As we disembarked, traditionally making sure we were first off, onto the African continent I realised this was the 5th one I had ridden this bike on. This time it was just dipping a toe in and not doing a trans continental expedition. I doubt it will manage the last two.
We were feeling pleased with ourselves as we left the port, all the paper work done and Moroccan cash in our pockets (you cannot get it outside the country), as we avoided the motorway and headed off down into the nearby town. Then Jean pulled along side and flagged me down. Insurance. We had forgotten one of the basics of importing a vehicle.
Back to the port, where we found the booth and a queue of drivers waiting. There was no one manning it so one of the drivers got the police to phone the company and send someone down.
We left the port again, even more pleased with ourselves this time, and headed for Chefchauoen and the Central Rif via the dusty single track back roads.
Here, while eating in a street cafe I looked up to see an old man crossing the road, he wore a brown hooded robe and had a grew beard. It was Obi Wan Kenobi! Jean would not let me take a picture.
After camping for two nights above the city we headed south.
If Bill Bryson thought Liverpool was having a litter festival, he has never entered Fez from the north.
It seemed like the road went straight through the city dump, with the rubbish flowing onto the road and then down into the edges of the city and into a market place.
The centre was very different. Wide roads around the kasbar. All clean and pristine. Specially for the tourists? Back on the on the outskirts the general lack of maintenance prevailed once more.
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