channel was predictably uneventful; no emotional Brits greeting their native shores with tears and cries of joy; just phlegmatic acceptance of grey skies and customs administration.
My last memory of our three month journey is a meal, prior to hitching up to London, in a transport cafe just outside Dover. All through our travels we had saved a ten shilling note (now equivalent to fifty pence) for some spending money through England and it had acquired a sort of talisman quality.
I will never forget the plates of greasy egg and chips, rubbery white bread smeared thinly with margarine and cups of stewed brown tea that we were served with, by an indifferent waitress on grubby plastic tables.
If anything was destined to bring us down to earth with a bump it was that meal. We had spent our last money on this culinary travesty and, at the time, it seemed to sum up all our disappointment at returning to our old way of life. We were back in the UK, homeless and jobless. Where did we go from here?

Well; that’s another story.

Word count 1743

MOROCCAN ADVENTURES 1968/69

PART 1: DOVER TO MARSEILLES

Landing in Africa was more difficult than we had expected. . . . .
The year was 1969 and we were innocents abroad. Unlike the politically aware, Rough Guide toting travellers of today, we had arrived in the African continent mainly because the cheapest ferry from Marseilles to anywhere was Algiers. We knew nothing of friction between old colonial powers and emerging native states. Although we had some hazy idea of their ‘foreignness’ the term Arab or Muslim held no especially uneasy connotations. We thought of them as Algerians or Moroccans; and sometimes Berbers. We could speak a smattering of French and assumed we would get by with that.
My future husband and I left Britain in November of that year. I have a picture in my head of the day we set off from Pete’s parents’ house in leafy Staines. It was late Autumn but cold for the time of year. We were warm and snug in our padded parkas; our stiff new rucksacks bulged with supplies; our shoulders adjusting to their weight. We had very little money; Currency restrictions were in operation at the time and you couldn’t take more than £50 each out of the country.
But I had a guilty secret. I had an extra £100 sewn into the furry lining of my waterproof boots. How I wasn’t stopped by Customs on the way out I’ll never know. Smuggling is not my forte and, if I looked as guilty as I felt, they should have clocked me straight away. It didn’t make me feel any better when Pete pointed out that just about every traveller leaving Britain for any length of time was probably doing the selfsame thing.

But we made it onto the ferry and then train to Paris. Here we had our first mild altercation. Pete had been to Paris before on a week’s school trip; and hated every minute of it. Consequently he was determined to leave as quickly as possible. I pleaded weakly that I would just like to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, wander along the Left Bank, perhaps have a coffee at a pavement café. But all to no avail.

The problem was we couldn’t afford to stay the night in Paris so had to stick to our itinerary of going South as quickly as possible. Originally we had planned to hitch to the Mediterranean but France was in the grip of freezing weather, with deep snow lying right through it’s central region. We decided to get our train tickets and have a hurried look at the sights if there was any time to spare. After a frustrating attempt to get a taxi to the station, (the only one that deigned to stop snarled “merde” upon hearing our halting English accents and drove off immediately) there was, of course, no tourist time and that evening found us ensconced on the night train to Marseilles.
Those latter day French trains were less efficient then than their streamlined counterparts of today and we had the uncomfortable experience of travelling in a train with no heating, through some of the worst weather we had ever encountered. The snow covered plains of central France receded into the Northern distance either side of us as we rumbled Southwards. Luckily our warm parkas kept out the worst of the chill.
Sometime before midnight, we arrived and stepped off the train and it was warm! For the first time I felt the warmth of a Mediterranean night. We stood at the top of the wide flight of stone steps from the station gazing at the starry navy blue sky above, while below us stretched the narrow foreign streets of Marseilles; beyond, the Mediterranean.

After the interminable freezing journey it seemed like paradise. In days to come we were to see the seedier side of Marseilles but that first night was magical. People smiled at us. We drank delicious cups of strong black coffee, ate wonderful crisp bread and creamy cheese and finally went in search of somewhere to lay our heads.

That first night we decided to leave the joys of youth hostelling until the next day and went in search of a room. We found a pension with clean rooms and reasonable rates. Even sleeping between foreign sheets was exciting; the strange bolster and quilt on the high oak bed; the furniture so large, carved and French; and wooden shutters on the narrow high window. In the morning we indulged in coffee and croissants, sitting outside at a pavement café, watching the Marseilles populace going about their lives. But our retreat into the luxury of hotel accommodation was brief and now over. We went in search of the youth hostel.
It turned out to be our first experience in realism. The bright sun glaringly highlighted the seedy nature of the area where the youth hostel was situated, far from the elegant walks of the bay. A utilitarian building where we had to sleep separately; I in the women’s’ dormitory and Pete with the men. It had a basic kitchen with several ovens and sinks and bathroom facilities. Unlike most youth hostels this one had a haphazard air.
The guests reflected it’s cosmopolitan nature. People of all languages and creeds drifted in and out The city was, then as now, a bit of a sink dump for the flotsam and jetsam trying to get into Europe. Not only Africans but many South Americans, fleeing the dictatorships that dominated their countries at that time. A few North Americans and quite a few Europeans like us who were also on the hippy trail to Morocco.

During the three days we had to wait to get on the ferry to Algiers we met some desperate characters. One who particularly sticks in both our minds was an Argentinian teenager who had fled his own country, then in the grip of the military junta and the horrors of the ‘disappeared’ who had had all his documents stolen not long after arriving in the city via boat; (at least that’s what he told us) and had no way of staying in the country except by stealth. He survived by catching cats and selling them to the university and hospital laboratories. Our comfortable British sensibilities were shaken by his matter of fact approach to staying alive and the desperate straits other members of the human race were driven to, to accomplish what we took for granted as a basic human right.
The Autumn climate suited me just fine; warm, dry and not too hot; luckily for us as we carried everything with us when we went out, suspicious of our neighbours honesty. This was unsurprising as evenings were spent listening to one hair raising tale after another as we were told of dirty dealing, dishonesty, theft and, very rarely, violence. We probably looked ridiculous struggling about with all our goods and chattels draped or affixed to our persons, but at least we still had them all when we finally arrived at the dock to board our boat to Africa!
Finally the morning came when we could get on the boat taking us over the water. Three days before we had tried several shipping offices, to find a boat that we could afford, to take us to the African continent. At one time we even toyed with the insane idea of taking the proverbial banana boat to South America, but cowardice prevailed and we ended up booking a passage on the cheapest tramp steamer travelling deck class.

I was the only female, of any nationality, on board. Our fellow passengers were almost exclusively Algerians returning to their capital city; many loaded down with goodies, for future resale, from the European continent. They were a noisy chattering crowd smoking and drinking mint tea under a small covered area on deck. I seem to remember the crossing was at least 12 hours.
There were male and female toilet facilities but I only visited ‘les dames’ twice; the first time in ignorance of the fact that the female toilet was used by the male passengers as a defecating facility, the male section being reserved for urinary relief. The stench was horrendous and did wonders for my bladder control for the rest of the night. The second reluctant visit was in absolute desperation much later during the early morning. There was nowhere to sleep except the deck and, as the huge glittering stars appeared in the velvet night blue Mediterranean sky, it began to get quite cold. We huddled down in our parkas to try and get some sleep.
One of the Arabs settled down next to us, with two large sacks of what turned out to be army greatcoats. It soon became obvious that he was rather taken with Pete, who in those days was a dark haired handsome youth, and he engaged him in conversation, all the while tenderly covering him with greatcoats. He totally ignored me, and Pete had to wait until he had nodded off before surreptitiously sliding a couple of the garments over my shivering form.

word count 1515

PART 2: ARRIVAL IN AFRICA

Dawn arose and the deck was crowded with Arabs leaning on the rail and gazing towards the African shoreline. In the far distance, glowing pink as they gradually emerged out of the morning mist, we saw the walls of Algiers. As we approached the shore the mood among the passengers became more and more frenetic. Shouting ‘Algers Algers’ our fellow travellers excitedly gesticulated, climbing onto the railings of the boat and hanging precariously over the side. Indeed, as we finally pulled into the harbour, many of them leapt into the sea; as if unable to contain their impatience to touch their native soil again.
We realised later that they were probably hoping to elude the authorities rather than experiencing any uncontrollable nationalistic tendencies. But, at the time, this enthusiasm seemed remarkable to a reserved English couple. I tried to imagine a ferry docking at Dover with English passengers weeping with emotion, shouting the name of their beloved country and fighting tooth and claw to be the first to step onto the hallowed soil!
With true British phlegm we decided to wait until the queue had subsided. To call it a queue was not quite the right word to describe the frenzied heaving melee which surged and struggled to be first down the gangplank. The near riot conditions that ensued only served to produce a log jam that was restrained by officials at the end of the gangplank while mayhem reigned on deck.

Smugly we sat and waited for the crowd to disperse. When it seemed to be calming down we strolled to the end of the line to wait our turn. But, to our acute embarrassment, an official, patrolling the line, strode towards us and, politely but firmly, frog marched us to the front of the queue. Our fellow passengers watched our progress with seeming indifference and politely fell back to let us through, before resuming their efforts to beat their neighbours onto dry land. We felt like VIPs with our special treatment. Again, much later, we assumed that they preferred to get any Europeans out of the way before they started dealing with the locals.
A few steps onto the shore of Africa and we came down to earth with a bump. The first impression was the smell; rank and fishy with assorted detritus piled high along the wharf. Then we arrived at Customs. No special treatment here; only a bizarre and confusing altercation with two officials in military style uniform who sat behind their table examining our documents and insisting in talking to us in Arabic. When I say us I really mean Pete. This was my first experience of being an invisible female in a male dominated Muslim world. It transpired that they did not believe Pete was a British citizen.
As I have already said Pete was then dark haired and dark eyed and could easily have been taken for an Arab (we were to find this a useful asset in the weeks to come) But his total incomprehension of their language, plus at least an hour spent arguing with them in our halting French, finally seemed to convince them of his genuineness and, with much scowling and officious rubber stamping, we were waved through.

What in our innocence we had not realised was that they were probably waiting for us to offer money; in short a bribe; We were European after all and therefore rich. Luckily we were ignorant enough not to waste any of our precious cash and had finally been granted access to African shores with all our funds intact.
In chastened mood we left the dock and walked into Algiers. I have to say that, as our first experience of an African city Algiers was a great disappointment. The white buildings that had glistened so invitingly when viewed from the ferry were shabby and run down when seen close to. An air of degeneration and depression seemed to hang like a pall. The colonial style architecture had once been elegant but was now crumbled and in need of paint. Most of the inhabitants looked at us with apparent suspicion, peering at us, as we passed, from the narrow alleyways. Later, when we became more aware of the past history of Algeria and France, we understood better the antipathy of the Algerians. But, at that time it just didn’t feel friendly and we decided not to stay as we had planned, but get on the road to the West straight away. We bought bread, cheese and tomatoes and started to walk out of the city.
It was still early morning as we finally left the industrial outskirts behind. The road lay before us, disappearing into the distance. Beyond the sand dunes to our right we could hear the crash of Mediterranean waves; to our left were rocky sand coloured outcrops sparsely covered with shrubby herbs that smelt smokily aromatic. The huge continent of Africa stretched away to the South; as far as the Cape of Good Hope. The enormous sky was all around us and we were suddenly both acutely aware that we were but pinpricks at the extreme North of this massive landmass. It felt as if we had been transported into a giants world as we perched, like ants, on the very tip of Africa.

The first thing we realised about hitching in Algeria was that lifts were a rare commodity. The wide straight road disappeared over the distant horizon. Either side were shallow sandy banks, sparsely covered with twiggy scrub and herbs. Occasionally a vehicle would roar past and the driver would glance incuriously in our direction as he sped on his way; but no lifts ensued. After several kilometres of weary walking we got a lift into Blida, the next town west of Algiers, with a friendly Algerian in an old truck. He insisted that we visit his vinery as he wanted to eat, but, this being Ramadan, he couldn’t do so in public.
We spent a pleasant hour at his cool white house, admiring his many bottles of wine and sampling one of them with bread and dates. Later he dropped us on the other side of Blida and we started walking again. Just out of the town there was a police road block. They appeared to be checking drivers’ papers before letting them on their way. We walked past and waited at a junction, in sight of the road block. As the lorries and trucks were let through we thumbed hopefully, but the few vehicles to pass thundered on, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
The stony empty road stretched unendingly into the distance. We had no option but to hope for a lift eventually so we sat and waited. After about half an hour we noticed one of the police coming towards us. With trepidation we watched him approach.
He looked an ugly customer; heavy jowled and squat, with decidedly undesigner like stubble; but, far from the threatening behaviour we expected, he halted with a heel click, gave a small bow of the head and held up a hand to impede any flight that we might have been contemplating.

“Attende Monsieur et Madame” he said and, with apparent disregard for life and limb, he strolled casually into the path of a speeding lorry, recently freed from the shackles of the road block. With the confidence of authority he stood, only sidestepping the inevitable impact at the last moment, when it became obvious that, despite the driver’s best efforts, the lorry would not stop in time.
As the officer approached the cab the driver leant down, gesticulating and truculent but, after a furious tirade from the policeman, he subsided into a sullen grumble. Before we had realised what was happening the driver had jumped down and, letting down the backboard of his open truck, indicated that we were to get in. The luxury of the cab was not for us as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat. We thanked both the driver and the policeman, who once more inclined his head, said the Arab equivalent of ‘have nice day’ and marched, with heavy assured steps, back to the road block.
We tried to keep our balance as the truck rattled on at breakneck speed. The driver, having had two strangers foisted upon him, was not about to pander to our comfort. To make matters worse it started raining and,as the road climbed into the hills, the shower changed to snow. Without warning the journey finished as abruptly as it had started. The driver stopped at a side road junction and signalled to us to get down. Once rid of his burdens he raced out of our adventure with a brief ‘salut’.

By now it was late afternoon. About two miles up the side road we could see signs of habitation. We trudged towards it, having had enough of the open road for one day. It turned out to be quite a respectable sized township with French style buildings on either side of the narrow main street. We turned into the first house with a ‘pension’ sign outside.
It was built in French colonial style; and, standing in the gloomy hall, was indeed the original French colonial. Her black hair was strained back into a bun. Her clothes were of a nondescript drab appearance and her manner was cautiously civil. While we were signing the register her husband appeared on the scene. He also greeted us, but much more warmly. It rapidly became apparent that he, particularly, was starved of European company and found the natives a poor substitute for erudite Western views.
They had moved to this out of the way village from somewhere in mid France and, having burnt their boats purchasing the pension that they fondly hoped would be a magnet for tourists, were now stuck in the back of beyond in a country that was alien to them.
They insisted that we ate with them. It was bad French cuisine; a tough meat course preceded some overcooked vegetables. Anything else that was served was so unmemorable that I have forgotten it. After the meal the proprietor took Pete on a ‘Pernod’ crawl round the local cafes. Two drinks in each and then home; so it didn’t take long.

word count 1719

PART 3: CROSSING THE BORDER

The next morning found us having to make a decision. Would we carry on hitching or resort to public transport? West of the town the road carried on, vast and open through rocky countryside, with a few villages dotted sparsely along it’s route. The next large town was Oran, 400 kilometres away.
We decided it would be cheaper to get the bus rather than drain our dwindling resources on bed and board along the road; so that afternoon found us rattling along on our way to Oran.
I don’t remember the journey, except for seeing live chickens and goats tied onto the roof of the coach. Their apparent unconcern at this treatment was more unnerving than the supposed cruelty.
We arrived in Oran in the early evening. This cosmopolitan city was a lot more prepossessing than the capital Algiers. Its white stone buildings and large open squares were reminiscent of it’s recent French occupation. We decided to break our journey here and treat ourselves to an evening meal before retiring to the local youth hostel.
We chose a pleasant looking establishment with tables and chairs parked on the outside pavement, looking across one of the leafy squares. The waiter was thrilled to have some tourists to wait on and treated us like royalty, piling our plates high with chicken and lentils cooked French style. Pete washed it all down with large amounts of local wine and we left after emotionally vowing eternal friendship with the cafe staff.

During the meal our table was visited by a girl with a tray of matches and other useless miscellanea. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she had the eyes of a businesswoman and didn’t leave us until my guilty conscience had purchased a few unnecessary odds and ends. Life is hard if you are working those sort of hours at six years old.
The next morning saw us hitching out of Oran. I felt great. Ahead lay the Algerian/Moroccan border. Pete felt dreadful; repeatedly retching behind the odd eucalyptus bush. He blamed the chicken from the night before but, as I was hale and hearty, we both knew it was the vino what had done it!
It was while trying to get out of Oran and back on the open road that we got one of the few lifts of the whole journey; it was from a young French woman driving the ubiquitous Renault. She was a schoolteacher and, as she drove us through the narrow streets on the city outskirts little children ran alongside with pleading eyes and hands outstretched for largesse. As my fingers groped for a few small coins she told us severely not to even consider giving them anything.
“They must learn that begging is not an acceptable way to live. Education is their way out of poverty”. Even in those apolitically aware days of my youth, and as an inexperienced tourist, I remember thinking that it was okay for her. An educated superior female, laying down the law in someone else’s country. And she knew where her next crust was coming from; but we meekly did as we were told.

She dropped us in Tlemcen, the border town that was to be our introduction into Morocco. This was a sizeable town, again showing the French influence in it’s architecture. We didn’t stop to look, but shared a taxi with other eager border crossers to be.
Nowadays the border between Algeria and Morocco is closed to tourists. Back then you could cross over but neither side made it an easy process. The border, a dusty two lane road with two barriers about a hundred yards apart, was closed.
We mooched about for some two hours waiting for it to open, finding what shade we could under the trees along the highway. It was a hot dusty afternoon and the few houses either side of the highway were quiet and shuttered. It was Ramadan and nobody stirred.
Eventually a soldier came and unlocked the shed that served as customs. We lined up with the others to show passports and visas. These passed muster and we walked the few steps to the Moroccan border post. Any minute now we would be in another country with it’s subtly different character.
But it was not to be; not for a few more hours anyway.
The Moroccan border guard gave our documents a cursory glance and then demanded to know how much Moroccan money we were bringing in. Due to everything being closed for Ramadan we had not been able to change our Algerian dinars into Moroccan dhirams in Tlemcen and had naively assumed we would sort out our finances once in Morocco.

We had, in fact, changed much too much of our precious sterling into dinars at Algiers, assuming our stay in Algeria would be much longer and more expensive than it turned out to be. So it was a bit of a blow to find out that the Moroccan authorities wouldn’t let us in without Moroccan notes.
Morosely we returned to the Algerian hut but they were uninterested in our plight. They just shrugged and said we would have to return to Tlemcen and find a bank. We re-entered Tlemcen in the same taxi with a new set of passengers and found a bank; quite an imposing building, on the outskirts of town. It was shut and our enquiries revealed it would not open until six o’clock, the witching hour during Ramadan, when everything bursts into life once more. After an interminable wait drinking coffee in a dark little cafe (which probably should have been shut) we returned to the bank and were the first through the heavy wooden doors when they finally swung open.
It should have been a simple transaction; but no. Bureaucracy, and not a little bribery and corruption, ruled. I sat on a bench and waited, as behoved an obedient female companion, while the bank clerk told Peter that they would only change a third of our dinars to dhirams. Despite his protestations Pete returned to my side with a little Moroccan cash and a lot of useless dinars.
We wandered back outside and stood, nonplussed, in the dusty sunlight. We couldn’t afford to lose this much of our limited capital. My enforced non-participation in the transaction coupled with the frustration of the return journey from the border suddenly came to a head. With Pete following I marched back into the bank.

Approaching the bank clerk I demanded that he change the rest of our money. With a shrug and a deprecating air he assured me he could not. It was “impossible”.In that case I informed him I was going to stay in the bank until somebody found it “possible” to grant my request. I sat down on one of the many oak benches in the imposing, high ceilinged foyer in view of all the customers, who were, by now, quite numerous.
After about a quarter of an hour a smooth looking man approached me. He was obviously senior to the clerk and, although condescendingly polite, insisted that there as nothing to be done; I would have to leave.
I assured him, with equally indifferent civility, that I had no intention of moving until I had seen someone in authority. He visibly bridled with wounded dignity at my assumption that he was not sufficient ‘authority’ to move me on. His tone took on a more haranguing quality but I was determined that they would have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the door, to remove me from my bench.
By now a small crowd had gathered round us in interested anticipation. The oily man began to look look distinctly oilier. I stuck fast and asked for the manager. He ‘was out’. He ‘would not be in for some time’ I would ‘have to leave’; the mamselle ‘did not understand’. I understood enough to know I was getting under his skin. I gazed impassively at the ceiling fan slowly moving the stale air.
My antagonist suddenly stopped arguing and, rather unnecessarily, asked me to wait. He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bank screens. He returned eventually with yet another clerk in tow, and asked me to accompany him. Pete, by this time, had got bored and gone outside for a smoke; and to wait for events to take their course.

I was ushered into a side room and shown to a chair on one side of a huge leather topped desk. Going to another door my official opened it and through it came a slight little man with an apprehensive air. Another clerk I thought, but no! My official had undergone an amazing transformation.
He preceded the little man to a much larger chair than mine on the other side of the desk, and tenderly, with much reverential murmuring, bowing and scraping, ensconced him comfortably in it’s imposing leather seat.
This was the manager my official told me (I felt that this was not the time to point out that the manager was supposedly out) and he, in his great wisdom and infinite generosity, may Allah be praised, had decided to grant my request.
He went on for a while about his boss’s kindness and sympathy for my plight; about his desire that I should not leave their country in any way dissatisfied with my treatment. This manager was a lord among men and I was lucky that I had touched his heart with my distress.
While this wonderful display of boot licking was taking place the manager uttered not one word, only gazing owlishly at me over the enormous desk, smiling and nodding at his underling’s fervent flattery. I entered into the spirit of the thing and smiled back. Now we were friends and all went swimmingly; even to them giving me the correct rate of exchange.
The transaction over, we parted on the friendliest of terms with my official even saying finally, in a rather flirtatious manner, that the thing that had clinched the manager’s change of heart was the sight of my ‘beautiful blue eyes.’

I stifled the urge to laugh and returned to Pete’s side in triumph. He was about to re-enter the bank, being worried by my prolonged absence. When I emerged with the cash he was both relieved and suitably impressed at my achievement.
We got a lift in the same taxi, with other escapees, back to the border. This time we were let through. We had done it. We were in Morocco.

word count 1765

PART 4: AFTER THE BORDER

It must have been about 8 o’clock in the evening when we finally set off along a rocky road that wound slowly upward through open moorland. From our map we could see our next refuge was a town called Oujda, about 20 miles on. It also had a youth hostel; an essential for poverty stricken tourists. We walked and walked; and walked and walked; only pausing occasionally to gaze back the way we had come, vainly hoping some vehicle would hove into view.
Dusk was rapidly falling and we were beginning to wonder how we would find shelter in this bleak landscape. Glancing back once more we saw, in the far distance, a car approaching. We were determined to stop it somehow or other. We both stood in the middle of the road and waved frantically. For a minute I thought it was going to swerve round us. But, at the last second, in a shower of stones, it screeched to a halt. Thankfully we climbed into the back.
Our chauffeur was a middle aged German man with a kindly face. On discovering our nationality he insisted on conducting the conversation in very bad English. From this we deduced that our saviour was going right through Oujda and even knew where the youth hostel was. Surely, at last, our luck had turned. As we bowled along at some speed we found out that the German was a travelling salesman; of what I can’t remember, but it was something mundanely useful. We chatted on and relaxed into the comfortable interior as the darkened landscape slid swiftly past.

Suddenly, without warning, the car lurched sickeningly. With considerable skill our German friend managed to stop at the side of the road. On inspection it turned out we had a puncture, almost certainly caused by the shower of stones that occurred when he stopped so abruptly to pick us up.
With great cheerfulness our friend, with Pete’s assistance, put on the spare and on we went again. About five miles down the road the other tyre on the same side sprung a leak and once more we ground to a halt.
What to do? We were about five miles from Oujda and, after some discussion, we persuaded the German that we would go on ahead and try and get help. He smiled and agreed, although it was quite obvious that he didn’t believe us, assuming we were deserting the sinking ship. With a cheery wave he bid us farewell and settled down for a night’s sleep in the car. Off we trudged, determined to prove him wrong. About two miles from Oujda we got a lift with a local from the town and, upon hearing our story, he took us to a garage.
To our amazement the garage mechanic seemed to grasp the problem immediately; asked the make of the car, slung a couple of tyres into the back of his pick-up and we all trundled back up the road to rescue our friend.
It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. With the minimum of fuss the garage man changed both tyres and, after payment, we followed him back into Oujda in case of further mishap. Our German friend was now fulsome in his gratitude at our return; but we still felt guilty at having caused the problem in the first place.

And so, finally, we arrived in Oujda. Our new found friend insisted on taking us for a meal at a cafe that he frequented.
The locals were a friendly lot; definitely nicer to know than the Algerians we had left behind. Eventually he drove us to the youth hostel and we regretfully parted company, thanking him profusely for all his help. Another cheery wave and he was swiftly gone, into the darkness.
I hope Oujda is still a pleasant town. It was then. The youth hostel was set in what approximated to the leafy suburbs. The sunlit streets were wide thoroughfares bordered by square white villas set back in walled gardens full of exotic plants and palm trees. The whole place had an air of enjoyable somnolence.
The youth hostel was one of the larger villas and, because Oujda was close to the border, there was quite a mix of nationalities, mainly European, on the trail to and from Marrakesh. It was an easy going establishment with basic but adequate amenities. The community kitchen was where we all gathered, chatting and making friends. It was the sixties; we all loved each other and were heady with the freedom of the open road.
The hostel warden or supervisor was a Moroccan man in his twenties called Mustapha. He was pleasant enough when not veering between temperamental complaint and the necessity to project and protect his cool ‘with it’ image. He rarely wore the traditional djellabah’s but favoured a natty line in western dress. This was usually finished off with a theatrical red silk lined cape, a garment of which he was inordinately fond.
Despite his overweening self admiration he was a likeable man, if only for his eagerness to live in the modern world.

He was a good looking guy and probably had some success with the free living European and American girls that passed through the town. About the third day we were there he tried his technique on me; and appeared astonished and hurt when I turned him down.
The next day Pete couldn’t resist teasing him with his failure and Mustapha’s wounded dignity was worthy of RADA. However, the next time we happened to be alone he asked me, indignantly, why I had told Pete and seemed to find it inconceivable that we actually talked about such things. I think he genuinely thought I should have shown a little more consideration for his reputation!
The day after we arrived who should appear back on the doorstep than our travelling salesman. He had turned round and come all the way back when he had discovered one of my plastic boots in his car; the boots of currency smuggling fame; the boots I had not worn since Marseilles. They had proved totally unsuitable in warm climates and had spent most of the journey tied to my rucksack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this so we had a coffee with him instead, thanked him again and waved him goodbye once more; this time for ever.
Pete’s teeth rate a mention here. Pete had lost several of his top front teeth while still at school, after a combination of a nasty bicycle accident and a rugby injury He had a false set which were the bane of his life. One day he got these teeth stuck down one of the hostel’s unguarded basin plug holes.

We tried everything to get them out., with most of the hostel residents, and Mustapha, milling about with helpful suggestions. Several implements were tried but those teeth were stuck fast. Eventually, when it became obvious that half measures would not do, I took my courage in both hands and just wrenched them out. Amazingly they didn’t break. This was not the last adventure for Pete’s teeth; but more of that later.
We enjoyed our few days of readjustment at Oujda. From this point we really started to appreciate our surroundings and situation. Algeria had been an experience, if rather a short tense one, but in Morocco we were able to relax. The people were friendly and open; they really seemed to like us, whereas in Algeria they had appeared to just tolerate us or hustle.
We decided to use the bus to get to Fez, our next port of call. This form of transport was so cheap that it didn’t seem worth spending hours sitting at the side of the road. Besides, the bus journeys were an experience in themselves. For a start they were always jam packed. Every imaginable possession was tied onto the roof rack, including live chickens and goats.
At every stop street vendors would swarm on, selling anything and everything. Beggars would hang on the sides, entreating us to part with small change, only jumping off when the driver had picked up a bit of speed. The bus that took us to Fez had seen better days and, as it creaked and groaned up the steep winding road, I tried not to imagine what might happen if it didn’t make the next hairpin bend.

The landscape was beautiful in places. We were travelling just north of the Atlas mountains and some of the villages looked remarkably like alpine hamlets in Switzerland. It was hard to believe that, not many miles South stretched the vast expanse of the Sahara.
About a mile from the city walls of Fez, the bus finally gave up and ground to a halt. Whereupon most of the passengers surged to the front to give the driver the benefit of their advice. A noisy throng gathered round the gearbox, which was generally regarded as the cause of the breakdown.
We sat and watched as chaos reigned. Would be mechanics removed various oily parts and discarded them round the drivers seat. He was in there shouting with the best of them. It was all very good natured and everybody was obviously enjoying it. But the fun had to stop eventually and, as one man, they decided to do the only thing possible. Every able bodied person piled out the bus and, assisted by interested passers by, they pushed the bus to the walls of Fez. As we departed to see the sights, the heads were back down to dismantle the remains of the gearbox.

WORD COUNT 1604

PART 5: BEYOND FEZ

To visit Fez in those days was like going back in time. The huge stone walls interspersed with massive gateways into the city looked as if they were ready to repel marauders, much as they did in centuries past. When you entered and explored the narrow alleyways of the souk, hung with colourful cloths, smelling of exotic spices piled high on round pottery dishes, selling every conceivable vegetable, fruit, fish and fowl and teeming with white robed people, you knew it must have looked much the same in medieval times.
It is Morocco’s holiest city and once was the most powerful politically, being a famous seat of learning of the Arab world. We were too young and inexperienced to appreciate this all those years ago and began to feel rather uncomfortable at the curious stares we got as we wandered through it’s narrow ancient streets. We had been going to stay in Fez but, after an unnerving interlude when we got hopelessly lost and had to pay a small boy to guide us back to a main thoroughfare, we decided to push on to Marrakesh.
So, late afternoon of that day found us alighting from another bus in the small mountain town of Azrou. It was really a large village on the edge of the Atlas range with the characteristic architecture of that region. Beautiful wooden chalet like houses with a backdrop of snowy peaks and evergreens once again reminded us of Alpine scenes. The main street climbed steeply through white washed stone houses, many with little open fronted cafes whose interiors dissolved into darkness against the brightness of the sun.

This was Berber country. The people looked different. They were dark and handsome. The women were some of the most beautiful we had ever seen. Unveiled, their strong features and stately walk made them truly arresting as they glided effortlessly up the sharp inclines, dressed in gorgeous wraps and headdresses. And these people were friendly. On almost every face was a broad grin of welcome.
Our first stop was the market, which was a modest affair on a small piece of flattened earth at one end of the main street. We wandered round the stalls, practising our newly acquired bargaining skills. They didn’t have a lot to sell but every stall had the ubiquitous oranges.
We had quickly become addicted to this fruit, so different to the pallid tasteless version available in shops back home. Small and sweet, warm to the tongue, you could taste the sunshine. But here, in this mountain region, they were relatively expensive. Vainly we went from stall to stall, trying to get the price down; until we realised that the stallholders were gently pulling our legs, sending us from one to the other, confident we would not do better, as they had all agreed on the price. We gave in and bought some anyway.
Wandering back up the main street we were struck by the numbers of inhabitants sitting motionless at the outside tables of the little street cafes. They all had, in front of them, a bowl of chick pea soup, bread, dates, a pipe of keef and a pot of mint tea. Suddenly the end of the daily fast was signalled by the unearthly chanting from the mosque. Immediately everywhere was activity. People ate, drank, smoked and talked; all at once. We were invited to join one table of old men and spent a pleasant hour with them.

While we there a young man came and sat down, joining in the conversation. The old men were friendly enough, even bantering with him, but Pete and I both felt he was not really welcome.
We asked if they knew of a place to stay and were directed to a large cafe at the top of the town. The place had a French feel to it, with wooden chairs and tables to one side of a small bar. We were offered a room above the cafe, which turned out to be clean and neat; rather reminiscent of our Marseilles pension. After a wash we went downstairs for a meal. The place was pretty full and was obviously very popular with the locals. The waitress was, of course, a handsome Berber girl, swapping lively banter with her customers. In front of their foreign guests they all showed off shamelessly and we had one of the most entertaining evenings of our trip so far.
As the evening progressed we noticed that the waitress conducted a kind of game with some of her favourite customers. This consisted of her clapping just as one or other of them attempted to smoke a cigarette or drink some mint tea. The customer immediately had to stop their smoking or drinking and match her clap for clap, until the whole cafe were laughing at her persistence.
When she pretended to stop and turn away the customer would affect an air of exaggerated relief and attempt to get down one mouthful of tea or smoke, before she wheeled around and started them off clapping again. It was a simple pastime that for some reason was hilariously funny; no doubt because of the theatrical nature of the waitress’s insistent clapping and the mock eye – rolling misery of the chosen customer. The keefe laden atmosphere probably helped as well.

In the middle of it all the door opened and in came the same young man we had seen at the open air cafe. Although nobody actually stopped what they were doing, the atmosphere subtly changed.
The waitress went over to his table and sat with him, laughing and chatting; indeed they seemed to be indulging in a little light hearted flirtation. The young man smiled at us and asked in a friendly manner about our journey and whether we liked Morocco. We said we liked it very much, especially this little town of Azrou.
He seemed pleased at our response. Later, when he got up to use the toilet, the minute he had left the room, the waitress came over to us and hissed “Garde; le Police. Comprend? We ‘comprended’ and, when he returned, the whole cafe, which had sunk to guarded whispers while he was out of the room, came to life again; and put on an admirable act of including him in the festivities. Eventually he left and everybody relaxed and continued the clapping game.
The next morning saw us on another bus, still aiming for Marrakesh, 400 kilometres to the South. Our next port of call was Khenifra, a village built entirely of hot red clay bricks. Between the low flat roofed buildings ran beaten dirt streets and the orange dust coated everything, including us. It looked like a shanty town, hastily thrown up. It was as raw as its red brick dwellings and a harsh contrast after the appeal of Azrou.
Back on the bus again and late afternoon found us at Beni Mellal, a nondescript town of shabby white buildings. We were tired and dirty after another bone shaking ride on local transport and only wanted to find somewhere to rest for the night.

We entered the nearest cafe, a cool deserted shop with a food bar to one side. and, upon enquiry the proprietor confirmed they had got a room for the night.
Thankfully we followed the owner to the back of the cafe and into a side room. Inside was an old iron bedstead and not much else, although the proprietor did proudly point out the extra facility of an ancient washbasin. We didn’t care as long as we could put our heads down and sleep.
There was nothing on the bed except a lumpy mattress. While we were getting settled in a teenage boy appeared at the door. His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried sheets and blankets. We thanked him, but, when we came to make up the bed, we discovered the sheets were wet; and I don’t mean damp; I mean wet. We took them back and the proprietor assured us he would supply more.
Once more the boy arrived, grinning from ear to ear, with more sheets; also wet and probably the same ones. We abandoned the unlooked for luxury of sheets and, after a snack, decided to call it a day.
While we were eating the cafe began to fill up. It was after 6 o’clock and time to eat and drink. Many customers filed past us to the back of the cafe where there was a large communal room, (next to ours) carpeted with raffia mats. Here men sat in groups, around their hubbles, eating and talking and drinking tea. When we returned to our room we noticed many more white robed customers, sitting around the walls of the cafe. They gazed at us impassively as we passed between them.
At last we were able to shut our door and sink onto the unforgiving mattress, sans sheets. We had tried to wash off some of the days grime in the washbasin but, on turning on the tap, the pipes had rattled so alarmingly we had abandoned the attempt.

Never mind; we were too tired to care. We could sleep through anything, even the ever increasing noise from the cafe, now added to by a radio turned up full volume.
We were just sinking into uneasy slumber when a terrible clattering and hissing wrenched us from the arms of Morpheus.
That was some of the noisiest plumbing I’ve ever come across. It transpired that, when the Espresso machine on the counter was utilised, our pipes groaned and howled in sympathy. Shaken, we tried to ignore the constant din, telling ourselves that, sooner or later, the noise would die down as people went home to bed. We dozed on and off for hours but, if anything, the noise got louder and more frantic. The radio wailed; the customers shouted and laughed; the plumbing clanged and hissed.
It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when I finally broke and decided, with the stupidity induced by exhaustion, to complain about the noise!
The cafe was full to overflowing, exclusively with men all robed in white djellabahs. I marched up to the bar, my step slowing as all eyes turned in my direction. It dawned on me that I, a bare headed, red haired freckle faced European female must have looked a trifle out of place! Arriving at the bar I gazed at the waiter and every ear in the room waited for my words.
So, I asked for two cups of hot chocolate. Grinning broadly and nodding knowingly to his customers as he passed, the waiter insisted on preceding me with the steaming cups arranged on a round silver tray, a towel draped over his arm. Meekly I followed him back to our room, picking my way through the groups of smiling customers. With a flourish he served our chocolate and left.

Resignedly we settled down to wait for the morning. Just before dawn broke Pete added insult to injury by falling asleep; and snoring!
We found out later that this night had been the only one in the month of Ramadan when all good Muslims stayed awake till sunrise. As light filled the sky our neighbours disappeared, to their beds presumably, and we snatched a few hours before we had to leave

word count 1893.

PART 6: A FEW WEEKS IN MARRAKESH

Marrakesh was now within a days journey. We should have been keyed up with excitement but, after our sleepless night in Beni Mellal, all we could think of was to get on yet another bus, curl up on the back seat and sleep. But we had reckoned without our tourist status. As soon as we climbed on board we made for the back seat. The driver immediately stopped us and, with much gesticulating and smiling, he showed us to the very front of the bus. We reluctantly complied and were the centre of attention as the bus filled up behind us. We had a panoramic view of the road ahead as the driver rattled serenely on.
The road grew steeper and began to wind round hairpin bends with a sheer drop to one side. On the straight our driver had seemed competent and relaxed. As the route grew more tortuous he became more distracted, especially when passengers found it necessary to come to the front of the bus and shout advice in his ear. We hung on to our seats, mesmerised with terror, as we veered from side to side when the driver turned round in his seat to shout back at his critics.
There was nothing between us and the stony road except that brittle windscreen. Tired as we were we could not, dare not, shut our eyes; only pray that the driver would, somehow, get us to Marrakesh in one piece.
And, of course, he did. A few hours later found us standing in Djemaa el Fna, the now famous main square of Marrakesh . We were still exhausted; but who could fail not to be immediately overtaken with the strange exciting atmosphere of Morocco’s most romantic and cosmopolitan city.

There we were in that famous square with it’s balcony cafe and the narrow streets of the souk disappearing in all directions. All around us was noisy life, music and colour. We itched to start exploring straight away, but accommodation was our first priority.
All around the square were modest looking hotels. We went through the entrance arch of the nearest one, the Hotel Central, and found ourselves in the cool inner courtyard with its sunken garden of palm trees that reached up to the sky. The building was one of the now famous riads, built on three stories with a flat roof terrace. The rooms were reached by a series of stone staircases, which joined with galleries on each of the floors. We got a room for the night on the ground floor. Although shabby, the hotel was generally clean and our room was tidy and quiet.
After a few hours of exhausted slumber we ventured out to experience our first evening in Marrakesh. We wandered among the many stalls selling everything any tourist could possibly want. We were hungry and so, for the first time, but definitely not the last, we sampled the delicious Conga eel steaks, shallow fried in front of us and served with a hot sweet dipping sauce; which seemed to consist of orange and chilli; a taste which I have tried (and failed) to recreate many times since.
For a few small coins you could have a deep bowl of harrisa stew served with hard wholemeal bread; a satisfyingly filling and cheap meal. And Marrakesh was the first place where we ate delicious goats milk yoghurt which had a lemony tang and stuffed ourselves with exquisitely cooked doughnuts smothered in sugar; the best I have ever tasted.

Everywhere there were crowds of people; the traditional Arabs in flowing white; the Berber musicians and acrobats and many tourists like us. All nationalities mingled and seemed to rub along together pretty well.
We listened to the music, wandered among the little shops which lined every narrow alley of the Souk, gazing at the wrought metal artifacts, leather, jewellery and colourful cloths hanging under the awnings. Little pavement cafes sold glasses of hot sweet mint tea; a taste I never acquired due to the excessive amounts of lump sugar that were considered necessary additions before serving; but we both quickly got addicted to the alternative; small strong cups of black coffee that were both refreshing and reviving. Eventually we dragged ourselves away to our bed, secure in the knowledge that it would all still be there in the morning. Now we had reached Marrakesh and our adventure had really begun.
The Hotel Central proved to be an economical and comfortable berth during our stay in Marrakesh. Once I had got over the shock of the ubiquitous cockroaches in the communal toilet, that scurried out of sight whenever this facility was used, we both adjusted to this new way of living. Despite the cockroaches, the standards of cleanliness were perfectly adequate; indeed we were both struck by the practice of washing down the courtyard every morning, so that the tiled area always looked clean and inviting.
After a few days we came to a financial arrangement with the hotel manager which gave us a substantial discount for an extended stay. This suited the management as well as us because there were many cheap hotels vying for the custom of tourists like ourselves who were travelling on a very tight budget.

Marrakesh was (and still is) a city of two halves; the Arab quarter and the French built new city; not far in distance but miles apart in cultures and economy. Moneyed tourists, who stayed in the continental style hotels and shopped in the broad boulevards of the French district, were not to know that the Arab quarter was not only much cheaper but much more exciting and closer to the heart of the indigenous population of the city.
We quickly established a routine. All meals were eaten from the food stalls that were so prolific all around Djemaa el Fna. We would spend a lot of time just strolling about the square, listening and watching the many musicians, acrobats, drummers and dancers who kept the local populace, and the tourists, entertained.
Marrakesh has long had the reputation of being the most laid back city in Morocco; a reputation gained mainly because of the large population of Southern tribesmen and Berbers who bring in their goods to trade and spend their money in the souks. As the days went by we started to meet and make friends with other travellers.
There were many Americans; the flower power children of the sixties who were very popular with the traders, due to their relative wealth compared to the assets of the average European backpacker. Most of them were open and friendly; two characteristics that struck a chord with the Moroccan locals, who were also welcoming to the strangers in their midst. We met Danish, Dutch, Swedish, German and French nationals. And, of course, many British just like us, living on a shoestring. But our most valued friend was a Moroccan; another Mustapha.
Mustapha worked on and off in the hotel. He appeared to be a general dogsbody, turning his hand to maintenance, cleaning and errands.

He was keen to make friends with us, having an avid curiosity for what was going on in the world outside Morocco; indeed he had only a hazy idea of life outside the locality of the city, Like most citizens of working age he had to conform to imposed travel restrictions and a journey of any distance required a visa or permit; something for which you had to pay.
The easy going appeal of Marrakesh was only skin deep for the locals. Life for most was not an easy ride and they found it difficult to understand how the tourists could so order their lives to be able to travel far from home.
Mustapha was no different but, in his way, he also was a child of the sixties and was open minded about different cultures. His natural friendly disposition and curiosity meant we spent many hours just chatting with him, in our rapidly improving French, about all sorts; he in his turn, acted as our guide to the city. We didn’t get hustled when we went out with Mustapha.
And so we spent a pleasant few weeks in Marrakesh. Nearly forty years is a long way back to remember but certain scenes and events stick in the memory. It was still Ramadan in Marrakesh and you did not see Muslims eating or drinking during the day. Musicians in the square ‘adopted’ the odd tourist to sit in their circle, to add cachet to their performance.
One such group made our acquaintance and insisted that we accept bottles of coke while they sang and danced in enforced abstinence. We felt bound to accept their hospitality, although uncomfortably; and we hadn’t the heart to tell them that we didn’t even like the sugary drink so loved all over the world.

Police were everywhere. We never got used to their habit of going round in pairs, holding hands. Without exception they were heavily built and badly shaved. The locals didn’t mess with them and I do remember, vividly, seeing one of these uniformed law enforcers beating a middle aged woman in a blue djellabah, who had dared to argue back, quite viciously with his baton, while onlookers passed by with barely a backward glance. But, to be honest, the reality of being a Moroccan in Morocco rarely impinged. We were young, ignorant and were having too good a time to be aware of the social issues.
On the evening Ramadan finished, the manager of the hotel called Pete into the office. I was left sitting in our room, wondering what was going on. At least an hour later Pete returned, somewhat the worse for wear. It transpired that the manager had decided to include Pete in his liberation from abstinence: evidently the Muslim rule about alcohol didn’t impinge upon his conscience. They sat opposite each other and the manager kept filling up two tumblers of wine, knocking his own straight back then waiting with evident impatience while Pete followed suit. It was more of a contest than a shared tipple but the manager evidently felt it was his role to show his guest the hospitality of the house as soon as he legitimately could.
As a celebration of the end of Ramadan a small local cinema showed ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for several nights. Quite a large contingent of tourists went to see it, along with most of the young population of Marrakesh. To my shame I remember the Europeans and Americans sitting at the back of the hall and being convulsed with laughter most of the time at the strange image of Elvis being dubbed into French with Arabic subtitles.
The Arabs, however, took it all very seriously and stared disapprovingly at the back stalls after each burst of merriment.

PART 7: A VISIT TO ESSAOUIRA

We celebrated Christmas in Marrakesh. Our group of friends got together and we all took on the task of producing one item each for the feast. It fell to me to produce the Christmas pudding and so, with only a few days in hand, I sourced dried fruit, spices,
flour and honey to create quite a credible imitation of a boiled pudding. The actual cooking was done at our American friends rooms who had the luxury of a rudimentary kitchen. They also provided the only relatively expensive item, a scraggy fowl. This, with lashings of fresh vegetables made for a good day, although poor Pete was laid low with a debilitating bug and missed the festivities.
The only cloud on our horizon at this time was our acute shortage of funds. We wanted to see more of Morocco before we were forced to go home. After Christmas many of our more affluent friends decamped to Essaouira,
Nowadays this attractive resort on the Atlantic coast is a favourite haunt for tourists, especially surfers. In those days it was a modest fishing village that was gaining in popularity as an alternative to Agadir, which had been a popular holiday destination until a devastating earthquake in 1960; And so, when we came to the end of time for our room rental at the hotel, we managed to scrape together enough funds to make the journey Westwards.
It wasn’t easy. What made it possible was Mustapha arranging a loan for us of a hundred dhiram; the equivalent of ten pounds. We didn’t ask him. When he realised we were going West he came to us and insisted we accept it.

Even still we wouldn’t have taken him up on it, knowing he would have had to stand as guarantor for the sum, if it wasn’t for the fact that were expecting some top up funds from Pete’s parents through the post; the only option for acquiring cash in those pre ‘hole in the wall’ days.
Transferring funds by post was risky. Once or twice friends and relatives got some cash out to us, but sometimes this mysteriously disappeared between the sender and the Poste Restante box number where you picked up post. However, the odd tenner here and there kept our heads above water.
We promised Mustapha we would repay him, although, much like our German friend on the road to Oujda, I don’t think he expected to see us again. His generosity and trust in us was all the more appreciated when you took into account that he survived on very modest means. The day we left, on the inevitable bus, he came and waved us goodbye; sad that he couldn’t make the journey himself.
We loved Essaouira from the word go. It was a charming seaside town where you could stroll down to the harbour area and watch the fishermen sorting their catches and tending their wooden boats. It had some ancient ramparts that could be strolled along and the streets were flanked by white houses and shops, selling all sorts of goods; from arts and crafts to goat meat. The locals were friendly and we quickly settled into our temporary home.
Details are hazy as to our arrival but we very quickly found some lodgings. This consisted of two rooms on the first floor of a three storey house with a communal roof area. We did the deal with a middle aged woman who lived on the second floor with her teenage daughter.

We found out later that, although the woman ran and managed the letting side of the house, it was actually owned by an older daughter, who lived on the ground floor and plied the oldest trade in the world. Her chief clientele were the local constabulary; more of this later.
Our two rooms consisted of one large communal area, where we slept, cooked and generally lived in, and a smaller back room where was housed a ‘squat’ toilet, a basin and a bath. Before you get carried away by this apparent luxury dear reader, I hasten to point out that the bath was purely for water storage. We quickly learnt that the water supply was only available for a few hours a day; and so you made sure you kept the bath topped up when the taps were on.
The main room was sparsely furnished with a bed and some cooking facility, a table, chairs and, I think, a wardrobe. The shuttered window overlooked the street. On our second night in residence we were awoken by someone throwing stones at our window and shouting in Arabic.
Pete opened the shutters and looked out to see one of the local policemen standing below, swearing angrily and incomprehensibly at him. Before matters took an even nastier turn a ground floor window opened and the house owner started shouting, as angrily, at the client; one of her regular customers.
We found out the next day that he had assumed Pete was a rival for the lady’s affections and had harboured some sort of proprietorial grudge at a perceived conflict of interests.
There was a lively social scene among the visiting tourists. Many of our friends from Marrakesh had rented apartments and we would socialise most days with parties, beach trips and meetings at one of the local cafes.

We never tired of wandering down the narrow streets indulging in good natured bartering with the tradesmen for everyday items, who followed the common practice that we had first experienced in Azrou; of sending us from one to the other as we attempted to get the price down a few more centimes. It was all good fun; and good experience.
I think now is the time for the second tale of Pete’s teeth. An American friend called on us one day and, while indulging in some desultory and inept orange juggling, managed to snap Pete’s denture, (which he had left on the table) clean in half with one of the dropped fruits. Jerry, our American friend was truly mortified and offered to pay for a repair, if it could be arranged.
It just so happened that, during one of our many rambles through the back streets of the town, we had come across what had appeared to be a dental surgery.
We visited it, with the offending denture, and gazed in the window where an artistic arrangement of antique dentistry and tools were on display. We entered the shop and explained our problem to the young dentist (presumably) who appeared from the back of the shop. Could he mend the denture we wanted to know. He assured us he could. Negotiations regarding price ensued.
They started at a hundred dhirams on his part; ten from our side of the counter. The two extremes gradually drew nearer to each other but, all the while this bargaining was batting back and forth, the presumed dental technician had, with a look of puzzled concentration on his face, been manoeuvring the two clean cut halves in an unsuccessful attempt to fit them back together. Our confidence in his ability to affect the repair gave out just as he had finally agreed to our limit of ten dhirams.

Offering apologies for wasting his time we left the shop hastily, only pausing to gaze once again on the supposed antiques, which were probably the latest models of Moroccan dental skill. The broken tooth bridge was consigned to the rucksack for the duration of our remaining journey and Pete went front toothless from then on.
One day our landlady, or rather her Mother, who lived on the next floor, invited us in for a meal. This had been instigated by the younger daughter, who was a serious bookish sort of girl and the apple of her Mother’s eye. She was a student and liked nothing better than to engage us in conversation. They depended on the other sister’s trade for all of life’s necessities, but kept themselves very much apart from the goings on on the ground floor. I suspect that the younger daughter was seen by the Mother as a chance to cast off the slur of the elder sister’s reputation.
And so we, very politely, socialised and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with the two of them in their spotlessly clean and tidy front room with the ubiquitous stunning tiled floor and wall decoration. It was a formal, but friendly interchange of different cultures. In fact, the two women would have, probably, been less out of place than ourselves, at a vicar’s tea party back home. In an attempt to show our appreciation I had taken with me a small gift for the daughter. Knowing how much western clothes were valued I presented her with a blue and white polka dot dress from Marks and Spencers that had inextricably found it’s way into my rucksack before we left home.
Actually my Mother had insisted that I pack this one ‘good frock’ in case I ‘needed’ to dress up at any stage. It was not the sort of garment I would have been seen dead in anywhere and I was very glad to get a chance to hand it over to someone who might appreciate it. The teenager seemed overwhelmed at my generosity and kept thanking me for the dress, to the point where I started feeling quite guilty at palming off such a ghastly example of western woman’s fashion.

But beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. About half an hour after we had returned to our rooms, the student knocked on our door and presented me with something wrapped up in tissue paper.
Upon unwrapping it I discovered she had given me the most exquisite Moroccan dress, or djellabah. It was made of some gauzy silver material, embroidered all over in silver and lime green leaves and flowers and all the edgings were in silver braid. I protested that I couldn’t possibly accept such a precious gift but she insisted, saying that she would never wear it; indeed I got the impression that she regarded it as rather vulgar; perhaps it was an unwanted present from her sister; a woman who had no inhibitions regarding dress and was always to be seen, indoors, in gorgeous silks and satins.
So, with many thanks I accepted it.
We lived in our little apartment in Essaouria for a month and, during that time, Pete casually suggested, when we got back home, we should get married. I thought it was a good idea and, just over a year later, the gift of the silver tissue and green embroidered djellabah became my wedding dress; a much treasured garment that I still have packed away somewhere.

WORD COUNT 1746

PART 8: ESSAOURIA

On the roof of the house was another flat occupied by a Danish couple. I remember them because, for the duration of our stay, they were at daggers drawn with the occupant of an adjoining house. The bone of contention (an apt metaphor) was an unhappy dog that was chained up all the time on the roof of the neighbouring house. When it wasn’t having stones thrown at it by children it was howling or barking. The Danish man eventually made friends with this miserable canine and finally entered into protracted negotiations with the owner to buy it from him. The owner rooked him for a sizeable sum for supposed necessary vaccinations and papers to enable the couple to take the dog back to Denmark. But they stuck to their guns and the dog eventually departed with them for a, presumably, better life in more Northern climes.
One day Pete arrived back home with a paper parcel which, when unwrapped on the table, turned out to contain several small live crabs which scuttled away upon their release. I refused to kill them and Pete, the hardened fisherman, had to do the dreadful deed of chucking them into boiling water, prior to our seafood supper.
We would spend quite a lot of time sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the grey Atlantic; I would stay close to shore but Pete would give me palpitations swimming well out to sea while I had visions of shark attacks; a phenomenon not unknown in that part of the coast. Pete also indulged in a hilarious camel ride; a pleasure that I didn’t fancy, being of a much more timid nature and not taking to the camel’s habit of disdainfully spitting at potential riders.

One day, when we were walking to the beach along a dirt road, on the outskirts of a small settlement of low white houses, we were witnesses to an accident. A youth, careering along on his bike, hit a huge pot hole at the side of a bridge over a dried up river bed. He and the bike disappeared over the side of the bridge and several people, us included, rushed to his aid.
All was mayhem as villagers surged round his unconscious form. Mindful of internal injuries we managed to dissuade the crowd from moving him until the ambulance arrived. But when this vehicle, a grubby white van, turned up, the driver hoisted the injured party onto his shoulders and, surrounded by a large and vociferous crowd, ran up and out of the ravine and deposited him, none too gently, into the back of the van; whereupon he drove off at the customary breakneck speed.
We feared for the outcome to this incident and went back to the village the next day to get news of the invalid. We were greeted like long lost friends by his various relatives and were invited into his brother’s little white house to take refreshment. The unprepossessing exterior opened into a cosy tiled room, bright with rugs and ceramic decoration. We sat on low couches and shared in the communal dish of couscous with goat meat and drank sweet mint tea. According to the relatives, the youth had not sustained any major injury and was well on the way to recovery. They acted as if we had played a major role in saving his life; but we knew that luck had played the main part.
It was nearing the time when we had to return to Marrakesh, to pay Mustapha back and to start, reluctantly, on the way homeward. Before we left we were invited to a party by some acquaintances who were renting a whole floor of a rhiad in the town. They were Londoners but, unlike us, were not short of a bob or two.

The flat, which overlooked the central courtyard on three sides, was tastefully adorned with rugs, knick-knacks and ceramics. The floor was a stunning pattern of Moroccan tiling. The whole place had an air of comfort and the tenants, a couple of well heeled hippies whom we hardly knew, greeted us with distant friendliness.
This probably had something to do with the industrial quantities of keef that were being smoked. We were sixties children after all and we took our alternative lifestyle credentials seriously. That night a veritable cornucopia of drugs were available including some acid trips. I had taken LSD on occasion back home and had enjoyed the unhinging effects most of the time. And so I indulged, as did Pete.
At first everything seemed to be going along okay. The room was quite crowded and people drifted in and out. Suddenly I realised that the tiled floor of many colours had become liquid. Amazed I put my hand into it and swirled the colours around. It was while I was experiencing this phenomenon that I began to feel a sensation of what I can only call paranoia. The symmetrical patterns on the curtains and throws seemed vaguely threatening and I found I couldn’t look at them.
Pete, who had always had a much stronger resistance to drugs, picked up on my panic straight away and tried to reassure me that it was a temporary angst and everything would turn out fine.
But, the harder I tried, the less I seemed able to keep my grip on reality. By now others were concernedly offering advice as I struggled to keep the demons at bay. But I seemed to be slipping away from my companions and surroundings down a long dark tunnel.

I truly believe that, at that moment, I was on the point of losing it completely. Gradually I became aware of an insistent voice coming from the mouth of a young American man who I could just discern at the end of the black tunnel that separated me from the rest of the room. I could hear him saying, over and over again, “whatever you are seeing turn and face it; confront it; whatever it is look at it and it will go.” All the while I was aware of him gazing at me intently; concentrating with all his being on bringing me back.
Suddenly I got it and faced up to the unknown dread. With what felt like a physical whoosh I shot back up the tunnel and emerged into the light and warmth of the room again. The relief was overwhelming.
But my travails were not yet over. I went immediately from a ‘bad’ trip to an amazingly enlightening ‘good’ one. The room appeared to have morphed into an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful treasures. Precious jewels were stacked in glittering heaps on the low tables. Lions and tigers lounged regally on the couches and did not appear averse to being stroked and admired. Everybody looked beautiful; and I told them so, illustrating my words with actions that were designed to make me curl up with embarrassment the next morning, when I was regaled with what had gone on the night before.
But the strangest occurrence on this never to be forgotten ‘trip’ was my speaking in tongues. As it was told to me the next day, during my ‘enlightened’ period I was making quite a lot of noise and the Moroccan landlady came upstairs to complain. I remember her standing at the door and berating the assembly; and I remember answering her and explaining that there was nothing to worry about.
I can see her now, shrugging her shoulders, turning from the door and going back downstairs. As far as I was concerned she spoke to me in English but several people confirmed the next day that I had replied to her in Arabic.

I also remember hearing lots of different voices, speaking in different languages, in my head. It was as if I had become a radio receiver for a worldwide conversation. At one point I remember distinctly, saying, in an Ozzie accent, “Come in Australia”!
In days to come I was to remember one particular ‘happening’ during that long night. As it was explained to me the next day, when I had returned to lucidity, it had been necessary to keep me calm, to avoid me returning to the frightening darkness of the tunnel. At the time I interpreted these soothing conversations in a much more meaningful way. It seemed that people around me were telling me that I had finally emerged from a lifelong delusion of living in a world full of wars, famine, bigotry and disharmony. Evidently all the ills of the world had only been in my head; the reality was a world of happiness, prosperity and harmony.
The euphoria of this revelation was wonderful and, amazingly, logical. How could I have been so silly as to believe that the world was a place of conflict and unhappiness? It was so much more likely that we would utilise the joy of living in the most practical way possible, instead of wasting lives and time making each other miserable.
Imagine my feelings in the morning when I realised the ‘revelation’ was the delusion. Before I became aware of this sorry truth, in the grey light of dawn, I had reached a giddy plain, common to many who have indulged in hallucinogens, of being on the cusp of understanding the creation of the whole universe. But, just as I reached this crucial final understanding, I started to come down, quite rapidly.
All around me were sleeping forms; the flat looked seedy and very untidy with several broken ornaments lying about (evidently a lot of the disarray was caused by me) and I felt grubby and very depressed. Pete had returned to normality long before me and we crept away to our lodgings, before our fellow party goers woke up.

We found out later that this particular batch of acid had been ‘cut’ with speed, which explained why the trip had come on so fast and been so ‘jagged’. The American boy, who had talked me out of my tunnel, had taken one two days before and had to fight out his demons all on his own on the beach. Hence his knowledge of rescue tactics.
As you have probably gathered this trip made a lasting impression on me; to the point that I can still remember it vividly nearly forty years later. When we returned home I did take acid once or twice again, but my reactions were stale and repetitive and I lost interest in mind altering drugs.
Before we returned to Marrakesh; we visited the flat of the party givers once more, to apologise for my behaviour. I was greeted very coolly and left feeling suitably deflated; but relieved that they hadn’t taken us up on our offer to pay for the carnage I had caused.

Word count 1792

PART 9: FROM MARRAKESH . . TO BARCELONA

A few days later we were back in the main square of Marrakesh and reinstated in our old hotel room in the Central. Mustapha was very pleased to see us and, very tactfully, didn’t mention the money we still owed his moneylender. It was several days before the expected lifeline funds turned up; some from Pete’s parents and an unexpected bonus tenner from a good friend back home. Meanwhile, desperate for cash, we took all our spare clothes to the buy and sell market, where anything of western design commanded good money. In this way we kept our heads above water and paid our hotel bill.
Thankfully our funds turned up and we were able pay our debt to Mustapha. With the little money we had left, we had to make it back home post haste. So now we steeled ourselves to return to our former lives in grey Great Britain. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to our hotel friends and started the long walk out of Marrakesh. This time we had to hitch. No expensive luxuries like bus rides for us. I remember our last sight of the dusty, sunny road out of the Arab quarter with traders parked under orange trees selling everything and anything, including oranges, to the colourful and noisy throng of Berbers, Arabs and tourists. We turned our backs on it all and began the long trek home.
We had only walked a few kilometres out of the town when a car pulled up. Amazingly it was a Rolls Royce and a very English voice enquired of us as to where we were aiming for. We said Tangier and couldn’t believe our luck when the driver said that was their destination. In no time at all we were ensconced in the unbelievably luxurious interior of leather seats and air conditioning and chatting with our benefactors like old friends.

The couple lived in Eastbourne and were both doctors. They appeared to be in their forties; he was blonde with a bony frame dressed in expensive well cut clothes. His wife was an attractive dark haired Indian lady dressed appropriately in a colourful silk sari. It turned out that they had ‘popped over’ for a long weekend, hired the Rolls at Tangier airport and driven down to Marrakesh to stay at a top price hotel in the French quarter.
They were absolutely charming and we spent the next few hours swapping experiences of Marrakesh and Morocco as the Rolls ate up the miles. They were astonished at the difference in prices between the French and Arab quarter. They had spent more in a few days than we had on our whole trip. They shared with us the hamper of delicious French cuisine that had been provided by the hotel and we quizzed them about life on the south coast of England. Curious, I asked the wife if she always wore Indian dress. “Usually” she replied. “Except when I walk the dog.” How English is that!
They dropped us just outside Tangier and, before they departed, pressed into our hands a ten shilling note, (equivalent to 50 pence nowadays). We thanked them wholeheartedly for all their kindness and went our separate ways.
I don’t remember much about Tangier, except it had the same ‘edgy’ feel as Algiers had. We felt uncomfortable walking through it’s seedy streets. We were eager to get on the ferry to Algeciras, but first, we had to get our remaining dhirams changed into pesetas.
This was not an operation that could be undertaken legally. With the usual protective attitude of the native state, Morocco didn’t like to see money leaving the country and so we had to take advantage of the black market.

There was no shortage of volunteers offering us a ‘fair’ rate of exchange. In those days Tangier had a decidedly dodgy reputation, being a favoured drug and illegal immigrant route; ( I am tempted to say so what else is new!) Reluctantly we engaged in negotiations with the most trustworthy looking character vying for our attention and, even more reluctantly, followed him through the seedy streets, redolent with the heavy odour of keef, to meet with his ‘broker’.
Eventually he led us up some steps between two flat roofed terraces and, smiling reassuringly, ushered us into a room where another man sat behind a table. By now, although we had convinced ourselves that we were going to be robbed, or worse, we had to go through with it and advanced to face whatever lay ahead. Ten minutes later we were walking away with a distinct feeling of anticlimax, after getting a perfectly adequate rate of exchange conducted with formal courtesy and mutual satisfaction. The anti climax was swiftly overlain with relief and we hurried to the ferry terminal.

It was here we met Big John and Mr T. That sounds a bit theatrical but we never knew them by any other names. They were two Americans, both ex Vietnam war veterans, who had been travelling through Morocco and had just spent most of their cash on a VW van, in which they intended to travel through Europe. It transpired that we could do each other a favour. If we travelled as passengers in their van we could all get over much more cheaply; the ferry charge being based on the vehicle not the occupants. And so we spent the short crossing time getting to know our new acquaintances.
We deduced that both Big John and Mr T had suffered acute trauma in Vietnam but, after a brief allusion, neither talked about it.

They dealt with it in their different ways. Mr T was a taciturn man who was pleasant but preferred his own company and rarely opened up.
Big John couldn’t have been more different. At least six foot six and very gangly he had that rare human ability to endear himself to whosoever crossed his path. And so he covered up by being extremely humorous and gregarious.
Once over the other side we successfully negotiated customs; or so we thought, but, rounding a corner we came upon a road barrier manned by the Guardia; the scary Spanish police of Franco’s Spain. They stood, cold eyed and watchful, with machine guns at the ready, to search out any suspicious visitors. Despite a certain amount of tension on our part we passed with no incident.
So here we were in yet another country. In 1969 Spain was a completely different kettle of fish to the overcrowded tourist ridden Costas of today. The country was still largely rural and, except for the main cities, the coastal route consisted of large stretches of rugged terrain, interspersed with run down white walled villages, usually with a huge wedding cake of a church perched on the hills above, But the first stirrings of the commercialisation (instigated by Franco I believe) that was to come were plain to see. Buildings were going up all along the coast; an opportunity for us as it turned out.
When we drove out of the port town of Algeceras I don’t remember any discussion about the four of us joining forces. We just did. The VW van was an empty shell at the start of our journey. Every time we drove past a deserted building site (siesta time was favourite) somebody, usually John, would leap out and gather any building material they could find, so that, not many days later, the van was kitted out with rudimentary bunk beds, shelves and cupboards.

We cooked on fires of brushwood and waste timber. Our main diet also came from the fields around us where vegetables grew; I remember artichokes figuring large on our menu.
I write these words rather unbelievingly now; being an upright citizen who wouldn’t dream of half inching anything! But, in those couple of weeks of getting through Spain it was definitely a case of proving Darwin right; i.e. the survival of the fittest. Pete and I were just trying to get home on the very small sum of money that we had left. Mr T. and Big John, however, intended to drive round Europe on almost no funds. So we roughed it together.
The first few nights were spent sleeping on the bare metal floor of the van, except for the lucky person whose turn it was to sample the relative luxury of the the long front seat. It was early February and bitterly cold at night. Many times in the next few days we thanked our lucky stars that we had resisted the temptation to sell our Parkas in Marrakesh.
One incident which sticks in my memory, as painful ones often do, was when I managed to crack my elbow, very painfully, on the van door one freezing night during my turn in the front seat; a seemingly minor injury which caused me much pain for the rest of the journey; and for many years later.
We drove North up the coast and didn’t stop anywhere more than a night, until we got to Barcelona. All these years later details of our journey are a hazy memory. I seem to remember that the natives were not particularly friendly and we were very aware of the heavy and ubiquitous presence of the Spanish police. People looked poor and shabby and seemed to avoid us;

The majority of women were clothed in black and heavily shawled. Once again, our ignorance of the politics of the day meant were were not conversant with the physical reality of repression that the average Spanish citizen had to put up with. How different to the open society of Spain today.
It turned out that Mr T. wanted to visit the American Embassy in Barcelona, where he had hopes of some funds; a pension payment as a wounded veteran I seem to remember. He had been the one who had paid our way as regards to petrol and minimal food up to then. He and John were depending on this money, to get them on the next stage of their journey So we drove down to the harbour and parked up on the docks for the night.

(WORD COUNT 1664)

PART 10: THE FINAL STRETCH

In the morning Mr T. set off on his errand and John accompanied Pete and I on an exploration of the labyrinth of narrow streets that led down to the docks. These shabby thoroughfares were full of that unique life and character that so typifies Barcelona. Here we met, at last, Spaniards who did not shrink from enjoying life. The Spanish tavernas loved John, who responded enthusiastically to their ‘in your face’ approach to life. When we left to return to the dock and meet up with Mr T, there were several emotional farewells from our Spanish hosts. We parted from them full of bonhomie and love for our fellow man.
We were a little surprised not to find Mr T waiting for us at the van, as it was quite late in the afternoon. But he did not appear at all and, eventually, we fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. John’s assumption was that some friends that he had intended to meet up with at the Embassy, had invited him to sleep over. But the next morning arrived and went without Mr T. John had spent most of what spare cash he had the day before; in anticipation of replenishment from the USA army pension pot.
Pete and I felt we had to try and contribute in some fashion and hit upon the idea of selling some blood. We trekked across the city to the hospital, admiring on the way the eccentric architecture of Gaudi and the imposing classical buildings which make Barcelona such a stunning place to visit to this day. But when we got to the hospital it was to find the blood donor facility was closed for the afternoon; the only afternoon of the week that it did.

We had taken the bus to the hospital and now decided to get back to the docks on the underground; evidently a cheaper option. With our limited Spanish we very nearly got totally lost, until a kind hearted young girl who looked like an office clerk, not only put us on the right track but insisted on giving us enough small change to afford the fare. We had arranged to meet John in one of the tavernas we had frequented the day before but, despite searching down many similar looking streets, we could not find it again.
We were getting desperate until, suddenly, there it was before us. Inside all was gaiety and noise. John was performing an individual style of flamenco with a more than compliant señorita and the crowd were clapping encouragingly. When we managed to fight our way to John’s side he greeted us with “Thank goodness you’re back. I can’t put off paying the bill much longer.”
It was obvious that his fellow revellers would be quite happy if he never left, so we did not take this statement to heart. Instead we all had a plate of hearty soup and bread for almost nothing and only paid for the wine that had to be drunk as a matter of course. Our first experience of that eminently civilised custom of tapas. Then it was back to the docks; and still no show from Mr T. We were seriously worried now, imagining the worst; mugging; a heart problem or even a psychotic attack as Mr T’s mental health was known to be delicate. It was too late to do anything that day so we settled down for our third night in the van, resolving to do something in the morning.
The next day saw us visiting the American embassy to make enquiries. On stating our business we were asked to wait and an official came out to question us. It turned out that Mr T, far from being in any trouble, had in fact , reported to the Embassy that he suspected Pete, John and I of abandoning him and stealing the van!

It transpired that he had returned to the dock the same day he had left and had not been able to find the van; because he had, unknowingly, gone to the wrong dock!
How we laughed! Once we were reunited and all relevant explanations had been made Mr T. couldn’t apologise enough. He had been successful in his mission of acquiring funds and we spent our last night in Barcelona introducing him to the delights of Spanish bar life and, for the rest of our journey together, he was much more friendly and forthcoming.
Another day saw us across the Spanish border and well into France. We eventually said goodbye to each other at Arles; the parting of the ways. Our American friends were crossing into Italy but we were hitching up through France to home. It was a sad farewell. Our meeting had made the penultimate leg of our journey a memorable time. We were never to meet again; and we only ever had one communication, from John, when were home again. I hope their journeyings helped to expunge the horrors of the war that left so many young American men so traumatised.
As the little VW van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home.
Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies. The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.
With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.
As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.
At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilised version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters.
Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realised that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn was breaking we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel.
The snow lay thick along the side of the road and was kept pristine by constant flurries. After all these years details are hazy but I know we had to walk several more kilometres before we were on the road bound for Calais.
We trudged along, again not attracting much attention from the cars that sped past. But then a car screeched to a halt in front of us. As we approached it suddenly sped off as quickly as it had come; obviously gaining some amusement from our discomfiture. When another car pulled up quite soon after we approached cautiously and with cynicism; but this one was genuine.
We almost wished that he had been a prankster during the next few hair raising miles. At phenomenal speed he raced through the icy wastes of North West France towards Calais. Paralysed with terror we cowered in the back seat as the driver indulged his motor racing fantasies on the slippery road. Had we come all this way just to meet our deaths on the home stretch? Amazingly we arrived, all in one piece, at the dock. Soon after saw us on the ferry bound for Dover.

And that’s about it. The journey across the channel was predictably uneventful; no emotional Brits greeting their native shores with tears and cries of joy; just phlegmatic acceptance of grey skies and customs administration.
My last memory of our three month journey is a meal, prior to hitching up to London, in a transport cafe just outside Dover. All through our travels we had saved a ten shilling note (now equivalent to fifty pence) for some spending money through England and it had acquired a sort of talisman quality.
I will never forget the plates of greasy egg and chips, rubbery white bread smeared thinly with margarine and cups of stewed brown tea that we were served with, by an indifferent waitress on grubby plastic tables.
If anything was destined to bring us down to earth with a bump it was that meal. We had spent our last money on this culinary travesty and, at the time, it seemed to sum up all our disappointment at returning to our old way of life. We were back in the UK, homeless and jobless. Where did we go from here?

Well; that’s another story.

Word count 1743

MOROCCAN ADVENTURES 1968/69

PART 1: DOVER TO MARSEILLES

Landing in Africa was more difficult than we had expected. . . . .
The year was 1969 and we were innocents abroad. Unlike the politically aware, Rough Guide toting travellers of today, we had arrived in the African continent mainly because the cheapest ferry from Marseilles to anywhere was Algiers. We knew nothing of friction between old colonial powers and emerging native states. Although we had some hazy idea of their ‘foreignness’ the term Arab or Muslim held no especially uneasy connotations. We thought of them as Algerians or Moroccans; and sometimes Berbers. We could speak a smattering of French and assumed we would get by with that.
My future husband and I left Britain in November of that year. I have a picture in my head of the day we set off from Pete’s parents’ house in leafy Staines. It was late Autumn but cold for the time of year. We were warm and snug in our padded parkas; our stiff new rucksacks bulged with supplies; our shoulders adjusting to their weight. We had very little money; Currency restrictions were in operation at the time and you couldn’t take more than £50 each out of the country.
But I had a guilty secret. I had an extra £100 sewn into the furry lining of my waterproof boots. How I wasn’t stopped by Customs on the way out I’ll never know. Smuggling is not my forte and, if I looked as guilty as I felt, they should have clocked me straight away. It didn’t make me feel any better when Pete pointed out that just about every traveller leaving Britain for any length of time was probably doing the selfsame thing.

But we made it onto the ferry and then train to Paris. Here we had our first mild altercation. Pete had been to Paris before on a week’s school trip; and hated every minute of it. Consequently he was determined to leave as quickly as possible. I pleaded weakly that I would just like to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, wander along the Left Bank, perhaps have a coffee at a pavement café. But all to no avail.

The problem was we couldn’t afford to stay the night in Paris so had to stick to our itinerary of going South as quickly as possible. Originally we had planned to hitch to the Mediterranean but France was in the grip of freezing weather, with deep snow lying right through it’s central region. We decided to get our train tickets and have a hurried look at the sights if there was any time to spare. After a frustrating attempt to get a taxi to the station, (the only one that deigned to stop snarled “merde” upon hearing our halting English accents and drove off immediately) there was, of course, no tourist time and that evening found us ensconced on the night train to Marseilles.
Those latter day French trains were less efficient then than their streamlined counterparts of today and we had the uncomfortable experience of travelling in a train with no heating, through some of the worst weather we had ever encountered. The snow covered plains of central France receded into the Northern distance either side of us as we rumbled Southwards. Luckily our warm parkas kept out the worst of the chill.
Sometime before midnight, we arrived and stepped off the train and it was warm! For the first time I felt the warmth of a Mediterranean night. We stood at the top of the wide flight of stone steps from the station gazing at the starry navy blue sky above, while below us stretched the narrow foreign streets of Marseilles; beyond, the Mediterranean.

After the interminable freezing journey it seemed like paradise. In days to come we were to see the seedier side of Marseilles but that first night was magical. People smiled at us. We drank delicious cups of strong black coffee, ate wonderful crisp bread and creamy cheese and finally went in search of somewhere to lay our heads.

That first night we decided to leave the joys of youth hostelling until the next day and went in search of a room. We found a pension with clean rooms and reasonable rates. Even sleeping between foreign sheets was exciting; the strange bolster and quilt on the high oak bed; the furniture so large, carved and French; and wooden shutters on the narrow high window. In the morning we indulged in coffee and croissants, sitting outside at a pavement café, watching the Marseilles populace going about their lives. But our retreat into the luxury of hotel accommodation was brief and now over. We went in search of the youth hostel.
It turned out to be our first experience in realism. The bright sun glaringly highlighted the seedy nature of the area where the youth hostel was situated, far from the elegant walks of the bay. A utilitarian building where we had to sleep separately; I in the women’s’ dormitory and Pete with the men. It had a basic kitchen with several ovens and sinks and bathroom facilities. Unlike most youth hostels this one had a haphazard air.
The guests reflected it’s cosmopolitan nature. People of all languages and creeds drifted in and out The city was, then as now, a bit of a sink dump for the flotsam and jetsam trying to get into Europe. Not only Africans but many South Americans, fleeing the dictatorships that dominated their countries at that time. A few North Americans and quite a few Europeans like us who were also on the hippy trail to Morocco.

During the three days we had to wait to get on the ferry to Algiers we met some desperate characters. One who particularly sticks in both our minds was an Argentinian teenager who had fled his own country, then in the grip of the military junta and the horrors of the ‘disappeared’ who had had all his documents stolen not long after arriving in the city via boat; (at least that’s what he told us) and had no way of staying in the country except by stealth. He survived by catching cats and selling them to the university and hospital laboratories. Our comfortable British sensibilities were shaken by his matter of fact approach to staying alive and the desperate straits other members of the human race were driven to, to accomplish what we took for granted as a basic human right.
The Autumn climate suited me just fine; warm, dry and not too hot; luckily for us as we carried everything with us when we went out, suspicious of our neighbours honesty. This was unsurprising as evenings were spent listening to one hair raising tale after another as we were told of dirty dealing, dishonesty, theft and, very rarely, violence. We probably looked ridiculous struggling about with all our goods and chattels draped or affixed to our persons, but at least we still had them all when we finally arrived at the dock to board our boat to Africa!
Finally the morning came when we could get on the boat taking us over the water. Three days before we had tried several shipping offices, to find a boat that we could afford, to take us to the African continent. At one time we even toyed with the insane idea of taking the proverbial banana boat to South America, but cowardice prevailed and we ended up booking a passage on the cheapest tramp steamer travelling deck class.

I was the only female, of any nationality, on board. Our fellow passengers were almost exclusively Algerians returning to their capital city; many loaded down with goodies, for future resale, from the European continent. They were a noisy chattering crowd smoking and drinking mint tea under a small covered area on deck. I seem to remember the crossing was at least 12 hours.
There were male and female toilet facilities but I only visited ‘les dames’ twice; the first time in ignorance of the fact that the female toilet was used by the male passengers as a defecating facility, the male section being reserved for urinary relief. The stench was horrendous and did wonders for my bladder control for the rest of the night. The second reluctant visit was in absolute desperation much later during the early morning. There was nowhere to sleep except the deck and, as the huge glittering stars appeared in the velvet night blue Mediterranean sky, it began to get quite cold. We huddled down in our parkas to try and get some sleep.
One of the Arabs settled down next to us, with two large sacks of what turned out to be army greatcoats. It soon became obvious that he was rather taken with Pete, who in those days was a dark haired handsome youth, and he engaged him in conversation, all the while tenderly covering him with greatcoats. He totally ignored me, and Pete had to wait until he had nodded off before surreptitiously sliding a couple of the garments over my shivering form.

word count 1515

PART 2: ARRIVAL IN AFRICA

Dawn arose and the deck was crowded with Arabs leaning on the rail and gazing towards the African shoreline. In the far distance, glowing pink as they gradually emerged out of the morning mist, we saw the walls of Algiers. As we approached the shore the mood among the passengers became more and more frenetic. Shouting ‘Algers Algers’ our fellow travellers excitedly gesticulated, climbing onto the railings of the boat and hanging precariously over the side. Indeed, as we finally pulled into the harbour, many of them leapt into the sea; as if unable to contain their impatience to touch their native soil again.
We realised later that they were probably hoping to elude the authorities rather than experiencing any uncontrollable nationalistic tendencies. But, at the time, this enthusiasm seemed remarkable to a reserved English couple. I tried to imagine a ferry docking at Dover with English passengers weeping with emotion, shouting the name of their beloved country and fighting tooth and claw to be the first to step onto the hallowed soil!
With true British phlegm we decided to wait until the queue had subsided. To call it a queue was not quite the right word to describe the frenzied heaving melee which surged and struggled to be first down the gangplank. The near riot conditions that ensued only served to produce a log jam that was restrained by officials at the end of the gangplank while mayhem reigned on deck.

Smugly we sat and waited for the crowd to disperse. When it seemed to be calming down we strolled to the end of the line to wait our turn. But, to our acute embarrassment, an official, patrolling the line, strode towards us and, politely but firmly, frog marched us to the front of the queue. Our fellow passengers watched our progress with seeming indifference and politely fell back to let us through, before resuming their efforts to beat their neighbours onto dry land. We felt like VIPs with our special treatment. Again, much later, we assumed that they preferred to get any Europeans out of the way before they started dealing with the locals.
A few steps onto the shore of Africa and we came down to earth with a bump. The first impression was the smell; rank and fishy with assorted detritus piled high along the wharf. Then we arrived at Customs. No special treatment here; only a bizarre and confusing altercation with two officials in military style uniform who sat behind their table examining our documents and insisting in talking to us in Arabic. When I say us I really mean Pete. This was my first experience of being an invisible female in a male dominated Muslim world. It transpired that they did not believe Pete was a British citizen.
As I have already said Pete was then dark haired and dark eyed and could easily have been taken for an Arab (we were to find this a useful asset in the weeks to come) But his total incomprehension of their language, plus at least an hour spent arguing with them in our halting French, finally seemed to convince them of his genuineness and, with much scowling and officious rubber stamping, we were waved through.

What in our innocence we had not realised was that they were probably waiting for us to offer money; in short a bribe; We were European after all and therefore rich. Luckily we were ignorant enough not to waste any of our precious cash and had finally been granted access to African shores with all our funds intact.
In chastened mood we left the dock and walked into Algiers. I have to say that, as our first experience of an African city Algiers was a great disappointment. The white buildings that had glistened so invitingly when viewed from the ferry were shabby and run down when seen close to. An air of degeneration and depression seemed to hang like a pall. The colonial style architecture had once been elegant but was now crumbled and in need of paint. Most of the inhabitants looked at us with apparent suspicion, peering at us, as we passed, from the narrow alleyways. Later, when we became more aware of the past history of Algeria and France, we understood better the antipathy of the Algerians. But, at that time it just didn’t feel friendly and we decided not to stay as we had planned, but get on the road to the West straight away. We bought bread, cheese and tomatoes and started to walk out of the city.
It was still early morning as we finally left the industrial outskirts behind. The road lay before us, disappearing into the distance. Beyond the sand dunes to our right we could hear the crash of Mediterranean waves; to our left were rocky sand coloured outcrops sparsely covered with shrubby herbs that smelt smokily aromatic. The huge continent of Africa stretched away to the South; as far as the Cape of Good Hope. The enormous sky was all around us and we were suddenly both acutely aware that we were but pinpricks at the extreme North of this massive landmass. It felt as if we had been transported into a giants world as we perched, like ants, on the very tip of Africa.

The first thing we realised about hitching in Algeria was that lifts were a rare commodity. The wide straight road disappeared over the distant horizon. Either side were shallow sandy banks, sparsely covered with twiggy scrub and herbs. Occasionally a vehicle would roar past and the driver would glance incuriously in our direction as he sped on his way; but no lifts ensued. After several kilometres of weary walking we got a lift into Blida, the next town west of Algiers, with a friendly Algerian in an old truck. He insisted that we visit his vinery as he wanted to eat, but, this being Ramadan, he couldn’t do so in public.
We spent a pleasant hour at his cool white house, admiring his many bottles of wine and sampling one of them with bread and dates. Later he dropped us on the other side of Blida and we started walking again. Just out of the town there was a police road block. They appeared to be checking drivers’ papers before letting them on their way. We walked past and waited at a junction, in sight of the road block. As the lorries and trucks were let through we thumbed hopefully, but the few vehicles to pass thundered on, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
The stony empty road stretched unendingly into the distance. We had no option but to hope for a lift eventually so we sat and waited. After about half an hour we noticed one of the police coming towards us. With trepidation we watched him approach.
He looked an ugly customer; heavy jowled and squat, with decidedly undesigner like stubble; but, far from the threatening behaviour we expected, he halted with a heel click, gave a small bow of the head and held up a hand to impede any flight that we might have been contemplating.

“Attende Monsieur et Madame” he said and, with apparent disregard for life and limb, he strolled casually into the path of a speeding lorry, recently freed from the shackles of the road block. With the confidence of authority he stood, only sidestepping the inevitable impact at the last moment, when it became obvious that, despite the driver’s best efforts, the lorry would not stop in time.
As the officer approached the cab the driver leant down, gesticulating and truculent but, after a furious tirade from the policeman, he subsided into a sullen grumble. Before we had realised what was happening the driver had jumped down and, letting down the backboard of his open truck, indicated that we were to get in. The luxury of the cab was not for us as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat. We thanked both the driver and the policeman, who once more inclined his head, said the Arab equivalent of ‘have nice day’ and marched, with heavy assured steps, back to the road block.
We tried to keep our balance as the truck rattled on at breakneck speed. The driver, having had two strangers foisted upon him, was not about to pander to our comfort. To make matters worse it started raining and,as the road climbed into the hills, the shower changed to snow. Without warning the journey finished as abruptly as it had started. The driver stopped at a side road junction and signalled to us to get down. Once rid of his burdens he raced out of our adventure with a brief ‘salut’.

By now it was late afternoon. About two miles up the side road we could see signs of habitation. We trudged towards it, having had enough of the open road for one day. It turned out to be quite a respectable sized township with French style buildings on either side of the narrow main street. We turned into the first house with a ‘pension’ sign outside.
It was built in French colonial style; and, standing in the gloomy hall, was indeed the original French colonial. Her black hair was strained back into a bun. Her clothes were of a nondescript drab appearance and her manner was cautiously civil. While we were signing the register her husband appeared on the scene. He also greeted us, but much more warmly. It rapidly became apparent that he, particularly, was starved of European company and found the natives a poor substitute for erudite Western views.
They had moved to this out of the way village from somewhere in mid France and, having burnt their boats purchasing the pension that they fondly hoped would be a magnet for tourists, were now stuck in the back of beyond in a country that was alien to them.
They insisted that we ate with them. It was bad French cuisine; a tough meat course preceded some overcooked vegetables. Anything else that was served was so unmemorable that I have forgotten it. After the meal the proprietor took Pete on a ‘Pernod’ crawl round the local cafes. Two drinks in each and then home; so it didn’t take long.

word count 1719

PART 3: CROSSING THE BORDER

The next morning found us having to make a decision. Would we carry on hitching or resort to public transport? West of the town the road carried on, vast and open through rocky countryside, with a few villages dotted sparsely along it’s route. The next large town was Oran, 400 kilometres away.
We decided it would be cheaper to get the bus rather than drain our dwindling resources on bed and board along the road; so that afternoon found us rattling along on our way to Oran.
I don’t remember the journey, except for seeing live chickens and goats tied onto the roof of the coach. Their apparent unconcern at this treatment was more unnerving than the supposed cruelty.
We arrived in Oran in the early evening. This cosmopolitan city was a lot more prepossessing than the capital Algiers. Its white stone buildings and large open squares were reminiscent of it’s recent French occupation. We decided to break our journey here and treat ourselves to an evening meal before retiring to the local youth hostel.
We chose a pleasant looking establishment with tables and chairs parked on the outside pavement, looking across one of the leafy squares. The waiter was thrilled to have some tourists to wait on and treated us like royalty, piling our plates high with chicken and lentils cooked French style. Pete washed it all down with large amounts of local wine and we left after emotionally vowing eternal friendship with the cafe staff.

During the meal our table was visited by a girl with a tray of matches and other useless miscellanea. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she had the eyes of a businesswoman and didn’t leave us until my guilty conscience had purchased a few unnecessary odds and ends. Life is hard if you are working those sort of hours at six years old.
The next morning saw us hitching out of Oran. I felt great. Ahead lay the Algerian/Moroccan border. Pete felt dreadful; repeatedly retching behind the odd eucalyptus bush. He blamed the chicken from the night before but, as I was hale and hearty, we both knew it was the vino what had done it!
It was while trying to get out of Oran and back on the open road that we got one of the few lifts of the whole journey; it was from a young French woman driving the ubiquitous Renault. She was a schoolteacher and, as she drove us through the narrow streets on the city outskirts little children ran alongside with pleading eyes and hands outstretched for largesse. As my fingers groped for a few small coins she told us severely not to even consider giving them anything.
“They must learn that begging is not an acceptable way to live. Education is their way out of poverty”. Even in those apolitically aware days of my youth, and as an inexperienced tourist, I remember thinking that it was okay for her. An educated superior female, laying down the law in someone else’s country. And she knew where her next crust was coming from; but we meekly did as we were told.

She dropped us in Tlemcen, the border town that was to be our introduction into Morocco. This was a sizeable town, again showing the French influence in it’s architecture. We didn’t stop to look, but shared a taxi with other eager border crossers to be.
Nowadays the border between Algeria and Morocco is closed to tourists. Back then you could cross over but neither side made it an easy process. The border, a dusty two lane road with two barriers about a hundred yards apart, was closed.
We mooched about for some two hours waiting for it to open, finding what shade we could under the trees along the highway. It was a hot dusty afternoon and the few houses either side of the highway were quiet and shuttered. It was Ramadan and nobody stirred.
Eventually a soldier came and unlocked the shed that served as customs. We lined up with the others to show passports and visas. These passed muster and we walked the few steps to the Moroccan border post. Any minute now we would be in another country with it’s subtly different character.
But it was not to be; not for a few more hours anyway.
The Moroccan border guard gave our documents a cursory glance and then demanded to know how much Moroccan money we were bringing in. Due to everything being closed for Ramadan we had not been able to change our Algerian dinars into Moroccan dhirams in Tlemcen and had naively assumed we would sort out our finances once in Morocco.

We had, in fact, changed much too much of our precious sterling into dinars at Algiers, assuming our stay in Algeria would be much longer and more expensive than it turned out to be. So it was a bit of a blow to find out that the Moroccan authorities wouldn’t let us in without Moroccan notes.
Morosely we returned to the Algerian hut but they were uninterested in our plight. They just shrugged and said we would have to return to Tlemcen and find a bank. We re-entered Tlemcen in the same taxi with a new set of passengers and found a bank; quite an imposing building, on the outskirts of town. It was shut and our enquiries revealed it would not open until six o’clock, the witching hour during Ramadan, when everything bursts into life once more. After an interminable wait drinking coffee in a dark little cafe (which probably should have been shut) we returned to the bank and were the first through the heavy wooden doors when they finally swung open.
It should have been a simple transaction; but no. Bureaucracy, and not a little bribery and corruption, ruled. I sat on a bench and waited, as behoved an obedient female companion, while the bank clerk told Peter that they would only change a third of our dinars to dhirams. Despite his protestations Pete returned to my side with a little Moroccan cash and a lot of useless dinars.
We wandered back outside and stood, nonplussed, in the dusty sunlight. We couldn’t afford to lose this much of our limited capital. My enforced non-participation in the transaction coupled with the frustration of the return journey from the border suddenly came to a head. With Pete following I marched back into the bank.

Approaching the bank clerk I demanded that he change the rest of our money. With a shrug and a deprecating air he assured me he could not. It was “impossible”.In that case I informed him I was going to stay in the bank until somebody found it “possible” to grant my request. I sat down on one of the many oak benches in the imposing, high ceilinged foyer in view of all the customers, who were, by now, quite numerous.
After about a quarter of an hour a smooth looking man approached me. He was obviously senior to the clerk and, although condescendingly polite, insisted that there as nothing to be done; I would have to leave.
I assured him, with equally indifferent civility, that I had no intention of moving until I had seen someone in authority. He visibly bridled with wounded dignity at my assumption that he was not sufficient ‘authority’ to move me on. His tone took on a more haranguing quality but I was determined that they would have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the door, to remove me from my bench.
By now a small crowd had gathered round us in interested anticipation. The oily man began to look look distinctly oilier. I stuck fast and asked for the manager. He ‘was out’. He ‘would not be in for some time’ I would ‘have to leave’; the mamselle ‘did not understand’. I understood enough to know I was getting under his skin. I gazed impassively at the ceiling fan slowly moving the stale air.
My antagonist suddenly stopped arguing and, rather unnecessarily, asked me to wait. He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bank screens. He returned eventually with yet another clerk in tow, and asked me to accompany him. Pete, by this time, had got bored and gone outside for a smoke; and to wait for events to take their course.

I was ushered into a side room and shown to a chair on one side of a huge leather topped desk. Going to another door my official opened it and through it came a slight little man with an apprehensive air. Another clerk I thought, but no! My official had undergone an amazing transformation.
He preceded the little man to a much larger chair than mine on the other side of the desk, and tenderly, with much reverential murmuring, bowing and scraping, ensconced him comfortably in it’s imposing leather seat.
This was the manager my official told me (I felt that this was not the time to point out that the manager was supposedly out) and he, in his great wisdom and infinite generosity, may Allah be praised, had decided to grant my request.
He went on for a while about his boss’s kindness and sympathy for my plight; about his desire that I should not leave their country in any way dissatisfied with my treatment. This manager was a lord among men and I was lucky that I had touched his heart with my distress.
While this wonderful display of boot licking was taking place the manager uttered not one word, only gazing owlishly at me over the enormous desk, smiling and nodding at his underling’s fervent flattery. I entered into the spirit of the thing and smiled back. Now we were friends and all went swimmingly; even to them giving me the correct rate of exchange.
The transaction over, we parted on the friendliest of terms with my official even saying finally, in a rather flirtatious manner, that the thing that had clinched the manager’s change of heart was the sight of my ‘beautiful blue eyes.’

I stifled the urge to laugh and returned to Pete’s side in triumph. He was about to re-enter the bank, being worried by my prolonged absence. When I emerged with the cash he was both relieved and suitably impressed at my achievement.
We got a lift in the same taxi, with other escapees, back to the border. This time we were let through. We had done it. We were in Morocco.

word count 1765

PART 4: AFTER THE BORDER

It must have been about 8 o’clock in the evening when we finally set off along a rocky road that wound slowly upward through open moorland. From our map we could see our next refuge was a town called Oujda, about 20 miles on. It also had a youth hostel; an essential for poverty stricken tourists. We walked and walked; and walked and walked; only pausing occasionally to gaze back the way we had come, vainly hoping some vehicle would hove into view.
Dusk was rapidly falling and we were beginning to wonder how we would find shelter in this bleak landscape. Glancing back once more we saw, in the far distance, a car approaching. We were determined to stop it somehow or other. We both stood in the middle of the road and waved frantically. For a minute I thought it was going to swerve round us. But, at the last second, in a shower of stones, it screeched to a halt. Thankfully we climbed into the back.
Our chauffeur was a middle aged German man with a kindly face. On discovering our nationality he insisted on conducting the conversation in very bad English. From this we deduced that our saviour was going right through Oujda and even knew where the youth hostel was. Surely, at last, our luck had turned. As we bowled along at some speed we found out that the German was a travelling salesman; of what I can’t remember, but it was something mundanely useful. We chatted on and relaxed into the comfortable interior as the darkened landscape slid swiftly past.

Suddenly, without warning, the car lurched sickeningly. With considerable skill our German friend managed to stop at the side of the road. On inspection it turned out we had a puncture, almost certainly caused by the shower of stones that occurred when he stopped so abruptly to pick us up.
With great cheerfulness our friend, with Pete’s assistance, put on the spare and on we went again. About five miles down the road the other tyre on the same side sprung a leak and once more we ground to a halt.
What to do? We were about five miles from Oujda and, after some discussion, we persuaded the German that we would go on ahead and try and get help. He smiled and agreed, although it was quite obvious that he didn’t believe us, assuming we were deserting the sinking ship. With a cheery wave he bid us farewell and settled down for a night’s sleep in the car. Off we trudged, determined to prove him wrong. About two miles from Oujda we got a lift with a local from the town and, upon hearing our story, he took us to a garage.
To our amazement the garage mechanic seemed to grasp the problem immediately; asked the make of the car, slung a couple of tyres into the back of his pick-up and we all trundled back up the road to rescue our friend.
It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. With the minimum of fuss the garage man changed both tyres and, after payment, we followed him back into Oujda in case of further mishap. Our German friend was now fulsome in his gratitude at our return; but we still felt guilty at having caused the problem in the first place.

And so, finally, we arrived in Oujda. Our new found friend insisted on taking us for a meal at a cafe that he frequented.
The locals were a friendly lot; definitely nicer to know than the Algerians we had left behind. Eventually he drove us to the youth hostel and we regretfully parted company, thanking him profusely for all his help. Another cheery wave and he was swiftly gone, into the darkness.
I hope Oujda is still a pleasant town. It was then. The youth hostel was set in what approximated to the leafy suburbs. The sunlit streets were wide thoroughfares bordered by square white villas set back in walled gardens full of exotic plants and palm trees. The whole place had an air of enjoyable somnolence.
The youth hostel was one of the larger villas and, because Oujda was close to the border, there was quite a mix of nationalities, mainly European, on the trail to and from Marrakesh. It was an easy going establishment with basic but adequate amenities. The community kitchen was where we all gathered, chatting and making friends. It was the sixties; we all loved each other and were heady with the freedom of the open road.
The hostel warden or supervisor was a Moroccan man in his twenties called Mustapha. He was pleasant enough when not veering between temperamental complaint and the necessity to project and protect his cool ‘with it’ image. He rarely wore the traditional djellabah’s but favoured a natty line in western dress. This was usually finished off with a theatrical red silk lined cape, a garment of which he was inordinately fond.
Despite his overweening self admiration he was a likeable man, if only for his eagerness to live in the modern world.

He was a good looking guy and probably had some success with the free living European and American girls that passed through the town. About the third day we were there he tried his technique on me; and appeared astonished and hurt when I turned him down.
The next day Pete couldn’t resist teasing him with his failure and Mustapha’s wounded dignity was worthy of RADA. However, the next time we happened to be alone he asked me, indignantly, why I had told Pete and seemed to find it inconceivable that we actually talked about such things. I think he genuinely thought I should have shown a little more consideration for his reputation!
The day after we arrived who should appear back on the doorstep than our travelling salesman. He had turned round and come all the way back when he had discovered one of my plastic boots in his car; the boots of currency smuggling fame; the boots I had not worn since Marseilles. They had proved totally unsuitable in warm climates and had spent most of the journey tied to my rucksack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this so we had a coffee with him instead, thanked him again and waved him goodbye once more; this time for ever.
Pete’s teeth rate a mention here. Pete had lost several of his top front teeth while still at school, after a combination of a nasty bicycle accident and a rugby injury He had a false set which were the bane of his life. One day he got these teeth stuck down one of the hostel’s unguarded basin plug holes.

We tried everything to get them out., with most of the hostel residents, and Mustapha, milling about with helpful suggestions. Several implements were tried but those teeth were stuck fast. Eventually, when it became obvious that half measures would not do, I took my courage in both hands and just wrenched them out. Amazingly they didn’t break. This was not the last adventure for Pete’s teeth; but more of that later.
We enjoyed our few days of readjustment at Oujda. From this point we really started to appreciate our surroundings and situation. Algeria had been an experience, if rather a short tense one, but in Morocco we were able to relax. The people were friendly and open; they really seemed to like us, whereas in Algeria they had appeared to just tolerate us or hustle.
We decided to use the bus to get to Fez, our next port of call. This form of transport was so cheap that it didn’t seem worth spending hours sitting at the side of the road. Besides, the bus journeys were an experience in themselves. For a start they were always jam packed. Every imaginable possession was tied onto the roof rack, including live chickens and goats.
At every stop street vendors would swarm on, selling anything and everything. Beggars would hang on the sides, entreating us to part with small change, only jumping off when the driver had picked up a bit of speed. The bus that took us to Fez had seen better days and, as it creaked and groaned up the steep winding road, I tried not to imagine what might happen if it didn’t make the next hairpin bend.

The landscape was beautiful in places. We were travelling just north of the Atlas mountains and some of the villages looked remarkably like alpine hamlets in Switzerland. It was hard to believe that, not many miles South stretched the vast expanse of the Sahara.
About a mile from the city walls of Fez, the bus finally gave up and ground to a halt. Whereupon most of the passengers surged to the front to give the driver the benefit of their advice. A noisy throng gathered round the gearbox, which was generally regarded as the cause of the breakdown.
We sat and watched as chaos reigned. Would be mechanics removed various oily parts and discarded them round the drivers seat. He was in there shouting with the best of them. It was all very good natured and everybody was obviously enjoying it. But the fun had to stop eventually and, as one man, they decided to do the only thing possible. Every able bodied person piled out the bus and, assisted by interested passers by, they pushed the bus to the walls of Fez. As we departed to see the sights, the heads were back down to dismantle the remains of the gearbox.

WORD COUNT 1604

PART 5: BEYOND FEZ

To visit Fez in those days was like going back in time. The huge stone walls interspersed with massive gateways into the city looked as if they were ready to repel marauders, much as they did in centuries past. When you entered and explored the narrow alleyways of the souk, hung with colourful cloths, smelling of exotic spices piled high on round pottery dishes, selling every conceivable vegetable, fruit, fish and fowl and teeming with white robed people, you knew it must have looked much the same in medieval times.
It is Morocco’s holiest city and once was the most powerful politically, being a famous seat of learning of the Arab world. We were too young and inexperienced to appreciate this all those years ago and began to feel rather uncomfortable at the curious stares we got as we wandered through it’s narrow ancient streets. We had been going to stay in Fez but, after an unnerving interlude when we got hopelessly lost and had to pay a small boy to guide us back to a main thoroughfare, we decided to push on to Marrakesh.
So, late afternoon of that day found us alighting from another bus in the small mountain town of Azrou. It was really a large village on the edge of the Atlas range with the characteristic architecture of that region. Beautiful wooden chalet like houses with a backdrop of snowy peaks and evergreens once again reminded us of Alpine scenes. The main street climbed steeply through white washed stone houses, many with little open fronted cafes whose interiors dissolved into darkness against the brightness of the sun.

This was Berber country. The people looked different. They were dark and handsome. The women were some of the most beautiful we had ever seen. Unveiled, their strong features and stately walk made them truly arresting as they glided effortlessly up the sharp inclines, dressed in gorgeous wraps and headdresses. And these people were friendly. On almost every face was a broad grin of welcome.
Our first stop was the market, which was a modest affair on a small piece of flattened earth at one end of the main street. We wandered round the stalls, practising our newly acquired bargaining skills. They didn’t have a lot to sell but every stall had the ubiquitous oranges.
We had quickly become addicted to this fruit, so different to the pallid tasteless version available in shops back home. Small and sweet, warm to the tongue, you could taste the sunshine. But here, in this mountain region, they were relatively expensive. Vainly we went from stall to stall, trying to get the price down; until we realised that the stallholders were gently pulling our legs, sending us from one to the other, confident we would not do better, as they had all agreed on the price. We gave in and bought some anyway.
Wandering back up the main street we were struck by the numbers of inhabitants sitting motionless at the outside tables of the little street cafes. They all had, in front of them, a bowl of chick pea soup, bread, dates, a pipe of keef and a pot of mint tea. Suddenly the end of the daily fast was signalled by the unearthly chanting from the mosque. Immediately everywhere was activity. People ate, drank, smoked and talked; all at once. We were invited to join one table of old men and spent a pleasant hour with them.

While we there a young man came and sat down, joining in the conversation. The old men were friendly enough, even bantering with him, but Pete and I both felt he was not really welcome.
We asked if they knew of a place to stay and were directed to a large cafe at the top of the town. The place had a French feel to it, with wooden chairs and tables to one side of a small bar. We were offered a room above the cafe, which turned out to be clean and neat; rather reminiscent of our Marseilles pension. After a wash we went downstairs for a meal. The place was pretty full and was obviously very popular with the locals. The waitress was, of course, a handsome Berber girl, swapping lively banter with her customers. In front of their foreign guests they all showed off shamelessly and we had one of the most entertaining evenings of our trip so far.
As the evening progressed we noticed that the waitress conducted a kind of game with some of her favourite customers. This consisted of her clapping just as one or other of them attempted to smoke a cigarette or drink some mint tea. The customer immediately had to stop their smoking or drinking and match her clap for clap, until the whole cafe were laughing at her persistence.
When she pretended to stop and turn away the customer would affect an air of exaggerated relief and attempt to get down one mouthful of tea or smoke, before she wheeled around and started them off clapping again. It was a simple pastime that for some reason was hilariously funny; no doubt because of the theatrical nature of the waitress’s insistent clapping and the mock eye – rolling misery of the chosen customer. The keefe laden atmosphere probably helped as well.

In the middle of it all the door opened and in came the same young man we had seen at the open air cafe. Although nobody actually stopped what they were doing, the atmosphere subtly changed.
The waitress went over to his table and sat with him, laughing and chatting; indeed they seemed to be indulging in a little light hearted flirtation. The young man smiled at us and asked in a friendly manner about our journey and whether we liked Morocco. We said we liked it very much, especially this little town of Azrou.
He seemed pleased at our response. Later, when he got up to use the toilet, the minute he had left the room, the waitress came over to us and hissed “Garde; le Police. Comprend? We ‘comprended’ and, when he returned, the whole cafe, which had sunk to guarded whispers while he was out of the room, came to life again; and put on an admirable act of including him in the festivities. Eventually he left and everybody relaxed and continued the clapping game.
The next morning saw us on another bus, still aiming for Marrakesh, 400 kilometres to the South. Our next port of call was Khenifra, a village built entirely of hot red clay bricks. Between the low flat roofed buildings ran beaten dirt streets and the orange dust coated everything, including us. It looked like a shanty town, hastily thrown up. It was as raw as its red brick dwellings and a harsh contrast after the appeal of Azrou.
Back on the bus again and late afternoon found us at Beni Mellal, a nondescript town of shabby white buildings. We were tired and dirty after another bone shaking ride on local transport and only wanted to find somewhere to rest for the night.

We entered the nearest cafe, a cool deserted shop with a food bar to one side. and, upon enquiry the proprietor confirmed they had got a room for the night.
Thankfully we followed the owner to the back of the cafe and into a side room. Inside was an old iron bedstead and not much else, although the proprietor did proudly point out the extra facility of an ancient washbasin. We didn’t care as long as we could put our heads down and sleep.
There was nothing on the bed except a lumpy mattress. While we were getting settled in a teenage boy appeared at the door. His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried sheets and blankets. We thanked him, but, when we came to make up the bed, we discovered the sheets were wet; and I don’t mean damp; I mean wet. We took them back and the proprietor assured us he would supply more.
Once more the boy arrived, grinning from ear to ear, with more sheets; also wet and probably the same ones. We abandoned the unlooked for luxury of sheets and, after a snack, decided to call it a day.
While we were eating the cafe began to fill up. It was after 6 o’clock and time to eat and drink. Many customers filed past us to the back of the cafe where there was a large communal room, (next to ours) carpeted with raffia mats. Here men sat in groups, around their hubbles, eating and talking and drinking tea. When we returned to our room we noticed many more white robed customers, sitting around the walls of the cafe. They gazed at us impassively as we passed between them.
At last we were able to shut our door and sink onto the unforgiving mattress, sans sheets. We had tried to wash off some of the days grime in the washbasin but, on turning on the tap, the pipes had rattled so alarmingly we had abandoned the attempt.

Never mind; we were too tired to care. We could sleep through anything, even the ever increasing noise from the cafe, now added to by a radio turned up full volume.
We were just sinking into uneasy slumber when a terrible clattering and hissing wrenched us from the arms of Morpheus.
That was some of the noisiest plumbing I’ve ever come across. It transpired that, when the Espresso machine on the counter was utilised, our pipes groaned and howled in sympathy. Shaken, we tried to ignore the constant din, telling ourselves that, sooner or later, the noise would die down as people went home to bed. We dozed on and off for hours but, if anything, the noise got louder and more frantic. The radio wailed; the customers shouted and laughed; the plumbing clanged and hissed.
It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when I finally broke and decided, with the stupidity induced by exhaustion, to complain about the noise!
The cafe was full to overflowing, exclusively with men all robed in white djellabahs. I marched up to the bar, my step slowing as all eyes turned in my direction. It dawned on me that I, a bare headed, red haired freckle faced European female must have looked a trifle out of place! Arriving at the bar I gazed at the waiter and every ear in the room waited for my words.
So, I asked for two cups of hot chocolate. Grinning broadly and nodding knowingly to his customers as he passed, the waiter insisted on preceding me with the steaming cups arranged on a round silver tray, a towel draped over his arm. Meekly I followed him back to our room, picking my way through the groups of smiling customers. With a flourish he served our chocolate and left.

Resignedly we settled down to wait for the morning. Just before dawn broke Pete added insult to injury by falling asleep; and snoring!
We found out later that this night had been the only one in the month of Ramadan when all good Muslims stayed awake till sunrise. As light filled the sky our neighbours disappeared, to their beds presumably, and we snatched a few hours before we had to leave

word count 1893.

PART 6: A FEW WEEKS IN MARRAKESH

Marrakesh was now within a days journey. We should have been keyed up with excitement but, after our sleepless night in Beni Mellal, all we could think of was to get on yet another bus, curl up on the back seat and sleep. But we had reckoned without our tourist status. As soon as we climbed on board we made for the back seat. The driver immediately stopped us and, with much gesticulating and smiling, he showed us to the very front of the bus. We reluctantly complied and were the centre of attention as the bus filled up behind us. We had a panoramic view of the road ahead as the driver rattled serenely on.
The road grew steeper and began to wind round hairpin bends with a sheer drop to one side. On the straight our driver had seemed competent and relaxed. As the route grew more tortuous he became more distracted, especially when passengers found it necessary to come to the front of the bus and shout advice in his ear. We hung on to our seats, mesmerised with terror, as we veered from side to side when the driver turned round in his seat to shout back at his critics.
There was nothing between us and the stony road except that brittle windscreen. Tired as we were we could not, dare not, shut our eyes; only pray that the driver would, somehow, get us to Marrakesh in one piece.
And, of course, he did. A few hours later found us standing in Djemaa el Fna, the now famous main square of Marrakesh . We were still exhausted; but who could fail not to be immediately overtaken with the strange exciting atmosphere of Morocco’s most romantic and cosmopolitan city.

There we were in that famous square with it’s balcony cafe and the narrow streets of the souk disappearing in all directions. All around us was noisy life, music and colour. We itched to start exploring straight away, but accommodation was our first priority.
All around the square were modest looking hotels. We went through the entrance arch of the nearest one, the Hotel Central, and found ourselves in the cool inner courtyard with its sunken garden of palm trees that reached up to the sky. The building was one of the now famous riads, built on three stories with a flat roof terrace. The rooms were reached by a series of stone staircases, which joined with galleries on each of the floors. We got a room for the night on the ground floor. Although shabby, the hotel was generally clean and our room was tidy and quiet.
After a few hours of exhausted slumber we ventured out to experience our first evening in Marrakesh. We wandered among the many stalls selling everything any tourist could possibly want. We were hungry and so, for the first time, but definitely not the last, we sampled the delicious Conga eel steaks, shallow fried in front of us and served with a hot sweet dipping sauce; which seemed to consist of orange and chilli; a taste which I have tried (and failed) to recreate many times since.
For a few small coins you could have a deep bowl of harrisa stew served with hard wholemeal bread; a satisfyingly filling and cheap meal. And Marrakesh was the first place where we ate delicious goats milk yoghurt which had a lemony tang and stuffed ourselves with exquisitely cooked doughnuts smothered in sugar; the best I have ever tasted.

Everywhere there were crowds of people; the traditional Arabs in flowing white; the Berber musicians and acrobats and many tourists like us. All nationalities mingled and seemed to rub along together pretty well.
We listened to the music, wandered among the little shops which lined every narrow alley of the Souk, gazing at the wrought metal artifacts, leather, jewellery and colourful cloths hanging under the awnings. Little pavement cafes sold glasses of hot sweet mint tea; a taste I never acquired due to the excessive amounts of lump sugar that were considered necessary additions before serving; but we both quickly got addicted to the alternative; small strong cups of black coffee that were both refreshing and reviving. Eventually we dragged ourselves away to our bed, secure in the knowledge that it would all still be there in the morning. Now we had reached Marrakesh and our adventure had really begun.
The Hotel Central proved to be an economical and comfortable berth during our stay in Marrakesh. Once I had got over the shock of the ubiquitous cockroaches in the communal toilet, that scurried out of sight whenever this facility was used, we both adjusted to this new way of living. Despite the cockroaches, the standards of cleanliness were perfectly adequate; indeed we were both struck by the practice of washing down the courtyard every morning, so that the tiled area always looked clean and inviting.
After a few days we came to a financial arrangement with the hotel manager which gave us a substantial discount for an extended stay. This suited the management as well as us because there were many cheap hotels vying for the custom of tourists like ourselves who were travelling on a very tight budget.

Marrakesh was (and still is) a city of two halves; the Arab quarter and the French built new city; not far in distance but miles apart in cultures and economy. Moneyed tourists, who stayed in the continental style hotels and shopped in the broad boulevards of the French district, were not to know that the Arab quarter was not only much cheaper but much more exciting and closer to the heart of the indigenous population of the city.
We quickly established a routine. All meals were eaten from the food stalls that were so prolific all around Djemaa el Fna. We would spend a lot of time just strolling about the square, listening and watching the many musicians, acrobats, drummers and dancers who kept the local populace, and the tourists, entertained.
Marrakesh has long had the reputation of being the most laid back city in Morocco; a reputation gained mainly because of the large population of Southern tribesmen and Berbers who bring in their goods to trade and spend their money in the souks. As the days went by we started to meet and make friends with other travellers.
There were many Americans; the flower power children of the sixties who were very popular with the traders, due to their relative wealth compared to the assets of the average European backpacker. Most of them were open and friendly; two characteristics that struck a chord with the Moroccan locals, who were also welcoming to the strangers in their midst. We met Danish, Dutch, Swedish, German and French nationals. And, of course, many British just like us, living on a shoestring. But our most valued friend was a Moroccan; another Mustapha.
Mustapha worked on and off in the hotel. He appeared to be a general dogsbody, turning his hand to maintenance, cleaning and errands.

He was keen to make friends with us, having an avid curiosity for what was going on in the world outside Morocco; indeed he had only a hazy idea of life outside the locality of the city, Like most citizens of working age he had to conform to imposed travel restrictions and a journey of any distance required a visa or permit; something for which you had to pay.
The easy going appeal of Marrakesh was only skin deep for the locals. Life for most was not an easy ride and they found it difficult to understand how the tourists could so order their lives to be able to travel far from home.
Mustapha was no different but, in his way, he also was a child of the sixties and was open minded about different cultures. His natural friendly disposition and curiosity meant we spent many hours just chatting with him, in our rapidly improving French, about all sorts; he in his turn, acted as our guide to the city. We didn’t get hustled when we went out with Mustapha.
And so we spent a pleasant few weeks in Marrakesh. Nearly forty years is a long way back to remember but certain scenes and events stick in the memory. It was still Ramadan in Marrakesh and you did not see Muslims eating or drinking during the day. Musicians in the square ‘adopted’ the odd tourist to sit in their circle, to add cachet to their performance.
One such group made our acquaintance and insisted that we accept bottles of coke while they sang and danced in enforced abstinence. We felt bound to accept their hospitality, although uncomfortably; and we hadn’t the heart to tell them that we didn’t even like the sugary drink so loved all over the world.

Police were everywhere. We never got used to their habit of going round in pairs, holding hands. Without exception they were heavily built and badly shaved. The locals didn’t mess with them and I do remember, vividly, seeing one of these uniformed law enforcers beating a middle aged woman in a blue djellabah, who had dared to argue back, quite viciously with his baton, while onlookers passed by with barely a backward glance. But, to be honest, the reality of being a Moroccan in Morocco rarely impinged. We were young, ignorant and were having too good a time to be aware of the social issues.
On the evening Ramadan finished, the manager of the hotel called Pete into the office. I was left sitting in our room, wondering what was going on. At least an hour later Pete returned, somewhat the worse for wear. It transpired that the manager had decided to include Pete in his liberation from abstinence: evidently the Muslim rule about alcohol didn’t impinge upon his conscience. They sat opposite each other and the manager kept filling up two tumblers of wine, knocking his own straight back then waiting with evident impatience while Pete followed suit. It was more of a contest than a shared tipple but the manager evidently felt it was his role to show his guest the hospitality of the house as soon as he legitimately could.
As a celebration of the end of Ramadan a small local cinema showed ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for several nights. Quite a large contingent of tourists went to see it, along with most of the young population of Marrakesh. To my shame I remember the Europeans and Americans sitting at the back of the hall and being convulsed with laughter most of the time at the strange image of Elvis being dubbed into French with Arabic subtitles.
The Arabs, however, took it all very seriously and stared disapprovingly at the back stalls after each burst of merriment.

PART 7: A VISIT TO ESSAOUIRA

We celebrated Christmas in Marrakesh. Our group of friends got together and we all took on the task of producing one item each for the feast. It fell to me to produce the Christmas pudding and so, with only a few days in hand, I sourced dried fruit, spices,
flour and honey to create quite a credible imitation of a boiled pudding. The actual cooking was done at our American friends rooms who had the luxury of a rudimentary kitchen. They also provided the only relatively expensive item, a scraggy fowl. This, with lashings of fresh vegetables made for a good day, although poor Pete was laid low with a debilitating bug and missed the festivities.
The only cloud on our horizon at this time was our acute shortage of funds. We wanted to see more of Morocco before we were forced to go home. After Christmas many of our more affluent friends decamped to Essaouira,
Nowadays this attractive resort on the Atlantic coast is a favourite haunt for tourists, especially surfers. In those days it was a modest fishing village that was gaining in popularity as an alternative to Agadir, which had been a popular holiday destination until a devastating earthquake in 1960; And so, when we came to the end of time for our room rental at the hotel, we managed to scrape together enough funds to make the journey Westwards.
It wasn’t easy. What made it possible was Mustapha arranging a loan for us of a hundred dhiram; the equivalent of ten pounds. We didn’t ask him. When he realised we were going West he came to us and insisted we accept it.

Even still we wouldn’t have taken him up on it, knowing he would have had to stand as guarantor for the sum, if it wasn’t for the fact that were expecting some top up funds from Pete’s parents through the post; the only option for acquiring cash in those pre ‘hole in the wall’ days.
Transferring funds by post was risky. Once or twice friends and relatives got some cash out to us, but sometimes this mysteriously disappeared between the sender and the Poste Restante box number where you picked up post. However, the odd tenner here and there kept our heads above water.
We promised Mustapha we would repay him, although, much like our German friend on the road to Oujda, I don’t think he expected to see us again. His generosity and trust in us was all the more appreciated when you took into account that he survived on very modest means. The day we left, on the inevitable bus, he came and waved us goodbye; sad that he couldn’t make the journey himself.
We loved Essaouira from the word go. It was a charming seaside town where you could stroll down to the harbour area and watch the fishermen sorting their catches and tending their wooden boats. It had some ancient ramparts that could be strolled along and the streets were flanked by white houses and shops, selling all sorts of goods; from arts and crafts to goat meat. The locals were friendly and we quickly settled into our temporary home.
Details are hazy as to our arrival but we very quickly found some lodgings. This consisted of two rooms on the first floor of a three storey house with a communal roof area. We did the deal with a middle aged woman who lived on the second floor with her teenage daughter.

We found out later that, although the woman ran and managed the letting side of the house, it was actually owned by an older daughter, who lived on the ground floor and plied the oldest trade in the world. Her chief clientele were the local constabulary; more of this later.
Our two rooms consisted of one large communal area, where we slept, cooked and generally lived in, and a smaller back room where was housed a ‘squat’ toilet, a basin and a bath. Before you get carried away by this apparent luxury dear reader, I hasten to point out that the bath was purely for water storage. We quickly learnt that the water supply was only available for a few hours a day; and so you made sure you kept the bath topped up when the taps were on.
The main room was sparsely furnished with a bed and some cooking facility, a table, chairs and, I think, a wardrobe. The shuttered window overlooked the street. On our second night in residence we were awoken by someone throwing stones at our window and shouting in Arabic.
Pete opened the shutters and looked out to see one of the local policemen standing below, swearing angrily and incomprehensibly at him. Before matters took an even nastier turn a ground floor window opened and the house owner started shouting, as angrily, at the client; one of her regular customers.
We found out the next day that he had assumed Pete was a rival for the lady’s affections and had harboured some sort of proprietorial grudge at a perceived conflict of interests.
There was a lively social scene among the visiting tourists. Many of our friends from Marrakesh had rented apartments and we would socialise most days with parties, beach trips and meetings at one of the local cafes.

We never tired of wandering down the narrow streets indulging in good natured bartering with the tradesmen for everyday items, who followed the common practice that we had first experienced in Azrou; of sending us from one to the other as we attempted to get the price down a few more centimes. It was all good fun; and good experience.
I think now is the time for the second tale of Pete’s teeth. An American friend called on us one day and, while indulging in some desultory and inept orange juggling, managed to snap Pete’s denture, (which he had left on the table) clean in half with one of the dropped fruits. Jerry, our American friend was truly mortified and offered to pay for a repair, if it could be arranged.
It just so happened that, during one of our many rambles through the back streets of the town, we had come across what had appeared to be a dental surgery.
We visited it, with the offending denture, and gazed in the window where an artistic arrangement of antique dentistry and tools were on display. We entered the shop and explained our problem to the young dentist (presumably) who appeared from the back of the shop. Could he mend the denture we wanted to know. He assured us he could. Negotiations regarding price ensued.
They started at a hundred dhirams on his part; ten from our side of the counter. The two extremes gradually drew nearer to each other but, all the while this bargaining was batting back and forth, the presumed dental technician had, with a look of puzzled concentration on his face, been manoeuvring the two clean cut halves in an unsuccessful attempt to fit them back together. Our confidence in his ability to affect the repair gave out just as he had finally agreed to our limit of ten dhirams.

Offering apologies for wasting his time we left the shop hastily, only pausing to gaze once again on the supposed antiques, which were probably the latest models of Moroccan dental skill. The broken tooth bridge was consigned to the rucksack for the duration of our remaining journey and Pete went front toothless from then on.
One day our landlady, or rather her Mother, who lived on the next floor, invited us in for a meal. This had been instigated by the younger daughter, who was a serious bookish sort of girl and the apple of her Mother’s eye. She was a student and liked nothing better than to engage us in conversation. They depended on the other sister’s trade for all of life’s necessities, but kept themselves very much apart from the goings on on the ground floor. I suspect that the younger daughter was seen by the Mother as a chance to cast off the slur of the elder sister’s reputation.
And so we, very politely, socialised and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with the two of them in their spotlessly clean and tidy front room with the ubiquitous stunning tiled floor and wall decoration. It was a formal, but friendly interchange of different cultures. In fact, the two women would have, probably, been less out of place than ourselves, at a vicar’s tea party back home. In an attempt to show our appreciation I had taken with me a small gift for the daughter. Knowing how much western clothes were valued I presented her with a blue and white polka dot dress from Marks and Spencers that had inextricably found it’s way into my rucksack before we left home.
Actually my Mother had insisted that I pack this one ‘good frock’ in case I ‘needed’ to dress up at any stage. It was not the sort of garment I would have been seen dead in anywhere and I was very glad to get a chance to hand it over to someone who might appreciate it. The teenager seemed overwhelmed at my generosity and kept thanking me for the dress, to the point where I started feeling quite guilty at palming off such a ghastly example of western woman’s fashion.

But beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. About half an hour after we had returned to our rooms, the student knocked on our door and presented me with something wrapped up in tissue paper.
Upon unwrapping it I discovered she had given me the most exquisite Moroccan dress, or djellabah. It was made of some gauzy silver material, embroidered all over in silver and lime green leaves and flowers and all the edgings were in silver braid. I protested that I couldn’t possibly accept such a precious gift but she insisted, saying that she would never wear it; indeed I got the impression that she regarded it as rather vulgar; perhaps it was an unwanted present from her sister; a woman who had no inhibitions regarding dress and was always to be seen, indoors, in gorgeous silks and satins.
So, with many thanks I accepted it.
We lived in our little apartment in Essaouria for a month and, during that time, Pete casually suggested, when we got back home, we should get married. I thought it was a good idea and, just over a year later, the gift of the silver tissue and green embroidered djellabah became my wedding dress; a much treasured garment that I still have packed away somewhere.

WORD COUNT 1746

PART 8: ESSAOURIA

On the roof of the house was another flat occupied by a Danish couple. I remember them because, for the duration of our stay, they were at daggers drawn with the occupant of an adjoining house. The bone of contention (an apt metaphor) was an unhappy dog that was chained up all the time on the roof of the neighbouring house. When it wasn’t having stones thrown at it by children it was howling or barking. The Danish man eventually made friends with this miserable canine and finally entered into protracted negotiations with the owner to buy it from him. The owner rooked him for a sizeable sum for supposed necessary vaccinations and papers to enable the couple to take the dog back to Denmark. But they stuck to their guns and the dog eventually departed with them for a, presumably, better life in more Northern climes.
One day Pete arrived back home with a paper parcel which, when unwrapped on the table, turned out to contain several small live crabs which scuttled away upon their release. I refused to kill them and Pete, the hardened fisherman, had to do the dreadful deed of chucking them into boiling water, prior to our seafood supper.
We would spend quite a lot of time sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the grey Atlantic; I would stay close to shore but Pete would give me palpitations swimming well out to sea while I had visions of shark attacks; a phenomenon not unknown in that part of the coast. Pete also indulged in a hilarious camel ride; a pleasure that I didn’t fancy, being of a much more timid nature and not taking to the camel’s habit of disdainfully spitting at potential riders.

One day, when we were walking to the beach along a dirt road, on the outskirts of a small settlement of low white houses, we were witnesses to an accident. A youth, careering along on his bike, hit a huge pot hole at the side of a bridge over a dried up river bed. He and the bike disappeared over the side of the bridge and several people, us included, rushed to his aid.
All was mayhem as villagers surged round his unconscious form. Mindful of internal injuries we managed to dissuade the crowd from moving him until the ambulance arrived. But when this vehicle, a grubby white van, turned up, the driver hoisted the injured party onto his shoulders and, surrounded by a large and vociferous crowd, ran up and out of the ravine and deposited him, none too gently, into the back of the van; whereupon he drove off at the customary breakneck speed.
We feared for the outcome to this incident and went back to the village the next day to get news of the invalid. We were greeted like long lost friends by his various relatives and were invited into his brother’s little white house to take refreshment. The unprepossessing exterior opened into a cosy tiled room, bright with rugs and ceramic decoration. We sat on low couches and shared in the communal dish of couscous with goat meat and drank sweet mint tea. According to the relatives, the youth had not sustained any major injury and was well on the way to recovery. They acted as if we had played a major role in saving his life; but we knew that luck had played the main part.
It was nearing the time when we had to return to Marrakesh, to pay Mustapha back and to start, reluctantly, on the way homeward. Before we left we were invited to a party by some acquaintances who were renting a whole floor of a rhiad in the town. They were Londoners but, unlike us, were not short of a bob or two.

The flat, which overlooked the central courtyard on three sides, was tastefully adorned with rugs, knick-knacks and ceramics. The floor was a stunning pattern of Moroccan tiling. The whole place had an air of comfort and the tenants, a couple of well heeled hippies whom we hardly knew, greeted us with distant friendliness.
This probably had something to do with the industrial quantities of keef that were being smoked. We were sixties children after all and we took our alternative lifestyle credentials seriously. That night a veritable cornucopia of drugs were available including some acid trips. I had taken LSD on occasion back home and had enjoyed the unhinging effects most of the time. And so I indulged, as did Pete.
At first everything seemed to be going along okay. The room was quite crowded and people drifted in and out. Suddenly I realised that the tiled floor of many colours had become liquid. Amazed I put my hand into it and swirled the colours around. It was while I was experiencing this phenomenon that I began to feel a sensation of what I can only call paranoia. The symmetrical patterns on the curtains and throws seemed vaguely threatening and I found I couldn’t look at them.
Pete, who had always had a much stronger resistance to drugs, picked up on my panic straight away and tried to reassure me that it was a temporary angst and everything would turn out fine.
But, the harder I tried, the less I seemed able to keep my grip on reality. By now others were concernedly offering advice as I struggled to keep the demons at bay. But I seemed to be slipping away from my companions and surroundings down a long dark tunnel.

I truly believe that, at that moment, I was on the point of losing it completely. Gradually I became aware of an insistent voice coming from the mouth of a young American man who I could just discern at the end of the black tunnel that separated me from the rest of the room. I could hear him saying, over and over again, “whatever you are seeing turn and face it; confront it; whatever it is look at it and it will go.” All the while I was aware of him gazing at me intently; concentrating with all his being on bringing me back.
Suddenly I got it and faced up to the unknown dread. With what felt like a physical whoosh I shot back up the tunnel and emerged into the light and warmth of the room again. The relief was overwhelming.
But my travails were not yet over. I went immediately from a ‘bad’ trip to an amazingly enlightening ‘good’ one. The room appeared to have morphed into an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful treasures. Precious jewels were stacked in glittering heaps on the low tables. Lions and tigers lounged regally on the couches and did not appear averse to being stroked and admired. Everybody looked beautiful; and I told them so, illustrating my words with actions that were designed to make me curl up with embarrassment the next morning, when I was regaled with what had gone on the night before.
But the strangest occurrence on this never to be forgotten ‘trip’ was my speaking in tongues. As it was told to me the next day, during my ‘enlightened’ period I was making quite a lot of noise and the Moroccan landlady came upstairs to complain. I remember her standing at the door and berating the assembly; and I remember answering her and explaining that there was nothing to worry about.
I can see her now, shrugging her shoulders, turning from the door and going back downstairs. As far as I was concerned she spoke to me in English but several people confirmed the next day that I had replied to her in Arabic.

I also remember hearing lots of different voices, speaking in different languages, in my head. It was as if I had become a radio receiver for a worldwide conversation. At one point I remember distinctly, saying, in an Ozzie accent, “Come in Australia”!
In days to come I was to remember one particular ‘happening’ during that long night. As it was explained to me the next day, when I had returned to lucidity, it had been necessary to keep me calm, to avoid me returning to the frightening darkness of the tunnel. At the time I interpreted these soothing conversations in a much more meaningful way. It seemed that people around me were telling me that I had finally emerged from a lifelong delusion of living in a world full of wars, famine, bigotry and disharmony. Evidently all the ills of the world had only been in my head; the reality was a world of happiness, prosperity and harmony.
The euphoria of this revelation was wonderful and, amazingly, logical. How could I have been so silly as to believe that the world was a place of conflict and unhappiness? It was so much more likely that we would utilise the joy of living in the most practical way possible, instead of wasting lives and time making each other miserable.
Imagine my feelings in the morning when I realised the ‘revelation’ was the delusion. Before I became aware of this sorry truth, in the grey light of dawn, I had reached a giddy plain, common to many who have indulged in hallucinogens, of being on the cusp of understanding the creation of the whole universe. But, just as I reached this crucial final understanding, I started to come down, quite rapidly.
All around me were sleeping forms; the flat looked seedy and very untidy with several broken ornaments lying about (evidently a lot of the disarray was caused by me) and I felt grubby and very depressed. Pete had returned to normality long before me and we crept away to our lodgings, before our fellow party goers woke up.

We found out later that this particular batch of acid had been ‘cut’ with speed, which explained why the trip had come on so fast and been so ‘jagged’. The American boy, who had talked me out of my tunnel, had taken one two days before and had to fight out his demons all on his own on the beach. Hence his knowledge of rescue tactics.
As you have probably gathered this trip made a lasting impression on me; to the point that I can still remember it vividly nearly forty years later. When we returned home I did take acid once or twice again, but my reactions were stale and repetitive and I lost interest in mind altering drugs.
Before we returned to Marrakesh; we visited the flat of the party givers once more, to apologise for my behaviour. I was greeted very coolly and left feeling suitably deflated; but relieved that they hadn’t taken us up on our offer to pay for the carnage I had caused.

Word count 1792

PART 9: FROM MARRAKESH . . TO BARCELONA

A few days later we were back in the main square of Marrakesh and reinstated in our old hotel room in the Central. Mustapha was very pleased to see us and, very tactfully, didn’t mention the money we still owed his moneylender. It was several days before the expected lifeline funds turned up; some from Pete’s parents and an unexpected bonus tenner from a good friend back home. Meanwhile, desperate for cash, we took all our spare clothes to the buy and sell market, where anything of western design commanded good money. In this way we kept our heads above water and paid our hotel bill.
Thankfully our funds turned up and we were able pay our debt to Mustapha. With the little money we had left, we had to make it back home post haste. So now we steeled ourselves to return to our former lives in grey Great Britain. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to our hotel friends and started the long walk out of Marrakesh. This time we had to hitch. No expensive luxuries like bus rides for us. I remember our last sight of the dusty, sunny road out of the Arab quarter with traders parked under orange trees selling everything and anything, including oranges, to the colourful and noisy throng of Berbers, Arabs and tourists. We turned our backs on it all and began the long trek home.
We had only walked a few kilometres out of the town when a car pulled up. Amazingly it was a Rolls Royce and a very English voice enquired of us as to where we were aiming for. We said Tangier and couldn’t believe our luck when the driver said that was their destination. In no time at all we were ensconced in the unbelievably luxurious interior of leather seats and air conditioning and chatting with our benefactors like old friends.

The couple lived in Eastbourne and were both doctors. They appeared to be in their forties; he was blonde with a bony frame dressed in expensive well cut clothes. His wife was an attractive dark haired Indian lady dressed appropriately in a colourful silk sari. It turned out that they had ‘popped over’ for a long weekend, hired the Rolls at Tangier airport and driven down to Marrakesh to stay at a top price hotel in the French quarter.
They were absolutely charming and we spent the next few hours swapping experiences of Marrakesh and Morocco as the Rolls ate up the miles. They were astonished at the difference in prices between the French and Arab quarter. They had spent more in a few days than we had on our whole trip. They shared with us the hamper of delicious French cuisine that had been provided by the hotel and we quizzed them about life on the south coast of England. Curious, I asked the wife if she always wore Indian dress. “Usually” she replied. “Except when I walk the dog.” How English is that!
They dropped us just outside Tangier and, before they departed, pressed into our hands a ten shilling note, (equivalent to 50 pence nowadays). We thanked them wholeheartedly for all their kindness and went our separate ways.
I don’t remember much about Tangier, except it had the same ‘edgy’ feel as Algiers had. We felt uncomfortable walking through it’s seedy streets. We were eager to get on the ferry to Algeciras, but first, we had to get our remaining dhirams changed into pesetas.
This was not an operation that could be undertaken legally. With the usual protective attitude of the native state, Morocco didn’t like to see money leaving the country and so we had to take advantage of the black market.

There was no shortage of volunteers offering us a ‘fair’ rate of exchange. In those days Tangier had a decidedly dodgy reputation, being a favoured drug and illegal immigrant route; ( I am tempted to say so what else is new!) Reluctantly we engaged in negotiations with the most trustworthy looking character vying for our attention and, even more reluctantly, followed him through the seedy streets, redolent with the heavy odour of keef, to meet with his ‘broker’.
Eventually he led us up some steps between two flat roofed terraces and, smiling reassuringly, ushered us into a room where another man sat behind a table. By now, although we had convinced ourselves that we were going to be robbed, or worse, we had to go through with it and advanced to face whatever lay ahead. Ten minutes later we were walking away with a distinct feeling of anticlimax, after getting a perfectly adequate rate of exchange conducted with formal courtesy and mutual satisfaction. The anti climax was swiftly overlain with relief and we hurried to the ferry terminal.

It was here we met Big John and Mr T. That sounds a bit theatrical but we never knew them by any other names. They were two Americans, both ex Vietnam war veterans, who had been travelling through Morocco and had just spent most of their cash on a VW van, in which they intended to travel through Europe. It transpired that we could do each other a favour. If we travelled as passengers in their van we could all get over much more cheaply; the ferry charge being based on the vehicle not the occupants. And so we spent the short crossing time getting to know our new acquaintances.
We deduced that both Big John and Mr T had suffered acute trauma in Vietnam but, after a brief allusion, neither talked about it.

They dealt with it in their different ways. Mr T was a taciturn man who was pleasant but preferred his own company and rarely opened up.
Big John couldn’t have been more different. At least six foot six and very gangly he had that rare human ability to endear himself to whosoever crossed his path. And so he covered up by being extremely humorous and gregarious.
Once over the other side we successfully negotiated customs; or so we thought, but, rounding a corner we came upon a road barrier manned by the Guardia; the scary Spanish police of Franco’s Spain. They stood, cold eyed and watchful, with machine guns at the ready, to search out any suspicious visitors. Despite a certain amount of tension on our part we passed with no incident.
So here we were in yet another country. In 1969 Spain was a completely different kettle of fish to the overcrowded tourist ridden Costas of today. The country was still largely rural and, except for the main cities, the coastal route consisted of large stretches of rugged terrain, interspersed with run down white walled villages, usually with a huge wedding cake of a church perched on the hills above, But the first stirrings of the commercialisation (instigated by Franco I believe) that was to come were plain to see. Buildings were going up all along the coast; an opportunity for us as it turned out.
When we drove out of the port town of Algeceras I don’t remember any discussion about the four of us joining forces. We just did. The VW van was an empty shell at the start of our journey. Every time we drove past a deserted building site (siesta time was favourite) somebody, usually John, would leap out and gather any building material they could find, so that, not many days later, the van was kitted out with rudimentary bunk beds, shelves and cupboards.

We cooked on fires of brushwood and waste timber. Our main diet also came from the fields around us where vegetables grew; I remember artichokes figuring large on our menu.
I write these words rather unbelievingly now; being an upright citizen who wouldn’t dream of half inching anything! But, in those couple of weeks of getting through Spain it was definitely a case of proving Darwin right; i.e. the survival of the fittest. Pete and I were just trying to get home on the very small sum of money that we had left. Mr T. and Big John, however, intended to drive round Europe on almost no funds. So we roughed it together.
The first few nights were spent sleeping on the bare metal floor of the van, except for the lucky person whose turn it was to sample the relative luxury of the the long front seat. It was early February and bitterly cold at night. Many times in the next few days we thanked our lucky stars that we had resisted the temptation to sell our Parkas in Marrakesh.
One incident which sticks in my memory, as painful ones often do, was when I managed to crack my elbow, very painfully, on the van door one freezing night during my turn in the front seat; a seemingly minor injury which caused me much pain for the rest of the journey; and for many years later.
We drove North up the coast and didn’t stop anywhere more than a night, until we got to Barcelona. All these years later details of our journey are a hazy memory. I seem to remember that the natives were not particularly friendly and we were very aware of the heavy and ubiquitous presence of the Spanish police. People looked poor and shabby and seemed to avoid us;

The majority of women were clothed in black and heavily shawled. Once again, our ignorance of the politics of the day meant were were not conversant with the physical reality of repression that the average Spanish citizen had to put up with. How different to the open society of Spain today.
It turned out that Mr T. wanted to visit the American Embassy in Barcelona, where he had hopes of some funds; a pension payment as a wounded veteran I seem to remember. He had been the one who had paid our way as regards to petrol and minimal food up to then. He and John were depending on this money, to get them on the next stage of their journey So we drove down to the harbour and parked up on the docks for the night.

(WORD COUNT 1664)

PART 10: THE FINAL STRETCH

In the morning Mr T. set off on his errand and John accompanied Pete and I on an exploration of the labyrinth of narrow streets that led down to the docks. These shabby thoroughfares were full of that unique life and character that so typifies Barcelona. Here we met, at last, Spaniards who did not shrink from enjoying life. The Spanish tavernas loved John, who responded enthusiastically to their ‘in your face’ approach to life. When we left to return to the dock and meet up with Mr T, there were several emotional farewells from our Spanish hosts. We parted from them full of bonhomie and love for our fellow man.
We were a little surprised not to find Mr T waiting for us at the van, as it was quite late in the afternoon. But he did not appear at all and, eventually, we fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. John’s assumption was that some friends that he had intended to meet up with at the Embassy, had invited him to sleep over. But the next morning arrived and went without Mr T. John had spent most of what spare cash he had the day before; in anticipation of replenishment from the USA army pension pot.
Pete and I felt we had to try and contribute in some fashion and hit upon the idea of selling some blood. We trekked across the city to the hospital, admiring on the way the eccentric architecture of Gaudi and the imposing classical buildings which make Barcelona such a stunning place to visit to this day. But when we got to the hospital it was to find the blood donor facility was closed for the afternoon; the only afternoon of the week that it did.

We had taken the bus to the hospital and now decided to get back to the docks on the underground; evidently a cheaper option. With our limited Spanish we very nearly got totally lost, until a kind hearted young girl who looked like an office clerk, not only put us on the right track but insisted on giving us enough small change to afford the fare. We had arranged to meet John in one of the tavernas we had frequented the day before but, despite searching down many similar looking streets, we could not find it again.
We were getting desperate until, suddenly, there it was before us. Inside all was gaiety and noise. John was performing an individual style of flamenco with a more than compliant señorita and the crowd were clapping encouragingly. When we managed to fight our way to John’s side he greeted us with “Thank goodness you’re back. I can’t put off paying the bill much longer.”
It was obvious that his fellow revellers would be quite happy if he never left, so we did not take this statement to heart. Instead we all had a plate of hearty soup and bread for almost nothing and only paid for the wine that had to be drunk as a matter of course. Our first experience of that eminently civilised custom of tapas. Then it was back to the docks; and still no show from Mr T. We were seriously worried now, imagining the worst; mugging; a heart problem or even a psychotic attack as Mr T’s mental health was known to be delicate. It was too late to do anything that day so we settled down for our third night in the van, resolving to do something in the morning.
The next day saw us visiting the American embassy to make enquiries. On stating our business we were asked to wait and an official came out to question us. It turned out that Mr T, far from being in any trouble, had in fact , reported to the Embassy that he suspected Pete, John and I of abandoning him and stealing the van!

It transpired that he had returned to the dock the same day he had left and had not been able to find the van; because he had, unknowingly, gone to the wrong dock!
How we laughed! Once we were reunited and all relevant explanations had been made Mr T. couldn’t apologise enough. He had been successful in his mission of acquiring funds and we spent our last night in Barcelona introducing him to the delights of Spanish bar life and, for the rest of our journey together, he was much more friendly and forthcoming.
Another day saw us across the Spanish border and well into France. We eventually said goodbye to each other at Arles; the parting of the ways. Our American friends were crossing into Italy but we were hitching up through France to home. It was a sad farewell. Our meeting had made the penultimate leg of our journey a memorable time. We were never to meet again; and we only ever had one communication, from John, when were home again. I hope their journeyings helped to expunge the horrors of the war that left so many young American men so traumatised.
As the little VW van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home.
Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies. The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.
With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.
As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.
At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilised version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters.
Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realised that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn was breaking we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel.
The snow lay thick along the side of the road and was kept pristine by constant flurries. After all these years details are hazy but I know we had to walk several more kilometres before we were on the road bound for Calais.
We trudged along, again not attracting much attention from the cars that sped past. But then a car screeched to a halt in front of us. As we approached it suddenly sped off as quickly as it had come; obviously gaining some amusement from our discomfiture. When another car pulled up quite soon after we approached cautiously and with cynicism; but this one was genuine.
We almost wished that he had been a prankster during the next few hair raising miles. At phenomenal speed he raced through the icy wastes of North West France towards Calais. Paralysed with terror we cowered in the back seat as the driver indulged his motor racing fantasies on the slippery road. Had we come all this way just to meet our deaths on the home stretch? Amazingly we arrived, all in one piece, at the dock. Soon after saw us on the ferry bound for Dover.

And that’s about it. The journey across the channel was predictably uneventful; no emotional Brits greeting their native shores with tears and cries of joy; just phlegmatic acceptance of grey skies and customs administration.
My last memory of our three month journey is a meal, prior to hitching up to London, in a transport cafe just outside Dover. All through our travels we had saved a ten shilling note (now equivalent to fifty pence) for some spending money through England and it had acquired a sort of talisman quality.
I will never forget the plates of greasy egg and chips, rubbery white bread smeared thinly with margarine and cups of stewed brown tea that we were served with, by an indifferent waitress on grubby plastic tables.
If anything was destined to bring us down to earth with a bump it was that meal. We had spent our last money on this culinary travesty and, at the time, it seemed to sum up all our disappointment at returning to our old way of life. We were back in the UK, homeless and jobless. Where did we go from here?

Well; that’s another story.

Word count 1743

MOROCCAN ADVENTURES 1968/69

PART 1: DOVER TO MARSEILLES

Landing in Africa was more difficult than we had expected. . . . .
The year was 1969 and we were innocents abroad. Unlike the politically aware, Rough Guide toting travellers of today, we had arrived in the African continent mainly because the cheapest ferry from Marseilles to anywhere was Algiers. We knew nothing of friction between old colonial powers and emerging native states. Although we had some hazy idea of their ‘foreignness’ the term Arab or Muslim held no especially uneasy connotations. We thought of them as Algerians or Moroccans; and sometimes Berbers. We could speak a smattering of French and assumed we would get by with that.
My future husband and I left Britain in November of that year. I have a picture in my head of the day we set off from Pete’s parents’ house in leafy Staines. It was late Autumn but cold for the time of year. We were warm and snug in our padded parkas; our stiff new rucksacks bulged with supplies; our shoulders adjusting to their weight. We had very little money; Currency restrictions were in operation at the time and you couldn’t take more than £50 each out of the country.
But I had a guilty secret. I had an extra £100 sewn into the furry lining of my waterproof boots. How I wasn’t stopped by Customs on the way out I’ll never know. Smuggling is not my forte and, if I looked as guilty as I felt, they should have clocked me straight away. It didn’t make me feel any better when Pete pointed out that just about every traveller leaving Britain for any length of time was probably doing the selfsame thing.

But we made it onto the ferry and then train to Paris. Here we had our first mild altercation. Pete had been to Paris before on a week’s school trip; and hated every minute of it. Consequently he was determined to leave as quickly as possible. I pleaded weakly that I would just like to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel tower, wander along the Left Bank, perhaps have a coffee at a pavement café. But all to no avail.

The problem was we couldn’t afford to stay the night in Paris so had to stick to our itinerary of going South as quickly as possible. Originally we had planned to hitch to the Mediterranean but France was in the grip of freezing weather, with deep snow lying right through it’s central region. We decided to get our train tickets and have a hurried look at the sights if there was any time to spare. After a frustrating attempt to get a taxi to the station, (the only one that deigned to stop snarled “merde” upon hearing our halting English accents and drove off immediately) there was, of course, no tourist time and that evening found us ensconced on the night train to Marseilles.
Those latter day French trains were less efficient then than their streamlined counterparts of today and we had the uncomfortable experience of travelling in a train with no heating, through some of the worst weather we had ever encountered. The snow covered plains of central France receded into the Northern distance either side of us as we rumbled Southwards. Luckily our warm parkas kept out the worst of the chill.
Sometime before midnight, we arrived and stepped off the train and it was warm! For the first time I felt the warmth of a Mediterranean night. We stood at the top of the wide flight of stone steps from the station gazing at the starry navy blue sky above, while below us stretched the narrow foreign streets of Marseilles; beyond, the Mediterranean.

After the interminable freezing journey it seemed like paradise. In days to come we were to see the seedier side of Marseilles but that first night was magical. People smiled at us. We drank delicious cups of strong black coffee, ate wonderful crisp bread and creamy cheese and finally went in search of somewhere to lay our heads.

That first night we decided to leave the joys of youth hostelling until the next day and went in search of a room. We found a pension with clean rooms and reasonable rates. Even sleeping between foreign sheets was exciting; the strange bolster and quilt on the high oak bed; the furniture so large, carved and French; and wooden shutters on the narrow high window. In the morning we indulged in coffee and croissants, sitting outside at a pavement café, watching the Marseilles populace going about their lives. But our retreat into the luxury of hotel accommodation was brief and now over. We went in search of the youth hostel.
It turned out to be our first experience in realism. The bright sun glaringly highlighted the seedy nature of the area where the youth hostel was situated, far from the elegant walks of the bay. A utilitarian building where we had to sleep separately; I in the women’s’ dormitory and Pete with the men. It had a basic kitchen with several ovens and sinks and bathroom facilities. Unlike most youth hostels this one had a haphazard air.
The guests reflected it’s cosmopolitan nature. People of all languages and creeds drifted in and out The city was, then as now, a bit of a sink dump for the flotsam and jetsam trying to get into Europe. Not only Africans but many South Americans, fleeing the dictatorships that dominated their countries at that time. A few North Americans and quite a few Europeans like us who were also on the hippy trail to Morocco.

During the three days we had to wait to get on the ferry to Algiers we met some desperate characters. One who particularly sticks in both our minds was an Argentinian teenager who had fled his own country, then in the grip of the military junta and the horrors of the ‘disappeared’ who had had all his documents stolen not long after arriving in the city via boat; (at least that’s what he told us) and had no way of staying in the country except by stealth. He survived by catching cats and selling them to the university and hospital laboratories. Our comfortable British sensibilities were shaken by his matter of fact approach to staying alive and the desperate straits other members of the human race were driven to, to accomplish what we took for granted as a basic human right.
The Autumn climate suited me just fine; warm, dry and not too hot; luckily for us as we carried everything with us when we went out, suspicious of our neighbours honesty. This was unsurprising as evenings were spent listening to one hair raising tale after another as we were told of dirty dealing, dishonesty, theft and, very rarely, violence. We probably looked ridiculous struggling about with all our goods and chattels draped or affixed to our persons, but at least we still had them all when we finally arrived at the dock to board our boat to Africa!
Finally the morning came when we could get on the boat taking us over the water. Three days before we had tried several shipping offices, to find a boat that we could afford, to take us to the African continent. At one time we even toyed with the insane idea of taking the proverbial banana boat to South America, but cowardice prevailed and we ended up booking a passage on the cheapest tramp steamer travelling deck class.

I was the only female, of any nationality, on board. Our fellow passengers were almost exclusively Algerians returning to their capital city; many loaded down with goodies, for future resale, from the European continent. They were a noisy chattering crowd smoking and drinking mint tea under a small covered area on deck. I seem to remember the crossing was at least 12 hours.
There were male and female toilet facilities but I only visited ‘les dames’ twice; the first time in ignorance of the fact that the female toilet was used by the male passengers as a defecating facility, the male section being reserved for urinary relief. The stench was horrendous and did wonders for my bladder control for the rest of the night. The second reluctant visit was in absolute desperation much later during the early morning. There was nowhere to sleep except the deck and, as the huge glittering stars appeared in the velvet night blue Mediterranean sky, it began to get quite cold. We huddled down in our parkas to try and get some sleep.
One of the Arabs settled down next to us, with two large sacks of what turned out to be army greatcoats. It soon became obvious that he was rather taken with Pete, who in those days was a dark haired handsome youth, and he engaged him in conversation, all the while tenderly covering him with greatcoats. He totally ignored me, and Pete had to wait until he had nodded off before surreptitiously sliding a couple of the garments over my shivering form.

word count 1515

PART 2: ARRIVAL IN AFRICA

Dawn arose and the deck was crowded with Arabs leaning on the rail and gazing towards the African shoreline. In the far distance, glowing pink as they gradually emerged out of the morning mist, we saw the walls of Algiers. As we approached the shore the mood among the passengers became more and more frenetic. Shouting ‘Algers Algers’ our fellow travellers excitedly gesticulated, climbing onto the railings of the boat and hanging precariously over the side. Indeed, as we finally pulled into the harbour, many of them leapt into the sea; as if unable to contain their impatience to touch their native soil again.
We realised later that they were probably hoping to elude the authorities rather than experiencing any uncontrollable nationalistic tendencies. But, at the time, this enthusiasm seemed remarkable to a reserved English couple. I tried to imagine a ferry docking at Dover with English passengers weeping with emotion, shouting the name of their beloved country and fighting tooth and claw to be the first to step onto the hallowed soil!
With true British phlegm we decided to wait until the queue had subsided. To call it a queue was not quite the right word to describe the frenzied heaving melee which surged and struggled to be first down the gangplank. The near riot conditions that ensued only served to produce a log jam that was restrained by officials at the end of the gangplank while mayhem reigned on deck.

Smugly we sat and waited for the crowd to disperse. When it seemed to be calming down we strolled to the end of the line to wait our turn. But, to our acute embarrassment, an official, patrolling the line, strode towards us and, politely but firmly, frog marched us to the front of the queue. Our fellow passengers watched our progress with seeming indifference and politely fell back to let us through, before resuming their efforts to beat their neighbours onto dry land. We felt like VIPs with our special treatment. Again, much later, we assumed that they preferred to get any Europeans out of the way before they started dealing with the locals.
A few steps onto the shore of Africa and we came down to earth with a bump. The first impression was the smell; rank and fishy with assorted detritus piled high along the wharf. Then we arrived at Customs. No special treatment here; only a bizarre and confusing altercation with two officials in military style uniform who sat behind their table examining our documents and insisting in talking to us in Arabic. When I say us I really mean Pete. This was my first experience of being an invisible female in a male dominated Muslim world. It transpired that they did not believe Pete was a British citizen.
As I have already said Pete was then dark haired and dark eyed and could easily have been taken for an Arab (we were to find this a useful asset in the weeks to come) But his total incomprehension of their language, plus at least an hour spent arguing with them in our halting French, finally seemed to convince them of his genuineness and, with much scowling and officious rubber stamping, we were waved through.

What in our innocence we had not realised was that they were probably waiting for us to offer money; in short a bribe; We were European after all and therefore rich. Luckily we were ignorant enough not to waste any of our precious cash and had finally been granted access to African shores with all our funds intact.
In chastened mood we left the dock and walked into Algiers. I have to say that, as our first experience of an African city Algiers was a great disappointment. The white buildings that had glistened so invitingly when viewed from the ferry were shabby and run down when seen close to. An air of degeneration and depression seemed to hang like a pall. The colonial style architecture had once been elegant but was now crumbled and in need of paint. Most of the inhabitants looked at us with apparent suspicion, peering at us, as we passed, from the narrow alleyways. Later, when we became more aware of the past history of Algeria and France, we understood better the antipathy of the Algerians. But, at that time it just didn’t feel friendly and we decided not to stay as we had planned, but get on the road to the West straight away. We bought bread, cheese and tomatoes and started to walk out of the city.
It was still early morning as we finally left the industrial outskirts behind. The road lay before us, disappearing into the distance. Beyond the sand dunes to our right we could hear the crash of Mediterranean waves; to our left were rocky sand coloured outcrops sparsely covered with shrubby herbs that smelt smokily aromatic. The huge continent of Africa stretched away to the South; as far as the Cape of Good Hope. The enormous sky was all around us and we were suddenly both acutely aware that we were but pinpricks at the extreme North of this massive landmass. It felt as if we had been transported into a giants world as we perched, like ants, on the very tip of Africa.

The first thing we realised about hitching in Algeria was that lifts were a rare commodity. The wide straight road disappeared over the distant horizon. Either side were shallow sandy banks, sparsely covered with twiggy scrub and herbs. Occasionally a vehicle would roar past and the driver would glance incuriously in our direction as he sped on his way; but no lifts ensued. After several kilometres of weary walking we got a lift into Blida, the next town west of Algiers, with a friendly Algerian in an old truck. He insisted that we visit his vinery as he wanted to eat, but, this being Ramadan, he couldn’t do so in public.
We spent a pleasant hour at his cool white house, admiring his many bottles of wine and sampling one of them with bread and dates. Later he dropped us on the other side of Blida and we started walking again. Just out of the town there was a police road block. They appeared to be checking drivers’ papers before letting them on their way. We walked past and waited at a junction, in sight of the road block. As the lorries and trucks were let through we thumbed hopefully, but the few vehicles to pass thundered on, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust.
The stony empty road stretched unendingly into the distance. We had no option but to hope for a lift eventually so we sat and waited. After about half an hour we noticed one of the police coming towards us. With trepidation we watched him approach.
He looked an ugly customer; heavy jowled and squat, with decidedly undesigner like stubble; but, far from the threatening behaviour we expected, he halted with a heel click, gave a small bow of the head and held up a hand to impede any flight that we might have been contemplating.

“Attende Monsieur et Madame” he said and, with apparent disregard for life and limb, he strolled casually into the path of a speeding lorry, recently freed from the shackles of the road block. With the confidence of authority he stood, only sidestepping the inevitable impact at the last moment, when it became obvious that, despite the driver’s best efforts, the lorry would not stop in time.
As the officer approached the cab the driver leant down, gesticulating and truculent but, after a furious tirade from the policeman, he subsided into a sullen grumble. Before we had realised what was happening the driver had jumped down and, letting down the backboard of his open truck, indicated that we were to get in. The luxury of the cab was not for us as there was already an occupant in the passenger seat. We thanked both the driver and the policeman, who once more inclined his head, said the Arab equivalent of ‘have nice day’ and marched, with heavy assured steps, back to the road block.
We tried to keep our balance as the truck rattled on at breakneck speed. The driver, having had two strangers foisted upon him, was not about to pander to our comfort. To make matters worse it started raining and,as the road climbed into the hills, the shower changed to snow. Without warning the journey finished as abruptly as it had started. The driver stopped at a side road junction and signalled to us to get down. Once rid of his burdens he raced out of our adventure with a brief ‘salut’.

By now it was late afternoon. About two miles up the side road we could see signs of habitation. We trudged towards it, having had enough of the open road for one day. It turned out to be quite a respectable sized township with French style buildings on either side of the narrow main street. We turned into the first house with a ‘pension’ sign outside.
It was built in French colonial style; and, standing in the gloomy hall, was indeed the original French colonial. Her black hair was strained back into a bun. Her clothes were of a nondescript drab appearance and her manner was cautiously civil. While we were signing the register her husband appeared on the scene. He also greeted us, but much more warmly. It rapidly became apparent that he, particularly, was starved of European company and found the natives a poor substitute for erudite Western views.
They had moved to this out of the way village from somewhere in mid France and, having burnt their boats purchasing the pension that they fondly hoped would be a magnet for tourists, were now stuck in the back of beyond in a country that was alien to them.
They insisted that we ate with them. It was bad French cuisine; a tough meat course preceded some overcooked vegetables. Anything else that was served was so unmemorable that I have forgotten it. After the meal the proprietor took Pete on a ‘Pernod’ crawl round the local cafes. Two drinks in each and then home; so it didn’t take long.

word count 1719

PART 3: CROSSING THE BORDER

The next morning found us having to make a decision. Would we carry on hitching or resort to public transport? West of the town the road carried on, vast and open through rocky countryside, with a few villages dotted sparsely along it’s route. The next large town was Oran, 400 kilometres away.
We decided it would be cheaper to get the bus rather than drain our dwindling resources on bed and board along the road; so that afternoon found us rattling along on our way to Oran.
I don’t remember the journey, except for seeing live chickens and goats tied onto the roof of the coach. Their apparent unconcern at this treatment was more unnerving than the supposed cruelty.
We arrived in Oran in the early evening. This cosmopolitan city was a lot more prepossessing than the capital Algiers. Its white stone buildings and large open squares were reminiscent of it’s recent French occupation. We decided to break our journey here and treat ourselves to an evening meal before retiring to the local youth hostel.
We chose a pleasant looking establishment with tables and chairs parked on the outside pavement, looking across one of the leafy squares. The waiter was thrilled to have some tourists to wait on and treated us like royalty, piling our plates high with chicken and lentils cooked French style. Pete washed it all down with large amounts of local wine and we left after emotionally vowing eternal friendship with the cafe staff.

During the meal our table was visited by a girl with a tray of matches and other useless miscellanea. She couldn’t have been more than six years old but she had the eyes of a businesswoman and didn’t leave us until my guilty conscience had purchased a few unnecessary odds and ends. Life is hard if you are working those sort of hours at six years old.
The next morning saw us hitching out of Oran. I felt great. Ahead lay the Algerian/Moroccan border. Pete felt dreadful; repeatedly retching behind the odd eucalyptus bush. He blamed the chicken from the night before but, as I was hale and hearty, we both knew it was the vino what had done it!
It was while trying to get out of Oran and back on the open road that we got one of the few lifts of the whole journey; it was from a young French woman driving the ubiquitous Renault. She was a schoolteacher and, as she drove us through the narrow streets on the city outskirts little children ran alongside with pleading eyes and hands outstretched for largesse. As my fingers groped for a few small coins she told us severely not to even consider giving them anything.
“They must learn that begging is not an acceptable way to live. Education is their way out of poverty”. Even in those apolitically aware days of my youth, and as an inexperienced tourist, I remember thinking that it was okay for her. An educated superior female, laying down the law in someone else’s country. And she knew where her next crust was coming from; but we meekly did as we were told.

She dropped us in Tlemcen, the border town that was to be our introduction into Morocco. This was a sizeable town, again showing the French influence in it’s architecture. We didn’t stop to look, but shared a taxi with other eager border crossers to be.
Nowadays the border between Algeria and Morocco is closed to tourists. Back then you could cross over but neither side made it an easy process. The border, a dusty two lane road with two barriers about a hundred yards apart, was closed.
We mooched about for some two hours waiting for it to open, finding what shade we could under the trees along the highway. It was a hot dusty afternoon and the few houses either side of the highway were quiet and shuttered. It was Ramadan and nobody stirred.
Eventually a soldier came and unlocked the shed that served as customs. We lined up with the others to show passports and visas. These passed muster and we walked the few steps to the Moroccan border post. Any minute now we would be in another country with it’s subtly different character.
But it was not to be; not for a few more hours anyway.
The Moroccan border guard gave our documents a cursory glance and then demanded to know how much Moroccan money we were bringing in. Due to everything being closed for Ramadan we had not been able to change our Algerian dinars into Moroccan dhirams in Tlemcen and had naively assumed we would sort out our finances once in Morocco.

We had, in fact, changed much too much of our precious sterling into dinars at Algiers, assuming our stay in Algeria would be much longer and more expensive than it turned out to be. So it was a bit of a blow to find out that the Moroccan authorities wouldn’t let us in without Moroccan notes.
Morosely we returned to the Algerian hut but they were uninterested in our plight. They just shrugged and said we would have to return to Tlemcen and find a bank. We re-entered Tlemcen in the same taxi with a new set of passengers and found a bank; quite an imposing building, on the outskirts of town. It was shut and our enquiries revealed it would not open until six o’clock, the witching hour during Ramadan, when everything bursts into life once more. After an interminable wait drinking coffee in a dark little cafe (which probably should have been shut) we returned to the bank and were the first through the heavy wooden doors when they finally swung open.
It should have been a simple transaction; but no. Bureaucracy, and not a little bribery and corruption, ruled. I sat on a bench and waited, as behoved an obedient female companion, while the bank clerk told Peter that they would only change a third of our dinars to dhirams. Despite his protestations Pete returned to my side with a little Moroccan cash and a lot of useless dinars.
We wandered back outside and stood, nonplussed, in the dusty sunlight. We couldn’t afford to lose this much of our limited capital. My enforced non-participation in the transaction coupled with the frustration of the return journey from the border suddenly came to a head. With Pete following I marched back into the bank.

Approaching the bank clerk I demanded that he change the rest of our money. With a shrug and a deprecating air he assured me he could not. It was “impossible”.In that case I informed him I was going to stay in the bank until somebody found it “possible” to grant my request. I sat down on one of the many oak benches in the imposing, high ceilinged foyer in view of all the customers, who were, by now, quite numerous.
After about a quarter of an hour a smooth looking man approached me. He was obviously senior to the clerk and, although condescendingly polite, insisted that there as nothing to be done; I would have to leave.
I assured him, with equally indifferent civility, that I had no intention of moving until I had seen someone in authority. He visibly bridled with wounded dignity at my assumption that he was not sufficient ‘authority’ to move me on. His tone took on a more haranguing quality but I was determined that they would have to carry me, kicking and screaming through the door, to remove me from my bench.
By now a small crowd had gathered round us in interested anticipation. The oily man began to look look distinctly oilier. I stuck fast and asked for the manager. He ‘was out’. He ‘would not be in for some time’ I would ‘have to leave’; the mamselle ‘did not understand’. I understood enough to know I was getting under his skin. I gazed impassively at the ceiling fan slowly moving the stale air.
My antagonist suddenly stopped arguing and, rather unnecessarily, asked me to wait. He turned on his heel and disappeared behind the bank screens. He returned eventually with yet another clerk in tow, and asked me to accompany him. Pete, by this time, had got bored and gone outside for a smoke; and to wait for events to take their course.

I was ushered into a side room and shown to a chair on one side of a huge leather topped desk. Going to another door my official opened it and through it came a slight little man with an apprehensive air. Another clerk I thought, but no! My official had undergone an amazing transformation.
He preceded the little man to a much larger chair than mine on the other side of the desk, and tenderly, with much reverential murmuring, bowing and scraping, ensconced him comfortably in it’s imposing leather seat.
This was the manager my official told me (I felt that this was not the time to point out that the manager was supposedly out) and he, in his great wisdom and infinite generosity, may Allah be praised, had decided to grant my request.
He went on for a while about his boss’s kindness and sympathy for my plight; about his desire that I should not leave their country in any way dissatisfied with my treatment. This manager was a lord among men and I was lucky that I had touched his heart with my distress.
While this wonderful display of boot licking was taking place the manager uttered not one word, only gazing owlishly at me over the enormous desk, smiling and nodding at his underling’s fervent flattery. I entered into the spirit of the thing and smiled back. Now we were friends and all went swimmingly; even to them giving me the correct rate of exchange.
The transaction over, we parted on the friendliest of terms with my official even saying finally, in a rather flirtatious manner, that the thing that had clinched the manager’s change of heart was the sight of my ‘beautiful blue eyes.’

I stifled the urge to laugh and returned to Pete’s side in triumph. He was about to re-enter the bank, being worried by my prolonged absence. When I emerged with the cash he was both relieved and suitably impressed at my achievement.
We got a lift in the same taxi, with other escapees, back to the border. This time we were let through. We had done it. We were in Morocco.

word count 1765

PART 4: AFTER THE BORDER

It must have been about 8 o’clock in the evening when we finally set off along a rocky road that wound slowly upward through open moorland. From our map we could see our next refuge was a town called Oujda, about 20 miles on. It also had a youth hostel; an essential for poverty stricken tourists. We walked and walked; and walked and walked; only pausing occasionally to gaze back the way we had come, vainly hoping some vehicle would hove into view.
Dusk was rapidly falling and we were beginning to wonder how we would find shelter in this bleak landscape. Glancing back once more we saw, in the far distance, a car approaching. We were determined to stop it somehow or other. We both stood in the middle of the road and waved frantically. For a minute I thought it was going to swerve round us. But, at the last second, in a shower of stones, it screeched to a halt. Thankfully we climbed into the back.
Our chauffeur was a middle aged German man with a kindly face. On discovering our nationality he insisted on conducting the conversation in very bad English. From this we deduced that our saviour was going right through Oujda and even knew where the youth hostel was. Surely, at last, our luck had turned. As we bowled along at some speed we found out that the German was a travelling salesman; of what I can’t remember, but it was something mundanely useful. We chatted on and relaxed into the comfortable interior as the darkened landscape slid swiftly past.

Suddenly, without warning, the car lurched sickeningly. With considerable skill our German friend managed to stop at the side of the road. On inspection it turned out we had a puncture, almost certainly caused by the shower of stones that occurred when he stopped so abruptly to pick us up.
With great cheerfulness our friend, with Pete’s assistance, put on the spare and on we went again. About five miles down the road the other tyre on the same side sprung a leak and once more we ground to a halt.
What to do? We were about five miles from Oujda and, after some discussion, we persuaded the German that we would go on ahead and try and get help. He smiled and agreed, although it was quite obvious that he didn’t believe us, assuming we were deserting the sinking ship. With a cheery wave he bid us farewell and settled down for a night’s sleep in the car. Off we trudged, determined to prove him wrong. About two miles from Oujda we got a lift with a local from the town and, upon hearing our story, he took us to a garage.
To our amazement the garage mechanic seemed to grasp the problem immediately; asked the make of the car, slung a couple of tyres into the back of his pick-up and we all trundled back up the road to rescue our friend.
It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. With the minimum of fuss the garage man changed both tyres and, after payment, we followed him back into Oujda in case of further mishap. Our German friend was now fulsome in his gratitude at our return; but we still felt guilty at having caused the problem in the first place.

And so, finally, we arrived in Oujda. Our new found friend insisted on taking us for a meal at a cafe that he frequented.
The locals were a friendly lot; definitely nicer to know than the Algerians we had left behind. Eventually he drove us to the youth hostel and we regretfully parted company, thanking him profusely for all his help. Another cheery wave and he was swiftly gone, into the darkness.
I hope Oujda is still a pleasant town. It was then. The youth hostel was set in what approximated to the leafy suburbs. The sunlit streets were wide thoroughfares bordered by square white villas set back in walled gardens full of exotic plants and palm trees. The whole place had an air of enjoyable somnolence.
The youth hostel was one of the larger villas and, because Oujda was close to the border, there was quite a mix of nationalities, mainly European, on the trail to and from Marrakesh. It was an easy going establishment with basic but adequate amenities. The community kitchen was where we all gathered, chatting and making friends. It was the sixties; we all loved each other and were heady with the freedom of the open road.
The hostel warden or supervisor was a Moroccan man in his twenties called Mustapha. He was pleasant enough when not veering between temperamental complaint and the necessity to project and protect his cool ‘with it’ image. He rarely wore the traditional djellabah’s but favoured a natty line in western dress. This was usually finished off with a theatrical red silk lined cape, a garment of which he was inordinately fond.
Despite his overweening self admiration he was a likeable man, if only for his eagerness to live in the modern world.

He was a good looking guy and probably had some success with the free living European and American girls that passed through the town. About the third day we were there he tried his technique on me; and appeared astonished and hurt when I turned him down.
The next day Pete couldn’t resist teasing him with his failure and Mustapha’s wounded dignity was worthy of RADA. However, the next time we happened to be alone he asked me, indignantly, why I had told Pete and seemed to find it inconceivable that we actually talked about such things. I think he genuinely thought I should have shown a little more consideration for his reputation!
The day after we arrived who should appear back on the doorstep than our travelling salesman. He had turned round and come all the way back when he had discovered one of my plastic boots in his car; the boots of currency smuggling fame; the boots I had not worn since Marseilles. They had proved totally unsuitable in warm climates and had spent most of the journey tied to my rucksack. I didn’t have the heart to tell him this so we had a coffee with him instead, thanked him again and waved him goodbye once more; this time for ever.
Pete’s teeth rate a mention here. Pete had lost several of his top front teeth while still at school, after a combination of a nasty bicycle accident and a rugby injury He had a false set which were the bane of his life. One day he got these teeth stuck down one of the hostel’s unguarded basin plug holes.

We tried everything to get them out., with most of the hostel residents, and Mustapha, milling about with helpful suggestions. Several implements were tried but those teeth were stuck fast. Eventually, when it became obvious that half measures would not do, I took my courage in both hands and just wrenched them out. Amazingly they didn’t break. This was not the last adventure for Pete’s teeth; but more of that later.
We enjoyed our few days of readjustment at Oujda. From this point we really started to appreciate our surroundings and situation. Algeria had been an experience, if rather a short tense one, but in Morocco we were able to relax. The people were friendly and open; they really seemed to like us, whereas in Algeria they had appeared to just tolerate us or hustle.
We decided to use the bus to get to Fez, our next port of call. This form of transport was so cheap that it didn’t seem worth spending hours sitting at the side of the road. Besides, the bus journeys were an experience in themselves. For a start they were always jam packed. Every imaginable possession was tied onto the roof rack, including live chickens and goats.
At every stop street vendors would swarm on, selling anything and everything. Beggars would hang on the sides, entreating us to part with small change, only jumping off when the driver had picked up a bit of speed. The bus that took us to Fez had seen better days and, as it creaked and groaned up the steep winding road, I tried not to imagine what might happen if it didn’t make the next hairpin bend.

The landscape was beautiful in places. We were travelling just north of the Atlas mountains and some of the villages looked remarkably like alpine hamlets in Switzerland. It was hard to believe that, not many miles South stretched the vast expanse of the Sahara.
About a mile from the city walls of Fez, the bus finally gave up and ground to a halt. Whereupon most of the passengers surged to the front to give the driver the benefit of their advice. A noisy throng gathered round the gearbox, which was generally regarded as the cause of the breakdown.
We sat and watched as chaos reigned. Would be mechanics removed various oily parts and discarded them round the drivers seat. He was in there shouting with the best of them. It was all very good natured and everybody was obviously enjoying it. But the fun had to stop eventually and, as one man, they decided to do the only thing possible. Every able bodied person piled out the bus and, assisted by interested passers by, they pushed the bus to the walls of Fez. As we departed to see the sights, the heads were back down to dismantle the remains of the gearbox.

WORD COUNT 1604

PART 5: BEYOND FEZ

To visit Fez in those days was like going back in time. The huge stone walls interspersed with massive gateways into the city looked as if they were ready to repel marauders, much as they did in centuries past. When you entered and explored the narrow alleyways of the souk, hung with colourful cloths, smelling of exotic spices piled high on round pottery dishes, selling every conceivable vegetable, fruit, fish and fowl and teeming with white robed people, you knew it must have looked much the same in medieval times.
It is Morocco’s holiest city and once was the most powerful politically, being a famous seat of learning of the Arab world. We were too young and inexperienced to appreciate this all those years ago and began to feel rather uncomfortable at the curious stares we got as we wandered through it’s narrow ancient streets. We had been going to stay in Fez but, after an unnerving interlude when we got hopelessly lost and had to pay a small boy to guide us back to a main thoroughfare, we decided to push on to Marrakesh.
So, late afternoon of that day found us alighting from another bus in the small mountain town of Azrou. It was really a large village on the edge of the Atlas range with the characteristic architecture of that region. Beautiful wooden chalet like houses with a backdrop of snowy peaks and evergreens once again reminded us of Alpine scenes. The main street climbed steeply through white washed stone houses, many with little open fronted cafes whose interiors dissolved into darkness against the brightness of the sun.

This was Berber country. The people looked different. They were dark and handsome. The women were some of the most beautiful we had ever seen. Unveiled, their strong features and stately walk made them truly arresting as they glided effortlessly up the sharp inclines, dressed in gorgeous wraps and headdresses. And these people were friendly. On almost every face was a broad grin of welcome.
Our first stop was the market, which was a modest affair on a small piece of flattened earth at one end of the main street. We wandered round the stalls, practising our newly acquired bargaining skills. They didn’t have a lot to sell but every stall had the ubiquitous oranges.
We had quickly become addicted to this fruit, so different to the pallid tasteless version available in shops back home. Small and sweet, warm to the tongue, you could taste the sunshine. But here, in this mountain region, they were relatively expensive. Vainly we went from stall to stall, trying to get the price down; until we realised that the stallholders were gently pulling our legs, sending us from one to the other, confident we would not do better, as they had all agreed on the price. We gave in and bought some anyway.
Wandering back up the main street we were struck by the numbers of inhabitants sitting motionless at the outside tables of the little street cafes. They all had, in front of them, a bowl of chick pea soup, bread, dates, a pipe of keef and a pot of mint tea. Suddenly the end of the daily fast was signalled by the unearthly chanting from the mosque. Immediately everywhere was activity. People ate, drank, smoked and talked; all at once. We were invited to join one table of old men and spent a pleasant hour with them.

While we there a young man came and sat down, joining in the conversation. The old men were friendly enough, even bantering with him, but Pete and I both felt he was not really welcome.
We asked if they knew of a place to stay and were directed to a large cafe at the top of the town. The place had a French feel to it, with wooden chairs and tables to one side of a small bar. We were offered a room above the cafe, which turned out to be clean and neat; rather reminiscent of our Marseilles pension. After a wash we went downstairs for a meal. The place was pretty full and was obviously very popular with the locals. The waitress was, of course, a handsome Berber girl, swapping lively banter with her customers. In front of their foreign guests they all showed off shamelessly and we had one of the most entertaining evenings of our trip so far.
As the evening progressed we noticed that the waitress conducted a kind of game with some of her favourite customers. This consisted of her clapping just as one or other of them attempted to smoke a cigarette or drink some mint tea. The customer immediately had to stop their smoking or drinking and match her clap for clap, until the whole cafe were laughing at her persistence.
When she pretended to stop and turn away the customer would affect an air of exaggerated relief and attempt to get down one mouthful of tea or smoke, before she wheeled around and started them off clapping again. It was a simple pastime that for some reason was hilariously funny; no doubt because of the theatrical nature of the waitress’s insistent clapping and the mock eye – rolling misery of the chosen customer. The keefe laden atmosphere probably helped as well.

In the middle of it all the door opened and in came the same young man we had seen at the open air cafe. Although nobody actually stopped what they were doing, the atmosphere subtly changed.
The waitress went over to his table and sat with him, laughing and chatting; indeed they seemed to be indulging in a little light hearted flirtation. The young man smiled at us and asked in a friendly manner about our journey and whether we liked Morocco. We said we liked it very much, especially this little town of Azrou.
He seemed pleased at our response. Later, when he got up to use the toilet, the minute he had left the room, the waitress came over to us and hissed “Garde; le Police. Comprend? We ‘comprended’ and, when he returned, the whole cafe, which had sunk to guarded whispers while he was out of the room, came to life again; and put on an admirable act of including him in the festivities. Eventually he left and everybody relaxed and continued the clapping game.
The next morning saw us on another bus, still aiming for Marrakesh, 400 kilometres to the South. Our next port of call was Khenifra, a village built entirely of hot red clay bricks. Between the low flat roofed buildings ran beaten dirt streets and the orange dust coated everything, including us. It looked like a shanty town, hastily thrown up. It was as raw as its red brick dwellings and a harsh contrast after the appeal of Azrou.
Back on the bus again and late afternoon found us at Beni Mellal, a nondescript town of shabby white buildings. We were tired and dirty after another bone shaking ride on local transport and only wanted to find somewhere to rest for the night.

We entered the nearest cafe, a cool deserted shop with a food bar to one side. and, upon enquiry the proprietor confirmed they had got a room for the night.
Thankfully we followed the owner to the back of the cafe and into a side room. Inside was an old iron bedstead and not much else, although the proprietor did proudly point out the extra facility of an ancient washbasin. We didn’t care as long as we could put our heads down and sleep.
There was nothing on the bed except a lumpy mattress. While we were getting settled in a teenage boy appeared at the door. His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried sheets and blankets. We thanked him, but, when we came to make up the bed, we discovered the sheets were wet; and I don’t mean damp; I mean wet. We took them back and the proprietor assured us he would supply more.
Once more the boy arrived, grinning from ear to ear, with more sheets; also wet and probably the same ones. We abandoned the unlooked for luxury of sheets and, after a snack, decided to call it a day.
While we were eating the cafe began to fill up. It was after 6 o’clock and time to eat and drink. Many customers filed past us to the back of the cafe where there was a large communal room, (next to ours) carpeted with raffia mats. Here men sat in groups, around their hubbles, eating and talking and drinking tea. When we returned to our room we noticed many more white robed customers, sitting around the walls of the cafe. They gazed at us impassively as we passed between them.
At last we were able to shut our door and sink onto the unforgiving mattress, sans sheets. We had tried to wash off some of the days grime in the washbasin but, on turning on the tap, the pipes had rattled so alarmingly we had abandoned the attempt.

Never mind; we were too tired to care. We could sleep through anything, even the ever increasing noise from the cafe, now added to by a radio turned up full volume.
We were just sinking into uneasy slumber when a terrible clattering and hissing wrenched us from the arms of Morpheus.
That was some of the noisiest plumbing I’ve ever come across. It transpired that, when the Espresso machine on the counter was utilised, our pipes groaned and howled in sympathy. Shaken, we tried to ignore the constant din, telling ourselves that, sooner or later, the noise would die down as people went home to bed. We dozed on and off for hours but, if anything, the noise got louder and more frantic. The radio wailed; the customers shouted and laughed; the plumbing clanged and hissed.
It must have been about three o’clock in the morning when I finally broke and decided, with the stupidity induced by exhaustion, to complain about the noise!
The cafe was full to overflowing, exclusively with men all robed in white djellabahs. I marched up to the bar, my step slowing as all eyes turned in my direction. It dawned on me that I, a bare headed, red haired freckle faced European female must have looked a trifle out of place! Arriving at the bar I gazed at the waiter and every ear in the room waited for my words.
So, I asked for two cups of hot chocolate. Grinning broadly and nodding knowingly to his customers as he passed, the waiter insisted on preceding me with the steaming cups arranged on a round silver tray, a towel draped over his arm. Meekly I followed him back to our room, picking my way through the groups of smiling customers. With a flourish he served our chocolate and left.

Resignedly we settled down to wait for the morning. Just before dawn broke Pete added insult to injury by falling asleep; and snoring!
We found out later that this night had been the only one in the month of Ramadan when all good Muslims stayed awake till sunrise. As light filled the sky our neighbours disappeared, to their beds presumably, and we snatched a few hours before we had to leave

word count 1893.

PART 6: A FEW WEEKS IN MARRAKESH

Marrakesh was now within a days journey. We should have been keyed up with excitement but, after our sleepless night in Beni Mellal, all we could think of was to get on yet another bus, curl up on the back seat and sleep. But we had reckoned without our tourist status. As soon as we climbed on board we made for the back seat. The driver immediately stopped us and, with much gesticulating and smiling, he showed us to the very front of the bus. We reluctantly complied and were the centre of attention as the bus filled up behind us. We had a panoramic view of the road ahead as the driver rattled serenely on.
The road grew steeper and began to wind round hairpin bends with a sheer drop to one side. On the straight our driver had seemed competent and relaxed. As the route grew more tortuous he became more distracted, especially when passengers found it necessary to come to the front of the bus and shout advice in his ear. We hung on to our seats, mesmerised with terror, as we veered from side to side when the driver turned round in his seat to shout back at his critics.
There was nothing between us and the stony road except that brittle windscreen. Tired as we were we could not, dare not, shut our eyes; only pray that the driver would, somehow, get us to Marrakesh in one piece.
And, of course, he did. A few hours later found us standing in Djemaa el Fna, the now famous main square of Marrakesh . We were still exhausted; but who could fail not to be immediately overtaken with the strange exciting atmosphere of Morocco’s most romantic and cosmopolitan city.

There we were in that famous square with it’s balcony cafe and the narrow streets of the souk disappearing in all directions. All around us was noisy life, music and colour. We itched to start exploring straight away, but accommodation was our first priority.
All around the square were modest looking hotels. We went through the entrance arch of the nearest one, the Hotel Central, and found ourselves in the cool inner courtyard with its sunken garden of palm trees that reached up to the sky. The building was one of the now famous riads, built on three stories with a flat roof terrace. The rooms were reached by a series of stone staircases, which joined with galleries on each of the floors. We got a room for the night on the ground floor. Although shabby, the hotel was generally clean and our room was tidy and quiet.
After a few hours of exhausted slumber we ventured out to experience our first evening in Marrakesh. We wandered among the many stalls selling everything any tourist could possibly want. We were hungry and so, for the first time, but definitely not the last, we sampled the delicious Conga eel steaks, shallow fried in front of us and served with a hot sweet dipping sauce; which seemed to consist of orange and chilli; a taste which I have tried (and failed) to recreate many times since.
For a few small coins you could have a deep bowl of harrisa stew served with hard wholemeal bread; a satisfyingly filling and cheap meal. And Marrakesh was the first place where we ate delicious goats milk yoghurt which had a lemony tang and stuffed ourselves with exquisitely cooked doughnuts smothered in sugar; the best I have ever tasted.

Everywhere there were crowds of people; the traditional Arabs in flowing white; the Berber musicians and acrobats and many tourists like us. All nationalities mingled and seemed to rub along together pretty well.
We listened to the music, wandered among the little shops which lined every narrow alley of the Souk, gazing at the wrought metal artifacts, leather, jewellery and colourful cloths hanging under the awnings. Little pavement cafes sold glasses of hot sweet mint tea; a taste I never acquired due to the excessive amounts of lump sugar that were considered necessary additions before serving; but we both quickly got addicted to the alternative; small strong cups of black coffee that were both refreshing and reviving. Eventually we dragged ourselves away to our bed, secure in the knowledge that it would all still be there in the morning. Now we had reached Marrakesh and our adventure had really begun.
The Hotel Central proved to be an economical and comfortable berth during our stay in Marrakesh. Once I had got over the shock of the ubiquitous cockroaches in the communal toilet, that scurried out of sight whenever this facility was used, we both adjusted to this new way of living. Despite the cockroaches, the standards of cleanliness were perfectly adequate; indeed we were both struck by the practice of washing down the courtyard every morning, so that the tiled area always looked clean and inviting.
After a few days we came to a financial arrangement with the hotel manager which gave us a substantial discount for an extended stay. This suited the management as well as us because there were many cheap hotels vying for the custom of tourists like ourselves who were travelling on a very tight budget.

Marrakesh was (and still is) a city of two halves; the Arab quarter and the French built new city; not far in distance but miles apart in cultures and economy. Moneyed tourists, who stayed in the continental style hotels and shopped in the broad boulevards of the French district, were not to know that the Arab quarter was not only much cheaper but much more exciting and closer to the heart of the indigenous population of the city.
We quickly established a routine. All meals were eaten from the food stalls that were so prolific all around Djemaa el Fna. We would spend a lot of time just strolling about the square, listening and watching the many musicians, acrobats, drummers and dancers who kept the local populace, and the tourists, entertained.
Marrakesh has long had the reputation of being the most laid back city in Morocco; a reputation gained mainly because of the large population of Southern tribesmen and Berbers who bring in their goods to trade and spend their money in the souks. As the days went by we started to meet and make friends with other travellers.
There were many Americans; the flower power children of the sixties who were very popular with the traders, due to their relative wealth compared to the assets of the average European backpacker. Most of them were open and friendly; two characteristics that struck a chord with the Moroccan locals, who were also welcoming to the strangers in their midst. We met Danish, Dutch, Swedish, German and French nationals. And, of course, many British just like us, living on a shoestring. But our most valued friend was a Moroccan; another Mustapha.
Mustapha worked on and off in the hotel. He appeared to be a general dogsbody, turning his hand to maintenance, cleaning and errands.

He was keen to make friends with us, having an avid curiosity for what was going on in the world outside Morocco; indeed he had only a hazy idea of life outside the locality of the city, Like most citizens of working age he had to conform to imposed travel restrictions and a journey of any distance required a visa or permit; something for which you had to pay.
The easy going appeal of Marrakesh was only skin deep for the locals. Life for most was not an easy ride and they found it difficult to understand how the tourists could so order their lives to be able to travel far from home.
Mustapha was no different but, in his way, he also was a child of the sixties and was open minded about different cultures. His natural friendly disposition and curiosity meant we spent many hours just chatting with him, in our rapidly improving French, about all sorts; he in his turn, acted as our guide to the city. We didn’t get hustled when we went out with Mustapha.
And so we spent a pleasant few weeks in Marrakesh. Nearly forty years is a long way back to remember but certain scenes and events stick in the memory. It was still Ramadan in Marrakesh and you did not see Muslims eating or drinking during the day. Musicians in the square ‘adopted’ the odd tourist to sit in their circle, to add cachet to their performance.
One such group made our acquaintance and insisted that we accept bottles of coke while they sang and danced in enforced abstinence. We felt bound to accept their hospitality, although uncomfortably; and we hadn’t the heart to tell them that we didn’t even like the sugary drink so loved all over the world.

Police were everywhere. We never got used to their habit of going round in pairs, holding hands. Without exception they were heavily built and badly shaved. The locals didn’t mess with them and I do remember, vividly, seeing one of these uniformed law enforcers beating a middle aged woman in a blue djellabah, who had dared to argue back, quite viciously with his baton, while onlookers passed by with barely a backward glance. But, to be honest, the reality of being a Moroccan in Morocco rarely impinged. We were young, ignorant and were having too good a time to be aware of the social issues.
On the evening Ramadan finished, the manager of the hotel called Pete into the office. I was left sitting in our room, wondering what was going on. At least an hour later Pete returned, somewhat the worse for wear. It transpired that the manager had decided to include Pete in his liberation from abstinence: evidently the Muslim rule about alcohol didn’t impinge upon his conscience. They sat opposite each other and the manager kept filling up two tumblers of wine, knocking his own straight back then waiting with evident impatience while Pete followed suit. It was more of a contest than a shared tipple but the manager evidently felt it was his role to show his guest the hospitality of the house as soon as he legitimately could.
As a celebration of the end of Ramadan a small local cinema showed ‘Jailhouse Rock’ for several nights. Quite a large contingent of tourists went to see it, along with most of the young population of Marrakesh. To my shame I remember the Europeans and Americans sitting at the back of the hall and being convulsed with laughter most of the time at the strange image of Elvis being dubbed into French with Arabic subtitles.
The Arabs, however, took it all very seriously and stared disapprovingly at the back stalls after each burst of merriment.

PART 7: A VISIT TO ESSAOUIRA

We celebrated Christmas in Marrakesh. Our group of friends got together and we all took on the task of producing one item each for the feast. It fell to me to produce the Christmas pudding and so, with only a few days in hand, I sourced dried fruit, spices,
flour and honey to create quite a credible imitation of a boiled pudding. The actual cooking was done at our American friends rooms who had the luxury of a rudimentary kitchen. They also provided the only relatively expensive item, a scraggy fowl. This, with lashings of fresh vegetables made for a good day, although poor Pete was laid low with a debilitating bug and missed the festivities.
The only cloud on our horizon at this time was our acute shortage of funds. We wanted to see more of Morocco before we were forced to go home. After Christmas many of our more affluent friends decamped to Essaouira,
Nowadays this attractive resort on the Atlantic coast is a favourite haunt for tourists, especially surfers. In those days it was a modest fishing village that was gaining in popularity as an alternative to Agadir, which had been a popular holiday destination until a devastating earthquake in 1960; And so, when we came to the end of time for our room rental at the hotel, we managed to scrape together enough funds to make the journey Westwards.
It wasn’t easy. What made it possible was Mustapha arranging a loan for us of a hundred dhiram; the equivalent of ten pounds. We didn’t ask him. When he realised we were going West he came to us and insisted we accept it.

Even still we wouldn’t have taken him up on it, knowing he would have had to stand as guarantor for the sum, if it wasn’t for the fact that were expecting some top up funds from Pete’s parents through the post; the only option for acquiring cash in those pre ‘hole in the wall’ days.
Transferring funds by post was risky. Once or twice friends and relatives got some cash out to us, but sometimes this mysteriously disappeared between the sender and the Poste Restante box number where you picked up post. However, the odd tenner here and there kept our heads above water.
We promised Mustapha we would repay him, although, much like our German friend on the road to Oujda, I don’t think he expected to see us again. His generosity and trust in us was all the more appreciated when you took into account that he survived on very modest means. The day we left, on the inevitable bus, he came and waved us goodbye; sad that he couldn’t make the journey himself.
We loved Essaouira from the word go. It was a charming seaside town where you could stroll down to the harbour area and watch the fishermen sorting their catches and tending their wooden boats. It had some ancient ramparts that could be strolled along and the streets were flanked by white houses and shops, selling all sorts of goods; from arts and crafts to goat meat. The locals were friendly and we quickly settled into our temporary home.
Details are hazy as to our arrival but we very quickly found some lodgings. This consisted of two rooms on the first floor of a three storey house with a communal roof area. We did the deal with a middle aged woman who lived on the second floor with her teenage daughter.

We found out later that, although the woman ran and managed the letting side of the house, it was actually owned by an older daughter, who lived on the ground floor and plied the oldest trade in the world. Her chief clientele were the local constabulary; more of this later.
Our two rooms consisted of one large communal area, where we slept, cooked and generally lived in, and a smaller back room where was housed a ‘squat’ toilet, a basin and a bath. Before you get carried away by this apparent luxury dear reader, I hasten to point out that the bath was purely for water storage. We quickly learnt that the water supply was only available for a few hours a day; and so you made sure you kept the bath topped up when the taps were on.
The main room was sparsely furnished with a bed and some cooking facility, a table, chairs and, I think, a wardrobe. The shuttered window overlooked the street. On our second night in residence we were awoken by someone throwing stones at our window and shouting in Arabic.
Pete opened the shutters and looked out to see one of the local policemen standing below, swearing angrily and incomprehensibly at him. Before matters took an even nastier turn a ground floor window opened and the house owner started shouting, as angrily, at the client; one of her regular customers.
We found out the next day that he had assumed Pete was a rival for the lady’s affections and had harboured some sort of proprietorial grudge at a perceived conflict of interests.
There was a lively social scene among the visiting tourists. Many of our friends from Marrakesh had rented apartments and we would socialise most days with parties, beach trips and meetings at one of the local cafes.

We never tired of wandering down the narrow streets indulging in good natured bartering with the tradesmen for everyday items, who followed the common practice that we had first experienced in Azrou; of sending us from one to the other as we attempted to get the price down a few more centimes. It was all good fun; and good experience.
I think now is the time for the second tale of Pete’s teeth. An American friend called on us one day and, while indulging in some desultory and inept orange juggling, managed to snap Pete’s denture, (which he had left on the table) clean in half with one of the dropped fruits. Jerry, our American friend was truly mortified and offered to pay for a repair, if it could be arranged.
It just so happened that, during one of our many rambles through the back streets of the town, we had come across what had appeared to be a dental surgery.
We visited it, with the offending denture, and gazed in the window where an artistic arrangement of antique dentistry and tools were on display. We entered the shop and explained our problem to the young dentist (presumably) who appeared from the back of the shop. Could he mend the denture we wanted to know. He assured us he could. Negotiations regarding price ensued.
They started at a hundred dhirams on his part; ten from our side of the counter. The two extremes gradually drew nearer to each other but, all the while this bargaining was batting back and forth, the presumed dental technician had, with a look of puzzled concentration on his face, been manoeuvring the two clean cut halves in an unsuccessful attempt to fit them back together. Our confidence in his ability to affect the repair gave out just as he had finally agreed to our limit of ten dhirams.

Offering apologies for wasting his time we left the shop hastily, only pausing to gaze once again on the supposed antiques, which were probably the latest models of Moroccan dental skill. The broken tooth bridge was consigned to the rucksack for the duration of our remaining journey and Pete went front toothless from then on.
One day our landlady, or rather her Mother, who lived on the next floor, invited us in for a meal. This had been instigated by the younger daughter, who was a serious bookish sort of girl and the apple of her Mother’s eye. She was a student and liked nothing better than to engage us in conversation. They depended on the other sister’s trade for all of life’s necessities, but kept themselves very much apart from the goings on on the ground floor. I suspect that the younger daughter was seen by the Mother as a chance to cast off the slur of the elder sister’s reputation.
And so we, very politely, socialised and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon with the two of them in their spotlessly clean and tidy front room with the ubiquitous stunning tiled floor and wall decoration. It was a formal, but friendly interchange of different cultures. In fact, the two women would have, probably, been less out of place than ourselves, at a vicar’s tea party back home. In an attempt to show our appreciation I had taken with me a small gift for the daughter. Knowing how much western clothes were valued I presented her with a blue and white polka dot dress from Marks and Spencers that had inextricably found it’s way into my rucksack before we left home.
Actually my Mother had insisted that I pack this one ‘good frock’ in case I ‘needed’ to dress up at any stage. It was not the sort of garment I would have been seen dead in anywhere and I was very glad to get a chance to hand it over to someone who might appreciate it. The teenager seemed overwhelmed at my generosity and kept thanking me for the dress, to the point where I started feeling quite guilty at palming off such a ghastly example of western woman’s fashion.

But beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder. About half an hour after we had returned to our rooms, the student knocked on our door and presented me with something wrapped up in tissue paper.
Upon unwrapping it I discovered she had given me the most exquisite Moroccan dress, or djellabah. It was made of some gauzy silver material, embroidered all over in silver and lime green leaves and flowers and all the edgings were in silver braid. I protested that I couldn’t possibly accept such a precious gift but she insisted, saying that she would never wear it; indeed I got the impression that she regarded it as rather vulgar; perhaps it was an unwanted present from her sister; a woman who had no inhibitions regarding dress and was always to be seen, indoors, in gorgeous silks and satins.
So, with many thanks I accepted it.
We lived in our little apartment in Essaouria for a month and, during that time, Pete casually suggested, when we got back home, we should get married. I thought it was a good idea and, just over a year later, the gift of the silver tissue and green embroidered djellabah became my wedding dress; a much treasured garment that I still have packed away somewhere.

WORD COUNT 1746

PART 8: ESSAOURIA

On the roof of the house was another flat occupied by a Danish couple. I remember them because, for the duration of our stay, they were at daggers drawn with the occupant of an adjoining house. The bone of contention (an apt metaphor) was an unhappy dog that was chained up all the time on the roof of the neighbouring house. When it wasn’t having stones thrown at it by children it was howling or barking. The Danish man eventually made friends with this miserable canine and finally entered into protracted negotiations with the owner to buy it from him. The owner rooked him for a sizeable sum for supposed necessary vaccinations and papers to enable the couple to take the dog back to Denmark. But they stuck to their guns and the dog eventually departed with them for a, presumably, better life in more Northern climes.
One day Pete arrived back home with a paper parcel which, when unwrapped on the table, turned out to contain several small live crabs which scuttled away upon their release. I refused to kill them and Pete, the hardened fisherman, had to do the dreadful deed of chucking them into boiling water, prior to our seafood supper.
We would spend quite a lot of time sunning ourselves on the beach and swimming in the grey Atlantic; I would stay close to shore but Pete would give me palpitations swimming well out to sea while I had visions of shark attacks; a phenomenon not unknown in that part of the coast. Pete also indulged in a hilarious camel ride; a pleasure that I didn’t fancy, being of a much more timid nature and not taking to the camel’s habit of disdainfully spitting at potential riders.

One day, when we were walking to the beach along a dirt road, on the outskirts of a small settlement of low white houses, we were witnesses to an accident. A youth, careering along on his bike, hit a huge pot hole at the side of a bridge over a dried up river bed. He and the bike disappeared over the side of the bridge and several people, us included, rushed to his aid.
All was mayhem as villagers surged round his unconscious form. Mindful of internal injuries we managed to dissuade the crowd from moving him until the ambulance arrived. But when this vehicle, a grubby white van, turned up, the driver hoisted the injured party onto his shoulders and, surrounded by a large and vociferous crowd, ran up and out of the ravine and deposited him, none too gently, into the back of the van; whereupon he drove off at the customary breakneck speed.
We feared for the outcome to this incident and went back to the village the next day to get news of the invalid. We were greeted like long lost friends by his various relatives and were invited into his brother’s little white house to take refreshment. The unprepossessing exterior opened into a cosy tiled room, bright with rugs and ceramic decoration. We sat on low couches and shared in the communal dish of couscous with goat meat and drank sweet mint tea. According to the relatives, the youth had not sustained any major injury and was well on the way to recovery. They acted as if we had played a major role in saving his life; but we knew that luck had played the main part.
It was nearing the time when we had to return to Marrakesh, to pay Mustapha back and to start, reluctantly, on the way homeward. Before we left we were invited to a party by some acquaintances who were renting a whole floor of a rhiad in the town. They were Londoners but, unlike us, were not short of a bob or two.

The flat, which overlooked the central courtyard on three sides, was tastefully adorned with rugs, knick-knacks and ceramics. The floor was a stunning pattern of Moroccan tiling. The whole place had an air of comfort and the tenants, a couple of well heeled hippies whom we hardly knew, greeted us with distant friendliness.
This probably had something to do with the industrial quantities of keef that were being smoked. We were sixties children after all and we took our alternative lifestyle credentials seriously. That night a veritable cornucopia of drugs were available including some acid trips. I had taken LSD on occasion back home and had enjoyed the unhinging effects most of the time. And so I indulged, as did Pete.
At first everything seemed to be going along okay. The room was quite crowded and people drifted in and out. Suddenly I realised that the tiled floor of many colours had become liquid. Amazed I put my hand into it and swirled the colours around. It was while I was experiencing this phenomenon that I began to feel a sensation of what I can only call paranoia. The symmetrical patterns on the curtains and throws seemed vaguely threatening and I found I couldn’t look at them.
Pete, who had always had a much stronger resistance to drugs, picked up on my panic straight away and tried to reassure me that it was a temporary angst and everything would turn out fine.
But, the harder I tried, the less I seemed able to keep my grip on reality. By now others were concernedly offering advice as I struggled to keep the demons at bay. But I seemed to be slipping away from my companions and surroundings down a long dark tunnel.

I truly believe that, at that moment, I was on the point of losing it completely. Gradually I became aware of an insistent voice coming from the mouth of a young American man who I could just discern at the end of the black tunnel that separated me from the rest of the room. I could hear him saying, over and over again, “whatever you are seeing turn and face it; confront it; whatever it is look at it and it will go.” All the while I was aware of him gazing at me intently; concentrating with all his being on bringing me back.
Suddenly I got it and faced up to the unknown dread. With what felt like a physical whoosh I shot back up the tunnel and emerged into the light and warmth of the room again. The relief was overwhelming.
But my travails were not yet over. I went immediately from a ‘bad’ trip to an amazingly enlightening ‘good’ one. The room appeared to have morphed into an Aladdin’s cave of beautiful treasures. Precious jewels were stacked in glittering heaps on the low tables. Lions and tigers lounged regally on the couches and did not appear averse to being stroked and admired. Everybody looked beautiful; and I told them so, illustrating my words with actions that were designed to make me curl up with embarrassment the next morning, when I was regaled with what had gone on the night before.
But the strangest occurrence on this never to be forgotten ‘trip’ was my speaking in tongues. As it was told to me the next day, during my ‘enlightened’ period I was making quite a lot of noise and the Moroccan landlady came upstairs to complain. I remember her standing at the door and berating the assembly; and I remember answering her and explaining that there was nothing to worry about.
I can see her now, shrugging her shoulders, turning from the door and going back downstairs. As far as I was concerned she spoke to me in English but several people confirmed the next day that I had replied to her in Arabic.

I also remember hearing lots of different voices, speaking in different languages, in my head. It was as if I had become a radio receiver for a worldwide conversation. At one point I remember distinctly, saying, in an Ozzie accent, “Come in Australia”!
In days to come I was to remember one particular ‘happening’ during that long night. As it was explained to me the next day, when I had returned to lucidity, it had been necessary to keep me calm, to avoid me returning to the frightening darkness of the tunnel. At the time I interpreted these soothing conversations in a much more meaningful way. It seemed that people around me were telling me that I had finally emerged from a lifelong delusion of living in a world full of wars, famine, bigotry and disharmony. Evidently all the ills of the world had only been in my head; the reality was a world of happiness, prosperity and harmony.
The euphoria of this revelation was wonderful and, amazingly, logical. How could I have been so silly as to believe that the world was a place of conflict and unhappiness? It was so much more likely that we would utilise the joy of living in the most practical way possible, instead of wasting lives and time making each other miserable.
Imagine my feelings in the morning when I realised the ‘revelation’ was the delusion. Before I became aware of this sorry truth, in the grey light of dawn, I had reached a giddy plain, common to many who have indulged in hallucinogens, of being on the cusp of understanding the creation of the whole universe. But, just as I reached this crucial final understanding, I started to come down, quite rapidly.
All around me were sleeping forms; the flat looked seedy and very untidy with several broken ornaments lying about (evidently a lot of the disarray was caused by me) and I felt grubby and very depressed. Pete had returned to normality long before me and we crept away to our lodgings, before our fellow party goers woke up.

We found out later that this particular batch of acid had been ‘cut’ with speed, which explained why the trip had come on so fast and been so ‘jagged’. The American boy, who had talked me out of my tunnel, had taken one two days before and had to fight out his demons all on his own on the beach. Hence his knowledge of rescue tactics.
As you have probably gathered this trip made a lasting impression on me; to the point that I can still remember it vividly nearly forty years later. When we returned home I did take acid once or twice again, but my reactions were stale and repetitive and I lost interest in mind altering drugs.
Before we returned to Marrakesh; we visited the flat of the party givers once more, to apologise for my behaviour. I was greeted very coolly and left feeling suitably deflated; but relieved that they hadn’t taken us up on our offer to pay for the carnage I had caused.

Word count 1792

PART 9: FROM MARRAKESH . . TO BARCELONA

A few days later we were back in the main square of Marrakesh and reinstated in our old hotel room in the Central. Mustapha was very pleased to see us and, very tactfully, didn’t mention the money we still owed his moneylender. It was several days before the expected lifeline funds turned up; some from Pete’s parents and an unexpected bonus tenner from a good friend back home. Meanwhile, desperate for cash, we took all our spare clothes to the buy and sell market, where anything of western design commanded good money. In this way we kept our heads above water and paid our hotel bill.
Thankfully our funds turned up and we were able pay our debt to Mustapha. With the little money we had left, we had to make it back home post haste. So now we steeled ourselves to return to our former lives in grey Great Britain. With heavy hearts we said goodbye to our hotel friends and started the long walk out of Marrakesh. This time we had to hitch. No expensive luxuries like bus rides for us. I remember our last sight of the dusty, sunny road out of the Arab quarter with traders parked under orange trees selling everything and anything, including oranges, to the colourful and noisy throng of Berbers, Arabs and tourists. We turned our backs on it all and began the long trek home.
We had only walked a few kilometres out of the town when a car pulled up. Amazingly it was a Rolls Royce and a very English voice enquired of us as to where we were aiming for. We said Tangier and couldn’t believe our luck when the driver said that was their destination. In no time at all we were ensconced in the unbelievably luxurious interior of leather seats and air conditioning and chatting with our benefactors like old friends.

The couple lived in Eastbourne and were both doctors. They appeared to be in their forties; he was blonde with a bony frame dressed in expensive well cut clothes. His wife was an attractive dark haired Indian lady dressed appropriately in a colourful silk sari. It turned out that they had ‘popped over’ for a long weekend, hired the Rolls at Tangier airport and driven down to Marrakesh to stay at a top price hotel in the French quarter.
They were absolutely charming and we spent the next few hours swapping experiences of Marrakesh and Morocco as the Rolls ate up the miles. They were astonished at the difference in prices between the French and Arab quarter. They had spent more in a few days than we had on our whole trip. They shared with us the hamper of delicious French cuisine that had been provided by the hotel and we quizzed them about life on the south coast of England. Curious, I asked the wife if she always wore Indian dress. “Usually” she replied. “Except when I walk the dog.” How English is that!
They dropped us just outside Tangier and, before they departed, pressed into our hands a ten shilling note, (equivalent to 50 pence nowadays). We thanked them wholeheartedly for all their kindness and went our separate ways.
I don’t remember much about Tangier, except it had the same ‘edgy’ feel as Algiers had. We felt uncomfortable walking through it’s seedy streets. We were eager to get on the ferry to Algeciras, but first, we had to get our remaining dhirams changed into pesetas.
This was not an operation that could be undertaken legally. With the usual protective attitude of the native state, Morocco didn’t like to see money leaving the country and so we had to take advantage of the black market.

There was no shortage of volunteers offering us a ‘fair’ rate of exchange. In those days Tangier had a decidedly dodgy reputation, being a favoured drug and illegal immigrant route; ( I am tempted to say so what else is new!) Reluctantly we engaged in negotiations with the most trustworthy looking character vying for our attention and, even more reluctantly, followed him through the seedy streets, redolent with the heavy odour of keef, to meet with his ‘broker’.
Eventually he led us up some steps between two flat roofed terraces and, smiling reassuringly, ushered us into a room where another man sat behind a table. By now, although we had convinced ourselves that we were going to be robbed, or worse, we had to go through with it and advanced to face whatever lay ahead. Ten minutes later we were walking away with a distinct feeling of anticlimax, after getting a perfectly adequate rate of exchange conducted with formal courtesy and mutual satisfaction. The anti climax was swiftly overlain with relief and we hurried to the ferry terminal.

It was here we met Big John and Mr T. That sounds a bit theatrical but we never knew them by any other names. They were two Americans, both ex Vietnam war veterans, who had been travelling through Morocco and had just spent most of their cash on a VW van, in which they intended to travel through Europe. It transpired that we could do each other a favour. If we travelled as passengers in their van we could all get over much more cheaply; the ferry charge being based on the vehicle not the occupants. And so we spent the short crossing time getting to know our new acquaintances.
We deduced that both Big John and Mr T had suffered acute trauma in Vietnam but, after a brief allusion, neither talked about it.

They dealt with it in their different ways. Mr T was a taciturn man who was pleasant but preferred his own company and rarely opened up.
Big John couldn’t have been more different. At least six foot six and very gangly he had that rare human ability to endear himself to whosoever crossed his path. And so he covered up by being extremely humorous and gregarious.
Once over the other side we successfully negotiated customs; or so we thought, but, rounding a corner we came upon a road barrier manned by the Guardia; the scary Spanish police of Franco’s Spain. They stood, cold eyed and watchful, with machine guns at the ready, to search out any suspicious visitors. Despite a certain amount of tension on our part we passed with no incident.
So here we were in yet another country. In 1969 Spain was a completely different kettle of fish to the overcrowded tourist ridden Costas of today. The country was still largely rural and, except for the main cities, the coastal route consisted of large stretches of rugged terrain, interspersed with run down white walled villages, usually with a huge wedding cake of a church perched on the hills above, But the first stirrings of the commercialisation (instigated by Franco I believe) that was to come were plain to see. Buildings were going up all along the coast; an opportunity for us as it turned out.
When we drove out of the port town of Algeceras I don’t remember any discussion about the four of us joining forces. We just did. The VW van was an empty shell at the start of our journey. Every time we drove past a deserted building site (siesta time was favourite) somebody, usually John, would leap out and gather any building material they could find, so that, not many days later, the van was kitted out with rudimentary bunk beds, shelves and cupboards.

We cooked on fires of brushwood and waste timber. Our main diet also came from the fields around us where vegetables grew; I remember artichokes figuring large on our menu.
I write these words rather unbelievingly now; being an upright citizen who wouldn’t dream of half inching anything! But, in those couple of weeks of getting through Spain it was definitely a case of proving Darwin right; i.e. the survival of the fittest. Pete and I were just trying to get home on the very small sum of money that we had left. Mr T. and Big John, however, intended to drive round Europe on almost no funds. So we roughed it together.
The first few nights were spent sleeping on the bare metal floor of the van, except for the lucky person whose turn it was to sample the relative luxury of the the long front seat. It was early February and bitterly cold at night. Many times in the next few days we thanked our lucky stars that we had resisted the temptation to sell our Parkas in Marrakesh.
One incident which sticks in my memory, as painful ones often do, was when I managed to crack my elbow, very painfully, on the van door one freezing night during my turn in the front seat; a seemingly minor injury which caused me much pain for the rest of the journey; and for many years later.
We drove North up the coast and didn’t stop anywhere more than a night, until we got to Barcelona. All these years later details of our journey are a hazy memory. I seem to remember that the natives were not particularly friendly and we were very aware of the heavy and ubiquitous presence of the Spanish police. People looked poor and shabby and seemed to avoid us;

The majority of women were clothed in black and heavily shawled. Once again, our ignorance of the politics of the day meant were were not conversant with the physical reality of repression that the average Spanish citizen had to put up with. How different to the open society of Spain today.
It turned out that Mr T. wanted to visit the American Embassy in Barcelona, where he had hopes of some funds; a pension payment as a wounded veteran I seem to remember. He had been the one who had paid our way as regards to petrol and minimal food up to then. He and John were depending on this money, to get them on the next stage of their journey So we drove down to the harbour and parked up on the docks for the night.

(WORD COUNT 1664)

PART 10: THE FINAL STRETCH

In the morning Mr T. set off on his errand and John accompanied Pete and I on an exploration of the labyrinth of narrow streets that led down to the docks. These shabby thoroughfares were full of that unique life and character that so typifies Barcelona. Here we met, at last, Spaniards who did not shrink from enjoying life. The Spanish tavernas loved John, who responded enthusiastically to their ‘in your face’ approach to life. When we left to return to the dock and meet up with Mr T, there were several emotional farewells from our Spanish hosts. We parted from them full of bonhomie and love for our fellow man.
We were a little surprised not to find Mr T waiting for us at the van, as it was quite late in the afternoon. But he did not appear at all and, eventually, we fell asleep, wondering what had become of him. John’s assumption was that some friends that he had intended to meet up with at the Embassy, had invited him to sleep over. But the next morning arrived and went without Mr T. John had spent most of what spare cash he had the day before; in anticipation of replenishment from the USA army pension pot.
Pete and I felt we had to try and contribute in some fashion and hit upon the idea of selling some blood. We trekked across the city to the hospital, admiring on the way the eccentric architecture of Gaudi and the imposing classical buildings which make Barcelona such a stunning place to visit to this day. But when we got to the hospital it was to find the blood donor facility was closed for the afternoon; the only afternoon of the week that it did.

We had taken the bus to the hospital and now decided to get back to the docks on the underground; evidently a cheaper option. With our limited Spanish we very nearly got totally lost, until a kind hearted young girl who looked like an office clerk, not only put us on the right track but insisted on giving us enough small change to afford the fare. We had arranged to meet John in one of the tavernas we had frequented the day before but, despite searching down many similar looking streets, we could not find it again.
We were getting desperate until, suddenly, there it was before us. Inside all was gaiety and noise. John was performing an individual style of flamenco with a more than compliant señorita and the crowd were clapping encouragingly. When we managed to fight our way to John’s side he greeted us with “Thank goodness you’re back. I can’t put off paying the bill much longer.”
It was obvious that his fellow revellers would be quite happy if he never left, so we did not take this statement to heart. Instead we all had a plate of hearty soup and bread for almost nothing and only paid for the wine that had to be drunk as a matter of course. Our first experience of that eminently civilised custom of tapas. Then it was back to the docks; and still no show from Mr T. We were seriously worried now, imagining the worst; mugging; a heart problem or even a psychotic attack as Mr T’s mental health was known to be delicate. It was too late to do anything that day so we settled down for our third night in the van, resolving to do something in the morning.
The next day saw us visiting the American embassy to make enquiries. On stating our business we were asked to wait and an official came out to question us. It turned out that Mr T, far from being in any trouble, had in fact , reported to the Embassy that he suspected Pete, John and I of abandoning him and stealing the van!

It transpired that he had returned to the dock the same day he had left and had not been able to find the van; because he had, unknowingly, gone to the wrong dock!
How we laughed! Once we were reunited and all relevant explanations had been made Mr T. couldn’t apologise enough. He had been successful in his mission of acquiring funds and we spent our last night in Barcelona introducing him to the delights of Spanish bar life and, for the rest of our journey together, he was much more friendly and forthcoming.
Another day saw us across the Spanish border and well into France. We eventually said goodbye to each other at Arles; the parting of the ways. Our American friends were crossing into Italy but we were hitching up through France to home. It was a sad farewell. Our meeting had made the penultimate leg of our journey a memorable time. We were never to meet again; and we only ever had one communication, from John, when were home again. I hope their journeyings helped to expunge the horrors of the war that left so many young American men so traumatised.
As the little VW van disappeared into the distance we felt quite bereft. It might not have been the most luxurious of motor homes but it had been a shelter and protection for near on a couple of weeks. Now, here we were, in the middle of one of the coldest Winters on record, with many miles still to go before we were home.
Southwards was the Camargue, the marshy salt flats bordering the Mediterranean. Northward was the Rhone valley from which was blowing the bitterly sharp Mistral wind; infamous for it’s penchant for causing suicidal tendencies. The main road that led all the way North to Paris lay ahead. We huddled into our life saving Parkas and set off to find a suitable hitching point.

Two hours later saw us desperate to get a lift before the sun went down and the temperature fell any lower. The road was fairly busy, despite heavy snowfalls, mainly with Sunday traffic on family outings. No driver took pity on us. After an unusually long interval with no traffic we heard and saw a lorry advancing upon us. With an instinct born of desperation Pete knelt down at the side of the road and salaamed the driver.
With a screech of brakes he came to a halt. Without giving him time to change his mind we scrambled into the warm interior of the cab, thanking the driver fervently and repeatedly. He was a smiling Algerian, plying his long distance lorry driver’s trade Northward.
As we rumbled on we conversed in French, telling him a little of our adventures. And it was from this man that we finally gleaned some understanding of the political tensions between Algeria and France; the old colonial power. The truck ate up the miles for hour on hour and we slept intermittently, despite trying to stay awake out of politeness.
At a halfway point on our journey, the driver pulled into a French equivalent of a transport cafe, although this was a much more civilised version to it’s British counterpart. Many night drivers sat at the wooden tables with their spotless gingham tablecloths. They were being served with delicious looking dishes by several waiters.
Our driver urged us to choose what we wanted off the menu and, once we realised that he was sincere, we stopped being polite and accepted his generous offer. He would not let us pay for anything and we had our first hot meal for some hours. How delicious is food when you are ravenous. And how much do you appreciate your fellow man when they show such acts of kindness.

We drove through the night, with one more stop for our driver to have a short reviving snooze and, as dawn was breaking we arrived at Versailles, on the outskirts of Paris. Another junction; another parting of the ways. With many expressions of gratitude we said goodbye to our benefactor and started off again on the last leg of our journey before we crossed the channel.
The snow lay thick along the side of the road and was kept pristine by constant flurries. After all these years details are hazy but I know we had to walk several more kilometres before we were on the road bound for Calais.
We trudged along, again not attracting much attention from the cars that sped past. But then a car screeched to a halt in front of us. As we approached it suddenly sped off as quickly as it had come; obviously gaining some amusement from our discomfiture. When another car pulled up quite soon after we approached cautiously and with cynicism; but this one was genuine.
We almost wished that he had been a prankster during the next few hair raising miles. At phenomenal speed he raced through the icy wastes of North West France towards Calais. Paralysed with terror we cowered in the back seat as the driver indulged his motor racing fantasies on the slippery road. Had we come all this way just to meet our deaths on the home stretch? Amazingly we arrived, all in one piece, at the dock. Soon after saw us on the ferry bound for Dover.

And that’s about it. The journey across the channel was predictably uneventful; no emotional Brits greeting their native shores with tears and cries of joy; just phlegmatic acceptance of grey skies and customs administration.
My last memory of our three month journey is a meal, prior to hitching up to London, in a transport cafe just outside Dover. All through our travels we had saved a ten shilling note (now equivalent to fifty pence) for some spending money through England and it had acquired a sort of talisman quality.
I will never forget the plates of greasy egg and chips, rubbery white bread smeared thinly with margarine and cups of stewed brown tea that we were served with, by an indifferent waitress on grubby plastic tables.
If anything was destined to bring us down to earth with a bump it was that meal. We had spent our last money on this culinary travesty and, at the time, it seemed to sum up all our disappointment at returning to our old way of life. We were back in the UK, homeless and jobless. Where did we go from here?

Well; that’s another story.

Word count 1743

Jackie Mac reporting for the last time on the the Doris Despatches, Part 2. We are back; a week earlier than we intended, but safe and sound after four horrendous days, nursing Doris home from the Spanish/French border.

It proved to be ‘one too many mountains’ for our poor old van, whose screaming brake linings (or lack of, more like) advertised their parlous condition, with embarrassing regularity, at traffic lights and junctions. Piggy negotiated, with skilful ‘engine braking’ to hardly touch the brakes at all for most of the journey, but it was a teeth gritting, seat gripping rollercoaster of a journey that I hope we don’t experience again. We had to abandon plans to go on any detours to visit friends; just aimed Northward and prayed that Doris wouldn’t seize up completely, before we made it back to the UK; and breakdown cover.

But, to start with, just a short aside on our trip to the Guggenheim in Bilbao. We parked Doris for the day at Camping Portuondo, Mundaka, which is set on a promontory above the beach and accessed via a steep winding drive from the road. When we booked in, Pete had to hold Doris on the one in six incline, while merry campers wandered back and forth in front of her bonnet; blithely unaware of the possible danger.

So, Sunday morning saw us utilising the excellent local bus service to get to Bilbao, and a stroll along the river brought us to the Guggenheim. At first sight a bit more tarnished than the glossy photos suggested; but an iconic building nonetheless. However, maybe Piggy and I have no understanding of ‘modern art’ because we found the whole thing a bit of a let down. Huge amounts of gallery space were given over to a few artists, as separate exhibitions; which was okay, but there was no ‘meat’. No general gallery space, of just one or two works, by a wider variety of artists. Piggy came away, quite annoyed that he hadn’t been able to scoff at an Andy Warhol! We liked the two pieces outside best. A spider by Louise Bourgeois and ‘Puppy’ by Jeff Koons.

Back to our journey. Monday morning; we escaped from the campsite and headed for the border.It became evident quite quickly that Doris’s brakes were getting worse.The drive was not too bad until we got to Biarritz, where we got lost trying to get out of town during the evening rush hour. By the time we got to Parentis en Borne, a municipal Aire stop, it was dark and we couldn’t find it. So drove down the road to the Lac Biscarosse and parked up on a sort of jetty affair, right beside the huge lake. In the morning we noted the ‘Camping Interdit’ sign at the side of Doris; and found the real Aire just a few hundred yards down the road.

The next days driving was less stressful; but not relaxing. Another Aire and another days drive brought us to Dieppe for the five pm ferry to Newhaven. An uneventful crossing preceded our return to British soil; and it was dark and gently drizzling. We hoped to get to a lay-by near Salisbury for the night but we hadn’t been driving for more than half an hour when we noticed Doris’s battery light hadn’t fully gone out. Were we about to experience a major electrical failure? on a busy major road? We had no choice but to stop in the next available lay-by for the night; where we spent many hours trying to get some sleep, as the heavy traffic of the A27 thundered past; inches away from Doris, who rocked back and forth in their wake.

We woke early to a damp and foggy morning; drank tea, waited for a while,for the fog to lift, which it didn’t; and eventually crept hesitantly out into the morning traffic. But Doris had one more shock for us. Her wipers malfunctioned, getting stuck on the side of the windscreen. As Piggy said, through gritted teeth, the journey was turning into ‘a bloody nightmare’. The rain was a steady drizzle and, before we made it to a supermarket car park near Salisbury, we had stopped many times to release the wipers. It was time for a break and we treated ourselves to breakfast and coffee before venturing back on the road.

The weather cleared briefly, but, by the time we had reached the environs of Bristol, it became more of a steady rain, which, perversely, was easier to see through than the misty drizzle of earlier. Pete developed a cunning technique of ‘nearly’ turning the wipers on, which usually kept visibility as an option.

There were cheers as we crossed the Severn bridge and passed the Croeso y Cymru sign; and we only had to turn into one more Services for wiper release before the sun came out. By Swansea, rain again, but dry in Burry Port, where we stopped, briefly, to see Donna and brood. As we drove through Pembroke the rain was lashing down; at Freshwest the waves were crashing onto the rocks and we arrived home in a proper Atlantic drenching; like we’d never been away!

So now we are home; and glad to be. We’ve had an amazingly good time on this trip. Doris has struggled against enormous odds to get us home; and taken on some pretty awful terrain. She has been a haven and our comfort zone; a bit smelly at times maybe; but, hey, isn’t that why you lose your sense of smell as you get older? One of nature’s compensations you might say.

Hopefully she will be sorted out over the Summer and ready for another trip; probably not till late 2010; although we might just sneak a short look at Portugal in there somewhere! Thanks all of you for reading the blog. It’s been fun. Piggy and I extend warm invites to all those, who feel so inclined, to visit during the Summer. As most of you know, we are not having an anniversary ‘do’ this year; but next year is our fortieth and we hope lots of you will come and give us the benefit of your combined years of experience to make it a brilliant bash. Until the next time. . . .

NB: Doris’s windscreen wipers behaved impeccably when we turned into the heavy rain just past Pembroke! What a machine.

Yesterday we took the excellent local bus into Bilbao to ‘do’ the Guggenheim; which was nice, if a trifle disappointing. Anyway, that’s our culture bit done. On with the next bit.

It’s Friday evening, (3rd) and we have got to the haven (despite two very loud bangs from the garage across the way) of a Spanish Aire, just south of the Picos de Europa. Have driven today from Astorga, the town of the indestructible Loaf, across the Cordillera Cantambrica.

I warn you; I could run out of adjectives now. East of Leon we climbed up over 1600 metres; out of valleys green and springlike to snowy peaks and towering rocks. The stones, first brilliant green with lichen, through all the stages, to huge snowdrifts lying in every crevasse were awesomely, fantastically overpowering. Wow factor times what you will.

I think we have given our hearts a good test today; as we have negotiated the screwdriver bends, up and down; and Pete has managed to restrain himself from taking his eyes off the road as huge raptors soar in the peaks around. The villages west of Potes were luxurious looking country residences; everything spick and span; but from then on, going south east, the villages suddenly fell into disrepair and potholes appeared in the road; something to do with the Basque thing? We do not know.

And yesterday, as we drove out of Portugal it was straight into the Serra de la Cabrere Baja. rolling hills covered in purple and pink heath; all perfectly enjoyable on a fine example of new Spanish road building.

Then across the plateau to Astorga; even more raptors and acres of conifer and poplars interspersed in tracts of wild heath. We saw a Montigue’s Harrier, who flew alongside Doris as we bowled along at a steady 30 miles an hour; a deserted road I hasten to add, in both directions.

So here we are; and tomorrow we are on our way to visit Bilbao; finally, after missing out for the last two visits to Spain. More of this later.

I am writing this from the bar of the campsite Camping de Parc Natural de Monfrague, a few kilometres north of Trujillo. The park is a beautiful place; famous for it’s wildlife; particularly large numbers of raptors and black storks. We arrived here yesterday; after being told by a park warden, very politely, that wild camp ups were not allowed. So we have taken the opportunity to catch up on washing etc.; even having another shower!

This site has a large contingent of British; mostly very friendly; although some seem to spend a lot of their time moaning about their satellite reception! But there are several like minded birdwatchers here. This morning, while we were breakfasting al fresco, azure winged magpies were as numerous as the many sparrows competing for our leftover bread; and one was building a nest in the branches of a tree a few feet from our table. Various twitchers crept up to take photos; perhaps we should have charged admission fees!

Tomorrow we leave here, to spend a day in the park, hoping for views of the aforementioned storks, vultures and eagles. Then we are popping back into Portugal for a few days, for more lazing about next to barragems; a pastime that we enjoyed while with Pat and Pedro. The pace of life in Portugal is more relaxed than Spain; a halfway house between that country and Morocco. We intend to explore the countryside much more thoroughly on our next expedition out of Blighty.

While I have been writing this a young Senorita has been chatting away to me at top speed; despite me having to admit to ‘pocito’ Espagnol. She didn’t seem to mind doing the talking for both of us though, and she has just left my side to have a scrap with her younger sister, on the bar floor.

After the barragems, we must turn, reluctantly, homeward. I just hope that the good weather follows us to Wales. That’s all for now. Wish you were (all) here; and see you in April.

Evidently there are over 140 barragems (barrages, or dams as we call them) in Portugal and they are used as a leisure facility; by Portugese and tourists alike. This being the weekend, cars full of locals have been turning up, enjoying picnics and generally having fun. We have just been lounging about and generally chilling out, after leaving Tarifa on Thursday the 19th. The difference between travelling on Moroccan roads (10 k. an hour on ‘country’ roads) and the speedy advance along good Spanish roads is extremely marked. We did miss the cheery waves and smiles of Moroccan passers by though.

We have met up with our friends Pat and Pedro again; in fact this blog is being delivered via their internet facility (dongle) and it’s very pleasant to sit here, looking at the lake, and trying to remember what has been happening the last few days!

All too soon now, we will be wending our way home; and hoping that some of this marvelous weather will have arrived in Pembrokeshire. There’s not much more to say for now. Just time for another little wander about, flower and butterfly spotting, before dinner; a barbecue, courtesy or Pat’nPedro. Life is not too bad!

We travelled the few kilometres to Tarifa and managed to get into Rio Jara Camping before they shut up for the night. After a long stressful day, we were asleep before our heads hit the pillow.

THE LAST DAY . . .

We have arrived at Cap Spartel; back on the windy Atlantic coast. Parked up at Camping Ashaker for tonight. And tomorrow we leave Morocco; assuming all is well for ferry sailings. We were going to indulge in the luxury of a shower. How queer! as I wrote that Piggy announced that he is going to have a cold shower; the only option on this site and one I shall not be taking up. For those readers of ‘a shower a day’ persuasion, make sure you are sitting down when I say, we haven’t had a shower since the 10th of February; close on five weeks!

But we are not smelly; no, honestly. Strip washes and hair washing as a regular routine suffice perfectly well. And our immune systems are in perfect working order, having been left to their own devices, without depletion by chemical bathing products on a daily basis.

We were hoping for a shower at Midelt. Last year, although the campsite looked ramshackle, there were hot showers, for free! But this year the site is in the process of being ‘done up’ and there were no washing or toilet facilities at all. But the guardien is a charming bloke, who kept reminding us that all would be in perfect working order ‘l’annee prochaine’. But we did have electricity (hence the last mammoth blog), we could see the High Atlas to the west; and there were storks nesting on the nearby communications tower, clacking their bills in a never ending love fest. For three nights, and electricity, we paid over the princely sum of 100 dhiram ( about £8.50 ) and that was including a generous tip.

Piggy has just returned from his shower, truly invigorated, if a trifle wild eyed.

To continue: some Moroccan encounters. . .

We bought a large box of excellent dates in Midelt. The shopkeeper had persuaded us to buy the best, after assuring us they would survive the trip home; indeed for several months. As he was expertly packing them, I tried to make light conversation, explaining that we intended to give some as presents once home. Upon hearing the word ‘cadeaux’ he immediately assumed that I was asking for a ‘cadeau’ as a small return for my purchase! Despite my embarrassed protests he presented me with a very tasteful place mat of coloured raffia. For a few minutes there I knew how it felt to be a Moroccan on the cadge. It reminded me of the Welsh custom of ‘luck money’ when you sold an animal at market. The purchaser would invariably come up and claim their ‘cadeau’
prior to your departure.

On Friday the 13th, we parked up on a little plateau overlooking the Barrage Allal el Fassi. All day Pete had been feeling a trifle ‘off’, with a bad headache and a slightly gippy tummy. This site had stunning views over the barrage and gorgeous scenery all around, of olive and almond trees, barley fields and the ubiquitous carpet of flowers in every available patch of earth. We settled down for the night, Pete crashing out almost immediately after a light supper.

Around eightish I heard footsteps approaching and there came a sharp rap on Doris’s door. I peered into the darkness to see two soldiers standing there, who, perfectly politely, told me that it was ‘interdit’ to park where we were and we were going to have to move; (we should have known, after not being allowed to take photos at barrage Youssef Ben-Tachfine, near Tiznet on our last visit. Moroccan officialdom being very touchy about their public works ). But, there was no way we could move, seeing as we don’t ‘do’ night driving (as explained in last blog).

“Non; pas possible” dit I
“M’seur est mal. Il avais le mal de tete et etomach.”

This flummoxed them a bit; and then Pete woke up and confirmed the ‘mal de tete et etomach’ bit. Whereupon one of them got on his walkie talkie and, a few minutes later, a carload of smiling soldiers rolled up; one in plain clothes who appeared to be in charge. After a bit of a chat, and when they had realised that we were not international terrorists planning to damage their lovely barrage, but just two slightly batty old people on holiday, we were allowed to stay, subject to supplying various official details of documentation. Hooray! Two hours later, just as we had got settled down for the night, the smiling crew returned to our door, to get even more numbers and names off official paperwork.

It was all done with the greatest cordiality and friendly repartee. With apologies and ‘bon nuits’ on both sides they left us to sleep. In the morning, as we drove across the barrage bridge, the soldiers all came out of their hut and shouted goodbye, with many smiles and waves.

On the road from Midelt to Sefrou, the snow, which has been prolific this winter, lay all around. At a popular water source we saw a Moroccan family throwing snowballs at each other. It looked very strange to see a mature Moroccan woman, in turquoise djellabah and white headscarf, energetically lobbing snowballs at a man who, I assume, was her hubby.

At a wild camp up in Tassaka Parc Naturel ( more of this later) a Moroccan family, who had been having a Sunday picnic, stopped where we were parked and said hello. The wife gave me half an orange as they left; another cadeau!

Yesterday we drove through Fez. It was hot and muggy. The huge city was crowded with traffic and people; and we were trying to find the road out of town towards Meknes. This necessitated driving through centre ville, which was jam packed. Cars, lorries, vans and buses continuously hooted and parped as we all crawled along at a snail’s pace.

A Moroccan gentleman in the car inching forward alongside us, carried on an intriguing flirtation with me. He repeatedly pointed to his eyes, then to me, then smote his heart and did a thumbs up! I naturally burst out giggling. So, smiling broadly, he pointed to his arm muscles and then again to me, conveying what I really could not tell. And even Pete, who was concentrating every nerve on avoiding collisions, cheered up and waved cheerily at my new admirer! Although my pragmatic partner did rather deflate this old girl’s newly inflated ego by saying he was probably on the lookout for a gullible European woman to act as gigolo for. But it brightened up a stressful interlude.

As did an exchange of looks with a Moroccan girl, riding pillion on one of the weaving scooters. She shouted at the driver, as he squeezed through the minuscule gap between us and the outside lane of traffic. He ignored her of course and, as they passed, our eyes met and she raised hers heavenward, as if to say ‘men!’ I responded with a suitably sympathetic ‘woman to woman’ kind of smile, and she grinned back as her driver managed to find another gap in the motorised melee ahead.

We finally found our way onto the right road, with the help of a very efficient, friendly policeman, who pinpointed exactly where we were on the map and sent us on our way; which happened to be the route past the King’s palace; a palatial estate indeed, that seemed to go on for ever, with armed sentries in little boxes, every few hundred yards.

Before I finish this last Moroccan blog I must just tell about the Tassaka Parc Naturel. This is a circuit from Taza back round in a loop west, coming out on the main road again some 30 k. west of the town. Once again, an incredible place. We have seen waterfalls every bit as good as at Ouzoud. Mountains that rise up over 3,000 metres, the highest being Djebel Bounaceur, are in the far distance. The rocky road has the usual twists and turns through stunningly beautiful countryside of cork oaks, juniper, and other deciduous trees. Here and there we came across small bleak upland plains where a few hardy souls scratch a living from sheep and goats.

Our night park up was actually a designated Aire de Repos, with stone tables and benches set under the cork oaks. And, in the wood behind, we found a dear little stone cottage, all locked up and, presumably, a warden’s pad when the season starts. Absolutely idyllic. Thank goodness it wasn’t for sale!

And that’s about it for the Moroccan stage of this journey. Assuming we do sail tomorrow, I shall post this blog in Tarifa. Then it’s on into Portugal, a country we have not visited before. We have no phrase book and don’t speak a word of the language. Should be an interesting, if confusing, interlude.

This next bit is very long, being the conglomerate account of events from Friday the 6th, to Monday the 9th of March. I know blogs are supposed to be short and chatty but I can’t seem to get the hang of it. Also, as you will know, Piggy and I like wild camping, miles from anywhere, and I have to write things down every evening, to allow for those senior moments, and knock them into shape before the next internet stop. Enough explanations.

JOURNEYS; IN THE MOYEN AND HIGH ATLAS

1. from Ouarzazate to Demnate

“New experiences I’m sure” said I; in ‘smug mode’ in the last blog. Well that’s for certain. I think even Pete’s passion for B roads, preferably going up mountains, will have been (nearly) sated by the time we get back to the relative sanity of European travel.

We left the hot arid plain of Ouarzazate and turned North onto a B road (supposedly equivalent) towards Demnate, about 130 kilometres away, on the other side of the High Atlas range. It started well, despite being all climb and hairpin bends and we both, foolishly, hoped that the surface would stay good.

But, gradually small holes gave way to bigger holes, often filled with water to hidden depths. There were unsafe road edges, with a thin eroded tarmac overhang. And all the time the scenery became more stupendous as we rose higher and higher. The snowy peaks got nearer; and the road got worse.

We saw evidence of rock falls that had been hastily cleared; we came upon several small road gangs and one machine clearing snow from a small avalanche. Snow melt from the higher slopes rushed down the mountain side and over the road in many many places, gouging lumps out of the surface, as it fell to the river, red with sandstone, thousands of feet below, (about seven and a half thousand, for those who’d like to know).

At one point the road was blocked by a broken down lorry, which was being used to move the stones. There were several workmen and one or two small boys, lolling at the side of the road (steep drop side) while the driver/ mechanic did his stuff. A small queue built up on both sides; ours consisted of us and an Austrian campervan, the driver of which we chatted to while we waited. Waiting to come down the mountain was a minibus and a pick up truck.

“How long?” said Pete to the Moroccan layabouts; and made them laugh when he told me three hours, with a straight face, after being assured that ten minutes should see it done.

And then there were the locals; lots and lots of them; usually with donkeys, sheep and goats jumping casually from side to side of the narrow road. Colourful and well wrapped up, ruddy faced and weathered; they looked a hardy lot; if a trifle wild. Most stared, some smiled as we passed. The little children ran alongside, begging for anything, as we tried to negotiate mudslides and potholes. Local transport rushed towards and past us. And I did involuntary isometrics as every aged muscle tensed at each bend and bump. The vocal chords got a bit of a workout too.

Bizarrely, every now and then, we would come upon a road sign featuring a solitary cow. Where these cows were supposed to appear from I cannot imagine. Any pasture was way down in the valleys and, if such creatures existed among the stony scree, their owners would have had them very firmly tethered for sure.

And all the time the scenery was incredible. rocky, barren; awesome ravines where the red river flowed far below; occasional patches of cultivation alongside the river; almond trees and barley; brown stone built houses clinging onto the side of the mountains. The snow capped peaks, not so far away as before.

As we came out of, what we took to be, the last major pass, we saw a sign for Demnate. Only another 53 k to go. We were only just over halfway! From then on it was just hair raising. Poor Doris was more in 1st gear than any other. The worst moments were climbing round steep bends, the narrow road made even narrower by muddy stony sediment and brown water from the cliff face. I didn’t dare look down into the valleys; my every nerve centred on Piggy as he steered us ever onward.

Never have I been happier to see habitation; in the form of Demnate. As we descended, the barren snowscape gave way to wooded slopes of cedar and pines. It was very beautiful. Olive groves, almond trees and green, lovely green everywhere.

That night we wild camped a few k out of Demnate, in a little lay-by just off the road; as did the Austrian campers, who followed us all the way down.

Note: I have just read the last entry to Piggy, who says I haven’t captured “the true horror” of the experience. All I can say is, okay. Glad we made it; but never again. Give me the touts of the Dades valley any day!

Before the next journey; an idyllic interlude:

The fields are alive . . . .

Saturday (7th of March) Tonight we are parked on a patch of bare ground, on the edge of a vast plain of barley, which grows as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road. Again, the usual drifts of wild flowers, which now include poppies, small irises, adonis annua and a form of pungent salvia are all around.

To the North we can see the snowy peaks of the High Atlas; scene of our travails yesterday; only now, in the sunset, they are a delicate tint of icing sugar pink, with a lilac sky behind.

The plain looked deserted, except for a few low brown stone houses in the distance. But, as the lights started coming on, a ribbon of twinkling points spread all around; and it was obvious that this seemingly deserted plain was full of people.

Earlier we had discerned black dots, moving, spread out all over the fields; presumably engaged in the never ending forage gathering. People on donkeys trotted by and distant vehicles sped to and fro from the settlements, now shaped by lights on the near horizon. Behind them, the hills before the mountains; a gorgeous vista.

And; not quite so idyllic:

Friday evening (6th of March) This park up was not very salubrious, being a rubbish tip for the nearby village. But it served it’s purpose as a haven of repose after our horrendous journey.

On Saturday morning two young hustlers did their best to put us off Moroccan youth for life.

“Donnez moi un dhiram,
donnez moi une stylo,
donnez moi un bonbon,
donnez moi argent!”

After a prolonged period of persistent hustling they produced a dog; on the assumption that all Europeans’ hearts melt at the sight of man’s best friend. Then a donkey appeared and gazed mournfully through the door of Doris, as we tried to ignore them and finish our breakfast. To play on our heartstrings they explained they had no home, their mother was dead and they were completely poverty stricken. These were two healthy looking lads, in clean clothes, with gelled hair and a transistor radio. Also supposed to be tending a flock of sheep and goats; if the sharp words coming from an older shepherd on the hill above us were anything to go by.

2. from Demnate to Beni Mellal; Sunday the 8th of March:

We left our field park up in the morning, after watching the local populace emerge into the fields, with donkeys, sheep, goats and cows. They all waved and smiled as they passed, in family groups.

A short aside. Sunday seems to be the day Moroccan families have an outing. They can be seen, picnicking, or strolling in the country or by the seaside. A bit of quality leisure time.

So off we set towards the east, aiming to reach Midelt within two days, with a wild camp up on the way. First though, as we were so close, we decided to ‘do’ the cascades at Ouzoud, a famous tourist attraction. The experience was much as expected. Lots of tourists, both Moroccan and European, and the attendant touts and shops. Swarming with people generally. Several campsites, but none that appealed; so did a quick foray to the Falls, fending off the many ‘guides’, who told us how ‘dangereux’ it was to venture forth ‘sans guide’.

‘Twas a bit like a red rag to the proverbial, saying such words to survivors of a journey over the High Atlas; and many walks along the Pembrokeshire coast path! The falls were okay, although we much preferred the ‘Pont Naturel’ that we had seen the day before, just outside Demnate; a natural stone bridge with a fast stream flowing through a deep ravine below. Under the arch choughs and lesser kestrels banked and hovered round their nests on the rocky faces of the ravine.

Then off we set on our way to Midelt. And another ‘B’ road, which, although it was still a stunning ride up hill and down dale, was nothing too daunting. We drove past the Bin-el-Ouidaine barrage and cut across country to find a wild camp up somewhere south of Beni Mellal. But, unbeknown to us, somewhere we took a wrong turning and couldn’t find out where we were. We kept seeing milestones to a village called Tagleft, but it was not on our map.

We were getting a bit concerned as there was barely an hour of daylight left and a narrow mountain road, in Morocco, in the dark, is not an option. We had to find somewhere to park up. And then we found the promised Tagleft. From an empty country road we drove straight in to it’s only dusty street, which was packed with people, as every village and town is at that time of day. The road ended at a small square of shops and cafes, all full of customers, with lorries, cars, scooters bikes and donkeys playing dodgems round the throng of pedestrians.

There was no option but to turn round and go back, but we didn’t know where we were going. We had to stop and ask. Almost immediately we were surrounded by an ever growing crowd of smiling faces. This was no man’s land for campers and we appeared to be the main entertainment event for the evening. Amazingly, at the front of the crowd appeared a cheerful chap who spoke perfectly good English. He and Pete pored over our map, but couldn’t decipher our position at all. The best he could do was point us in the direction we had come as the way to Beni Mellal.
After a pleasant, if claustrophobic, quarter of an hour full of noisy suggestions as to our course of action, and much laughter, we went on our way; not before our new friend had offered to put us up at his house. But it was obvious that we wouldn’t get any sleep if we stayed, so we promised to return if we got stuck again.

We drove about ten k. back the way we had come and, with only minutes to spare, found a small pull off overlooking a green valley in a hollow in the hills; managed to get pretty near level and settled down for the night. It was a beautiful spot. Just over the low roadside hill we could see the High Atlas; again! The moon was nearly full and from the valley basin rose the echoing sounds of cicadas, frogs, possibly toads, and dogs barking to each other, probably of our suspected presence.

In the morning the usual stream of people passed, going down to the valley on donkeys and coming up with sheep and goats. Most waved and smiled. Grand taxis and lorries drove past. Nearly all waved and hooted. They’d probably seen us in Tagleft the night before.

We retraced our steps to the last known map point and took the road north. Another amazing ride down to the plain of Beni Mellal, along a winding road. As we descended the vegetation grew more lush and, all along the hilly road side, were cistus bushes covered with papery pink flowers. Soon we were on the N8 and approaching Beni Mellal.

3. from Beni Mellal to Midelt; Monday the 9th of March

It felt strange to be driving at more than ten kilometres an hour on a two lane road with fast traffic. Doris enjoyed the luxury of being in top gear, through Beni Mellal, Kasba Tadla and nearly to Khenifra. We turned south onto another B road towards Zeida, via El Kebab, which is only twenty k. north of Midelt; our destination for the night.

As navigator I had dismissed an alternative route, on a B road, some miles before, in favour of this one, because it looked shorter and not so winding. How wrong can you be! It followed the river Serrou, which I thought might be the pretty way, The road was built on the soft red sandstone prevalent in the area and holes started appearing almost immediately, in the middle and along the edges. The many little streams that ran into the river caused muddy slips and hazards; and then we started to climb.

The country grew wilder and more barren. Greenery gave way to wild upland moorland. After a slow slog upward we came across the isolated Berber village of El Kebab. It was Souk day and it seemed as if every available body from the surrounding countryside was in town.

Piggy’s driving skills were further tested getting in and out of a ‘restricted’ access to a gazole station, having to ignore the suggested hand signals of a smiling Moroccan driver, who showed scant disregard for the retention of our wing mirrors. We crept at snail’s pace through the milling crowds blocking the narrow sandy street. Traffic passed both ways, continuously beeping to get through, when it was quite obvious that slow to dead stop was the optimum speed.

I very much doubt if any other campervans had come this way; and we were very glad of Doris’s ageing and shabby appearance, which seemed to cause curiosity but not hostility. In the main people looked friendly and acknowledged our smiles and ‘bonjours’. Some of the women, very colourful in their all covering robes, looked disapprovingly at my uncovered European head.

Finally we made it through the seething melee and out of town. We drove on, aiming for a place called Kerrouchen; the last outpost before the road joined the main road to Zeida.
But the journey got steadily worse. The road (more piste than road) was pitted and holed nearly all the way. We crawled along, averaging twenty k. an hour, and ever upward we went, the snow covered peaks of the Moyen Atlas drew nearer; and country folk stared as we passed; probably thinking we were completely bonkers.

At last we passed the turning for Kerrouchen, but there was still 74 k. to go to Midelt. And we were still going up. As the final insult to Doris’s gallant efforts, just before we went over the top, we encountered a ford, with fast rushing water over large boulders. Pete took it reasonably fast, to avoid getting stuck in the middle, and poor Doris suffered some nasty bangs to her undercarriage as we wallowed across.

With nerves strained to breaking point we climbed steadily for several k. and Doris’s temperature began to rise; only settling back to normal when we put the heating on full blast. We were worried that something dreadful had happened as we crossed the ford, but had to keep going. And the weather gradually got worse, with angry black clouds gathering all around.

At last, after passing substantial snow banks alongside the road, we started to descend. Still a dreadful road but, far in the distance, we could see the main road to Zeida. As we hit the junction with the main road, the heavens opened and sheet lightning split the sky. The thunder reverberated round the hills, and even the Moroccan drivers put their lights on!

Then Zeida; the junction of the B road 503 and the N13 to Midelt. We nearly took a wrong turning here but, finally, we were driving South to Midelt, with only twenty k. to go. The rain was still lashing down and the thunder and lightning pyrotechnics lit up the sky. But we made the campsite and parked up in the nick of time. When we fell into bed that night we thanked our lucky stars that our Doris is built like a tank and took everything we threw at her with relative ease. There is a hint of damage to one ofof the exhaust joins, but, apart from that, she appears unscathed. What a wonder of a machine!

But, all good things have to come to an end and Monday morning saw us climbing out of the steep road out of Tafraout towards Igherm. We had travelled this road last year; and a barren but beautiful journey it was. But this year the rains have turned it into a carpet of green with startling swards of colour from the myriad flowers. Knee high barley covered every available space; to say it was breathtakingly stunningly fantastic is to underestimate the vista spread on every side as we drove. As it got higher (the highest point is about seven and a half thousand feet) the green gave way, a little, to almond trees in leaf. It augers well for a good harvest; to be celebrated at Tafraout again we hope.

The culmination of this flower fest was our park up for the night. About 30 k from Tazenacht we pulled off onto a gravelly open space, between the road and a dry river bed, backed by overhanging rocks. The whole area was a natural wild garden, stunningly overrun with red, pink and purple bugloss, asphodel, yellow brassica, mignonette, marigold, an enormous fennel like plant and lots of orange flowers that reminded me of the corn marigolds we get back in Pembrokeshire. These were just the ones that i could identify. Frustratingly I couldn’t find any others in my wild flower (of the Mediterranean) book. But that didn’t stop our enjoyment of this magic little spot.

Two girls with donkeys stopped to gaze and giggle. They spoke only Berber but still managed to ask for some chocolate! And in the morning, three of their friends turned up; and depleted our store of chocolate even further.

We left there the next morning and aimed for the wild campsite where we are now parked up. It’s about 30 k from Ouzarzate (home of the Moroccan film industry) and we found it last year. A rocky open plateau with the oued Ariri running through it; just a large stream really. And the wind blows continuously, whipping up the sand along the riverbed. In the distance, to the West, the snow capped tips of the High Atlas can be seen. Yesterday Pete climbed the hills on the other side of the road to get a better view. Pretty amazing evidently. For interested twitchers he saw a blue rock thrush up there; and yesterday evening we watched as two booted eagles soared and wheeled along the orange cliffs that back on to the river.

Tomorrow we leave here. We have decided to avoid the Dades valley, with it’s many touts and tat, and are aiming for Demnate. A new place for us. And new experiences I’m sure.

We arrived in Tafroute last Sunday and parked up at the wild camping as we did last year. No where near as many campers as then; and less hustlers, especially the kids; Carol and Phil please note! The have had rain, even here, one of the driest areas of Morocco, and, what was a stony quartz scree, is now covered with what first appears to be grass; but if you look closely it is tiny flowers and herbage.

We had only been there for about half an hour when Hassan, (another Hassan) the gofer for Maison Troc (carpet shop) arived, all smiles, to renew our acquaintance. Despite our assurances that we would not be repeating our extravagance of last year he turned up not much later with Mohammed, salesman superieur, who greeted us as old friends; but we stuck to our guns and told them we had not the money; and also we had to find a mechanic to look at Doris.

As I knew they would they recommended someone straight away and, within the hour, he was delving under Doris’s bonnet to ascertain the problem.

On our way here we noticed that Doris had developed a bit of a cough; it sounded like fuel starvation; and that’s just what it turned out to be. The mechanic returned the next day, on foot with a tiny toolkit, nowhere near as comprehensive as the collection Pete had packed, and sorted the whole thing out; having to return to his garage to get a new filter halfway through the operation. It cost about fifty quid, which was probably a bit over the odds but, despite some teeth sucking from Piggy, was worth it; in my opinion.

Since we have been here the residents of Tafroute have been straining every muscle to prepare for the festival; an event that has not taken place for many years (from 4 to 20, according to who you ask) Road laying has gone on day and night. Painting of any available surface has filled the air wih fumes that fight for predominance over the usual diesel and exhaust; and in the main square a stage has been erected and many little tented stalls surround the open area purveying snacks and the inevitable tourist tat.

But yesterday it looked as if they might have a problem. In the night the wind reached gale force dimensions and the rain lashed down. All day we were huddled in Doris, wondering how the electrics were holding up down at the square.

But today all is sunshine and the music sounds great. As soon as I have finished this entry I will be joining Piggy outside to take it all in; and get some photos for the blog.

Mind you, only an hour ago all was doom and gloom. We needed to draw some money, for babouche and other purchases, but, despite trying the only two cashpoints in town, several times, we couldn’t get either to pay out. The bank staff were completely unhelpful, insisting it was our card at fault; even appealing to the manager elicited no response. There was only one option left, other than leave town and hope for better luck elsewhere, and that was – call on Mohammed and Hassan at Maison Troc.

We just wanted them to test our card on their machine, to confirm the probem wasn’t at our end; but as soon as we had explained our dilemma Hassan offered to do a money transaction, after verifying that there was no problem with our card. Ten minutes later we left our favourite carpet shop wth the cash needed and promised to return next year to buy another gorgeous floor covering. What it is to have contacts!

So that’s all for now. The sun is shining and the music calls. But first we must buy babouches. Until next time

We are at Hassans. A Moroccan we now count as a friend, after meeting him in Goulimine last year, when he lured us back to his newly opened camp site with promises of showers and proper sit down toilets; which was nearly true, although the water supply to both was a trifle intermittent.

But Hassan was the genuine article. He loved company and talking, listening to music and generally enjoying life. So we have returned to see how his campsite project is getting on; and I am pleased to report that it appears to be a great success.

It is about 10 k south of Goulimine, in the village of Asrir; and is set in the middle of an extensive palmery, with orange mud and straw houses dotted among the trees; and fertile little gardens growing barley, olives and vegetables, fenced around with palm leaf pallisades.

Hassan’s camp site is full! He has finally got his mention in a Moroccan camping guide, (with GPS identification) and the French campervans ,especially, are beating a path to his door.  When they get here it is to receive the warmest of welcomes from their host, who does everything possible to make their stay a memorable one. Whether it is his benign influence, or he just attracts a better class of camper I don’t know, but all the campers have been remarkably friendly and chat quite happily to all their neighbours, be they French, German, Dutch or English; something that doesn’t usually happen in other camp sites we have frequented.

This morning Pete decided that Doris’s handbrake needed tightening; an essential bit of maintenance if we are to tackle the lower slopes of any of the Atlas mountains. This necessitated himself crawling about under her back wheels with the appropriate spanners to tighten up things, (and that’s as technical as it’s going to get). This soon attracted a small audience of fellow campers; who are ever on the lookout for things to get interested in. They addressed his legs, as the only visible contact, questioning the seriousness of the problem.

“Pas de problem” said Pete to these enquiries. Naturally enough his audience wanted to know why he was lying under Doris.

“Vous dormis?” one asked.

“Il est mort?” from another.

And so it went on, as Pete’s legs threshed about tightening the aforesaid things. A very jolly interlude.

I would add that we are the only English here; as is the case in most of Moroccan campsites. Hassan strolls about beaming and chatting to all his flock with no difficulty; he does speak French, English and German, Arabic of course and his local language; I didn’t quite catch what it was, plus a smattering of several others; so, pas de problem.

His mother, sister, brother in law and their two small daughters live in another house next to Hassans; a much smaller, traditional affair; unlike Hassans, which is built more in the Spanish style; a country where he lived and worked for some years. His two little nieces get spoilt rotten by the campers. Their teeth will be ruined even quicker than Moroccans in general; most of whom can’t afford to pay dentists.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Several hours later . . . . . . .  We have just returned from an impromptu dinner party in Hassan’s house.

At a long table in the living room were several French couples talking nineteen to the dozen with plenty of beverages to keep the repartee from flagging. We had all brought our own plates, spoons and glasses, as requested only a short time before. In no time at all Hassan and his brother in law came in bearing steaming platters of cous cous with chicken and vegetables, cooked by Hassan’ sister. Absolutely delicious; and great company too. We happened to be seated next to Jean Michel and Chantel. Jean Michel spoke as good an English as we did Francais. So we made ourselves understood and we all rubbed along very well.

Peter and Jean discovered each other’s fishing interests very soon on into  the conversation. We spoke of children and grandchildren; the joys of living by the sea (they live in La Rochelle) work and play;and general chit chat. A great evening; made more so because of it’s unexpectedness. Hassan was beaming with joy, that so many of his charges were seated at his table and enjoying his hospitality. I predict that his campsite will be one of the most popular ever. Certainly one of the most authentic experiences of Moroccan hospitality that Pete and I have come across so far.

Mind you, we did have a similar experience at the camp site we stayed in outside Goulimine, for two days before we came to Hassans.

After leaving the Oued Assaka on Tuesday (17th) morning we went in search  of water; and realised that we had been travelling around with our eyes closed, both this year and last. We had been told of public taps in Goulimine by campers at Plage Blanche, and found these just on the outskirts as directed. Once we’d seen one lot we realised we had seen many, but not realised they were for all to use. While I was shopping in Goulimine Pete saw a man taking a drink from a pottery pitcher; left for the purpose outside a shop, with a handy cup tied to the handle. When you think of it, it’s quite a necessary service in an area where water is such a precious commodity.

We found the campsite 2 k out of Goulimine on the Agadir road. It was a huge square of ground, fronted by a cafe/ restaurant; with a small separate toilet block and wash area. Behind the buildings the park up spaces were divided by flowerbeds and bushes, with little bamboo huts with concrete floors, sprinkled here and there. It was very decorative, in that haphazard Moroccan way and I liked it very much.

Two young Moroccan lads appeared to be in charge; neither very pushy but perfectly friendly. It had no showers or electricity, which explained why it wasn’t heaving with campervans. Indeed we were the only punters on this couple of acres; except for a modest French van that arrived late in the evening and left very early on Wednesday morning.

Despite the lack of showers, we both had a thorough clean and tidy up; and I did all the washing. It was an intriguing place. We decided it must be a leisure facility, Moroccan style. During the two days we were there several carloads of Moroccans rolled up and used the cafe. Many just walked round the gardens, heads bent in earnest conversation; and, in the evening, some prayed, kneeling on the dusty ground, facing towards Mecca.

Tomorrow (Sunday the 22nd) we leave Hassans, possibly aiming for Assa, a 100k from here; and then off to Tafroute; where we will try not to be tempted into buying another carpet!