Another World

On the tip of North Africa, the tiny enclave of Melilla boasts all the comforts of Europe. Streets are swept daily, and the neighbourhoods boast open air cafes and art deco and modernist architecture. Overnight boats depart from Malaga and cruise across the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean, with views of the vast expanses of the Atlantic Ocean. In the early morning, the ocean breeze is soothing and refreshing. The sun is warm, and the seabirds glide overhead, calling to each other. The boat journey comes to an end when the hull bumps against rubber protectors on the dock. The passengers file out, wheeling their suitcases down the ramps and chatting about where they will go for breakfast. A nearby tourist information stall offers maps, bus timetables, and restaurant recommendations. Melilla, a Spanish territory for over a thousand years, is the final opportunity for travellers to change their mind. It is one final chance to remain in the comfortable and familiar world of European travel before making the leap into the unpredictable and turbulent world of African adventure.

Melilla’s only land border is an imposing 11 kilometre long barrier, standing at three metres high. It encircles the entire region. Rings of barbed wire snake along the top, while a floodlit no-man’s-land, littered with debris, exists between the parallel fence lines. Shoes, plastic bags, and empty food packets tell stories of attempted crossings, of success and failure, of desperation and hope. The barrier stands as a formidable frontier between two worlds. Europe, and Spain, with its lattes, siestas, and tapas. And Morocco, Africa, with all the unknowns of another world. Melilla is a dare. Do you dare to leave?

The border crossing is loud, crowded, busy, and dusty. Traders ferry back and forth, lugging enormous packs on their backs, held together with fraying ropes. On the Moroccan side, manic conductors shout at potential customers, while fruit sellers thrust their wares in the faces of passers-by. The traders shout and whistle, demanding that paths be cleared as they haul their loads of imported European goods.

I hand my passport to a moustached border official and hear the familiar click and thud. The new ink glistens and reads ‘The Kingdom of Morocco.’ Without a backward glance, I move into the tumult and swim through a sea of arms towards the bus station. Along the way, I contend with jewellery and souvenirs being thrust towards me and wads of filthy banknotes held to my face. The bombardment continues, with a cacophony of instructions, demands, pleas, and offers from every trader, tout, and conman wanting to relieve me of my last euro and my first dirham. Coincidentally, every one of them offers the best bus service in Morocco.

‘This way, sir! Fès! Fès!’

‘Over here, sir! Casablanca!’

‘Bus, sir? Where are you going? You have ticket?’

‘Exchange, sir? You have dirhams? I have good price.’

‘Come this way, here, over here, this way.’

‘Water? You want water?’

‘Bus is this way, sir, not over there.’

‘You want a camel, cigarette, lady?’

I climb aboard a bus for Fès, and from the relative calm of my seat, take a breath and observe the chaos. Water sellers scurry about, jostling with food sellers and conductors for the attention of passengers. Drivers rev their engines and honk their horns. Meanwhile, border police amble around the area in a futile attempt at maintaining order. Melilla already feels like a distant memory. The other side of the fence. This is another world. It is immediate, all consuming, and irresistible. The buzz of the past few minutes is exactly what I have been searching for, and what I will come to love, and at times abhor, while travelling in Africa.

The road to Fès passes through a countryside of green hills, scattered with villages. As we draw closer, the housing grows denser, and the centuries of neglected city planning are evident. On the city’s outskirts, concrete block houses dot the hills, seemingly erected at will. Strewn across the rooftops is a giant web of aerials. Each house has at least two, if not three or four. The aerials appear to be propping each other up, and I imagine that if one were removed, the whole lot would come crashing down. Among the enormous mesh mess, giant satellite dishes point towards the heavens, absorbing European football matches and poorly scripted melodramas.

Fès, the largest and oldest medieval city in the world, is Morocco’s fourth largest, with one million people calling it home. The city is divided into three sections – Fès el-Bali (the old city), Fès el-Jdid (the new city), and Ville Nouvelle (the administrative area). A UNESCO World Heritage Site, Fès el-Bali is an intricate cluster of cobblestoned laneways and alleys. The labyrinthine old walled city was designed this way to confuse and befuddle invaders. The twisting, looping, directionless laneways are lined with uniform two and three storey buildings, all spotted with wooden shutters. Expressionless faces, appearing next to pot plants on window sills, peer down from inside those dark openings. Old men and women, their faces etched by the decades, peer at the crowds below in deadpan silence. I stare back momentarily before a loud hiss startles me. A donkey driven cart rounds a corner, and the conductor hisses at the crowd, urging us to part. In his wake, a young boy follows, pulling a wooden cart loaded with vegetables. The tyres rumble on the cobbled path, and his strong arms are moist with beads of sweat.

In the quieter corners of Fès, doors decorated with intricate patterns welcome worshippers to small mosques. Mosques of all sizes pepper the medina and are frequented throughout the day. On the steps and benches outside, groups of bearded and stubbly old men, many in hooded cloaks, move prayer beads through their fingers and chat with each other. Elsewhere, the sights of Fès el-Bali blend with mounds of colourful spices and bloody goat heads, to the glistening sequinned dresses and pointed shoes, to souvenir camels and sheesha pipes.

As the afternoon wears on, I round the same corner for a third time and amidst my frustration, notice something new – the medina delicacy, msemen. The crepe thin, pan fried bread is ordered by the hundred grams, and sprinkled with an ample amount of sugar. I hand over my dirhams and the vendor folds several pieces into a small plastic bag. The comforting warmth of the freshly cooked bread slides up my arm, leaving droplets of condensation. Meanwhile, the sugary goodness provides the sustenance to continue my stroll.

Among the sights of Fès el-Bali, one of the most striking is the tanneries. In operation for more than a thousand years, the Chouara tannery is an enormous, open air palette of colour, noise and smell. As a major tourist site, Fès el-Bali is crawling with official and unofficial tour guides. I do not want to be ripped off by an unofficial tour guide and taken to some back alley tannery. Instead, I hover near the entrance to Chouara, and when a tour group is led upstairs, I discreetly join the back of the queue. We circle up a stairwell, footsteps clanging on the metal steps, and we are each handed a sprig of mint leaves. I take mine and feign putting it my pocket before dropping it on the floor – somebody is going to want to be tipped for that. Well, they won’t get me, I am smarter than that! At the top of the stairwell, we step out into the afternoon sun and the massive vats appear below. Their colours glisten, reflecting the sun and the tanners are hard at work, thrusting hides in and out of the dyes. After a second, it hits me. A wall of putrid odour gushes towards us. A rancid, overwhelming stench. My face contorts and I choke on the thick air. The tour group stands in wonder, admiring the sight, and resting mint leaves on their upper lips. Meanwhile, I am desperately scanning the ground for any discarded mint leaves. There are none. I pull my t-shirt up over my nose, in a feeble attempt to block the smell. Dammit. I watch the workers heaving, up to their waists in muck, but I cannot distract myself from the smell. After a few minutes the first tourists in the group start leaving. They take their leaves with them. Dammit. I soon give up, unable to stand it any longer, and with my confidence dented, trudge down the stairs. At bottom of the staircase lay a mound of discarded mint leaves.

Further south from Fès, on the windswept Atlantic coast, lies Rabat. The generally uninspiring capital of Morocco, it is a comfortable pit stop on the road to Casablanca and Marrakech. Medinas, a royal palace, and casbahs decorated with blue and white tiles are among the few attractions. In Rabat, I meet Claire, a solo traveller from Ireland who is heading in roughly the same way as me, and Mac, a Japanese adventurer driving from London to Dakar on an expired licence in an uninsured car. Mac shows me his licence, grinning with pride as he does. It is crumpled, scratched, and stained with coffee. It is intentional, he explains, to make it as illegible as possible. Mac has also scribbled over the 2005 to make it appear as 2006. On the windscreen of his car is a sticker from a British insurance company. It is his insurance against having insurance. Mac raised the funds for his trip, two thousand pounds, by taking part in medical trials in London. Over the course of a fortnight, he swallowed an assortment of pills and donated blood every three hours. This is quite an introduction, and Mac is exactly the kind of...