The short ferry crossing to Cueta gave me a chance to prepare for the entrance into Morocco. I had heard all sorts of horror stories about the chaos at border crossings in Africa. A number of people have immediately fled back to Europe having been exposed to the hustlers and hassle that are encountered and so I was slightly nervous as the boat docked.
Exiting Cueta (a Spanish enclave) was no problem at all, but then came the Moroccan border. Huge queues of cars greeted me, all beeping their horns, there appeared to be no system, no signs above any of the offices/booths and there were people swarming everywhere. Let the fun begin....
The hustlers were onto me like bees around honey. Lone tourist with a new bike standing there looking bemused, I was obviously ripe for the picking! I tried to do what all the guidebooks recommend "look as though you know what you are doing and politely decline offers of help" but before I could say "non merci" I had had an immigration form thrust in my hand and was being led over to the immigration booths by a man with the promise of a "special service"!
I was a bit worried as to what a "special service" entailed, but was sure that it would cost me money, and that it probably wasn't entirely necessary, so I extracted myself from the hustler's vice like grip and queued for the passport stamp. Meanwhile and official from the tourist board began to warn all of us in the queue not to enlist the help of hustlers, and that we should always speak to an official.
After getting the passport stamped it was time to deal with registering the bike. With the official's words of warning still ringing in my ears I went back up to him and asked him where the office was to register the bike.
"I will take you there" he said as he handed me a form.
"That's kind of him" I thought.
As we walked towards the office, which was only 30 metres away, I asked him if this was free.
"Well I am helping you," he said, "so you will need to pay me what you think is right."
Bugger me, another hustler in disguise! Once again, with a little more difficulty, I managed to extract myself. But as he wandered off I am sure that I could hear him putting a curse on me, my bike and my family!
With the bike duly registered and some money changed up I was ready. I jumped on my bike and rode the 10 metres to the customs/final clearance point. There I had to run the final gauntlet of two policemen. The first policeman said I needed to go back and get my passport stamped, although how he knew this is beyond me because he hadn't even looked at my passport! I showed the second policeman my passport and he agreed that I had completed all the border formalities. This was followed by a shouting match and much gesticulating between the two policemen, and I got the impression that there was some kind of power struggle going on.
"Mmm, this probably isn't the best way to enter a country," I thought as I waited for them to come to an agreement. They finally agreed that I could proceed, although the first policeman still did not look happy (was that another curse I could hear as he stomped off?).
I weaved my way around the gates, past all the taxis and buses, and continued southwards. I had made it into Africa. The real journey had begun!
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