Morocco
Bouarfa

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    • Day 11

      The Chefs gone to a party -End of Plan A

      October 1, 1989 in Morocco

      Don't know where to start, it's all gone horribly wrong. We caught the 5AM bus from Er Rachidia (The last thing that went right) to Bouarfa passing a 'Beware of the camels' sign and several real live camels. Arrived in Bouarfa without enough money for the onward ticket to Figuig. Banks all shut (A Saturday) and no one would change money. Reduced to selling a walkman to a local casette shop matey for 105 dirhams. (We asked for 250 - he offered 100) after much haggling, who then promptly invited us for mint tea and lunch of couscous at his house, along with his mate Ahmed. The couscous didn't turn up until 20 minutes before the bus was due, thank god, as it was a dry bowl of couscous (grated soap?) with a glass of sour milk to mix it with. Very kind but utterly disgusting. I struggled through some to be polite but was just about down and out when saved by the bus. Seb was very pleased with a joke he made - It never rains it pours - All will become clear.

      After sacrificing a walkman to get to Figuig we found a taxi to take us to the border, via the Moroccan police. Everyone seemed very helpful + cheerful, we get to the border + the taxi dropped us. The Moroccan guards kept smiling and let us through, meanwhile I am surreptitiously concealing money about my person to avoid exchange controls. The Algerian Policeman was very helpful, as was the man from the ministry but they wouldn't let us in. "Come back tomorrow- The chef is at a party (Le chef son departie)." So we walked back to the border and all the Moroccans are smiling as though at some private joke, and lo and behold the taxi driver was still there - what a stroke of luck. So we had our Moroccan exit stamps annulled by the police who informed us that due to some political problem the Algerians were not admitting any Brits. Thus all the smiling faces and the taxi driver so luckily waiting for us. To be fair he didn't charge us for the return ride to Figuig, and he did introduce us to all of his daughters.

      Found a grotty hotel run by the local wide boy - Mustafa - The Sahara, that we had read about somewhere, so decided to go for it. Turns out it was listed under 'Hotels to avoid'. Nothing to eat in Figuig, and no sheets or covers on the beds and a pisshole of a shower, and the loo was worse. Electerd to try for Algeria again in the morning so we didn't have to catch the 6am bus. But kept awake all night by a huge thunderstorm.
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    You might also know this place by the following names:

    Bouarfa, اولاد دليم

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