Near Tarifa, Andalucia - SPAIN
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 As I lie in the sleeper car, adorned with all the orange that the seventies could muster, I am bewildered by the number of events that occurred today. The time is 10:30pm and we are currently hurtling from Tangier to Marrakesh on a ten hour train journey along one of the most uneven tracks on the planet. One wonders how I will ever get this finished. We even beat the sun up this morning and arose at the insane hour of 7:30, completing all the organisation necessary before departing for our "security parking" in "Torre de la Pena II" campsite. We must have checked the locks on the door ten times before leaving and after a short taxi ride we were alighting the ferry, the size of a fishing trawler, destination: Tangier, Morocco. The journey across the Strait of Gibraltar was quite pleasant, although in the middle of the trip the boat rocked far to each side. Dave was not pleased. Whilst alighting we encountered a bureaucracy of the dinosaurs and were sent back on board the boat to get the correct stamps. The official off the boat noticed that we were the only independent travellers on board and told us not to speak to anyone as we exited the port. All the package tourists hoarded onto buses whilst we took that first great step into the Muslim world and as we passed the fence all the ironies of the Koran beckoned. A handful of touts followed us and began to argue in Arabic, obviously over who "owned our wallets". Although the young man that followed us all the way to the train station was sorely disappointed. He used the usual tactic, "I'm a student trying to learn English". We combatted this routine by throwing him questions about his course and his family. Well we made it through our first meeting with Morocco's famed touts, hustlers, and guides, but are yet to encounter a barrage of others. The area that surrounded the train station and port was one of the seediest imaginable, racked with poverty and unemployment. Every face would be secretly watching our movements and I felt as though they were about to pounce at any moment. We held on to our bags with all our might and thankfully deposited them at left luggage. The walk up towards Tangier's medina and kasbah was a piece of cake. Although the many beckoning shopkeepers kept us on our toes. The streets were alive and kicking with African sounds, smells and colours, but lacked that once grand atmosphere that it's international status gave it. Tangier and Morocco have a very interesting history with most great empires claiming a stake in its territory, from the Phoenicians to 20th century societies. For 46 years during this century it was under the control of an international council, which didn't seem to do it's job as the place was filled with every scam-runner imaginable from the money-launderers through to the drug barons. As the money poured in the city thrived and became home to rich and famous westerners who sought to relax the eastern way.
Unfortunately it's exterior portrays the signs of decay nowadays, but if you
venture into it's soul past the world's greatest hustlers and demanding
entrepreneurs you will find a warm and friendly people and, in the medina and
outer suburbs, architectural magnificence hidden from the day-trippers and
package tourists. All the guide books suggest just passing through, saying
Tangier does not offer the real sights and smells of Morocco but we managed
to encounter and converse with more interesting people in one day here than
we had found on the last month.
Once we entered the medina through a hidden arch we said goodbye to the smells of rot and decay of modern tarred streets, onto the cool, narrow and shadowed cobblestoned streets, passing the whitewashed walls of houses and locals in full Muslim robes and hoods. A circus of people gathered on the main street of the old town, lined with small shops where touts would often grab your arm or stand in front of you in order to get you into their shop. We bought the tastiest nougat ever from a street vendor and pressed on through the maze of ever-twisting streets. The cobbles soon turned to dirt and the decay of all the rubbish one could muster was strewn around the streets, always reminding us of the poverty and lack of infrastructure gracing Morocco. We looked out from a once grand marble terrace over the port, no longer was it used by the upper class, now the homeless and destitute were spread out around us whilst the pungent smell of men accumulating a thousand days of dirt lingered. Quickly we then made an assault through the crowds towards the kasbah (the city's castle or stronghold and often home to the wealthy). It's white dominating walls beckoned but we did not go in as we still did not have any dirhams since all the banks were closed over lunch. By 3pm we found our way back to the train station armed with cash, talked to a few more arriving travellers and bought tickets on the ten hour overnight sleeper to Marrakesh. Whilst trying to work out where to eat we began a conversation with a Moroccan lady from Marrakesh who had spent a few years in Spain. Now she in westernised and married to an American. Ironically a beggar came off the street towards us with touts and she began to yell at them in Arabic, being so sickened by their performance. It would have only been a few years ago when their actions wouldn't have offended her. The west has now given her the gift of the gab and she could talk the ears off fifty donkeys. To finish off the afternoon we decided to make our way back through the medina, passed the whitewashed kasbah and into the suburbs that opened into wide boulevards lined with more opulent housing. We were now in the soul of Tangier and in a different world, where children would smile at you and wave. All this seemed so far from the unpleasantness of the hustlers around the docks and old city. It was her where Tangier opened its welcoming arms to us. We walked along a gum-lined boulevard until we came to the Forbes Palace, now home to a collection of dioramas about Moroccan battles. The collection is not as large as it once was but the rooms open to the public are filled with beautiful ceramic tiles. The highlights were an unexpected tour through the Forbes private family rooms by accident, thanks to an open door normally closed, and a one hour conversation about Islam and the Koran from Mustafa the caretaker. He was a westernised man, who had seen Tangier change over the years from a prosperous city, home to all the wealth and opulence that the famous bring, to a city of decay and a desperate rush for the locals to partake in tourist commerce. He pined for the city that once was and had become only a shadow of a man who had seen it all come and go and now eagerly awaited Allah's afterlife in "the paradise". To finish off what had become an eventful day we watched the sun fade into the horizon at the famed Cafe Hafa. Its terraces were once filled with the rich and famous who'd while away the hours overlooking the Straits of Gibraltar. Today it's residents are mainly cats, a society of kif smoking men and youths playing board games. It's seats and tables are nothing to desire, but it's atmosphere is a taste of what once was. As we returned to the medina and to our choice of restaurant I began to think that Tangier is not such a bad place once you get past it's iron gate exterior and I looked forward to doing the same with the rest of Morocco. Restaurant Populaire turned out to be a real gem and the hospitality of our host was legendary. The speciality of the house was seafood and as we entered the front door we could smell the pungent spices and hear the searing of meat over hot coals. Our host was a very famous local who had the vibrancy of a jumping jack. He called himself a medicine man as his back room was filled with more herbs and spices than one could imagine. He would pounce from plant to plant ferociously breaking off bits for us to smell. Although we ordered three dishes the food came in a never-ending cascade. We tried every concoction he could get his hands on as he proudly announced that they would fix or make healthy every bone and muscle in the body. Everything tasted spectacular, except for the stomach-cleansing drink that tasted like dishwater. At the end of the meal we took some photos of the surrounding "circus" run by our host and were then invited back into the spice room to put a tar-like concoction on our faces to make them baby soft. Lastly we left with our hands full of gifts: a cane basket, carved wooden forks and spoons, and a fan. Indeed it was an experience not to be missed. At the train station we ran into some other travellers and even the "Bill and Ted" style of Americans (reminiscent of the two base-jumping youngsters in Cliff Hanger) "... like hey doods, good to see ya". By 10:30 we were on the train, another tin box style that had the filthiest toilet imaginable, dropping straight onto the tracks. As we bedded down for the night our noisy friends next door became silent and the monotony of a dark stony countryside began. An hour into our journey a Californian and Texan joined us in our car and after some small-talk we all began an interrupted night of sleep as the rickety train pulled in and out of stations. Bonne nuit. |
