One argument with a customs official and a 35 minute ferry ride, and we are weaving our way through the crowds of Tangiers, where we are repeatedly offered cheap hotels and hashish. 'Welcome to Africa', one would-be guide shrugs when he realises we won't accept his help.
We have a day to get our bearings, so shape our sightseeing vaguely around walking in the footsteps of the beat poets - drinking coffee on studded leather lounges in Cafe de Paris, keeping an eye out for double agents and conspiratorial whispers. More coffee at a cafe that Tennessee Williams used to haunt. An attempt to drink in a dive that suited Bowles and Burroughs, and a wander through the kasbah in search of these literary luminaries' homes. Despite our best efforts, we get suckered into a guided tour by an 'official guide' (aka street hustler) who shows us a number of sights around the kasbah and tells some interesting stories before insisting we hand over a reasonable chunk of our hard earned... Thankfully the encounter does not end in an all out shouting match, although it is borderline. On the upside, we have seen the steps where the Clash wrote 'rock the casbah' and know that William Burroughs had hair to his feet like a sufi and lived in the same street as Tennessee Williams, Paul Bowles and U2, and saw Ronnie Biggs' hilltop mansion. (Do not rely on this information in a pub quiz or emergency situation.)
In the evening we meet up with Phillip, who we bumped into over a bowl of couscous earlier in the day. He is a young German artist contemplating moving to Tangier. Together we decide to locate a bar for a quiet beer. This is not so easy - bars are not so common, and seem to usually have smoked glass windows so that bypassers cannot see in. We take the plunge into one smoke filled den - I am the only woman aside from three staff. Heavily made up, middle aged women whose job appears to be to come by and in various languages incite us to drink more. One places what she describes a 'tapas' in front of us, explaining 'if you eat, you might buy more beer'. The tapas is a plate of pickled vegetables and three rather large dried fish. We leave sober and hungry, but amused.
We also track down a pair of shiny silver tracksuit pants which Matt lovingly hems at mid-calf for me. I mope while I watch him do this. The advice we have received is that lycra won't go down so well with the Moroccan public, and that Matt needs to at least wear boardshorts over his knicks, while I should ensure my knees are covered in order to avoid unwanted attention or giving offence. Although winter, it is still quite warm here - warm enough that the thought of riding in trackies leaves me pretty irritated. Still, one day of riding down and I have realised what a spectacle we are even more modestly dressed. I'll grin and bear it.
Our first day of African cycling has been a success - the roads are good, and truck drivers happy to warn of their approach with a heavy hand on the horn. We wave to everyone we pass, and cheerfully yell 'donkey donkey' at the numerous healthy looking specimens we spot. Our plan is to make our way down the west coast as far as Rabat, before heading inland to Fez and across the Middle Atlas to Marrakesh.
