CHAPTER 4

SNAKES AND LADDERS

Only have a quick rest from time to time we march on, in grim determination. Coming up to a roadside bar we venture inside and are immediately befriended by a crowd of fellow countrymen who show us how they think Spain ought to be enjoyed - through an alcoholic haze! The barman presses free drinks on us which unfortunately appear to be alcoholic, so after a diplomatic pause we pass them on to the revellers and make our exit.

On the other side of the road there appear to be some fruits growing on the trees. I cross over to make a recce. Oranges they definitely are, probably the remnants of the crop so I glean them and am delighted at the taste hot and slightly over-ripe juice of the blood oranges. I depart from the grove with some fruits clasped against my chest and sit eating them with my girlfriend on the kerbside; we have both lost the energy to walk any further.

'At last,' I cry out as a car pulls up. The driver appears happy too, he is wreathed in smiles and seems different to the other drivers we have met so far in Spain, much more open and friendly. It is a small car and for a change I sit in the front with the driver who immediately points to the car record player and offers to put on some music. From the pile of singles on the floor he selects a record and after inserting the disc in the slot of the player, crackles and pops provide a fanfare to a multitude of violins which hop and bound through a strange and beautiful melody. Rich patterns are soon woven by a variety wind instruments which come floating in and out of my awareness.

'Brilliant! Amazing! Spanish?' I ask.

'Maroc,' he answers me.

'Huh?'

'Moroccan,' Yolanda intervenes, 'He's Moroccan,' she explains.
I decide there and then that I am going to like Morocco and I can't wait to get there. This music he is playing is very stoned music and I wonder if our driver has been 'indulging'. Our driver turns out to be a very chatty fellow, though much of what he says is lost on me as he speaks only in French. He has some fruit which he shares with us, we're a merry throng, driving along. We coast along for what seems like hours before arriving at a large town, the city of Malaga in fact. Along the seafront is an unending line of palm trees. I look for coconuts but cannot see a one.

Yolanda has taken to playing the interpreter role again; 'This man has to go and do some business in town,' she says, 'If things go well he will be driving on further down the coast to somewhere called Algeciras. From there he will be going to Morocco.'

I look at him enthusiastically; he beams back to me.

'He comes from Marrakesh, and he wants to know whether we would we like to go there with him?' Yolanda continues. Marrakesh! Just the sound of the name sends tingles through me, it sounds so exotic. Hadn't there once been a children's programme of that name with Patrick Allen and Sam Kydd?

'We're all going on the Marrakesh Express, all aboard that train,' I begin singing the recent offering from the heavily hyped band Crosby, Stills & Nash.

Since our driver has some business to attend to we agree to meet him later at the Plaza Aduana, the main square. With time on our hands we go in search of food and indulge ourselves also in a little sight seeing. Nosing through the windows of cafes and restaurants I am surprised to find they are catering for the tourist market, selling typically English fare like steak and chips, mixed grill, egg chips and bacon - we might as well have been back in London. We set off in search of fresh food and come across an indoor market, an immense place with imposingly high ceilings and an overall impression of coolness, providing a temporary respite and a contrast to the scorching heat outside. There we buy our provisions of fruit, bread and cheese.

Having done rough justice to our backlog of hunger, we place the remainder of the food in our rucksack and continue our walk around the city of Malaga. There are stately columns, eye catchingly high buildings and a cathedral that all jostle for attention. To think that some people actually get off on the solemn and solitary occupation of sightseeing leaves me quite perplexed. Life here seems to move on at a pedestrian pace and we have rather a lot of time to kill. Rather inevitably we arrive extremely early for our rendez-vous with our Moroccan friend and have a long, long time to wait for him. I can hardly contain my relief when he appears. I greet him earnestly.

'Oui, nous allons a Marrakesh,' he says grinning widely. He really is a good ambassador for his country.

We are soon back in the car and heading towards the port Algeciras. Between tucking in to the food supplies and drawing on our cigarettes we while away the time listening to music. I find the Moroccan music enticing, with messages of freedom and excitement that pierce my alert senses. Onwards we travel, the sunlight gives way to night. Yolanda and myself are excited that we are really on our way to Morocco, especially since we have a sure lift all the way to Marrakesh. We don't mind losing yet another night's sleep.

Before dawn the car has pulls in to our destination. We stay seated in the car to watch the first powerful rays of sunshine thrusting themselves upon the morning sky. Then, opening the car doors, we wander off along the quayside gazing over the waters of the Mediterranean. Finding the local conveniences we make ourselves ready for the new day and a little later, when the facility for changing money opens, we change some more of our precious currency to buy tickets for our boat trip to Tangiers. When we return to the car our friend then goes himself to buy his ticket and also to freshen himself up.

It is a while before he breezes back again, he has changed, he is now dressed in a different set of clothes and has evidently been shaving his face and trimming his moustache too. It seems we are all ready so our driver restarts the car and drives a short distance to the join the queue of vehicles waiting to go onboard. I am really excited now; it feels like a really momentous occasion.

The queue moves slowly down the ramp, in fits and starts it advances, and we draw ever closer to the vast hold of the boat. Down the ramp we descend and soon it is our turn to drive onboard. All at once the light of the sun is behind us and there is only a string of naked light bulbs to illuminate the hold - I struggle hard to see about us. In single file the cars move forward and past a figure seated at a desk some yards further to the left. An official pokes his head in at the window of our car whereupon our driver hands over his passport. Naturally, we do likewise and the passports are taken to the man at the desk. I turn to chat with Yolanda but moments later our friendly driver interrupts us. He points to the seated official who appears to be trying to get my attention, motioning for me to come over to see him. I assumes he meant for me to collect the passports so I set out to do just that. He remains impassing, he sits gazing steadily at me for a several long moments and then he gets up from his chair.

'Nice suit ..? he asks me, pointing to his clothes. 'Yes .? Nice? Good shoes, Yes? Yes!'

'Uh? Excuse me? ' I enquire.

'N-i-i-ce hair? Yes?' he says, preening himself. I start to feel uneasy.

'When you come to my country, you wear nice suit nice hair, Yes?' he continues.

I stare at him, trying to conceal my feelings about him.

He hands me back the passports and I return to the car, closing the door behind me.

'What a jumped up little shit,' I murmur to my girlfriend.

'What did he say?' Yolanda asks.

A shout interrupts us. I see the first official, the one I had first handed the passports to, gesturing at me again. He seems to want me to get out of the car again but I don't move. My senses are becoming swamped with anger and frustration. Our driver looks at me uneasily and points to the official. The door is opened and I grudgingly get out. The customs man treats me to another display of his theatrics, but the words he utters are totally incomprehensible to me. I look beseechingly at our driver who shrugs. The official points to the ramp - we are clearly being thrown off the boat. Not wishing to cause any hardship for our driver I decide curb my tongue and instead pull our baggage out of the car. We thank our driver for having given us the lift. He looks back at us sadly. I took a another look at Mister Suit who grins at me, a smug look on his face.

'When you come to Morocco you come nice, look like me,' he shouts

'You've got Problems!' I counter, hardly appreciating the irony of the remark.

'What a cretin,' Yolanda murmurs, 'Who does he think he is?'

'A suit?' I offer.

I had almost forgotten how unpleasant officials can be. The gendarme on the autoroute and then being refused entry to Spain, and now this, being refused entry to Morocco.

What did it say in my passport;
'To afford the bearer without let or hindrance...'

'Balls,' I said.

'Cretinous shit,' Yolanda replies.

Though there really isn't anything we can do about the situation, it doesn't stop us talking about it. For the next half-hour we rage, keeping an ongoing volley of insults directed towards the power mad conceited official.

'How are we going to get to Morocco now?' Yolanda asks at length.

'First, let's go and see if we can get the money back on these tickets,' I suggest.

We get our money back without difficulty, which surprises me. Studying the map posted on the quayside I give serious consideration to our position. Two alternate plans begin to grow in my mind. I figure we can return to France and make our way through Italy and the rest of Europe or we might take a boat to Algeria. The latter would be the more expensive route but one that would ensure we do not miss out on North Africa altogether.

Whilst poring over the map we are joined by a few other foreigners. We tell them of our predicament.

'They're in the pay of the Yanks,' comes the confident reply.

'What?' I gasp.

'Yeah, a ploy to keep heads out of the place. America bribed them to keep out all longhairs.'

'To hell with them! They're not going to keep me out, Fascist bastards!' I snort indignantly.

'Yeah,' he nods, 'But how you gonna get in then? Go to Algeria and come back over the border into Morocco, that's how it's usually done.'

Travelling appears to be like a game of snakes and ladders. I have another idea of how to get to Morocco, and ask our new friends where Ceuta is.

'Oh it's a part of Spain,' comes the reply.

'But it's over the water, a part of Marocco really?'

'Yes.'

'So there's nothing to stop us going there, no passport checks or anything?'

'I suppose not, but you're better to go travel to Tangiers.'

Checking at the ticket booth I find a ticket for Ceuta much cheaper than for Tangiers, which is a persuasive argument for going to Ceuta.

'Shall we try it?' I ask Yolanda, pleased at having found a cheap answer to our problem.

We have no trouble booking the tickets but we are going to have to wait several hours for it to leave. I lean on a fence near the ticket kiosk looking over at the public conveniences where outside families are washing themselves. With their brightly coloured clothes, and cleaning unusual looking brass cooking pots, I figure they must be visitors too, probably Moroccans. They splash about in the water cheerfully amidst a sea of bubbles about their ankles. Without anything better to do we just settle down and stare at the spectacle.

Eventually though, we grow restless we go in search of the ferryboat. It has arrived and for a while we watch the comings and goings of the crew. We find that we are the first passengers to arrive, there is still about an hour to go before departure. Having boarded the vessel we take a good look around it, then sit down on one of the many long wooden well-constructed benches arrayed over the vast deck. Feeling sapped of humour and a little tired I keep my own company - Yolanda likewise has little to say for herself. We no longer even mention the incident with the customs man. Having given vent to our feelings there is little more to say; we are just pawns caught up in a game beyond our control.

The weather takes a turn for the worse, becoming overcast and even giving the impression of impending rain. I am feeling vacuous and uneasy, a reminder of how my mood had been sometimes back in London just prior to our departure. I determine not to let the mood take hold but I realise I am powerless to do anything about it. I am sensing a feeling of apathy from Yolanda too; perhaps the trip isn't working after all. Perhaps it is my fault. Maybe I have let her down, let myself down. Perhaps the Moroccan official was right after all? I have been getting quite carefree of late. Now, where has that feeling gone? Confused and devoid of joi de vivre I have little of a positive value to give out to anyone.

Gradually, more and passengers come to sit on the benches. I surmise that we must soon be leaving. I am right. After a few perfunctory shouts and some activity amongst the crew members we cast adrift and float very slowly away from the quayside. I sense my spirits lift a fraction. The craft comes to a halt. More shouts and machinery sprang into action and then the boat begins to move again, we are on the move! Getting up some speed, we cut through the choppy waters 'at the rate of knots' (whatever a knot is). I look about me hoping to amuse or distract myself, rather than stare out to sea. I admire the funnels and survey all the various sorts of deck fittings.

Sitting closeby us I notice there are some Japanese people with unsmiling expressionless faces they talk amongst themselves. I survey their expensive looking luggage and ask myself why is it that Americans and Japanese tourists just always carry cameras around their necks. The craze has certainly not taken off with the British. The blank expressions on the Japanese tourists puzzles me, they seem sort of unnatural. What brought them all this way from Japan to travel on this dull boat ride? But perhaps they are really enjoying the trip; I have no way of knowing. One of them asks Yolanda a question that she can't understand. We discover that they cannot speak English and in their turn, they soon discover that we know not a word of Japanese. A total impasse. But for some reason this does not stop them from wanting to talk. One of them has an idea; he slips off his seat and undoes his luggage, excitedly taking out a small bag. Opening it he pours the contents out into my hands. They are coins of different shapes and sizes with even strange symbols and markings. I nod appreciatively and hand them on to Yolanda, whereupon she in turn passes them back to the excited little chap. Grinning from ear to ear and showing the many gaps in his teeth he presents first me and then my girlfriend with little coins with holes in them, momentoes of our meeting. After thanking him we sit there trying to make out the letters on the coins. He repacks his money and now produces some postage stamps. We look at those too but for us they have only limited interest and soon the 'conversation' lulls. In the spirit of sharing I offer them some of our food and they open theirs offering to share theirs. I find myself gradually warming to them, realising that they, like ourselves, are just lonely travellers, a long way from their homeland.

Happilly, I notice we are fast approaching land. We all get up and lean out over the railings to watch the landing, whereupon the boat came to a dead halt. Suddenly the crew, who during the trip have not revealed themselves, are here, there and everywhere. The boat manoeuvres and much time slips by before we come to rest. The crew, all muscular and sailorlike, line themselves along the gangway, they very much the part. I hold out our passports ready for any awaiting officials, forgotting that we are still in Spain.

We tag along with the other passengers and venture into the town where the shopkeepers wearing colourful clothes, even straw hats with coloured ribbons attached - an atmosphere of suppressed gaiety prevails. A full-time round-the-clock fun city, the idea has a certain appeal. But where were the revellers? Most surely not us lot! Passing through a square marked Plaza de Africa, by the imposing Cathedral, along flagstone alleyways and across more squares we explore the city of Ceuta. As we pass by cafes, restaurants, gift stalls and the like, my attention comes to rest on a barber's shop; I stop as an idea stirs in my head. As I linger outside the shop Yolanda eyes me suspiciously.

Catching the attention of the owner I stride in without hesitation and chucking my baggage to the floor collapse in the chair. He picks up scissors and with an evil glint in his eye begins hacking at my hair, carelessly lopping off large clumps. Though he is causing me a deal of pain, with knitted brow and gritted teeth I bear it in silence. He deploys none of the niceties associated with hairdressers generally - no careful trimming, no attention to microscopic rogue hairs that have escaped attention. Without so much as a squirt of spray of smelly stuff which usually punctuates the end of this kind of job, he finishes his work, within three short minutes. Surveying the damage in the mirror, I lean over and help myself to a brush to try to coax the remaining hair into something half-reasonable. Standing ankle deep in brown curls I give the barber a withering look. Decidedly un-withered by my scowl he greedily demands the sum of fifty pesetas from me.

Yolanda looks very annoyed. That's all I need. But I keep my silence and press on, hoping we are going the right way, attempting to catch sight of our fellow passengers.

'Why did you do it?' Yolanda demands.

Should I give the two-hour answer or something more concise? I decide on the latter.

'Oh balls, we want to get into Morocco don't we?'

Since we are now adrift from the rest of the ship's passengers, I am now guided through Ceuta by nothing but intuition and a measure of guesswork. When we come to a bus station I spot some young hippie-looking Europeans and wander over to chat with them. They have just come Morocco and have only good to say about it. I eye their leather shoulderbags which have beautiful colourful stitchwork; they tell us they got these in Marrakesh.

'How did you get here?' one of them asks.

'Huh, that's a story. Actually we had a lift that was going all the way to Marrakesh but we couldn't get past the customs in Algeciras.'

We are soon regaling them with a full account of all our recent misfortunes.

'Paid by the Americans,' comes the response.

I marvel at the Jungle Telegraph system that seems to keep all but me informed.

'Well they owe me fifty pesetas then. Fascists!' I say for the second time that day. 'But how did you get in to Morrocco?' I ask.

'Oh you gotta fly in. It's alright that way, they want your bread you see, it's as simple as that.'

'Too late for that now. I've had my hair cut now so we shouldn't have any trouble getting over the border.'

'Good luck! You shouldn't have any problem, you're fine!'

We shuffle away from the bus station, for it seems we don't need a bus as we the border is close enough to walk to, but we must get a move on for darkness is closing in fast. As we draw closer to the border post I figure I should to spend the last of our pesetas on biscuits and fruit. We approach the Moroccan customs building with a sense of trepidation, nervously stopping near to where a uniformed official stands. Smiling, he takes our passports and slowly and deliberately peruses them, intermittently looking over at us. He catches my eye and makes a motion with his head - the message is clear enough, he wishes to see if I am concealing my hair behind. I give him a whirl, whereupon he looks back at me a look of surprise written large on his face but he nods approvingly and sets about stamping the passports.

I resist the urge to express my delight at getting through the border and instead set about changing some money; getting a fiver's worth of dirhams.

No that isn't it…

….here it is!

Ten days out of London and here we are in Morocco - not bad!

Light of step we make our way down the narrow road. From out of the shadowy gloom of the moonless night figures come and go; amusingly most appear to be dressed in night gowns. Possibly they are out for a stroll in the warm evening. It all seems a bit odd.

Amongst a cluster of low buildings we locate a cafe; celebratory drinks are in order. The owner appears in the doorway, he is a well-built middle aged man sporting a vast moustache. I order two cups of tea and then go to sit ourselves outside. I note that Yolanda now seems much more relaxed, in fact she looks positively radiant. She thanks me for what I did back in Ceuta.

The genial proprietor appears with our drinks, they come as a bit of a surprise. He passes the drinking vessels, clear glasses with chrome surrounds and handles, containing a green liquid, a potion containing a mass of vegetation. I nudge Yolanda. 'Maybe it's marijuana?' I suggest under my breath.

'Maybe it is!' she replies full of curiosity.

Before we have a chance to sample the beverage we are joined by somebody who is obviously a policeman. He seems to be a friend of the proprietor - I get the drift; this is a put-up job. The owner gives us the marijuana, then friendly Mister Plod joins us and then it's 'I've got you two, now come along quietly!'

It doesn't quite happen that way. Nervously I sip my drink and almost choke laughing. 'It's mint, mint tea, wow!'

The policeman positively bristling with tokens of his office, smiles but obviously does not know why we are falling about laughing. When we recover we drink our over-sweet mint drinks and light up cigarettes. At length the policeman gets up we wave him a cheery farewell. Before paying for our drinks I study a five-dirham note; noticing that the face printed on it looks remarkably like the officious customs man back in Algeciras. The friendly proprietor brings me the change, a handful of interesting pretty coins. Some have stars struck on them, others have relief designs reminiscent of art nouveau; all the coins have dates from between 1370-1390!

It is time we looked for lodgings; I worry that we should have considered this need earlier, back in Ceuta. We keep searching but find ourselves soon on the outside of town. I reason it is dangerous for us to start hitchhiking in darkness, so we decide instead to find somewhere comfortable to roll out our sleeping bags. Veering off the road we walk for some minutes with only the faintest light to guide us, the stones beneath our feet scrunch noisily. The darkness has now become total; we cannot even see each other now. I repeatedly stoop down from to touch the ground, hoping to find somewhere comfortable enough to spend the night. Finding a spot that feels just that bit less stony I call to Yolanda. Getting no response I call again. Her voice returns from some way off. I keep calling her to give her a fix on where I am and before long I hear a scuffling sound and then she bumps into me.

'We can't keep walking on like this all night. I think we ought to stop here,' I say decisively. 'It's the best I can find so far.' Unrolling our sleeping bags we settle down and murmur our last thoughts of the day before wishing each other a good night.