Three months around Europe

The Border

I awoke with the sun and an audience of five stray dogs , I made a brew, packed up and headed for the Moroccan border. Ceuta is a pretty town with duty free petrol and a razor wire fence surrounding it to keep out illegal economic migrants.

I was waved through the Spanish checkpoint and girded myself for Moroccan authorities. I had read about the touts posing as officials and extracting money to “assist” you to enter Morocco. I planned to do it all myself.

Crossing the 100 metre no man's strip between the two countries was theatre. One minute you are in manicured lawns, order and direction. The next you are hitting a pothole and being yelled at by swarthy men in long robes, three day stubble and instant camaraderie.

“ Hola, bonjour , hello my friend. Let me help you. “

I slowed, then stopped and was immediately surrounded by four men , trying to grab my hand, give me a paper, show me their credentials and asking for my passport.

I dismounted and pulled myself to my full height, flipped up my visor and looked slowly at the four men in turn.

“ Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for greeting me so warmly on my entrance to your beautiful country. I would like to try and enter by myself. and if I get stuck I will come and see you. “ I had rehearsed that speech.

I grabbed my tankbag with all my documentation and headed for passport control.

But before I reached there , my hand was grabbed and I looked to see another tout, his eyes were bloodshot, unsteady on his feet. He thrust a paper at me.

:” Take this , give me passport “ His hand tightened on mine and I just ignored him dragging him along with me. He then came round in front of me and shoved his face into mine. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He would be as much use getting me through the border process as tits on a bull.

“ Stop . Give me passport,” he slurred. I tried to be polite and shook his hand from me.

“ No thanks , I am good. Please let me pass .” By this time a crowd of touts, officials and other travellers were watching.

He tried again to grab my hand and asked for my passport, but I dodged past him and made it to the booth and handed over my passport .

Then he started to yell and spat on the ground, followed by a string of multi cultural expletives. I ignored him and out of the corner of my eye I saw him take a few steps then fall down on a heap to the ground. He just lay there , not moving. I watched him for about 10 seconds and realised he was not going to get up, so I rushed over to him . I checked his airways. His breathing was laboured but his pulse was reasonably strong. I laid him in the recovery position and opened up his airway and gave him a crack on his back. He let forth a projectile of vomit, luckily missing me. That action seemed to do the trick as he opened his eyes, sat up and gave his head a shake, stood up and staggered away , pushing himself through the crowd.

My actions in going to his aid, galavanised the officials. A police officer grabbed me and walked me over to the passport official and gave him a string of instructions. Myself and my bike were taken to the head of the queque, processed and sent on our way with a welcome to Morocco in less than five minutes. I didn't even have to fill in the forms – it was all done for me.
Who said getting into Morocco was hard!
\\