Morocco on Motorbike

Location:
Morocco

motorcycle, Fez, Morocco

By Daniel Head

Just an hour before, we were in Spain, driving the BMW motorbike up to the ferry terminal, and now we were descending into Africa. Just saying the name gave me goose bumps, which I could feel all the way through my sweaty leather jacket and jeans. We had started out that morning in Seville and had made the venture over the “longest shortest gap on earth,” across the straight of Gibraltar to Tangier. We crossed the Moroccan border using an old speeding ticket as proof of insurance, and off we were into what seemed to be a far off land. It seemed surreal that just 13 miles behind us was the western world, and now here I was clinging to Daniel, my head swirling around, trying to soak in as much as I could while weaving through the traffic. I gazed upward in awe from the back of the bike, surrounded by Islamic markets, Arab scripts, and towering mosques. We found our way to the old medina and I explored my first Islamic souk. The narrow, twisting alleyways were filled with color and life. Children were playing, men were smoking the sheesha, and vendors were busy preparing their stalls for the day. I went to the barber to have my head shaved, complete with Moroccan style side burns and an old fashioned shave, all for less than $5. This port town was bustling and exciting, but we were anxious to get off the beaten tourist path, so set off on the bike for Fez, another 10 hours away. It was 3 a.m. and we’d been traveling for 17 hours on the back of a BMW motorbike. My ass hurt and I was exhausted, my helmet clanking to Daniel’s as I kept nodding off. We had just pulled into Fez, sleep deprived and delirious, when a boy on a moped pulled up next to us and offered us a hotel room. Ahmed’s offer seemed too good to be true, and it was. The room was small, dirty, and expensive, so even at this hour we were forced to find our own way. Ahmed wasn’t happy to lose his commission, and threatened to “slice our eyeballs.” We called his bluff, found a room, paid a guard to watch the bike for the night and rested quite peacefully. Fez by day was breathtaking. We spent most of our time in Fez el Bali, the old walled city, which has been classified as a UNESCO World Heritage site. With the exception of the occasional tout trying to sell us a tour, everyone went about their daily lives around us. The buildings were thousands of years old, with intricate designs and tapestries, yet still functional and being used. Donkeys carried spices and bright cloths, and the calls to prayer reverberated off the stark white walls of the inner city. I struck up a conversation in French with small boy selling Coca Cola, who was very eager to teach me my numbers in Arabic and I him in English. He learned much more quickly than I. Arabic graffiti stained a portion of the old city wall, but I later learned it was merely a verse to remind people to keep their old city clean. Fez had a charm to it that I’ve yet to ever find again. I felt I had been taken back in time, displaced into another century in a part of the world I’d never even knew existed. Our trip there was brief, but as I clung to Daniel on our way out of the city and looked over my shoulder at its far reaching walls, I felt I’d spent a long time here and had become attached somehow. The time machine I was riding seemed able both to take me back in time and also stop time altogether. Now it was taking me back to the future, to a familiar westernized civilization only a short ride away. Yeah, Spain was fun, but to me Morocco was an unparalleled universe.

Further Information

Other helpful information: Stay away from touts and those who invite to give you a tour of the city. Stay on main roads to avoid disasters.

Must see/do at this place: Fez's old walled city, bizaare's, and local culture

You should avoid here: Anyone who won't take no for an answer.