Melilla and onwards into Morocco

After a rather rough and unpleasant 8 hours crossing the Mediteranian, I touched african soil leaving the ferry in Melilla around 22h. Boarding the ferry in Malaga, my loaded bike has been the center of attention for the fellow passengers. Quite a lot of people made benign comments and asked me about my plans for cycling in Morocco, all smiling mildly.

Some spanish guy from Melilla warned me against thieves and thugs (and moroccans in general) waiting for me - their easy prey- just round the corner/over the border. Five minutes later I found the same guy chatting happily with a group of morrocans and he told them he absolutely loved Morocco and did have a flat there, very friendly people, todo genial, etc... (??)

Once in Melilla I took a small room at Hostal Rioja; just round the corner from the town hall and only 5 minutes walk from Melilla la Vieja, the old fortified town. Thursday being holiday and Melilla devoid of tourists; the owner of my hostel decided to call it a day and shut his business for a long weekend and I had to look hard for a place to leave the bike during a short visit to Melilla la Vieja. A nice lady watching over the public parking rescued me and allowed me to park my ride beside her booth.

So I went to enjoy the views from the higest point of the fortifications (being the military musuem including a bronce bust of Franco and all) and visited the Cuevas del Conventico; a network of manmade caves -cut three storeys deep into the rocks for the means of defence of the citadell and also used as storage facilities of christian relics and place for prayer during times of war.

After refilling my waterbottles I pedal towards Morocco. I feel a bit weird and unsure wether it was the right decision to enter the country by the east and have a somewhat strange fear of getting robbed right away. At the border-post of Beni-Enzar I fill in the due imigration form requiered by the local customs authorities, answer a couple of questions (You travel en velo? Two or three wheels ?) receive big smiles and a nice red ENTRY stamp (my third one from Morocco) in my passport, the customs official wonders briefly over my now unvalid visa for Saudi-Arabia and off I roll.

Some 13kms after the border lies the boringly noisy town of Nador. I wheel slowly through the streets looking in vain for some (tourist)ttrqctions that might convince me to spend the night. Instead I am drawn towards a huge pot steaming over a fire in an improvised roadside foodstall where I hope to find some Harira soup; bit the dish of the day is snails. Not very attracting for lunch- to be honest. But the snail vendor recommends a nearby restaurant for a good tasty lunch.

And thus I get seated to be served my first moroccan meal, bread, lentil soup, fried fish and squid (25 DH). The garcon speaks no french and somehow he is convinced that I can only drink Coke - he refuses to serve me water. Hm?

With renewed energy I cycle in direction Oujda, being impressed by the moroccan trucks who manage to overtake me with only centimeters to spare and greeting friendly laughing when I salute them from my saddle. The roads runs parallel to the Atlas mountains and is a gentle up-and -down which suits me just fine. BUT there are some tricky curves and some daring truck driver raced along with more guts than brakes, not being aware that he is carrying about 10 tons of ripe oranges. RESULT: half the load follows the momentum and lands in the gutter/curve and I receive my first load of free oranges when I stop to chat with the men gathered around to watch and discuss the desaster.

A short exchange of smiles, pleasantries and helpfull info about the road ahead and I roll on; my bike loaded with sweet ripe oranges.

I plan to stay in the village of Zaio and inquire in a cafeteria about possible lodging, not willing to spend my first night in Morocco in my tent. The waiter does not speak french; nor español but chats happily and ask a passerby to help out. Fdal is a local school teacher and tells me there is nowhere to stay, realized my anguished look on my face and rapidly offers to stay in his flat tonight. A gut feeling tells me this is a more than decent guy and I decide to stay with him, flattend by his offer.

He invites me for tea in the cafeteria and pulls out his laptop to show me some pictures of the end-of-the-road/oasis town of Figuig at the closed Moroccan/Algerian border after he learns of my plans to cycle there within the next days. What a coincidence Figuig is in fact his hometown and he is delighted to be able to tell me about it.

We head for his apartment where I am to sleep in his friends room, he helps me to haul the luggage to the second floor and after a quick tour we go out for a poulet - dinner. He already payed for my tea and insists to pay for the dinner also - I am speachless - BONJOUR, BIENVENU AU MAROC.