To Africa... With a Garlic Baguette

Gibraltar and its Spanish environs are fortunate enough to be located in the part of Europe that is closest to Africa. The ferry trip can take as little as thirty five minutes, depending on where you leave from and go to, which means that taking a day trip to another continent is very easy indeed. Feeling a little nervous about exploring the wonders of Morocco independently in a short space of time, we booked ourselves on a guided tour.

We left on a ferry from the port of Algeciras, which turned out to be just like any other port in the world except that one of the cafes sold enormous jars of honey in Pooh-bear sized portions. The catamaran crossing was thankfully uneventful, though we were very prepared for any possible events. Since the safety video gave all the necessary instructions in five languages (accompanied by the very best in eurotastic dance music) and the crossing was short, it played for most of the trip. We picked up our coach and tour guide on the other side in Ceuta, a little perfect Spanish town and a resolutely Spanish place stuck onto the end of Africa... much as Gibraltar is a resolutely British place stuck onto the end of Spain, I suppose. Then the exciting part – crossing the land border between Spain and Morocco and finally leaving Europe. Except that it wasn't very exciting at all. They didn't stamp our passports, because we were only there on a day trip. They did, however, take our temperatures to see if we had Swine Flu or not. Which was nice. Declared medically sound, we sped off to sample the wonders of Tetuoan and Tangiers.

The terrain around the Moroccan coast was quite different to Spain. Cedar trees punctuated the horizon and flat roofed, whitewashed houses sat back from the sandy roadside. Steep mountainsides and blue, cloudless skies rose from blue rivers and lakes. Everywhere the Moroccan flag waved, be it in town squares, at roundabouts or road junctions or just seemingly in the middle of nowhere, huge, red and green and contrasting with its surroundings, standing out for miles around. This was a country in the grip of a surge in pride and confidence. Construction projects abounded, from the fresh tarmac underneath our wheels to the huge new sparkling edifices of bus and train stations and the new port being built in Tangiers. In the Medina in Tetouan we found a contrasting view of old Morocco. A maze of tiny streets winding up a steep hill was home to all manner of tradesmen, even some selling parts of taps and old remote controls that must have belonged to long-deceased electrical appliances. As we walked through the gateway into the Medina we were hit with the strong smell of pepper and spices. Each successive stall we passed and alleyway we walked down had its own distinctive odour. Meat, leather, perfume, cat – all could be smelled in great intensity in the North African heat. As we passed by a street corner Mosque we heard the Muslim call to prayer and our transition to a place far from home was complete.

Tangiers was much bigger than Tetouan, being a major port city. There was a distinct French flavour to it and amidst the heavy traffic we saw so many “Salons de Thé” that we could almost have been in the Galeries Vivienne in Paris. We didn't have much time to explore Tangiers and we are quite keen to go back and see more of it on our own. Frankly by the time we had reached Tangiers we had grown out of being in a guided tour group. It quickly became clear when we arrived in Tetouan that the primary objective of our guide was to get us to spend money. From the carpet shops of the Medina to the authentic lunch with cous cous and Moroccan music, it was all one huge attempt to extract as much cash from us on a grand scale. Somehow we resisted the temptations of rugs, lamps, teapots and other Moroccan bits that many friends of our guide were very insistent that we buy. We did get a taste of local culture, but it was marred somewhat by regular attempted assaults on our wallets.

It was a bit of a relief, really, to arrive back in Spain and set foot in our apartment again to unpack our few, carefully chosen and prudent purchases. As we opened the rucksack we were pleased to find that our tea glasses and camels had safely survived the journey. Then, from out of the corner of the rucksack, behind the now empty water bottle and camera case, there emerged a Morrison's garlic baguette. It had clearly not been kept chilled, as the packaging advised. It had also clearly not come from the Moroccan souk. The fiancé had popped to the shops on the way home from work on his bike the previous evening, as he did most evenings in fact. Somehow all of the shopping had not been unpacked. Our African odyssey had been undertaken with a small buttery companion. The bag had been x-rayed by Spanish customs officers on the way back and you would assume that such a thing might have aroused suspicion, but it appears not. I suppose people don't usually hide drugs or guns in garlic baguettes... despite their convenient size and shape for the purpose. Suffice to say we didn't eat the baguette. Compared to the average garlicky accompaniment, though, it lead a very exciting and well travelled life. We suspect that some of those pungent odours in the Medina may actually have been emanating from us as the baguette quietly warmed itself up in the African sunshine. Yum. It must be nearly dinner time...