Hunting for a Visa brings a lot of things…

Soundtrack: Arcade Fire – Intervention

Grand Hotel, room 221, Rabat, Morocco. GPS: N 34°01.209′ W 006°49.883′. 17SEP-24SEP2009 (Thanks to Najib for open Wi-Fi connection).
I packed my belongings on a sunny but windy day in Ceuta, said farewell to Patricia. She had been so kind to make me a bag of juice and fruits, so I had something to consume on my way to Tanger. Before I arrived to the border, I filled up the gas tank of Ussel Mammut. I was told that the fuel prices in Morocco were more expensive than in Ceuta, Spain.
Next issue was the money, Morocco is still very much a cash society. Only place to use your credit card is at the bank’s ATM’s. So first important thing was to get some cash, to buy the nessasary gas and food on my way to Rabat (Visa for Mauritania). First I had in mind to exchange my US Dollars at a bank in Ceuta. The Dollars had been stored in my pocket all the way from home. I felt it was more safe than do it at the border. After I had been to the second bank, I gave up. The lady at the bank told me they didn’t have any Dirham. Funny I thought! and asked her. Why, when Morocco is your neighbour country no further than 4 km from here? She told me that the normal way was to exchange at the border. “You know there are money exchangers there?” Incredible the bank telling you to exchange your money at the border on the black market. I guess it is like an everyday-thing to do down south. I remember as a child my parents did it at a campsite in Hungary when I was on holiday. Many years was to pas before I figured out what they exactly where had been doing?
 Ok, I then needed some Euro, which she would happily give me instead of my useless Dollars. I exchanged my them for the Euro and left the bank with yet another worry on my mind, how would it turn out at the border? None down, still two to go! The exchange of the Euro to Dirham at the sleezy money exchangers and the border. By that point I didn’t know which was worst? Both was first timers for me.
I was very sceptic upon arriving to the place where the money exchangers were. I had been there the day before with Patricia. At least I knew about the currency rate. But would they give me false notes, run away with my Euro, once they had them in their hands?
I can now tell that the exchange went fine, no worries for those who are thinking of going to Morocco. I got the exchange rate of 11.1 Dirham to one Euro, which is fairly. The procedure went easy, the old guy took his time waiting for me to count my money, and asked if everything was fine? Afterwards we shaked hands and he took off to do more business, and I left was to head on for the next obstacle, the border, not the forget the officials.
The border to enter Morocco is another thing, it is more demanding than the exchange, but straight forward once you have tried it. I now know all the forms to fill out. One of them are already handed over to you on the ferry from Spain to Ceuta. Like on the plane just before you touch down on the land of the States. The white form from the ferry is about your personal details for visiting Morocco, name, date of birth and place of vist etc.
Upon my arrival an old guy in arabic dress (a tout) approached me, he had a fine plastic card on his chest, which he showed me. It stated his name. He then asked me, if I knew him, if I had been in Morocco before, and where I was from? Denmark I answared him, with a nervous voice, and yes I had been here before, the last was a big lie. Of cause I hadn’t been in Morocco before. I just wanted to get the wanker of my back . He told me that he worked at the border, and was going to help me by doing the paperworks, filling out the forms. I Immidiately replied him that I didn’t need his help, and I could do it myself. I had heard stories about others getting ripped by these touts at the borders, paying 20 Euro or more for nothing, than getting in front of the que. I didn’t have in mind to pay a single Dime, I had all the time and patience in the world.
Before I left Ceuta, Patricia had told me one more thing. This was about the touts trying to sell forms which are free, and a lot of people get fooled big time. I could tell that this guy was very eager to make a quick profit on me, he followed me all the way to the officials, telling me where I could park my bike and which official I should turn to first.I said to him for the last time that I was able to do the things myself and I didn’t need his help. It seemed to work, he finally went away finding another hopeless fool to rip off.
I parked my bike so it still was viseable from the officials shed. Took my tankbag and went over to the little office. The man behind the window looked tired. He didn’t give me much attention, though I was standing just in front of him flashing with my passport and my white document. He was more interested in speaking to his collegue. He finally grab my documents without saying anything. I asked him if Ramadan was soon to end? He mumbled “Yes” I bet that was why he looked so exhausted. After a short while he gave me the stamp that would let me into Morocco. I happily thought that all obstacles was over. I could begin my new adventures in a new country, a new continent – Africa was lying in front of me. I quickly got my arms down. I found out that one also have to report your vehicle into Morocco. It ment filling out another form. A young dude in modern clothes, t-shirt, jeans and snickers approached me, telling me, that I had to go to another counter and get the form. Before I could say anything he went and got it for me, and helped me filling out the details. Afterwards I got in line in front of another officials shed, handed over the form together with my registration certificate of the bike. The lady behind the desk typed all the details into the computer., using the “single finger method”. Finally when she finished I was ready to start my new adventures. I gave the guy helping me one Euro. He didn’t seem to be too pleased.
As I thought this was the end of all the paperwork, I realized I still had to pass the Moroccan police, which wanted to see my passport once more, and documention of the bike. This guy was even worse than the first guy checking and issuing my passport. I went over to him after sitting on the bike for a couple of minutes trying to get his attention. He didn’t bother looking at me to start with. But I guessed he couldn’t avoid me at the end, as I was standing just in front of him with my documents. He looked at me and the bike. And then asked me “No Pistola?” I got very surprised, but I answared him No, while I was shaking my head, I couldn’t help laughing a bit, which didn’t make the situation any better. Did he think that all European people bring a piece, when going to outside of EU? He gave me the final stamp which ment I was over all the hurdless and could begin my journey in a new country, Morocco, if it wasn’t because I had to pass another guy, taking one more look at my passport, he was in the same mood as the others, do I have to say more!
First I intended to go straight on the Tanger, but I changed my mind short after leaving the border. Instead I was heading inland towards Tetouan. My destination was Rabat to obtain my first Visa. The roads ahead to Tetouan was first mountaian roads, later they turned into country roads on the way down south to Rabat, leading you through cities on the countryside. The landscape is nothing I haven’t seen before, the roads are okay to start with. The temperature was around 20 degress celcius, which can be freezing cold, when one is used to 40 degrees celcius in Spain. I quickly got my inner lining in the Rukka jacket.
I did a couple of stops on my way to eat and smoke some cigarettes. The first times I did it in cover so the cars passing did not see. It was Ramadan, I soon found out that this was not nessasary. The muslims respect you, though you are eating or smoking during midday.
Later that evening around 08.00 pm I found a place off the road where I could wild camp without anybody noticing. I put up the tent due to a cloudy sky, one gets wiser after some time! Got myself some pasta with sauce, which Beatriz had supplied me with and finally fell asleep a couple of hours later to arabic music blasting nearby.
Next day I took time on my stop watch (the phone) to pack all the things and get ready to hit the road. 1 hour, 12 minutes and 10 seconds. One can do better, my goal is to get under one hour.
On my way to Rabat I took the oppertunity to refuel more often than usual, I wasn’t sure when or where the next gas station would show up? I soon found out, that they are not far from each other. The Moroccan’s sounded their horns when I came by, waving at me, or giving me thumbs up. I even got pulled over one time by two guys in a car. They wanted to know the price on a VFR in my origin country. I don’t have to say that they got very surprised if not terrified when I told them the cost of 11.000 Euro for a second hand 10 years old bike like mine. Now it is that I hope our great tax minister in Denmark, Mr. Kristian Jensen has become an adictive to this blog, and is waiting for me to do a new post, so he can get his fix. Please lower the taxes on motorbikes Mr. Jensen!!!
When arriving to Rabat it was the chaotic kaos like I had expected. I would compare it with close contact sports. The horn is your favorite weapon to get in front, and you better use it, if you aren’t interested in getting ran down by a truck or a taxi. The taxi’s are far the worst, they don’t respect you at all. I was lucky to avoid contact, not even the pedestrians walking out on the road just in front of me, making the bike almost set completely in the front suspension. I tell you, that one better watch the nine lives living down here, and pray couple of times t God or Allah before heading out of the door. Something tells me, that the worst is to come further down south!
Finding a cheap hotel or hostel is another thing, I drove around for an hour or so, before I finally gave up, and asked a young guy standing on the street. He pointed right ahead, and told me I could find two hotels in that direction, but he didn’t know the prices of them? I reached the first one, and another guy said it was closed, but he would show me the way to a hotel. That one turned out to be way too expensive for me. They were charging 550 Dirham (48 Euro) per. night. I was ready to saddle up and head to another part of Rabat, when my eyes dicovered a hotel just accross the street. It look sad, with only one star, the rest of the stars had either been taking off, or been paled by the sun during the last decades. That would be the right place for me and in a resenoble rate. I went into the reception, and yes, it was sad, believe me. But the manager was smiling and welcoming me (later found out that it was probably because I were his only guest). I asked of the price? To start with, he was asking 200 Dirham per. night. I asked him of a piece of paper and wrote 100 Dirham, which he didn’t accept. Instead he took the pen, paper and wrote 175. I shoked my head and took the pen from his hand. Wrote 150. He looked at me, and at the bike outside. “Where are you going?” he asked. Cape Town “Sud Africa” I replied. Ok, 150 Dirham, and how long are you staying? I showed him one and then two fingers, also replying him in my best French “Un ou deux” . “I have to find the embassy of Mauritania. You know where is? He didn’t!” (I later renegotiated the price of the hotel. After I had been told that the price should not be higher than 50 – 75 bucks. I got down to 115 Dirham, still too much. The manager didn’t speak to me afterwards…)
I went out to get all my things of the bike and returned to the manager of the hotel. Asked him for a secure place to store my bike while staying there. He waved at me and said “Suivre moi” French for follow me. We went down to a garage 50 meters from the hotel, it was full of cars, and an old dirty guy showed up huffing and puffing, pulling on his pants, he was about to drop. He was missing every second teeth in his mouth. Both the manager and the old dude asked me if 30 Dirham (2.75 Euro) was okay? I accepted! One does not negotiate with the price of parking the bike, when it is only at that rate. Instead I explained him in very simple English and also pointing with my hands, that he should watch the VFR with his life. He did indeed, he parked his own car in front, making it impossible to get to it.
The room at the hotel was nothing to write home about, like the girls down here. But it was a nice nest for the next time I had to spend there. Mostly because I found open Wi-Fi net in the toilet which was like a gift from the gods, you must think of, I had to kill 6 days in Rabat during Ramadan! constantly affraid of dropping it down on the street, trying to fine tune the signal to obtain the best result. I now think of the people living across the street. They must have thought I was completely insane, spending all these hours on the bathroom leaning forward out of the window while squesed in between the toilet and bidet, days and nights, getting most out of the siuation with free Internet. Or maybe they thought that the Danish dude was blowing in the big trumpet 24/7 due to a bad belly? I spend many hours in the toilet! Mostly surfing on the internet, drinking varm coffee smoking cigarettes and cooking with my stove in the bathtub…The Internet experince in the toilet was quit a show. If I held my laptop in an exact perfect position, I was able to find connection. To obtain it in a decent speed demanded that I held the computer outside of the window,
The second day in Rabat , I decided to go to the Mauritanian embassy. It ment taking a cab to the address of the Mauritanian embassy 15 minutes from the hotel. But one thing I realized on my way back with another cab, was that I had paid 3 times the price. This was the first time I got ripped off!
My entry at the Mauritanian embassy was great as usual. Like the time I went to Poland with my good friend Hassan. First we had been sleeping onboard the ferry, while it had been lying at harbour for a couple of hours. Second, I forgot my newly bought box of cigarettes in the cabin. Third, I thought the border was closed, due to no people present. So I found my own way trying to get beside of the bar. I manage to get some 20 meters on the other side, before a polish police officer came running out from a building, shouting at me, and was about to draw his gun! That day at the Mauritanian embassy was exactly the same kind of situation. I rang the bell when the door into the embassy wasn’t open at 9 o’clock as stated. After a minute or so a big black guy came out. He didn’t look too happy, instead he pointed at his watch, telling me in perfect English, “Never, never before nine” I looked at my own watch. “What is the problem, it is nine?” Once again I get fooled by the time zones. The times was seven o’clock! I returned back later that day, luckily I didn’t stumble into the same guy again.
During the 6 nights, which in the end went up to 7 at Grand Hotel, I also became witness to a yet the most bizarre situation taking place just beneath of my window pointing out to the traficated street. It started with a loudly bang which drawed my attention away from spending my time on the toilet in a rather cramped position. A car was parked in the middle of the road, and a scooter was lying on the asphalt. Two young guys were getting beaten up by several people on the street. People were gathered and one police officer showed up. The cop seemed like it didn’t bothered him at all. He just looked while he sat on his scooter as the guys got slapped in their faces, one of them got his T-shirt torn apart. Later when the cop took off it became more  violent. One of the young guys was now getting beaten up  for real. Not just with the bare fists, but with a stick. The whole episode went on  for about two hours, I could here him beg the guy to stop. At the end, the police showed up again, this time in a van. They picked up the scooter and one of the young guys getten beaten. I never found out what the whole situation was about. Later when I went down to the local store to get some cigarettes I asked a guy in the shop what happened, I noticed this guy on the street from my window and knew he had seen and heard it all. He never told me! On the seventh day in Rabat, I ended up paying the dentist a visit (amazing what you can get for 200 Dirham), due to a lost fillling, trying to conveinced the bank that I wanted to withdraw some Euro and Dirham, without using the ATM… It never worked out.