“Tangier is one of the few places left in the world where, so long as you don’t proceed to robbery, violence, or some form of crude, antisocial behaviour, you can do exactly what you want.”
- William Burroughs.
After the majority of the 45 minute boat ride from Tarifa was absorbed in a conga line of restless travellers, eager to have passports advance stamped by two bemused cops, we rolled out of the jaws of the gangway into the blazing mid-day swelter of the port of Tangier. The idea of this is, in itself, quite remarkable - that from the port bollards, you can glance over your shoulder, across the watery haze of the Gibraltar Strait, and glimpse the mountains of Andalucia, and the liberties of western Europe, and yet, in less than an hour, you are on the continent of Africa, and it’s a whole new ball game… We were in the fabled city for only a precious, short time, before boarding the train for Tara Steven’s Cooking School in Fez. This was our key reason for diving South, to spend a week at Dar Namir, Tara’s 400 year old town house in the most ancient part of the old city, to wander the Medina, shop and cook together, with Tara’s priceless insights and experience…(More on that later…) So, the clock was running for us to explore Tangier, home to a vivid history of expatriate writers, artists, musicians…Burroughs ‘the invisible hombre’, the mythical Petit Socco loved by Tennessee Williams, the Immeuble Itesa apartment residence of Paul Bowles, Kerouac, Matisse, Led Zeppelin and the Stones, who all breezed through, at one time or another… “Hey Mister…You wanna fly before you die?”… The soft, reclining voice issued casually from the shadow of an archway. The voice belonged to a kid in a tracksuit, stretched out, supine, across a sack of cloth. We barely heard it as we were rushing to meet with Abdullah, to take us to the house of Jean-Paul, in the French Quarter. No need to give it the brush off, there was no sleeve pulling in that voice, it was far from hard sell, but it had to have a go… After dropping our things at the house, we headed back out, and down into the Medina. We were exploring the city walls overlooking the port, when another face appeared… ‘Hello Señor, how are you? …Do you know what? You look like me. Really. You could be my brother. What is your name?’…Another young Moroccan, was making his intro, this one with a fresh buzzcut, and again head-to-toe in new season activewear. His face was kind and open, so we chatted as we ambled along, on our way to our dinner date at the spectacular, but suggestively named Hotel Nord Pinus…In no time flat, this young chancer was joined by his protege. This guy, was obviously the leading hand. He bristled with swagger and blag from his handsfree earpiece, down to to his newest/latest kicks. He had materialised to take the reins from the apprentice, and show how it’s done. ‘So, we have a date yes? Meet here tomorrow, 10 am, ok? Yes? I show you the House of Paul Bowles, Edith Wharton. You like writers? You have dinner, now? Where? I show you…Ok. No problem. We meet here. Tomorrow. I show you everything…’ They dropped us at our doorway, and sauntered off together, back down into the Medina, the tandem flash of the reflector stripe work on their hi-tops atomised in the dusk of another fabulous Kasbah evening…
It’s a hard fact you often discover when crossing borders, that it is really only a random act of birth that separates us from those who cannot enjoy a freedom of movement, which we take for granted. Not having this opportunity to explore other cultures, and perhaps never having this opportunity, must amplify, the thoughts of the young people who I witnessed gathering each evening at the ocean cliff park, adjacent to the rooftop terraces at the house where we briefly stayed. Perhaps it was simply to catch an ocean breathe of evening air, but it also might have been to capture a longing glimpse of a mythical West and all that the imagination might supply that with. To be so close to something that may be forever unattainable, but clearly visible, no more than a short, but impossible boat ride, must be a torment. Without money or education, a visa is hard to come by in Tangier. You simply won’t get one. Yet, it was the Moors, who once presided over large swathes of southern Spain and left their indelible mark. We’d just toured through these places. We’d seen it. Their exquisite influence was everywhere: in the streets; the architecture ; the citadels; the palaces, in the tile and the textiles. Yet for these young Moroccans, the idea of Europe is quite impossible, at the moment. So these gatherings at the cliff edge, to gaze across the water to the mountains beyond, as Tara later pointed out to us, might be a last, unrequited sigh…
We were pretty clear on what the game was. In fact, we had a wager, on how long before the tour would wind up and we’d be deposited at his Uncle’s Rug shop…But we agreed to keep the date. Fair go. The problem was, we made a few wrong turns, and were now running late…When we arrived at the archway, the boys weren’t in sight. They had explained that a big cruise ship was coming in to Port that day, so it would be busy for them, so maybe they had had to cut and run…
The loud shout told us he’d found us. Hurtling down the hill, calling to us in delight, he made a breathless stem-christie and pulled up before us, resplendent in an immaculate, dove grey Adidas ensemble. He seemed delighted to see us, the previous night’s air of hubris had evaoprated, in fact, he seemed quite humble, even a little crestfallen. I felt for him in that moment. We apologised, and agreed to let him take us on his tour. ‘Where’s your friend?’ ‘He can’t make it…he’s got school…C’mon, I take you to the house of Paul Bowles…’ Just like Peaches sang: Stay in school -cos it’s the best. Good idea.
Anyway, it was a flying tour of literary haunts, and of course we did end up in the rug emporium,
where they were waiting for us. ‘Don’t worry. You don’t have to buy anything, if you don’t want. No problem…’ The fee was only for delivery. So, after managing to face the onslaught and back out respectfully, we found ourselves finally out on the bustling Kasbah street. We shook hands, which enabled me to place the amount we agreed with him directly. At this point, he was glancing around quite nervously, it was only later explained, that the penalty for ‘unofficial’ tour guiding is as severe as a short spell in jail. Not a fun place in Morocco. We shared a hug. The energy in that brief embrace, told me we both understood the situation: There was nothing to regret for going about your business. He was a going to continue to take his chances, and he was was going to be fine, perfectly ok. But I remember thinking, I hope his mate, the one who looked like me, sticks to his A-game, and stays in school. Muchos gracias, mi caballero. Shukran. Take care of yourself.
Xo
HS