Here's looking at you kid

I did one of these…

Some years ago about my troubles in Portugal with a wheezy old DAF.

People seemed enthusiastic with my scribblings but suggested moving it to this forum. I have no idea if this is the right place to recount this story but, here it is anyway. If the mods want to move it to a more appropriate place, be my guest.

I worked for Ralph Davies for about a year. It’s not difficult to recall when this journey took place as will be revealed later. Suffice to say, I was driving a Volvo FH, with 3 pedals and 500 horses. At that time, Ralph had the biggest fleet of 500s in Europe and we were known as the MIBs (Men in Black). The kit was in good shape, the money was level in comparison with other outfits doing the same work and me being single meant, I could drive for anyone who’d hire me.
The work was similar to the other European outfits I’d driven for and in many cases, I’d find myself at the same packhouses, loading the same product and delivering to the same UK wholesalers.

Getting back to the yard on a Friday afternoon, transport asked if I’d ever been to Morocco, seeing as it was somewhere different, I said I hadn’t but was quite happy to give it a whirl. I set off the following Sunday, destination Casablanca, with a fridge trailer loaded with mobile phone network equipment. I stress I wasn’t carrying the latest Nokia handsets but, switching gear and electronic bits for the network itself. The trailer was already loaded, was dead light and secured with a chunky fridge door lock. I had a great deal of paperwork, much of which I didn’t recognise. Wasn’t my problem the way I saw it. I bimbled down though France and across Spain to Algeciras, stopping at the border to fill up with bottled water, bottled beer (stubby’s) and Uncle Bens boil in the bag rice. In the docks I met another Ralph Davies driver. I’m struggling to remember his name but he’d not long passed his class 1. He was telling me that he’d been driving coaches for many years and fancied a change. Since he’d been doing it, he’d been winding his wife up by saying that he was only doing a trip Reading and would be back the following day, only to ship out to the bottom of Italy for 2 weeks. He seemed confused as to why she couldn’t see the funny side of it. We had a few beers and called ourselves the North African Virgins. I tipped the agent three packs of Marlboro on the suggestion of a John Mann driver and we were stamped out with ‘no problemo’.

I can’t remember the Ferry company name but I can remember the boat absolutely reeked of ■■■■. From the minute I climbed out of the lorry, to the minute I got back in, the smell of wee was detectable in every part of the ship. We went up on deck, braving the wind and sun to get away from the stink below. Up there we got talking to a Dutch driver who said he’d been stupid enough to visit the toilets two decks down, he looked visibly shaken by the experience. Now I know why they have raised up ledges on ships internal doors. During the short crossing, I got through a new cigarette lighter it was so windy up there. But still better than being inside HMS Urinal.

As I drove up the linkspan into the docks at Tangier, I was relieved to enjoy the recirculation A/C system on the Volvo. The best one I’ve ever used and hasn’t been surpassed in my opinion. The next thing I know is my passenger door has opened and a very grubby hand is holding a carved wooden elephant and demanding 30 Dirham 30 Dirham! I never got to see the guys face just heard his voice, ‘20 Dirham 20 Dirham’. Every 10 yards I drove seemed to equal a 10 Dirham discount. The elephant then vanished and a small wooden table appeared in it’s place. I stamped hard on the brakes, clambered over the cab, slammed the door shut and locked it. At that exact moment, my drivers door opened and a familiar looking wooden elephant appeared again. Lesson learned, lock your doors and if all else fails in the negotiations just run them over. By the time I got further inland, the whole of the front of the truck was a sea of humanity trying to sell what ever they made, carved, cooked, stole or hustled. It’s quite alarming to have that many people just standing on front of you. I just kept pushing gently through until I was directed into a compound by a man wearing a hat and Ray-Ban Aviators. I reversed up against a high wall, put the brakes on, got out to be greeted by a smell worse than the HMS Urinal could only hope to match.

yourhavingalarf:
It’s not difficult to recall when this journey took place as will be revealed later.

…
Bet I know when. But I`ll let you continue.

Ed,PM-ed.

Just as I’m warming to it you finish!!! No wonder you were single! C’mon, don’t leave us hanging.

Never been to Morocco but I did one trip to Algeria. Never again. To think that sometime way back in history I was young and keen.

the maoster:
Just as I’m warming to it you finish!!! No wonder you were single! C’mon, don’t leave us hanging.

I have trouble…

Remembering things, then I have to type it all out, spell check it, edit it and re-edit it.

You’ll get it when I’ve consumed enough wine to write the next bit ok?

You really…

Couldn’t put a customs area in a worse place. The local fish market and the local sewage works joined forces to produce the most godawful stench I’ve ever had the misfortune to be parked for five days in. All day the stink of rotting fish and who knows what in the sewage works, hung around like a mugger in a poorly lit car park. Every time you got out of the cab, it was there, instantly reminding you of it’s presence. I found that visiting the toilet facilities, which were below average even for North Africa, was a breath of fresh air. I assumed I’d get used to it like the locals seemed to have done but, I didn’t. If I’m ever hypnotised and asked for the most memorable things in my life, I think that smell might be the first thing I recall.

The North African Virgins wandered off to customs with our bundles of paperwork which were quite substantial in numbers of papers and complexity. Having found the offices which were hot, disorganised and full of people who said a great deal very loudly but in reality did very little. We stood there and watched as everything we handed over either, disappeared, was dropped on the floor, had coffee cups put on it or, was tossed back at us. My passport went for a walk which made me nervous. I asked about it and was completely ignored, we were both completely ignored. Every single one of them looked like a crook. If Hollywood wanted to cast a crook, these people were the exact framework they’d base it on. Having stood there for a long time being ignored we decided to go, hoping that tomorrow we’d get it all back and we could crack on. How wrong we were on that assumption. Long story short, five days later, we were all cleared. Not just me but, the other Ralph Davies drivers, some STS drivers from Southampton and a couple of owner drivers, one of which was from Romania and the other from Ireland. We all had various parts of the mobile phone network jigsaw destined for Casablanca. You have to admire STS, they were the kind of firm that appeared in the most unexpected locations. Once right down the very bottom of Italy I passed one who was parked up in the middle of nowhere and again, another in Denmark. It was almost as if they were inflatables left randomly around Europe by a very imaginative marketing team. If you look very very closely at some of the moon landing photos, you can just see one of their tilts in the background.

‘5 days in Tangier port’ would never be a holiday destination advertising slogan for good reason. Despite the compound being customs secure, every Tom ■■■■ and Harry seemed to be able to wander in and out at will. This became nothing more than a business opportunity for anyone who fancied selling carved wooden elephants, ornate wooden tables, rugs, various tupperware items that they’d found on the pavement and if you asked, pretty much anything you wanted. Literally every time you got out, someone was there trying to sell you something. The casual ‘not interested mate’ seemed to mean ‘please try and sell me all that crap you’ve got there in that dirty bucket’ in the local dialect. They were relentless and it became tedious. There’d be regular shouting matches from drivers with them and the occasional scuffle because they wanted to be left alone. The following day, the same hustlers would be back and carry on like they’d never seen you before. I avoided most of this by spending large parts of the day in the lorry running the engine for long periods to keep the A/C running to keep the smell out and stay reasonably cool. This didn’t deter the door knockers of course. They’d just knock on the door waving what ever tat they’d found in the local rubbish bins or stolen from someone else and try and flog you that. They made life a misery to be honest. If they weren’t doing sales, they’d wander around your lorry looking and sometimes touching the pallet boxes. I’m confident that given 25 minutes and a screwdriver, they’d have your engine and gearbox out and sold for cash or a large handful of dates. Oh, I forgot to mention the local mosque just behind the compound with its daily call to prayer going off at regular intervals. I’m confident that they are worse to places to be stuck in than the Port of Tangier but none come to mind.

That leaves a large group of lorry drivers with nothing much to do for a few days in a busy port town. The experienced Morocco drivers weren’t really interested in coming out, but they pointed out where they thought the best restaurants were, as well as telling us not waste our time in the local souk (market) because that’s where all the hustlers from the port went to get their items from to sell to us. A group of us went out later that evening and had a meal in town. I recognised most of the menu items, drinks, sundries and ordered a steak with frites. It then became apparent that the whole table was infested with cockroaches. We didn’t see them at first but gradually they made their presence known by crawling over your shoes, up your leg, over the table and around the ketchup bottle. I was surprised when most of the team seemed to find it funny and started coming up with ways to kill them that over time, got more and more ugly for the roaches. I did finish my meal, I did not enjoy my meal. It was then agreed that we’d go to a place that would serve us beer. It wasn’t very clear to me then and it still isn’t now but Morocco does serve alcohol I think. I know we got beer and started to have a bit of a night out. Incredibly, someone copped off with a local girl and vanished. That shocked me, despite him coming back later, anything could have happened to him and his wallet. The ride home in the taxi (taxi’s were cheap to us but, pricey to the locals) was an eye opener. The night time brought out some real degenerates and we saw two real nasty fights on the street. The only thing that lifted the mood was me asking the driver to drive like ‘Michael Shcumacher’, I have never been so scared in all my life. We went up pavements, through red lights and along the main drag so fast I thought the bearings would melt. Another lesson learned, never bet a nutter with rudimentary driving skills to drive like an F1 legend.

I like the Dutch. I’ve got a lot of time for the Dutch.

Without fail…

Every Dutchman I’ve met can speak English. Not just hack at it but, fluently with knowledge and confidence. My mullering of French and Spanish becomes almost comical in comparison. In between dozing all day in the lorry, fighting the ever present Tangier Tat sales team and going for a shower etc. The one exception to the rule with the ports hustlers was the money changer. Of all the people you could trust, it was this guy. You could give him 50 in Sterling or 100 in French francs and he’d return later with the best rate anywhere in the port. Even including his middle man cut, it was still the best. Life’s really odd like that. I got talking with a very knowledgeable Dutch driver. This guy had been to many more places than I had, including the middle east. We sat in the shade on deckchairs he kept in his side locker drinking beer, smoking duty free cigarettes and waving the flies away. It became clear to him that because I was asking a lot of questions about getting to Casablanca, I didn’t have the first clue. He was right, I didn’t even have a map of Morocco. Long before the days of Sat-nav and 247/7 internet access, drivers built up a collection of maps that were relevant to the countries that were going through. Google mapping a destination and checking it out on street view were just futuristic dreams. I had the European road map which gave you the best ways to do distance and an assortment of other maps including the Michelin France map, A Spain/Portugal map and Italy. My plan was to get a map when I got onshore but trying to get anything genuinely useful from the local sales hustlers was pointless and I didn’t relish the thought of wandering around town trying to find a road map. I was fortunate that there were other drivers going to the same place so, we could run in convoy. My new found friend from Holland told me to head for Rabat, go straight over the roundabout there and that’s all I’d need to get to Casablanca. He drew a straight line on a piece of paper with the word Tangier at the start of the line, a circle halfway down the line and the word Casablanca at the bottom of the line. Here, keep this he laughed. Looking back, he was right. He also told me to remove my number plate before I left the docks. Apparently the local kids had worked out that English trucks have removable number plates. Anything that can be easily misappropriated is fair game as far as they’re concerned. It’s also fair game to sell it back to it’s rightful owner and that’s exactly what the little cherubs will do given the chance. The unwary driver will be stopped at a set of lights and before they know it, there’s a knock on the door and tah dah, there’s your own number plate for sale at an outrageous price. In a way, you have to admire that kind of entrepreneurial spirit. I asked about the 4 hour drive down there and what to look out for. Speed limits were widely ignored, driving at night expect unlit donkey drawn carts to be on the main highway, there aren’t many petrol stations and just north of Rabat, a policeman hides behind an overpass and will walk out as you approach with his arm raised asking you to stop. I laughed when my new found Dutch friend told me to ignore him and drive around him. He was serious, just keep going everyone else does he said. Was he winding me up, or was he genuinely giving me good advice? I figured it would be his day off when we drove down.

The rumour mill was saying it would be another day before we were all cleared which meant another day of sitting in the the fly blown stinking port, bored witless, yay. There’s only so much talking you can do and after a while people just kept themselves to themselves. I’d read a book which wasn’t very interesting and sat on my backside for nearly 5 days. The only funny thing that happened was when ever the call to prayer blasted out from the mosque behind us, some clever clogs 4 or 5 trucks down from me would play Highway to Hell by AC/DC very loudly. My lorry was spotless, I’d managed to clean it so often, it looked I’d just taken delivery of it. I was looking forward to getting going. I was relying on other drivers to get me there and what ever their plan was, I’d go with it. The plan that formed was to get to a place called the United Seamans Service in Casablanca itself. The opinion of those who’d already been there before was that the food was ok, the parking was secure and there wasn’t anything else anyway. There were schoolboy giggles between the North African Virgins about the name but seeing as we had no plan whatsoever, that was were we’d go too. It’s not the longest drive by any means but, it did make feel a little anxious. The whole place seemed so lawless and barren. I was probably over thinking it but that might have been a good thing. John Manns drivers had been driving the length and breadth of it for years so it was hardly uncharted territory. I didn’t want to lose the convoy because I had no knowledge of where I was going. Just cross the roundabout at Rabat seemed really vague. I was sure it was more complicated than that. After a few false starts during the week about being cleared by customs, which I assume was because someone wasn’t paying sufficient backhanders to someone else, we all got our paperwork back on the fifth day. There was a sense of excitement and urgency as the news spread. Lorries were starting up and clouds of blue smoke (Euro 6 and Ad-Blu my arse) started rising across the compound. I figured I’d do my own thing in my own time and not get rushed by trying keep up, but I also didn’t want to get lost and become the ■■■■ of everyone’s joke later on. I think, it’s a long time ago now, there were 6 possibly or 7 of us. As the convoy approached the port exit, the man with a hat and Ray-Ban Aviators spent an inordinate amount of time checking everyone’s exit pass. There was an awful lot of stopping and starting with drivers almost running into each other in their efforts to get going. I was also very happy because I could relax in a cool air conditioned cab for the day, I no longer had to fend off the hoards of dodgy salesmen, argue with dodgy customs officers and continually bat away flies. The really good part was the smell vanished too!

I’d already taken my number plate off.

Excellent. Keep up the good work.

Cool signature btw, but it was ■■■■ I was shopping for

yep, a enjoyable read… thanks for posting…

Good stuff !

Sorry double post.

I wasn’t sure…

Exactly what to expect. As we made our way through the town heading south toward our destination, everything seemed pretty much the same as southern Spain. It was hot, the roads were hot and had seen better days but, aside from a few monster pot holes going through town, they weren’t particularly notable. Sadly, like many other countries I’ve driven through, there was litter strewn everywhere. At a large set of traffic lights, a small team of teenagers were hanging around and took a particular interest in the queue of lorries. Some of them disappeared behind the trailer but came out empty handed. They walked back to the shade on the corner shouting at us for being ahead of the game. Thanks Mr Dutchman I said to myself. I estimated it was about 4 hours to where we parking for the night. A steady pace and a break seemed like a good plan. I just kept following the herd, setting the CD player to shuffle and hoping the place where were headed was ok. I had no idea of what it was like and without Google, you couldn’t just type out a name and get a complete run down on somewhere. The road continued through the outskirts of the town going through areas that had long seen any infrastructure additions. Broken lamp posts, large pot holes and a general run down look for the next two miles or so. After a while, the road turned into a dual carriageway. It was Morocco’s M1 equivalent, to us it was a short by-pass type of highway.

There isn’t much to see in a desert. I know that sounds obvious but, until you actually drive through one, you have little idea of how vast and empty it is. Again, we were hardly exploring the moon for the first time but, it was the furthest south I’d ever driven and I found the emptiness rather menacing, it made me feel very small and insignificant. What would I do if I broke down out here on my own? I also found the mule powered carts on the carriageway, miles from anywhere an eye opener. What they were doing there was beyond me. They seemed happy enough clip clopping along as we all roared round them. One horsepower on one axle and 500 horsepower on six axles, quite the juxtaposition. Almost two hours passed by as we approached Rabat. Being a small town, there were some roads leading away from the main drag running south. As we got closer to a small over bridge, I saw a policeman getting out of his car and striding purposefully towards the carriageway. He stood proudly and in my opinion, quite bravely in lane one and raised his hand. As he did this, without a word between us, we all moved out to lane 2 and drove straight past him without even thinking about knocking off the cruise. As I passed him, he was just looking at the tarmac resigned to the fact that, yet again, he’d got out of his car for nothing. Not going to lie, I laughed my head off! As it was back then, the road ran around the town north to south with a small roundabout halfway. There were three choices, left into the desert, right into town or straight on to the south. Who needs maps I said to myself. We stopped about half an hour further on for a break but mainly to laugh about the hapless policeman we’d driven past. As much as I laughed, a small part of me felt he might suddenly appear with lights and sirens going and pull a gun on us all. He didn’t. Maybe he’d radio ahead and there’d be a roadblock waiting for us, there wasn’t. I felt like Billy the Kid, just hoped I wouldn’t end up going the same way.

After another couple of hours, the outskirts of Casablanca appeared. It’s a big town and somewhere in there was The United Seamans Services. For some reason, I had an idea it would be a large truck park, with 45 degree slots and allocated parking for 100 lorries. Oh how wrong I was about that. As the we drove into town and the traffic got busier and the driving style became less polished, I realised that if I couldn’t keep up, I’d be lost. My plan relied on being with everyone and else and being alone would be a great deal more stressful. As we got further in we, drove down a small hill with a large empty and dusty area to our left. I heard some shouting, I heard a few more shouts and then I saw some kids, maybe 12 to 16 years old running across the dust bowl towards us. As we crawled up to a set of traffic lights, children started to run past me in between vehicles. It was all very bizarre, what on earth was going on I thought? It soon became abundantly clear what was going on. Everyone had a fridge trailer, except for one of the owner drivers (the Romanian I think) who was pulling a tilt. The reason we’d got fridges became apparent. About 20 to 30 children, all of whom had knives, descended on the tilt trailer and started slashing their way in to it! I’d never seen anything like it and never since. They were all cutting holes and climbing in, obviously thinking we were loaded with gold bars. Despite seeing what was happening, I still couldn’t understand it and sat there frozen for a few seconds. There was a great deal of shouting and I started blowing my horn, which did absolutely nothing, they just kept coming. I got out, locked my doors and made my way towards the commotion. By this time there were bits of tilt all over the road and the trailer was almost in tatters. I grabbed one of these thieves and whirled him around, he shouted at me but backed off (if I’d have seen the small knife he had, I’d probably have just kicked him). Other drivers had got into the trailer and were physically throwing people back out and onto the road. The shouting and scuffling went on for about another minute and then it stopped when they realised the trailer contained wooden crates and short sections steel for a telephone mast. There was nothing they could easily carry and flog on later, so they all vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. I’m confident even the experienced drivers were shocked by it all, I know I was. They hadn’t stolen anything but they had almost destroyed the tilt. It lay in tatters with bits of it flapping around in the breeze and other large sections hanging from the trailer touching the road. I didn’t feel scared at the time but the adrenaline was wearing off now and I realised how close we’d all come to being injured or possibly being stabbed. We tidied up the trailer as best we could and went back to our lorries. I started up and locked my doors, I then double-checked I’d locked my doors and shoved it in gear.

Yeh, that took the fun out of it all.

In 45 years of driving Europe,ME,North Africa & USSR there are only about 3 countries that I really detested.At the top of the list is Marocco then Israel & Pakistan.

I slept well…

With the knowledge we were being watched over by our guardian angels, Robocop and his ■■■■■■■■■ Alsatian. I got up early and wandered over the road to have some breakfast. Two vehicles at a time would go across to where were tipping near the Agadir road. It wasn’t far away from where we were and sometime before noon, I drove off to find the tip. Oddly enough, I know what day it was exactly but, I’m struggling to remember exactly where I heard the news. Something about a plane that had hit a building in New York. I think we got it from another driver via the CB and that it made little sense to us. I wasn’t sure if it was some kind of wind up or practical joke. There was definitely something out of the ordinary, you could just feel it somehow. As it became clearer that something very serious indeed had happened, I called transport and told them I was running empty for the boat. There wasn’t a discussion, I told them, they protested and I hung up. I felt very very uncomfortable where I was all of a sudden. Looking back, my fears were unfounded, I’m confident we could have loaded back without any problems, but shipping out empty would be much quicker than shipping out loaded and the inevitable, time consuming process that would involve. It wasn’t a difficult route back, just find the northbound highway and get her lit.

Driving like crazy to get home at a gentle 56 mph is such a contradiction. I thought about playing with things but decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. I could get stopped in Spain or France and the workshop back in England would soon suss out things had been ‘fingered’. So I headed gently across the desert assuming I could get a boat that afternoon or evening. As I got closer to the port, a policeman ahead was flagging me down. I really hoped he wasn’t friends with the one we’d all driven around previously. Turns out he’s the only one trained and considered grown up enough to operate the speed gun and not sell it to anyone. I thought about driving around him but oncoming traffic and a fear of more serious consequences made me stop. As usual with law enforcement from other countries, I turned my engine off, opened the door and smiled. I was speeding he said, I didn’t say anything because he was bang to rights. If memory serves me right he wanted 800 Dirham, which was ridiculous and I didn’t have it cash anyway. I told him I didn’t have it, he reiterated the amount, I told him again that I didn’t have it. His English was good enough to tell me there was a cash dispenser about 5 minutes away. I was to go there, get the money and report back. For the second time that day, I wasn’t quite sure what I was hearing. I couldn’t believe my luck! Ok I said and smiled as I shut the door and started up again. What a nice friendly policeman he was and he was right, there was an ATM just 5 minutes away, I saw it as I roared right past it at 56 mph on my way directly to the port. The port was signposted and I could work out the route by re-tracing the way we all came out of town. When I got to the entry gate, there was a familiar looking man with a hat and Ray-Ban Aviators. Everyone else had the same idea and were milling around talking about out chances of shipping out that day. It turns out the chances were good and I was booked on the next ferry out. The New York news story still seemed surreal, how could the twin towers collapse, why and who? None of it made sense. We collected our tickets and when the ferry arrived, I watched as the mad scrum descended on the first hapless victim off and hoped he’d got his doors locked. I subsequently learned that if you got a carved wooden plaque with your name on it and put it in the windscreen, they’d mostly leave you alone. It was a bit of a scrum to get on which seems to be the case when getting boats in Europe. The organised lanes at Dover are a world away from the pushing, shoving and horn blowing when getting on a ferry in southern Europe. Reversing into a ferry in the rain, darkness, when the boat is pitching around and the lead up ramp is made of bundles of rope just wouldn’t happen in the UK. None of those fun games here though. I’m convinced the knock off Ray-Ban Aviators is standard kit issue for Moroccan customs control. Half way up the linkspan I was told to stop. Two customs men started randomly looking over the trailer, I was empty I’d checked. I hadn’t checked the pallet boxes and that’s where they found a teenage lad trying to get to Europe. I was as surprised as he was, I was even more surprised and then horrified when they pulled him out very roughly and set about him with their batons! I’m not here to discuss the rights and wrongs of people trying get to a better future but, I couldn’t let them just batter this lad. I got out and intervened giving him just enough time to scarper off. I subsequently learned that there was a small population of homeless refugees living in the empty containers. I’ve led a very comfortable life indeed. The ship then gently pushed out towards Spain and much more familiar territory. I felt a sense of calm.

I called in the next morning and was given a re-load from the Murcia area. I stopped past Granada for coffee and it was then that I saw the TV. Spanish news television played the entire Twin Towers incident over and over again from every angle. Then they’d show Air Force One taking off and then back the continuous loop of the towers getting hit. Images I’ll never forget.

I worked for Ralph for a few more months but, as the trips to Europe decreased, as they were for many British outfits at the time, I looked for another firm that would keep me in Europe. I turned up for my test drive at Continental Express whilst still working for Ralph and handed my notice in a week later. In similar fashion to STS, I’d seen CE on every trip I’d been on, I figured the would be just as good or bad as the rest. Turns out back then, they were good and I worked for them for a few years.

Morocco is full of nice people. I didn’t meet many of them but, I’m sure like very other country I’ve been to, there are more nice ones than bad ones.

Good post…
Again.

Franglais:
Good post…
Again.

Thank you…

I might do one about my travels with CE one day. Older I get the less I remember.

Wonderful story, and very well written - thank you for sharing.

Martin.

Thanks again, Mr Larf.

As we all know, it is a small world, and as Max Boyce would have said “I was there”.
All went off as you said.

I was on my second trip there for STS, so had some sort of inkling about what to expect. The first trip was with a couple of other first timers, so we tagged along with some John Mann drivers.

On that Sept trip, as I remember (twenty years on!) we STS coincidentally met up with the Romanian and other owner driver near Irun. I seem to recall he was from Lancashire and normally took his Magnum to Ex Commie Blok countries. Hence him being mates with the Romanian. Jack Duckworth?
They were subbing the load from STS and saw STS units, and 2+2= etc. The job should have been all in boxes or tilts. The Romanian owner driver certainly found out why going into Casablanca! That was an eye opener.

The trailer number plate bit was a bit like certain tykes “look after yer lorry mister”. A few bob to keep `em at bay, but easily avoided by taking # plate off.

At that time Tangier Town port was the main way in for trucks. It wasnt very secure. A Morocco regular explained there was a small jail in the port and every so often the police would sweep up all those trying to stow away on trucks and summarily chuck them in there. Their shoes would be taken off them and thrown away. They were kept inside for a week or so in one of 4 large cells. Primitive toilet facilities, and the only food would be brought in by friends on the outside. I cant say that was all accurate, but did see building that was pointed out as such.

The “hawkers” were a part of daily life in Tangier port.
We paid a few quid in Dirham to our agents runner, cant remember his name, he took our papers in, checked up on them now and again, and reported back now and again. We went walkabout, drank coffee, mint tea, and…yes…a bit of beer too!

Some sold tat, true. Some hand washed trucks, one recharged the AC system on the owner driver`s truck whilst he was awaiting customs clearance.
One was a very hard grafting shoe-shine man, another sold painted name plates or would paint scenes on truck fronts or quarter wind deflectors.

One young gofer had only one arm. He was mid-teens? 15? Spoke fluently in Arabic, English, French, Spanish, for sure and I think German too.
He lost his arm a year or two earlier: he stowed away under a step frame trailer. Lying on top of an axle, the truck bounced up the ramp onto the ferry. Horrific.

The Seaman`s Mission in Casablanca was great.
On street parking, with the guard dog handler, a few Dirhams and all was well. Cheaper and safer than any UK service area!
The mission had billiards, beer, and good food. A banana palm was growing in the internal courtyard.

I went to Morocco a few weeks ago for a bit of a roadtrip.
Tangier Town port now only takes smaller boats and little or no trucks. Having by passed it this trip I dont know if it still stinks or not! Tangier Med port is newer, and hotter on security than most channel ports. I t seems bureaucratic, but then again we cant judge it by internal EU borders.

yourhavingalarf:
Morocco is full of nice people. I didn’t meet many of them but, I’m sure like very other country I’ve been to, there are more nice ones than bad ones.

Couldn`t agree more. Good and bad everywhere.

The hustlers congregate around certain areas. Tangier then is like Liverpool or Glasgow a few decades earlier.
All have nice residents, but ports especially attract scammers and others looking for foreign newbies.

Ill get playing with scanner to look for a few older photos from that time. Maybe one or two "wot I did on my holiday"? Maybe in Bullys for that? Dunno.

Im no putor wiz, see if these old photos come out OK.

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Thank you…

Frangles. I was surprised that of all the trips in all the countries and all of the towns in all of the world, you had to walk in to mine.

I’m convinced you owe me about 6 pints then.

Those are the only pics I’ve ever seen of the trip.

youtu.be/lvHUGOHdHhY

Thanks.