Seville to southern Morocco
Stats
Distance: 4,823 kms/2,997 miles
Weather: 89-45 F degrees F; Only sunshine
Traffic infractions: None since day one
Losses: None since day one Countries visited: 5
After spending a the day riding around the Parque natural de la Sierra de Grazalema and visiting with Sacha, I spent one more evening in Seville before locking up Green at the airport parking garage for a quick weekend trip back to NYC. It was more of a chore than expected...packing very strategically and triple-locking the bike. Sam, a friend from Dallas and fellow BMW adventure rider, had been collecting packages for me at his NYC apartment. It was a very necessary resupply. Key items included: Oil filter, air filter for extremely sandy conditions, international power adapters, GoPro mounts, various chargers, Mavic drone polar filters, replacement credit cards and drivers license, 2TB external hard drive, a baseball cap to scare away the European ladies, and more. Most were redundant items that would take up little space but may be hard to find in small villages. Additionally, I would drop of my work laptop to fully unplug for the next six months and pick up a refurbished and souped-up personal laptop for video editing. Weeks prior at the Toronto airport, security discovered I had accidentally packed in my carry-on a very large CRKT pocket knife which had served me so well for 15 months in Baghdad. No worries, as I just had to ship it to Sam to retrieve later. Not making the same mistake twice, it went in checked luggage when returning from NYC. But, both the knife and oil filter would be confiscated by security when boarding a train in Madrid. Ugh...this didn't sit well. I owe Sam big, as all the boxes had occupied a sizable chunk of his Manhattan apartment. Needless to say, the weekend was well worth the logistical challenges and jet lag. But the first day of Expedition travel was nothing short of a whirlwind. A 24-hour period played out as follows: Redeye flight from NYC to Madrid. Ride a train directly to the Seville central station. Grab a cab to the airport to retrieve Green. Quickly repack the bike and drive 3 hours south to Tarifa, Spain. Take a vehicle ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar. Deal with customs. Ride (what would unfortunately turn out to be) 5 hours from Tangier to Casablanca. I don't expect anything like this again this trip.
Moroccan customs was fairly smooth. Unlike in Central America, where the travelers seemed stressed and confused, the officials did all the shouting at one another and developed their own feeling of urgency and confusion. It was quite entertaining to watch. I made a temporary friend while waiting around---a young man who rode a Triumph Speed Triple in Seville but was on holiday visiting family in Tangier. When one semi-official agent barked at another semi-official agent, the confused and annoyed man on the receiving end finally made it to Green for in-processing. We spent 10 minutes stumbling through the language barrier to fill out the only state-required form. He didn't ask to see a title, my license, or insurance, which was surprising, and there was no inspection of luggage (though I'd seen both Spanish and Moroccan customs completely emptying cars carrying families and teeming with gifts and packages). But after finally completing the form, he very clearly and perfectly uttered the only English words of the conversation: "Do you have any weapons? Any guns?" "No, Sir." "Are you completely sure?" "Yes, Sir." He looked me in the eye, nodded, patted my shoulder, smiled, and handed me the completed entrance form. For those who had asked if I had planned on packing a pistol on this trip, that's exactly why it would have been a bad idea. Hoping at this point I don't regret traveling light. As the sun was fading over the horizon, a wise traveler would simply stop in the port city of
Tangier for the night upon arrival since I'd already endured 18 hours of continuous travel. But, a combination of poor planning, failure to set up lodging, and desire to make up miles lost over the weekend drove me spend the next 5 hours speeding south the through darkness on the main coastal artery all the way to Casablanca.
Rolling into the Sheraton at 11:30pm, over 24 hours after starting the journey from New York, I was certain the bike would be safe for the night and I could enjoy sound sleep. A bellhop intercepted me at the door and started in with Spanish before converting to English (I get that a lot). "You can't park that filthy motorbike beside these guest cars. It is forbidden." Quite surprised by his sharpness, "Oh, apologies...can I leave it here for a few minutes while I check in?" "...YOU have a reservation...here? Your name, please. Let me check." He made me wait while he called inside before granting me entry through a metal detector. First time for that type of treatment at such an establishment. Checking e-mail later that evening, I received a late night note from a Otmane, a local mechanic: "Andrew--you can arrive any hour and we will change your tyres, drink tea, and share stories. Anything else we can do, please say. Welcome to Moroc." With Green stabled for the night in the Sheraton garage, I figured Otmane would have let me park him out front of his establishment... at "any hour." Though getting a late start after 10 hours of rock-solid sleep, it was comforting to regain the
morning routine--meditation, scripture, language learning, and gym time. Otmane had a pristine motorcycle shop, bursting at the seams with off-road accessories. He'd replace the rear tire with the exact same brand and model (Heidenau Scout K60)--fantastic! The old shoe still had 30-40% of its life remaining, but I'd soon be in some very remote lands and would feel more confident with fresh tread. Otmane, the mechanics, and I swapped stories, bragged on the capabilities of the BMW GS (all owners), and discussed my route. One offered some advice: "You should cover the part of your plate that says 'Texas'...once you do that, you should be safe." I'd wait until the next morning to follow through on this, when I'd also turn to (broken) Spanish for interactions with strangers. Departing Casablanca after 3pm, I'd haul down the coast on backroads for four hours, often
doubling or tripling the speed limit, as there was no one around...at least no one to catch Green. Passing odorous fishing towns, massive refineries and industrial parks, bustling village centers, and remote ocean cliffs, the ride was a smorgasbord of sights and smells. Continuing for an hour after nightfall, we throttled back a bit in case a dog or child darted into the road. Finally arriving at a rural cliff-side B&B south of Safi and exhausted again, sleep came quickly but was interrupted through the night by some local cooking that disagreed with my recent American digestive homeostasis. Under the cover of darkness and covered with a thick blanket, I'd dash across the courtyard to use the facilities but still would pause each time to admire the beautiful tapestry of stars above. I vowed once again to avoid staying in cities whenever possible. The sleepless night offered an opportunity to reflect on all the people I'd met thus far. While there hadn't been many deep interactions due to all the time on the road, almost all were incredibly positive. Countless toll booth attendants paid me back with smiles and a few shouted, "Hola, amigo! Qué pasa?" When trying the ole fist bump, one cupped the knuckles of my glove, shouted travel blessings my way, and leaned out of his booth to pat me on the back. Swarms of teens on mopeds greeted me in small towns, and passing vehicles offered more thumbs-up than I can recount. When stopping for a roadside snack, scooter pilots would
pause to ensure everything was okay. Overall, very impressed by the hospitality and laid back attitude discovered in Morocco.
The next morning, I'd depart the Atlantic coast in pursuit of the southern base of the Atlas Mountain range. Venturing just four hours southeast to Taroudant, and the terrain transitioned from humid coastline to rolling green green pastures filled with wandering livestock to arid, rocky deserts and picturesque mountainsides. Temps slowly rose from 50 to 85-degrees Fahrenheit, and I happily stripped off layers and opened the vents on the four-season jacket. Ah, so nice to have good gear. Short of sleep and still recovering from a 48-hour-long melee of travel, it was good to shut down well before dark. The next five days of riding Morocco would undoubtedly be very long and trying...and potentially some of the best riding to date.
