I'd been teaching that afternoon and it was a beautifully warm sunny evening when I arrived at Pitta's (name changed) house near Place de Espaņa. After making love in her back garden with a passion which leaves me tingling until today, we went inside and were lying together on the sofa when she asked me what I thought about going to Morocco in the summer holidays.
It only took me a second's thought before an affirmative reply and the next couple of weeks were spent planning and organising the trip. Pitta's German guidebook had recommended getting your passport stamped* with proof that you were carrying enough money for your stay in Morocco, so on the twelfth of August 1986, I went to the Banco de Bilbao in L'Hospitallet de Llobregat to change my pesetas into three thousand French francs in traveller's cheques. The bank, on my request, noted the exchange on a page in my passport and added the bank's official stamp.
We left Barcelona on a coach for Madrid late at night on the same day, and I dozed on the bus with Pitta asleep in my arms. It was early morning when we arrived in the Spanish capital, but despite our drowsiness, we took a taxi from the bus station to the railway station, and after an invigorating breakfast, waited for our train to the city of Almeria, located on the southern coast of Spain. Both of us being language teachers, and therefore on a limited budget*2, we elected to travel longer distances by night, thus saving on hotel bills. The overnight train to Almeria took around six and a half hours. The sun was beaming down*2 when our train arrived and after leaving the station, we found a small cafe for our breakfast of steaming*3 hot coffee and croissants. We had a few hours to spare before the next leg*4 of our journey, so we walked to the Parque de Castilla and found a grassy incline overlooking the port and expanse of the Mediterranean. It was while we were lying beside each other on this grassy knoll that I "got married" for the only time in my life. Pitta had obviously been thinking about our trip in much more detail than I had, and it was her suggestion that while in Morocco, we would pose*5 as man and wife in an attempt to head off the possible unwanted attention of young Moroccan men towards Pitta. I'd never been outside Europe before, so this was a completely new concept for me. However, I took it in my stride and agreed immediately. To add a bit of reality to the charade, I detached the aluminium ring from the top of the can of Coke I was drinking, took Pitta's hand in mine, and said "Will you marry me (for the next couple of weeks)?". She grinned and upon hearing an affirmative, I slipped*6 the 'wedding ring' over her finger. In order to keep up*7 my side of the deal, I also fingered*8 the flick-knife I'd bought in Barcelona, and quietly promised, if necessary, to use it to protect Pitta's life or honour.
Some Spaniards periodically protest that the British territory of Gibraltar should be returned to Spain because Britain has no right to sovereignty over this small tract of land commanding the entrance to the Med. However, these same people see nothing at all wrong with the two Spanish territories - Ceuta and Melilla, which Spain controls in Morocco.
The second of these 'autonomous cities' was our next destination. From the park, we went down to the port and bought our boat tickets to Melilla. It was already dark when we got off the boat after the six-hour crossing, and we had decided to cross the border immediately. I'm not sure now how we got to the border, it was either by bus or taxi, but I remember a huge wall encircling the town, and feeling very nervous as we entered the Moroccan customs post*9. However, we passed through, with nothing worse than a big chalked 'X' on our rucksacks, and emerged on the other side of the wall in the Kingdom of Morocco on the 14th of August 1986: just two days after buying my traveller's cheques back in Barcelona.
After this long journey, Pitta had programmed some rest and relaxation. There was a bus waiting the other side of the border, and tickets were purchased up into the Middle Atlas Mountains. I remember feeling a bit uncomfortable when I saw my rucksack being thrown up onto the roof of the bus and secured there - would it still be there when I got off? Well, sometimes we just have to put our faith in Allah and hope for the best!
The hotel in the mountains was near a reservoir, I think it was called Mechra Hommadi, and it was the ideal place wind down. In a small village near the hotel we got our first taste of one of the delights of Morocco - mint tea - a delicious refreshing drink made with fresh mint leaves and sugar. It was also here that I suffered my first bout of culture shock. It was a beautiful afternoon and Pitta and I had walked down to the reservoir to sit peacefully together in the sun. After about a quarter of an hour, a young guy came along and said hello. We replied cordially enough, expecting him to move on, but instead of this he sat down beside us. Even after five minutes silence, he showed no inclination to leave, so in the end Pitta and I got up and returned to the hotel. It was the first time I'd met Arab hospitality and friendliness, but to me at the time, it just seemed like he'd invaded our privacy.
On another day we went to see the Mohamed V dam about 10km away and quite an impressive sight*10.
Our next stop was Fez, the third largest city in Morocco. After getting off the bus, we found a hotel about five minutes walk from walled old city or 'medina'. At the hotel, we were warned that it might be a good idea pay a few dirhams to hire a guide to the old city. I pooh poohed this idea - "Don't worry," I told Pitta, "I used to go caving when I was at university, so getting in and out of the old city won't be a problem." Well, after entering the city through a beautiful blue gate, it took me about five minutes in the narrow, winding maze of streets to get hopelessly lost! I tried to disguise my discomfort for a while, and then finally gave up, walked up to a local kid*11 and asked him to lead us back to the gate! After this embarrassment, I decided that perhaps a guide would be a good idea! And it was. The young Moroccan guy met us at our hotel and took us to all the main points of interest, including the fantastic (and smelly) tannery, where clothes had been dyed for at least nine centuries. We were shown how the process worked and clambered about around the stone vats. The tour also included a visit to a carpet shop where we sat and drank tea while being shown a selection of intricate carpets - none of which we could afford to buy, or were able to transport. For the first ten minutes or so of the trip around the medina, I tried desperately to keep track of where I was going, so that I could start to get my bearings in this labyrinth, but after the tenth twist and turn I gave up and focused on what our guide was saying.
Our next stop was Marrakesh. After a quiet few days in the mountains, this vibrant city was a hell of a contrast! In my opinion, there are very few cities more exciting than this one. When we got off the bus, we chose a local guy from among the group offering their services as guides, and he took us to a cheap hotel on a road just off a large square near the medina called Place Jma el Fna. After making sure we'd checked in*12 without any problems (and receiving a reward from the hotel receptionist), our guide arranged to pick us up the next morning for our tour of the old town. Place Jma el Fna was a cauldron of activity both day and night, with snake charmers, Arabic story tellers and a hubbub of exciting sights and sounds; an ideal place to have within a few metres of our hotel. After a shower and change of clothes, Pitta's guide book took us to a rooftop restaurant overlooking the square, and it was here that I tasted my first couscous along with some delicious lamb.
The Marrakesh medina was a cinch*13 compared to Fez, but the guide was still good value because we were able to see the sights in one day. Apart from the ubiquitous carpet seller's - with tea and an uncomfortable wait while the owner perceived that he would not be making any profit, I remember a palace with an ornate golden door.
That evening, I decided that I wasn't going to spend time in Marrakesh without trying the local hashish, which I heard about (and experimented) when I was at university. I went out by myself, headed into the medina, and after a few moments located someone who was selling what I wanted. Deal done, I returned to the hotel, where Pitta and I enjoyed one of the more enjoyable local products! It really was very good, and when we lay back in a super-relaxed state, we kissed and made love like we'd never done before - the only way I can describe it is like Ravel's Bolero ending in the explosion which the Big Bang Theory uses as it's basis for the start of the universe! (If you're not sure what Ravel's Bolero sounds like, it can be downloaded as an MP3 file from the following link: Ravel's Bolero.mp3 ). I'm not sure if I'm exaggerating but I believe that it took us well over an hour to reach a crescendo, and we both reached it at exactly the same time. We were oblivious to the noise we'd been making in the small hotel in the centre of Marrakesh - until we went down for breakfast the next morning and I was met by a huge grin from the young Moroccan guy at the reception desk!
The next day we took a horse drawn carriage ride out of the city to a hotel at the top of a hill overlooking the city (I may be getting mixed up*14 with Fez here). One thing which I learnt in Marrakesh was how to deal with a problem which has always made me feel uncomfortable- haggling. I always feel like Graham Chapman in the Life of Brian market scene when I'm faced with this sales technique, but the problem was resolved when I decided to buy a hand-made leather cowboy hat in the medina. After selecting the hat I wanted, I asked "how much?". "20 dirhams", the shopkeeper told me. I scratched*15 my chin and was about to agree, when Pitta grabbed me by the arm and started pulling me towards the door. As we got closer to the exit, the price dropped four times, finally arriving at 10 dirhams, at which I wrestled myself out of Pitta's grasp, went back to the counter and paid my 10 dirhams. As soon as we arrived back at the hotel, the receptionist spotted*16 the hat and said "How much did you pay for that?". When I told him, he raised his eyebrows and said "Ah! Good price!".
From Marrakesh we got the train to Tangiers. I remember passing Casablanca on the way, but we only watched it pass from the train window. About 50km south of our destination, we got off the train in a small historic town called Asilah. We found a cheap hotel and spent the afternoon exploring, then, in the evening I remember that we found ourselves in what seemed like a ancient Roman open-air amphitheatre which had been converted into a disco! Pitta and I danced the night away to some excellent music from the 80s. Pitta could dance for hours on end without stopping, but I could only keep going for shorter 'bursts' before returning to my cocktail and cooling down a bit. During one of my rest and drink periods, sitting where in days gone by crowds had watched gladiators battling for their lives, I felt the first pangs of jealousy - the type where it feels like your heart is in a vice - while I watched Pitta dancing in her own world, but surrounded by several local guys who could dance far better than me. Nevertheless, like 95% of jealous thoughts, mine were unfounded, and we returned to our hotel in the early hours of the morning.
Tangiers was the last stop on our trip, and by now I was really beginning to enjoy myself. I'd slowly but surely adapted to the cultural shock of life for a young Englishman with his beautiful German girlfriend in a North African Arab Kingdom. There was no need for a guide here, and we enjoyed the bustling city, even spending an afternoon on the beach with a dip in the Atlantic Ocean. Both sand and sea seemed clean, even though we could see large ships entering the port not far away along the shore. After a few relaxing days in Tangiers, we finally took the ferry back to Spain, leaving Morocco on the 11th September 1986.
The boat took us to Algeciras, and from there we got a train back to Madrid. Although by the time we arrived in Tangiers I had more or less adapted to my first experience outside a European culture, it was still a relief to return to Spain. I no longer felt it necessary to maintain a protective 'ring' around Pitta when we were out on the streets, in order to avoid young Moroccan men hassling her. However, the relief of arriving back in mainland Europe was short-lived. When we got on the train bound*17 for Madrid, we found it chock-a-block with Moroccan men heading north to work on the grape picking in the South of France! This would mean a few more hours before Pitta and I could get our "divorce"!
We splashed out on a hotel in Madrid on the way back, then returned to Barcelona relaxed and fulfilled after a very special month's holiday. Unfortunately, at this time I was of the opinion that travel should be registered by the eyes and mind, rather than on a camera, so there are no photos of our trip around this enchanting country.
* Verb - def.6
*1 Noun - def. 1b
*2 Intransitive verb (v.intr.) - def. 1
*3 Adjective - def. 1
*4 Noun - def. 6
*5 v.intr. - def.3
*6 Transitive verb (v.tr) - def. 1
*7 See phrasal verb 'keep to'
*8 v.tr - def. 1
*9 Def. 2 - noun - def. 4
*10 Noun - def. 7
*11 Noun - def. 3
*12 Phrasal verb
*13 2nd definition (cinch1) - Noun - def. 1
*14 Phrasal verb
*15 v.tr - def. 3
*16 v.tr - def. 4
*17 Def. 4 (adj)
