Issue 36 - 1/7/2008 31 North Africa Times
A Taste of Tangier
By Hussein Shehadeh
D
uring our whole holiday in Spain, Tangier
lurked on the horizon, enticing us with its
magic. Wedged, like a white spot in be-
tween the blue-black headlands of Africa, the
town seems so close that you could reach over the
Straits of Gibraltar and touch it. Having stared long
enough across the water there is nothing to do but
to buy a day-return ticket for the little catamaran
ferry, which throughout the week sails tourists back
and forth between two worlds; Tarifa, Europe’s fi-
nal bastion in southern Spain and the gateway to
Africa, Tangier.
Actually you can’t experience Morocco in this
way. Morocco takes time if you are to satisfy your
soul and your senses. Your nose has to be able to
get used to how the scent of the spices of the souq
mingle with the stench that emanates from the gut-
ter. Your eyes have to adjust their depth of field to
the intensity of African colours. And your ears must
modulate to the tone of the call of the muezzin to
prayer and to the quietness, especially if you come
straight from the roaring and crashing of Spain.
You can only manage to begin to think about it
as the catamaran whistles over the Strait in just 35
minutes. We had barely rubbed the salt water from
our eyes before Tangier appeared up the slope, dirty
white under the midday sun.
Outside the customs building wait the taxi driv-
ers and self-proclaimed guides, ready to swindle the
day’s load of blue-eyed tourists. They know better
than anyone else the Berber saying that No is the
brother of Yes, and they live by practising it.
On this particular day, however, the waiting
flocks are surprisingly mellow. Perhaps the nice-
ness of Europe has crept across the Straits of Gi-
braltar since my last visit six years ago. Perhaps
they are charging their batteries for Friday prayers
later in the day. Or perhaps it is because we are so
determined to make our own way up to the centre of
the city and obviously know the way.
Whatever the reason, none of them make any se-
rious attempt to hang on. The only driver to make
any real effort ends up shaking our hands and wish-
ing us a nice day before we set off out of the har-
bour district, heading straight up the Rue de Por-
tugal, following the outer edge of the medina up
towards the Boulevard Pasteur.
The boulevard is Tangier’s main drag, situated
in the border area between the old and the new. We
Travel
withdraw a few dirhams from a cash dispenser and
sit at one of the pavement cafes to take a look at
what is going on. If you are lucky enough to be in
Tangier at dusk you can have the best seat in the
stalls as Tangier’s young women take an evening
stroll, clad in long djellabas with their dreamy eyes
and under the constant surveillance of their moth-
ers.
We order mint tea which, with its delicate spices
has a reviving effect. While we enjoy our strong
sweet brew we exchange a few remarks with the
chap next to us -- a keen bodybuilder home on holi-
day in Tangier from working in London.
When sloppy mint leaves are all that remain at
the bottom of the glass we precede to the town’s
massive souq, the gateway to the old part of the city,
the medina. It is here in the narrow alleys you will,
find genuine variegated Moroccan street life. Here,
northern Europe’s dream of Arabia Felix comes
alive.
Among the obligatory carpet dealers, sandwich
bars and small electronics shops, international shoe
shop chains have edged their way in over recent
years. And in the heart of the medina, in the small
souq - otherwise the haunt of Tangier’s population
of petty criminals and genuine bandits - a smart
fashion shop has opened its doors.
While we are wandering around absorbing all
this, eating chicken sandwiches and drinking coke,
we are offered assorted items from marijuana to
Viagra and various other odds and ends. There is no
end to the approaches these unorthodox salesmen
use. Rock bottom prices or pretended sudden recog-
nition of a person they have never seen before.
It is mid-afternoon and the stores begin to close
for Friday prayers. By the mosque at the end of
the medina near the harbour, we can see the faith-
ful washing themselves before they enter the holy
chamber. From here, we proceed to the kasbah --
the former citadel at the top of the old town.
The further up we go, the fewer the shops and
the tourists. In the quarter behind the old fortifica-
tions, the atmosphere is friendly but reserved. This
is where people live, so we decide to walk along
the outside of the wall along the slope down to
the beach. Here old men stand staring out to sea;
teenagers meet to talk, play football or fulfill a ro-
mantic assignation. Small children play in the sand
occasionally posing for pictures and collecting the
dirham fee they have come to expect every time
somebody takes their photograph.