Goodbye Europe, Hello Africa

Today was the day we said goodbye to Spain and arrived in Morocco. And what an eventful day it was!

Our first experience of Morocco happened before we left Spain. Some of the other passengers on the bus from La Línea to Algeciras (Moroccans) decided to take us under their wing and told us that instead of taking a ferry from there, we should instead go from Tarifa. So we bought tickets from Tarifa to Tangier and spent the following bus ride (from Algeciras to Tarifa) and the ferry trip (which took just under 1 hour) asking them about Moroccan society, cities and customs. Perhaps though, I should say that Tova spent most of the time on the ferry talking to them - I stood in the wrong queue for half an hour, only to be told that since I was not Moroccan, my passport needed to be stamped in the other queue (which took about 5 minutes). On a positive note, however, their tip saved us 18 euros! And they gave us their telephone numbers, in case we happen to be in any trouble and need help.

On arrival in Tangier, we were approached by about 10 taxi drivers in a row, all assuring us that wherever we wanted to go, it was too far to walk. However, we politely declined their offers of assistance and decided to make our way on foot. We felt somewhat bolstered in this choice by the thought that we had left our old guidebook in a bin in Tarifa and had returned to our preferred publisher, which, we figured, would have better maps. All was going well and I made the perhaps premature declaration that the Lonely Planet's quiet hatred of the process of arrival in Tangier was obviously somewhat misplaced.

We didn't exactly find our pension straight away (the maps didn't turn out to be quite as detailed as we'd hoped), but felt like we were doing pretty well in politely spurning all offers of assistance by the touts, when an extremely friendly Moroccan chap decided to take it upon himself to help us. Despite refusing (politely) his offers of assistance countless times, he finally managed to drag out of us the name of our pension (Pension Victoria, although there is nothing Victorian about it, except perhaps the fact that it appears to have been built in Victorian times and never renovated since) and that we were Australians ("Gooddoi moite"). Having shown us the way (which we'd just worked out anyway when we told him the name of our pension), he then attempted to tell the staff there that he'd brought us to their pension of his own accord. When that didn't work, he asked whether we needed a guide, and finally, whether we would give him a tip. But having no dirhams (yet), we declined.

After we left our packs in our room and checked out the toilets (mostly squat) on offer, we made our way into the heart of the Medina (old town) in order to change our euros into dirhams. Shortly thereafter (albeit after making it out of the Medina), we got hopelessly lost. Abandoning our ridiculous ideas of trying to find the tourist office, we decided to go back to the port gate to change our money (as that was the only official place open, and the only place we could easily locate) and buy a bus ticket to our next stop, Chefchaouen.

By this stage, we were getting used to the craziness of it all, and Tova still being with me (despite having been propositioned several times already), we decided to eat lunch. We stumbled across a local place where we ate the most delicious food imaginable, for just 50 dirhams (about $7). Although most people speak French here, ours isn't good enough to really get an explanation of the menu (at least, where the menu happens to be written on the wall in Arabic only), so we ended up just saying "I'll have what he's having" - which we subsequently worked out was some kind of tajine together with all sorts of other delicious additions.

We spent the rest of the day looking at the Kasbah (the city's palace or citadel) and then heading to the souq (bazaar). I decided that I needed some more light-coloured trousers, as this is what a lot of Moroccans wear (shorts are out here). After trying several places where the trousers on offer were either too long or too thin around the waist, we came across a shop where a 10 year old boy tried to persuade me that some shorts and a polo shirt looked really good on me, in the process offering me a cigarette over which to contemplate whether to make the purchase. I declined the cigarette and after some confusion, brought about by the fact that I originally thought that the asking price was $771 (then worked out it was $77), made an offer of $8. It seems that my offer was altogether too low (and I had already broken several of the rules of haggling: 1. trying the clothes on; and 2. taking too long in deciding and talking to Tova so that it seemed like I really liked them), and since I didn't really need shorts or a new polo shirt anyway, we decided not to buy after all.

Despite wondering why I almost bought shorts and a polo instead of long light-coloured trousers, something that has been occupiying my mind is the question of why everything here seems to be bought and sold in bulk (e.g. piles of nail clippers, which look brand new, but none of which are individually packaged, etc).

In any event, we can't wait for day two.