JUST after passing through the Moroccan border from the Spanish enclave of Cueta, there is a sharp right turn up a steep hill.
By the time Nala, our overland truck, had fought her way to the top, we had covered more than one big hill – we had made it into Africa.
And as our last glimpses of the Rock of Gibraltar and Europe faded from view, we were thrown into the very different African experience.
All very different from our first taste of nine months on the road, which had served up a taste of old England in Gibraltar.
We were staying over the Spanish side of the great divide – leading to a succession of currency confusions with euro, sterling and Moroccan dirham (once we had found somewhere that had some) – but after settling in to life at the campsite, our first full day was spent exploring something very familiar
Walking up Winston Churchill Avenue (after wandering directly across the runway which runs alongside the border with Spain), it is almost like being in an English theme park imagined by Hollywood. If they opted to set the Dad’s Army remake in the current day, they could do worse than move Walmington-on-Sea from the south coast to this southern tip of the European mainland.
Sadly, the urge to be typical Brits abroad – even from a few other nationalities – saw us bite into our time in Ye Olde England with a traditional few drinks and dinner in the main town square, meaning only a few made it up the rock itself.
They got their first clear view of Africa which the rest of us received the next day, after our first early alarm call (that’s 5.30am out of beds, as opposed to the normal camp departure time of 8am after breakfast, packing up our tents and using whatever facilities, or otherwise, may be available).
All we had to do to catch sight of our home for the next nine months was to turn round on the deck of our ferry – surprisingly brief, considering how big a leap in culture and lifestyle we were making – from Algeciras to Cueta across the Strait of Gibraltar and its busy shipping lanes.
The first border crossing into Morocco was relatively quick and painless as we headed up the hill and turned the corner towards the capital Rabat, our base for much of the first few days.
Much of our time in Rabat was split between our bush camp in a cork forest outside town and a supermarket, used to stock up, use the facilities and wait for the latest developments from our third main port of call – the embassies of our next few points of call as we set about the task of collecting visas.
While two of the visas went through in rapid style – one inside half an hour, which is pretty much unheard of – the third resulted in us spending pretty much the entire working day camped out on the truck in front of the embassy as they dealt with the seemingly endless task of processing all 19 of us through their system.
By the end, we had become part of the furniture and the staff dealing with our applications spent as much time sharing jokes and singing along to their music, all well after their normal closing time.
We did have a few chances to get out and about Rabat, exploring the lanes and stalls of the medina and finding the first of some genuinely hospitable and welcoming locals keen to keep us fed and watered.
But our evenings were spent in splendid isolation at our increasingly soggy forest campsite as we quickly fell into a bush camp routine – pile off the truck and collect firewood, set up camp as dusk fell and the day’s cook group set about creating dinner, while the previous evening’s chefs turned their hands to cleaning duty on the deck.
The evenings generally moved on to swapping a few tales around the campfire before heading into our tents.
We managed to escape the capital’s clutches for a weekend sojourn in Casablanca, breaking our trip with a stop at the beach
The rush for showers after two days in bush camp was followed for some by a race to get the first batch of laundry done. Those of us who opted against laundry were left feeling smug as an overnight rainstorm left the washing soaked on the line and several tents partially surrounded by the puddles – especially those on higher ground who found a laundry back in Rabat wiling to do a whole bag full of washing in a couple of hours for around £3.
Clean and dry – more than could be said of some of our clothes – we headed into Casablanca, which comes with a movie star reputation but surprisingly little substance to justify top billing.
Its medina is interesting, but a touch too run down and small to challenge what we have already seen and what we have been promised, while the landmark Hassan II Mosque is certainly impressive and imposing on the shores of the Atlantic, but somehow left a feeling of style over substance.
Built to honour the former king, no money was spared on the third largest mosque in the world (after Mecca and Medina) which houses 25,000 worshippers when full.
Our guide was keen to stress those figures, but not so hot on the background of Islam for us to understand why all the extra touches she was so proud of were necessary.
Why exactly does a mosque need a huge hammam (two actually, one for women as well, as the guide was very keen to tell us) heated to a constant 33 degrees centigrade? Especially when it has never been opened.
All just a few hundred yards from where many Casablanca residents are struggling to eke out a living on the edges of the medina.
But Casablanca did leave its mark after our first delve into the world of street food.
Courtesy of two small food stalls, we were handsomely fed with pancakes and, in my case, a sausage bruschetta, and introduced to the delights of Moroccan tea.
It could be the start of a beautiful friendship…
