The wonderful thing about Tangier is that you arrive before you’ve left. Morocco is two hours behind Tarifa, a punctuation mark in time that emphasises the fact that you are travelling from Europe’s southernmost point to another continent. The crossing is advertised as 35 minutes. It isn’t, but it’s still a short and surprising hop between cultures.
We knew what to expect upon arrival. I’ve been to Egypt and there’s a North African tradition of haranguing visitors into buying unwanted tours, taxis or tat. Some hustlers are so charming and well-spoken, I can see how difficult it must be to resist. In fact, it’s almost tempting to pay them for the entertainment value. Parrying some of the more sophisticated blandishments turned into a game of wits. French is useful in Tangier, and for some reason I found it much easier to assert my rights in faulty Gallic vernacular, particularly when a last-ditch hard-sell by one prospective guide tried to use that regular media weapon, fear.
“Special bargain. There are four of you. Fifteen Euros for a tour. That’s for all of you.”
“Non monsieur.”
“The Medina is huge. Very complicated. You will get lost.”
“Non. Monsieur. Nous sommes très indépendante.”
“You may be independent. But you are not safe. It is very dangerous. There are many immigrants. Many problems.”
“Dangereuse? J’habite en Hackney. I spit on your dangereuse.”
And with the concept of famous last words swimming through my thirsty head, three mad dogs and an Englishwoman headed off to the souk.
The male stomachs were desperate for fuel and after a heated ten-minute argument about choice of restaurants, we found ourselves coerced into a perfectly respectable eatery where the service was indifferent but the couscous was good, and the band included a gurning Jack Lemmon playing an oud.
Mint tea was served. Phil gazed into the layer of green leaves floating on water and declared. “I think I can see a fish in there.”
Against a backdrop of global financial apocalypse, it is worth remembering that street markets are the economic equivalent of the cockroach. It gave me comfort to be part of the hustle, humour and sheer energy that coursed through the winding alleys of the souk, its shabby fortifications housing braid, cottons, buttons, soft leather slippers and fly-encrusted dates. The shops presented a muddled montage of a bygone age: a barber wielding his cut-throat razor, a row of patisseries behind dirty glass or an alcove selling second hand TVs, their flickering blue lights bathing a group of mesmerised children. Motorbikes with trailers careered up the narrow streets, kids dangling precariously off the back while afternoon prayers boomed through loudspeakers embedded in crumbling walls.
Hassle was a constant factor. “You English?” would precipitate lengthy negotiations for escape. I began to feign incomprehension and John resorted to shouting “Polski” whenever approached. It worked. My physical space was occasionally invaded, mostly through carelessness rather than design, but a sharp look invoked abject apologies and immediate retreat. I must be acquiring a matriarchal mien.
Being offered drugs in Morocco is de rigeur. We had already sussed out the day trippers (in every sense) on the boat over. Don’t buy them. If the authorities catch you, you will spend time in a prison that will make Midnight Express look like a Travelodge. On second thoughts …
My ears suddenly tuned in to what sounded scarily like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.
“Lovely jubbly. Best price. Lovely jubbly.”
He caught my eye.
“Come in and have a shuftie. Have a shuftie. Lovely jubbly. Asda price.”
Phil wanted a fez. I took him to one side and asked him how much was wanted for it.
“Ten”
“Ten what?”
“Er, ten – I don’t know.”
“Well, haggle.”
“I don’t really know how to.”
“Right. I’ll start you off. Monsieur. Combien?”
“Dix”.
Pretending to be completely astounded.
“Dix?! (Looking aghast). Dix?! Trop cher. À cet endroit (pointing), c’est plus – er – cheaper – sur le corner – er – c’est cinque.”
“OK. Sept. “
“Sept?! (With appropriate tragic looks.) Sept?! For a fez? J’ai six enfants pour manger (sic)! Non. Cinque. Right, Phil. Take over.”
He got his fez for five. Euros or Dirham, I have no idea. But hey, result. Haggling is the most fun you can have with your clothes on. If you’re not sure how to do it, just nick bits of script from The Life of Brian and practise your fake exits.
Phil was so chuffed with his new skill that he evaporated into the market, returning an hour later with a fake Rolex and three children in tow. We could only stare in amazement and ask him how much he had paid for them.
Rather perturbingly, he decided to wear his fez for the rest of the day. It was like being accompanied by a tall, red beacon (no chance of blending into the background for our spying activities) and made for much merriment locally. A cyclist chuckled “Ali Baba” as he wheeled past. “Ali Baba. Allemand!” shouted another. Thank God for that. What shame would be brought upon the empire if they actually believed we were British?
We headed for the Kasbah, humming the obligatory Clash soundtrack in unison. We passed two schoolgirls in leggings and lace hijabs, beating up their younger brother in the street. A boy approached us and offered to show us around. We declined, cynicism weighing into our innocent interactions with the thoughts of having to pay for the privilege. Despite our protestations, he stuck to us like a limpet as we explored the beautiful, deserted alleys at the top of the hill. He explained that the Kasbah was now mostly inhabited by foreigners, with rents to match. They own the art galleries and riads, all accommodating luxurious furnishings or secret rooftop gardens within their cool, stone walls.
“Have you got any Black Sabbath? Paranoid?”
Sadly, we’d failed to bring our CD collections with us.
He looked at me quizzically. “Which one is your husband?” Jer retorted: “She’s too expensive for any of us.” After discussions about my potential monetary value, they worked out that I’m worth about $150. The lads did threaten to sell me for a couple of camels, which I’d say would be a fair exchange.
The boy showed me to the ladies’ mosque, a small, charming building in a quiet, empty quarter. I had brought my scarf and a long sleeved cardigan, and asked a man sweeping the floor in the lobby whether I could visit. He declined and turned his back on me. After his tour duty, our little friend refused to accept money, shattering the stereotype we had come to expect. Thus does fractured travel expand the mind.
Walking back down the hill to the souks, a trek punctuated with more mint tea, I noticed a doorway, leading to a descent of steps into an indoor area that looked like a mosque. Women huddled in a corner, deep in conversation, their heads uncovered, shoes on their feet. Not a mosque, then. A woman exited onto the street, caught my look of curiosity, smiled enigmatically and moved on.
A part of me desperately wanted to know what was going on in there, and I suppose information is useful up to a point. Sometimes, though, the unexplained is far more interesting. The imagination can conjecture mysterious and exciting scenarios within the safe citadel of its darkest secrets.
I then started a conversation with a local woman who had been visiting her mother in the Medina. Farsia was a Berber and she told me about her traditions, how life has changed for women in modern times, her job as a teacher and how she named her children.
She looked at me. “Which one is your husband?”
I lied. “They’re my brothers.”
“Do you have children?”
I shook my head.
“Here, if a woman cannot have children, her husband finds someone else.”
I wanted to proclaim my shock, but paused for a moment as I remembered that such action is not entirely unknown in England either.
She led us to the modern part of Tangier, past the Catholic cathedral and Italian villas, to the Grand Mosque, explaining en route about the ritual of the women’s weekly ablutions and how holy day was spent cooking good things and choosing something lovely to wear before spending quality time with the family.
After discovering that we would be leaving on the evening boat, she sighed. “That is a shame. I would take you home for dinner and give you couscous.” I believed her.
I only had a taste of Tangier. I didn’t have time to explore the old haunts of the great writers and artists who have been inspired to stay in this place. Actually, I didn’t really think about them. It’s one degree of separation too many. Sometimes when I travel, I prefer to kick back and watch the rich diversity of humanity swarming before me, and let my inner eye watch myself watching. I find myself wondering what it would be like to be born elsewhere, within a different culture, with a different language, reference points and expectations, and I marvel at the accident of DNA that has dictated the fundamentals of my life. To absorb the existence of those people is to absorb the richness of the world itself. It lifts my spirits to know that every single life is precious.
Even the hagglers.
