Aug 28-29 The Long Journey Back. Part II – The Ferry Ride To Algeciras

These next segments are definitely the most insane of the entire journey and quite possibly the longest and the most insane day I have ever undergone.

The craziness began at immigration. At this point, we had learned to deal with the inefficient Moroccan system of never queuing but using an almost Darwinian system involving the survival of the pushiest (final paragraph). Our technique was to flank, or stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our baggage firmly in hand, forming a sort of barrier to maintain our spot in the quasi-mess. This was more useful when there were some sort of lane ropes guiding the hordes towards, in this case, the custom official booths. Even so, an ENTIRE FAMILY (mommy, poppy, all the kids and the grandparents) managed to squeeze past us from the back of the line. “Desolé” said one younger girl as she passed. I was impressed enough with their sheer nerve. (Following 3 middle pictures are taken from the net.)

And on to the craziness. We thought we had arrived with plenty of time to get through customs and onto the next boat (they leave on the hour). The lines are slow, inching ever slowly forward. Now here’s the kicker. We’re the next people in line and the family in front of us starts kicking up a fuss, saying that the custom officials had dropped one of their forms. The customs officials search all over the booth, but no one even is certain whether the family actually had this form, or whether they were pretending the official had dropped it. They spent A LONG TIME searching for this form. I am not sure what the conclusion of this was, but we finally get processed.

We start to powerwalk to the two boats which are docked. The guy at the gangplank waves us towards one of the boats and we get on as fast as we can, because we think it is leaving soon. (Think again). Immediately, we notice that this boat is very different from the one we had come to Morocco in. For starters, there is nowhere to store luggage and it is full of only Moroccans. By this, I don’t only mean “Where are all the tourists? The boat we came over with only had French and Spanish people on it.” I mean FULL. Full with no seats left, full as in this must be filled to capacity at least, full as in Titanic likely without enough lifeboats. We stake out an area in the corridor and hunker down with all the luggage. I read Harry Potter and try to ignore the fact that we are hunkered down in a ship corridor with many other people.

And the ship doesn’t start moving. Not for another hour at least. We start to wonder – are we on the right boat? I mean WHERE ARE all the tourists? A eats some generic cafeteria looking food from the one canteen but is unable to exchange the rest of her Dirhams back into Euros. I don’t remember whether it was because the exchange desk was simply too crazy with people, or whether it wasn’t open at all. When the boat finally gets going, we take turns stretching our legs out on deck. It’s much foggier than our trip over.

I don’t know whether it was just because we were rather uncomfortable in that corridor, but the boat ride back seemed to take longer than the one there. I began freaking out a little that maybe we were on the wrong boat. “If we land in Ceuta (another Moroccan port further west), or anywhere in Africa, I’m going to cry.” Recall, we all still have to catch buses to our respective destinations in Spain. I REALLY did not want to arrive into Sevilla after dark, which meant catching the 5pm bus if possible.

When the boat finally does stop, people previously in the lounges begin to crowd into the corridor. We stand up and hold tightly to our luggage. Announcements in Arabic and French start to come over the loudspeaker informing people with vehicles to go down certain coloured stairwells to their vehicles (from what I could catch). These same announcements continue for what was probably an hour, well after anyone who had vehicles had left. But, the corridors continued to be very very full of expectant people. And us. I turned to the man beside me at one point and ask “Tous ces gens, ils n’ont pas des voitures?” “Non…harioahgroaihg” and some more stuff in French that was too fast for me to catch. And so we waited. And waited. Wondering if we were even in Spain.

Finally, people begin to move down the stairwells at a snail’s pace. We tried to flank, or at least not get separated. What was taking so long? We worked our way together down the corridor, slowly down the stairs, and finally into the giant holding area where all the cars had been. A giant green holding area now filled with some thousand people and their luggage with a single tiny door at the other side. These thousand some people and their luggage were all trying to squeeze out of this single tiny door. (Imagine this picture with no cars, lots of people and one door.)

What a sight of chaos. And the sound of chaos. All around the door, people were yelling, shouting, arguing - women were SCREAMING like their very life was threatened. We were more than a little nervous – were they BUTCHERING people beyond this door??? We tried to stick close as we inched ourselves and our luggage along with some thousand people ever so slowly towards the source of the pandemonium. At some point, somebody shouts something and everybody begins to cheer. Faint glimmer of hope. Then, the yelling and arguing restart. I itch to take a picture of the craziness, but A and K tell me I’ll probably be killed.

Some half hour later, we are at the front of the horde. K and I manage to make it through the door, but A is still stuck in the horde as some other party elbows ahead. I stop in the corridor beyond that crazy door and gesture back frantically and try to talk to the people at the door “Mon amie! Elle est chinois!” or something to that effect. Finally, she makes it through too.

Next - The Long Journey Back. Part III – Trying to find buses in Algeciras