Not for the faint-hearted!

21.01.23 Algeciras - Asilah: I was prepared for a lot, but this first impression of Morocco surprised me: The appearance of the border officials and the police was not for the faint-hearted and reminded me of scenes from old movies - something I had never experienced myself - until today. But more on that later.

At 6 o'clock the night was over for me. I was wide awake. I had slept well, for the first time on this trip without heating. No problem. We set off shortly before 9 o'clock to the nearby port. We arrived shortly before 9:30. Carlos had prepared the tickets perfectly for us, so the boarding went smoothly. I was looking forward to the crossing on deck with a view of the Strait of Gibraltar, but that didn't happen. Since we wanted to complete the passport formalities on board, we had to queue at the corresponding counter. But it was unfortunately unoccupied. After almost an hour of waiting, an employee arrived, carrying a computer under his arm, and walked towards us to applause from the passengers. The formalities then went unexpectedly quickly, so that we could still board the deck. But we could have saved ourselves that, because the wind was so strong that we feared being blown off the ship.

After arrival and disembarking with our motorhomes, the border control was waiting for us. We had to hand over our passports and vehicle registrations. Then we were waved through. Armed border guards everywhere, cars and small trucks on the side of the road unloading their entire load. A station wagon in front of me had been caught, loaded to the roof with brand-new cooking utensils. The driver had to unload everything. I wanted to take a photo of it for the blog, but taking a snapshot through the windshield was too complicated, so I didn't. Fortunately: Ten minutes later, two border guards approached me, one of them spoke to me, the other one secured with a machine gun. He asked me in broken English if I had taken a photo. I immediately knew that someone must have been watching me. I said no, but he didn't believe me. He asked me to give him my phone. I reached into my pocket and saw the man with the machine gun twitch. I slowly pulled out my phone and gave it to the border guard. He was familiar with phones, opened the Photos app on the iPhone, and checked the pictures. There was nothing. I thought the two of them would teach me a lesson now and make me empty my motorhome. But they gave me back my documents and waved me on. That was close...

The border control scattered our group. Berndt and Brigitte as well as Martin and Angelika were missing. We waited maybe 20 minutes on a side strip, but no one came. The two caravans were also no longer reachable by phone because they had already inserted Moroccan SIM cards. So the seven of us set off on the around 70 kilometer long journey to Asilah. Just a heads-up: There we met the four of them on the way to the campsite. But the over three hours until then were eventful: The roads were crazy! Everyone played madly on the two, three, four lanes. No one adhered to a speed limit, observed right of way or minimum distances. It was a pure fight for survival, in which the strongest did not win, but the one with the fewest inhibitions. The most absurd scene was when a motorcyclist cut off a taxi in a roundabout and only prevented a collision by slamming on the brakes. Then he chased the taxi and braked it - in the middle of the roundabout. The taxi driver opened the door, and I already saw two long knives shining in the sun. But after ten seconds both raised their hand, smiled at each other and drove on.

That's what we did too. It's a little miracle to me that all eight motorhomes survived this dance without an accident. We are now standing on a campsite in Asilah, where it must have poured down in the past few days. The ground is completely soft. But that doesn't bother us much anymore. We are in Morocco, in Africa, on a different continent. And tomorrow is a day of rest. We won't continue until Monday. I think the break is good for everyone.