At the hostel the next day I got up later than I wanted. I was exhausted and needed the rest. I quickly went online to book a ferry ticket from Spain to Tangier, Morocco. Like for most of my trip I hadn’t done any planing for going to Africa. I had been warned by people I met on the trip when I mentioned I wanted to go to Morocco. It is supposed to be one of the most westernized locations in Africa but at the same time it’s also supposed to be a host for Al Qaeda extremists wanting to cross over to Europe. Generally I was just not a safe place was what I heard. Lastly I was warned by the hostel receptionist to be careful and never follow anybody who offers to lead me somewhere to help me because it could be a trap. Anyway I only had a few hours until the ferry would leave Europe from Tarifa the most southern point of Spain and it would take me exactly that long to get there. It was going to be another race to catch a ferry.

Not off to a good start some guy who had stopped in front of me at an intersection just outside the hostel decided to release his breaks and slowly rolled backwards hitting my front tire. Not being deterred by me honking repeatedly he seemed surprised when he felt a bump. I didn’t see any damage to my tire and I was late already so I didn’t worry about it much and just kept going. The bump hadn’t been strong enough to cause damage to the wheel and my tires had almost reached the end of their life span anyway so it was more important to me to catch the ferry.

I arrived in Tarifa on time and got in line to board the ferry.

I was surprised to realize once more how few people including the police in highly touristy places were speaking any English at all. I decided for myself that I would learn Spanish as soon as possible (over the course of the next few years..).

The formalities on the Spanish side were easy. Show your passport, get on the ferry, find a seat and enjoy the ride. It felt less organized and strict than crossing from the UK to Spain.

Everybody was very friendly and the officer checking my passport was more interested in my “muy bueno” bike than my documents. It seemed as though he was about to quit his job and join me on my trip.

I boarded the ferry …

… and was surprised to see that I was the only motorcyclist on the ferry.

From one of the sun decks I waved Europe goodbye…

… and said hello to Africa.

It only took about two hours to reach the other side. All passengers were asked to disembark the ship and so did I.

However when I showed my passport to one of the Moroccan officers he informed me that I was missing a stamp in my passport.

Well, “shit” I thought. But not to worry, I could get the stamp on the boat. In fact I was supposed to get it there. Apparently this had been common knowledge. Everybody had to get a stamp in their passport on board so that it was clear how one got to Tangier. Another friendly officer approached me and asked me kindly to follow him. He would lead me to where I could get me stamp.

He was wearing the boat company clothing and there was police right next to him so I complied and he indeed brought me to where I got my stamp. 

He was extremely friendly to a point where I felt bad for having had such bad suspicions in the first place – and he reminded me a lot of Basile (John Cleese) from Faulty Towers. Not just the way he looked but also the way he tried to appear like he had control over everything but didn’t seem to be terribly important in reality.

When I got back to my bike though he asked me for money for his services. A few “little Euros for Hassan” he said. Ah. So that’s why he was *that* friendly. I probably would have gotten my stamp on my own but maybe not as quick and stress free and since I simply didn’t want any trouble I gave him a few Euros. A system that probably always works for him. After all who would want to cause a scene entering a foreign country hoping to be allowed in after not having the proper documents and already having paid over a hundred pounds for the ferry crossing.

I was now allowed to leave the ferry and get in line for customs.

There the police told me I was missing another form which however I wasn’t supposed to have already received and they issued it to me straight away asking me to complete it. It was in Arabic and French. Well, “shit” I thought. But despite the grim faces of all the 8 or 9 police officers one was kindly translating the form for me in one go. Hoping I would remember everything from the top until the bottom of the page I started filling it out and handed it over to the guard. He then told me that I now had to go to the police station right around the corner to get the OK from the police. I was a bit confused since he pointed me behind the gates. I was supposed to walk into the country, passing the gates to get my documents with my bike still waiting outside. I was just hoping they would not scream at me to stop asking me what I thought I was doing entering the country. But it seemed nobody could care less what I was doing and so I walked to where I understood I was supposed to go. Around the corner two men approached me telling me that I should follow them, they would lead me to the police. “Hmmmmm” I thought. No uniforms. So I declined saying I knew where to go, which I didn’t. I just walked towards the next building which seemed like it could be a police station. Naturally it was not marked as such. The two guys joined me asking friendly questions about where I was from, why I was here and how I liked it. They were doing their best to make a good impression. The way they were walking ahead of me still trying to guide me to where I needed to go, together with the questions they were asking in a polite almost professional manner made me think that maybe they were police after all.

I entered the building to see there was nothing inside. Like the whole port area it seemed completely deserted. It was dirty and there was no furniture inside except for a medieval metal detector and an airport x-ray. Another non-uniformed person was sitting there all by himself. Confused I put my camel-back with my documents plus my Swiss Army knife in it on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector frame. Any other metal detector would have played the sweetest tunes with my metal pieces in my boots an biking trousers and the Swiss knife sure wasn’t considered a toy in Africa either but in complete silence I just grabbed my bag and kept going my two body guards following me. We reached the end of the room where behind a wall another non-uniformed man was sitting asking for my passport. Well, “shit” I thought. What now? Risk losing my passport to a stranger in Africa? But what other options do I have? So I handed it over. The guy looked it, and started entering some information from it into his medieval computer. It took 10 minutes during which one of my body guards tried to make a conversation about his country Morocco, how friendly people are and what I should visit. I thanked him and told him how friendly I had been received so far. When the man behind the computer had completed his evaluation he handed me back my passport and said I was good to go. No stamp, no additional documentation. I was wondering how the guards outside would now know I had actually been to the computer man. I didn’t saw a radio in the empty room and the officers outside didn’t have a computer. But again I didn’t really have an other option than just walking back outside to tell the border police that I had indeed payed computer man a visit. However when I exited the building four non-uniformed men approached me getting very close to me making it difficult for me to keep going. The oldest of them who was about 50 told me with a stern voice that now I had to pay the youngest of the four for the services of my friendly body guard. Thankfully he even told me very firmly the following steps and how much I had to pay. “You pay name-of-the-youngest two Euros. Body-guard-guy helped you with your documents. You should pay name-of-the-youngest five but better would be ten. You should pay him ten Euros. And you only give it to name-of-the-youngest, not to me an not to any of the other ones, only to him. You only give him the money. I will not take it. Give *him* the money.”

Well, “shit” I thought. How about I give nobody money for nothing? I told them that I had just given the other guy at the boat my last coins and I had just come to Tangier for a few hours so I didn’t bring any additional cash with me. They didn’t want to hear any of it and didn’t back up either. But again their strategy worked. The foreigner didn’t want any trouble. I ended up giving them two euros. They were very displeased with the amount but I kept walking back to the border gates and they did not follow me there. However my friendly bodyguard seemed to have no trouble walking past the gates freely and followed me now also asking me for money. Turns out the guys up at the police station didn’t even belong to him and he was visibly disappointed that I had paid them and not him. Though it might have been just another trick to get me to pay him/them again but I didn’t think about it much. I handed my documents to the border guard and was allowed to enter the country. So I got on my bike and once I was on it ready to go I told him one last time that I didn’t have any money for him and impolitely left him behind driving through the gates into Morocco.