Morocco was an exercise in forgiveness and patience for me. I was ripped off as soon as I set foot in the country, and the game of trying to steal what I had continued until I left. On the other hand, Morocco was a country of contrasting beauty, some challenging motorcycling, and home to many nice and proud people.

I took an all night ferryboat from Almeria, Spain to Mililla, which is a small Spanish port in Morocco. For the motorcycle and myself, sleeping with the benefit of a couple of glasses of wine in a chair, the cost was about $70.00. For $20.00 more I could have had a bed in a shared room, but opted for the chair to save a few dollars and not have to listen to someone else snore. The boat was nearly empty, so I was able to use several chairs for my bed.

I arrived early Saturday morning, rode off the boat and into Customs and Immigration. No visa was needed for a US citizen, but the Customs officials would not let the motorcycle in with the Green Card Insurance I had purchased in Germany, because it was not good in Morocco. My grasped insistence that my USA insurance was good also got a negative.

A tout was nearby, spoke some English, and said he knew where I could purchase the needed insurance. First he took me to the local moneychanger, where I got a decent rate for some hundred-dollar bills, while the tout and his buddies eyeballed my wad of Moroccan Dirhams.

Next he walked me to an insurance office, which was closed. He said he knew another, but it would require a cab, so $2.00 found us in his buddy’s cab riding about 1 mile. The second office was closed, but had a telephone number on the door, which the tout called from a public phone, and where I was able to make a copy of my registration, title, passport and driver’s license, all of which he said I would need.

A runner met us at the local café, and took us to a second floor apartment on some side street where an insurance seller filled in a form, took my photo copies, and charged me close to $70.00 US for a month worth of insurance. I complained, saying that was the same as he had charged a man before me for a car. I said something like “A bit expensive for just 30 days.” The Arab insurance salesman smiled, pocketed my Dirhams and said, “Welcome to Africa.”

I am not sure if I could have gotten the insurance cheaper, or if it was because the hour was 8:00 AM on a Saturday morning, or if I looked like the normal stupid tourist, but it was the only way I was able to get the motorcycle past the Customs officials. In the month I was in Morocco I was never asked to show the paper, nor turn it in when I left. It was the most expensive souvenir I bought, and does have a couple of pretty stamps glued on it.

The way to avoid this problem would have been to purchase the more expensive Green Card insurance from the ADAC in Germany. I had someone else do it for me and he did not know I was going into Morocco. Usually I go myself to the ADAC office, but my friend offered to do it for me before I arrived, thereby saving me some time. I forgot to tell him to get the broader coverage.

I paid the tout $3.00 for hustling me around, which took about an hour. I suspect he and his cohorts figured it was a pretty good day, because I left about $80.00 US at the border, doing my contribution to stimulate the economy of Morocco.

Getting into Morocco was relatively easy. The Customs official, after inspecting my insurance certificate for the Kawasaki KLR 650, said, “Welcome to Morocco.” He should have said, “We look forward to your spending here, spending those hard earned American dollars and spending to replace the things my countrymen are able to steal from you.”

I had been warned about the pickpockets and thieves in Morocco, and having been around the world several times before figured I could protect my assets and myself. I have to say, after experiencing Morocco for a month, the professional thieves in Morocco are possibly the best I have experienced, better than the gypsies of Europe, and far better than the Latin and South Americans.

The first thing I noticed that had gone missing was a couple of pens from my tank bag. I had left the tank bag on the bike as I inspected a small apartment I was going to rent for a couple of nights. It took only a couple of minutes, but I learned not to leave the tank bag on the bike, more so when I realized they got my tank bag rain cover too. I keep my cameras in the tank bag that they could have just as easily stolen for the amount of daring it took to go into the inside and get the cover.

Next to take a walkabout was my plastic bag filled with spare nuts, bolts, washers and fuses. I had left it on the bike while I ducked into the apartment to fetch my repair manual. Gone in 30 seconds!

Another pen disappeared at a gas station, and then some dare devil pried loose a plastic BMW emblem I had glued to the fairing. It was a gift from a fellow KLR rider who had doctored a BMW roundel, changing the BMW letters to KLR. What the thief was going to do with it I could not guess, but he got it.

One of my new friends in Morocco explained to me that stealing in Morocco is likened to a national sport. The thieves do not really need what they steal. More important to them is the fact they were able to steal it and not get caught, the adventure being worth more than the object. I told her I understood what she meant, being a Crow Indian.

She asked me what that meant. I told her that Crow Indians placed great value on horses, but more on the act of counting coup, or managing to sneak into another Indian camp and make off with the horses. The recounting of the stories of such adventure and courage made the long cold winters in Montana a little warmer as other members of the tribe sat around fires inside warm tepees while snow swirled outside. I told her the favorite horses to steal were those of the Sioux Indians, the long time enemy of the Crow. The Crow warriors would ride into the Dakotas, sneak into a Sioux camp and quietly lead off the horses. While they were there, they would also lead off some of the Sioux women.

“How terrible,” said my new Moroccan friend, inflamed at the thought of women being stolen.

“Not so,” said I. “The Sioux considered it great sport to sneak into Crow country and steal their horses and women back. Then the Crows would go back to Sioux country and steal the horses back again.”

“And the poor women? What of them?”

“Ahhhhh,” I answered, not knowing how liberated my new friend was. “Well, errr, ummmm, the Crows did not have to steal them back. Usually the Sioux women would come back to Crow country on their own.”

My new friend laughed loudly, as did I. A good story and joke can bridge the differences of cultures in most parts of the world, Morocco included.

The next item to disappear was my riding scarf, a brightly colored nylon thing I tied around my neck to keep my hair from being sucked out of my jacket and knotted by the wind. I did not like it because it, being plastic, would not soak up sweat. I noticed it was missing after the maid cleaned my room on the morning I was checking out of a small hotel. I went looking for her, but she was gone. I did not complain to the manager of the hotel. Maybe I should have. My feeling was she wanted it terribly to risk the loss of her job, I had paid less than a dollar for it in a second hand store in Denver, and I really needed to purchase one that was cotton. The scarf was probably cleaned and brought cheer into some poor person’s life. I bought a new one, which suits me better, so a balance was achieved, at the price of $1.00 US.

The one item that was stolen which I regretted losing was my motorcycle cover. I carry one to cover the motorcycle at night and during those times when I can not see it, like at border crossings while I hustle paperwork. My experience has taught me “What is out of sight (tank bag, panniers, stickers and glued-on roundels) is less likely to be gone into or stolen.” The bike cover also makes a nice ground cloth for lying down on the ground when I am working on the bike. It keeps me from getting dirty and catches what falls off the bike, like little nuts and bolts, and keeps them from hiding in the grass or dirt.

I had stripped off my tank panniers and tank bag, as well as my luggage and left all in my hotel room, while I went in search of an Internet café. Once I found one, I threw the cover over the bike because I could not see it from inside the building. The thief was a brave one, I give him credit for that. The motorcycle was less than 10 meters away from the entrance of the cyber café, and the cover was tied to the bike by two bungi cords, but he (no way was the thief a she) managed to take it without being caught. What the thief was going to do with a motorcycle cover designed to cover a fully loaded Harley-Davidson was beyond me, unless he was going to use it for a tent. I will replace it when I get to Germany, but probably at a cost of twice what I paid J.C. Whitney in the USA.

Next I had a pair of pliers and a screwdriver stolen. I was changing a flat tire in a wharf area. As I worked a crowd began to gather, made up of older men and younger boys. I had my tool kit out, several tools on the ground and was working the tube out of the tire when I saw one of the younger boys grab the pliers and screwdriver, then take off running. I jumped up and started after him, then stopped. I realized if I went far from the bike, the remaining crowd would help themselves to the rest of my tools, and probably anything else that was laying on the ground. I watched the pliers and screwdriver disappear around the corner of a building and said some unhappy words, best not repeated in these pages.

Finally my patience ran out. I hunted a long time before I could find a super-strong rat trap, the kind that snaps a heave piece of bent wire down onto the rat when it tries to steal the food off of a little plate in the middle. I drilled a hole through the end of the trap and tied a thin, but strong piece of string to it, about a two-foot long length. Then, I tied the other end to the frame of the motorcycle and with the trap set, placed it inside of one of my empty tank panniers one night. Sure enough, in the morning the trap had been sprung and was laying on the ground, still attached to the string.

The next time the trap caught a rat I heard him yell, and run off. You can imagine the smirk I had the next morning as I checked out of the camping area when I saw the fingers of the manager taped to a couple of sticks. The trap had broken them, I was sure, because when I checked in the day before his right hand was fine as he took my money.

I was having great fun with the rat trap, being so bold as to set it in the open and carefully placing it inside my empty tank bag at the market one day while I went shopping, leaving the bike and bag unattended. I was shocked when I returned and found the trap had been stolen! It was a port city, so I knew what the thief would do with the trap. I could not find another one, and decided to stop playing with the thieves. I thought I had run my luck and no one had stolen the tank bag or panniers, and I was sure there were 4-5 sets of very sore fingers somewhere in Morocco.

In Morocco the right hand is for eating and shaking hands, while the left one is for taking care of the business behind you. I was not sure which I would have enjoyed more, knowing their left or right hand was disabled for some weeks. I do know that I never want either of my hands to be caught in a rat trap.

Shopping at the local market was an adventure in finding my way in and out. Here, in Fez, the market was like a rabbit warren, and no motor vehicles were allowed inside. I parked my Kawasaki outside of the market and paid a “watcher” or attendant $1.00 to watch it. He did a good job, because when I returned nothing was missing. This was also the only place I paid for a guide, someone to get me through the maze of small streets. The price was high, about $10.00 for six hours, but he found me the parking place, took me to a couple of places I probably could have found myself, but would have taken longer, and fended off hustlers and other touts as we wandered through the best market in Morocco. On the downside was his taking me to two rug shops to sit through their sales pitch. He would have gotten a commission on any rug I bought, but I had no money for these kinds of souvenirs, nor know anything about rugs. He, and the rug salesmen, assured me I could buy one rug for $100.00 US, ship it to the USA, sell it at an auction, and make $1,000.00 on the deal. I told them both I had some dot.com stocks I could trade them. No deal was struck.

Above is a photo of the old city of Fez. Of all the medinas (old walled cities) in Morocco, this one was the best. Prices for rugs and metalwork were about one-half of those I found in Tangier or Marrakesh. I took a shower in one of the hammams (public bathhouses) for $1.00 US, which was very good. What was bad was I forgot to bring my own flip-flops, and had to decide on whether to use the house-supplied rubber shoes (used by about 10,000 other feet) or go barefoot. I chose option #3, wearing my socks. Besides me, they needed washing too.

I hunt roads, good motorcycling roads. That differentiates me from many of my fellow motorcycle travelers. While they follow The Lonely Planet guides around the globe, I follow tips from other motorcyclists on where the best motorcycling roads are to be found. In Morocco the below score well on my scale, but not necessarily in order:

1) The coast road between Agadir and Essaouira. Around Tamri the winds were great fun, trying to push the motorcycle into oncoming traffic.

2) The road to Oukaimeden, but only the last 20-30 kilometers. The road was like many found in the Alps of Europe. Twisties, looking up to snow covered peaks, with numerous second and first gear curves.

3) Between Midelt and Er-Rachidia there were some good curves up and down the mountain range. Mostly high speed stuff, and the pavement was good.

4) The road to the Cascades d’Ouzoud. I mistakenly turned right on the road north from Marrakech to Benj-Mellal too soon, and found a road that stopped somewhere between Demnate and the turn-off to Cascades d’Ouzoud. About 20 kilometers north I made the left turn to Cascades d’Ouzoud. Both roads up and down the mountains were worth the side trip. There were plenty of curves and the roads were in good condition. The cascades themselves were a bit boring, and the camping was better suited for a caravan. I sensed anything left in my tent or on the motorcycle was going to find a new owner, so did not spend the night. The smell of open sewer in the one campground I checked, and the tout trying to get me to stay, turned me sour on the town, but the roads up and back were fun.

5) The sands of the Sahara – east of Erfoud. Not good roads, in fact, bad roads. Pavement out of Erfoud, then potholes, finally washboard and sand. But if you want to see the Sahara, ride in the sand, and see how close you can get to Algeria and some disputed areas, this is not a bad ride. I spent the night in Erfoud, got some welding done for $2.00, a bigger base on my side stand for the sand. It was something Dual-Star had sent along and was going to cost me $30.00 in the USA to get welded, so I waited until I needed it in Morocco, and saved $28.00.

The leather dying vats of Fez. When I went here to take a photo I was handed a couple of mint leaves to hold under my nose. When the wind shifted in my direction, even with the leaf under my nose, my eyes started to water and I was reminded of some of the toilets (wooden board over a long drop) in Asia.

A lady journalist friend of mine and I have had a long-standing debate going over the battle of the sexes. She feels women should work the same jobs, for the same pay, as men. I agree, but qualify my agreement by saying it depends upon the nature of the job. I agree with her if she can find a female prizefighter able to withstand the loss of an ear to a combatant, or take a hit from Joe Frazier, then the lady should be a prizefighter is she wants to be. She says it should make no difference, a woman should have the opportunity to go into the ring and try to take the punch, and for the same amount of money a man would get. I always lose these arguments. However, I may have found a way to win one.

The workers in the leather dying vats of Fez (and all of Morocco) are men, and always have been. It has been a combination of culture and strength that has allowed only men to work these jobs. And what a job.

The liquid in the vats is made up of ingredients such as fish oil, animals brains and fats, pigeon droppings, cow urine, sulfuric acid and chromium salts, plus some ‘mystery liquids’ for color and softness. One sniff of the vapors would be enough to send an environmentalist into panic. Try sniffing an open battery while it is being charged, with your nose directly over the water hole, and you can get a sense of what the male vat workers must endure for 10-12 per days. I think if my journalist friend wants to send ladies into the same death zone, then I have found a fool to argue with. I submit we should leave this kind of work to foolish men.

Gregory, on the road with a Kawasaki KLR 650, riding around the globe, saying “Good-bye” to Morocco, and to the many guys who outsmarted me and stole my stuff. They definitely counted coup on me!