Gibraltar to Tangier
Gibraltar
Seeing as i was in the neighbourhood i couldn´t resist dipping over the border into Costa del Blighty for a gander at Europe´s capital of kitsch. Gib is a tidy sized theme park modelled on life back in dear old John Bull. A short walk from La Linea - a world of tapas, vino tinto and flamenco - is a netherworld of royal-red postboxes, bobbies on the beat, warm ale and stodgy pub grub. Yours for extortionate prices in Sterling that left my daily budget foundering on the Rock.
Once much fought over, the spats with Madrid are now verbal. Once upon a time however the Rock was under years long siege. Tunnels were dug into its bowels by the defending British army to allow the emplacement of canons overlooking the fortified positions of the besiegers. During the tunnelling process it was discovered that the Rock itself is in large part hollow - a giant mound of Swiss cheese hosting huge naturally formed caves. Steps and lighting permit wanderings deep inside the rock itself and there are impressive masses of stalactites and mites (Which is which? Well, my geography teacher used to say; lads, the tights come down and the mites go up.). Though Gib´s military significance has dwindled it is widely reported that various nefarious military actors continue to monitor the shipping traffic passing through the Straits from deep inside the Rock. The apes also monitor everything from atop and occasionally visit town to wreak havoc on powerlines and tasty rubbish bins.
Having had my fill of stodgy pub pies, Marks & Spencers and (most of) the inhabitant´s grim attachment to Blighty (and visceral distrust of anything emanating from Madrid) i headed back across the frontier. The only road in and out passes directly across the middle of the airport runway. Half a dozen times a day a plane lands on or takes off and all road and pedestrian traffic in and out comes to a halt. And as luck would have it, just as i arrived at the tarmac the barrier fell to allow a British Airways flight hurtle off over the sea, back to the motherland.
Tarifa
Tarifa was my final port of call in Spain. A chilled out surfers´paradise populated in large part by ex pats of various nationalities - typified by the blonde scraggy haired surfer types who lounge around town luxuriating in their languidness. Even at this time of year the walled old town is a pleasant place to stroll or sit out with a beer and some fresh fishy tapas. From the beachfront the minarets of Tangier can be seen glinting in the sun across the water.
The next morning i headed to the ferry terminal full of beans. A oneway ticket to Tangier came at a reasonable price for a trip to another continent - €35. The journey is short - one hour - and Moroccan immigration helpfully carries out the tiresome stamping of passports on board. On the way over i contemplated what lay ahead. I knew little of Morocco. In my mind it would be poorer than Spain, much poorer, but still relatively modern and urbanised. Tangier would have a cool charm that lingered from its days as a haven for the beat writers, artists and the hippies that followed them. Guide books and fellow travellers had warned of the hustlers, the scams, the pratfalls. But proper preparation is difficult to calibrate - being too concerned with the Dangers and Annoyances - to use Lonely Planet-speak - can create unnecessary separation from local people and culture. How to strike the balance i wondered as the door of the ferry unwound onto the quay.
Tangier
Tangier ferry terminal is large and it is nearly fifteen minutes walk from the ferry to the exit and the outside world. With my 15Kg backpack and a smaller day-bag slung from my shoulders i am balanced and mobile but not agile. I was about fifty yards from the ferry when my first friend approached. He had been on board my ferry, a fellow traveller and native of Tangier returning from Spain to visit family. He warmed me in grave terms about the hustlers and not to trust anyone. I hadn´t seen him on board. Was he a hustler or a friendly local? Before we reached the exit he disappeared, seemingly sidetracked by an acquaintance.
Immediately outside the terminal is a small square with shops and taxis whizzing by trailing little blue clouds of smelly smoke. Men were sitting, standing and leaning everywhere. Watching the new arrivals. Standing on your own, with a backpack on your back and looking for a taxi is to cover yourself in honey and walk naked past a bee hive. They descended. I had my prepared answers, my disinformation. Yes, i know where i am going. Thanks you, yes i have a hotel. Yep i know how to get there. You´re very kind but i dont need a guide to take me through the Medina. Tomorrow, yes i leave tomorrow. To go to Asilah. No i don´t need a drive. Yes i do have a hotel in Asilah. No i wouldn´t like a better one, but you are so very kind to offer.
I swatted away the swarm but some are clever, constantly mining for useful information. And indignation is available on tap as a weapon in the event of a failure to engage amiably. How do you pick the genuine welcomes from the guy who is keeping you distracted whilst his mate filches your wallet? And how much information do you give.
As i stumbled into the city from the ferry terminal in search of a bed i encountered Moustapha:
- Hola! Ca va? Welcome to Morocco. Hey... hey (louder), i am talking to you. (You dont get away that easily. You can´t ignore me entirely if i walk along side of you.)
- Hello (Here we go.)
- English?
- Irish. (Not English.)
- You speak English, yes? (I couldn´t give a stuff where you are from.)
- A little yes. (Perhaps i can pass as a Gaelgeoir who speaks only a little English.)
- What is your name?
- John
- Hi John, i´m Moustapha. Welcome to Morocco (Trust me, i am your friend.)
- Thank you. (Bugger off.)
- First time in Morocco? (Just how naive are you?)
- Yes. (Dammit, i wish i had read enough to pass myself off as a regular visitor.)
- You travel around Morocco for long? (Roughly, how much money are you carrying?)
- Just a few days. (Even i´m not answering that one.)
- You need directions? I can show you the way. (For a price.)
- No thanks, i´m fine. I know where i am going. (I am lost but I want you to disappear before whipping out the map.)
- You look for hotel? (You´re lost.)
- I have a hotel. (I dont have a hotel.)
- Which one? (You´re lying.)
- Chellah. (Fuck, think of any hotel named in the guide book).
- You go there now?
- Yes. (Fuck.)
- Come, I show you the way. (Gotcha.)
- No thats fine i´ll find it. (No you don´t.)
- But you are lost, let me show you. No charge. I just like to help people out. (This will cost you big time).
- Well, just point me in the right direction. (I am losing the will to fight you off.)
- Come, follow me (I know you have just come off the ferry, the sun is weighing down that enormous bag on your back and you do not have the energy to resist.)
And so the barnacle attached himself. At the hotel he asks for cash for guiding me. Even though he had said "no charge". I decide it will be simpler to give him a token amount to get rid. I proffer ten Dhiram (about €1).
-What is this? This is nothing. One Euro.
- You said there was no charge.
- And there is no charge. All i ask for is a souvenir. I give my time, i help you out.
- Dude, you took me to where i was already going.
- But you were lost and i showed you the way here. Thats worth something. Give me Dh100.
- No chance. It only took five minutes to get here.
I place another DH10 in his hands and tell him thats this is niusance money and i have now reached the limit of my generosity. He snorts derisively, and then says that tomorrow he will be my guide in the Medina. I tell him i have no need for a guide. A furtive glance over his shoulder and he leans towards me and offers me hashish - "the best in all Morocco. Zero-zero." With this he brings his bunched fingers to his lips and extravagantly kisses the air and whistles, his eyes arcing to the ceiling. I thank him and decline. Moustapha turns on a heel and says he will see me tomorrow. Now that he knows where i am staying i have little doubt but that i will indeed see him tomorrow. Dammit.
As i head up stairs to my room Moustapha is engaged in conversation in Arabic with the hotel manager, no doubt demanding a commission for delivering a customer to the hotel. It matters not that i was coming here anyway. I unpack in my room long enough to allow Moustapha to disappear. I then stroll up to the old Medina for a wander. The Medina - as with Fez and Marrakesh - is a crumbing maze of tiny alleyways and roads that are almost covered over. Every nook and cranny is home to humans or cats. Simply strolling through the alleys is a guaranteed way of getting lost. Maps become useless in narrow, unending claustrophobic maze. A compass would at least allow you to determine North from South. The spider webs of paths are too small and too numerous to be accurately reproduced on a useful map. Once lost, this will be evident to all the world and no shortage of men from boys to Grandads will offer to lead you around or away or to wherever you are headed. At one point i try to fend off the attentions of Moustapha II by telling him i am headed to the Petit Socco. You are lost he replied. I said i was not lost just wandering - you cant be lost if you are wandering. You are wandering to the Petit Socco and you are lost. Because this is the Petit Socco, you are standing in it now. Come, let me show you around....
The souks are full to bursting with carpets, shisha pipes, craft work, traditional clothes, food, spices, jewellery. The shopkeepers desperately entreat the foreigners into their stores. "Come, come, come i have best carpets. You want carpet, come in, we talk, you have mint tea. No pressure. It is all free. It is free, free to look. Cheaper than Asda." The sales are hard. Accepting the ubiquitous urgings of mint tea is to accept an invitation to be harrangued at length. "Which carpet is your favourite. No not to buy, just which one you like? To look at? Ok, ok i do you good deal on this carpet. Why you not want this carpet, it is good yes? The woman she work for three months to make this carpet. Berber carpet, from the mountains. Nowhere else in the world will you get carpet like this. If you not want to carry it we can send it home. You give us your address it is will be there before you. Maybe for your mother, your mother she like carpet? Your wife? Girlfriend? Sister maybe. Your neighbour, she will like carpet when you come home."
In the evening i return to the Hotel. I am leaving early in the morning so i withdraw to my room. Not long after sitting down and getting my bearings i become aware of a repititive clanking noise on the street outside my window. I pull back the curtains and look down from the fourth floor. On the footpath opposite the hotel a tall burly youth with long, curly dark hair and a black and orange leather jacket - not looking entirely unlike Michael Jackson in Thriller - is holding a five foot length of timber as thick as his grip. As people park or retrieve their cars he bangs the weapon menacingly and extracts a fee, presumably for his security services. His business goes on unhindered for about two hours before i fall asleep.
The next morning i check out early in order to catch a train to Aslih, a small fishing village South along the coast. As i leave the Hotel, Moustapha emerges from places unseen with a smile most people would reserve to express their feelings on winning the lotto. We exchange familiarities - he offers drugs, guidance services, carpets, drives and hotels and i offer a sufficient degree of fortitude to withstand him politely for five minutes. Then i bundle myself into a taxi to avoid having to humour him as i walk to the train station. Moustapha offers to accompany me in the cab. I tell the driver to move it. As Moustapha disappeared in the background i laughed at the sheer bloody theatre of it all, and i am certain that Moustapha laughed a little too as he scanned Hotel lobby for his next meal ticket.
Seeing as i was in the neighbourhood i couldn´t resist dipping over the border into Costa del Blighty for a gander at Europe´s capital of kitsch. Gib is a tidy sized theme park modelled on life back in dear old John Bull. A short walk from La Linea - a world of tapas, vino tinto and flamenco - is a netherworld of royal-red postboxes, bobbies on the beat, warm ale and stodgy pub grub. Yours for extortionate prices in Sterling that left my daily budget foundering on the Rock.
Once much fought over, the spats with Madrid are now verbal. Once upon a time however the Rock was under years long siege. Tunnels were dug into its bowels by the defending British army to allow the emplacement of canons overlooking the fortified positions of the besiegers. During the tunnelling process it was discovered that the Rock itself is in large part hollow - a giant mound of Swiss cheese hosting huge naturally formed caves. Steps and lighting permit wanderings deep inside the rock itself and there are impressive masses of stalactites and mites (Which is which? Well, my geography teacher used to say; lads, the tights come down and the mites go up.). Though Gib´s military significance has dwindled it is widely reported that various nefarious military actors continue to monitor the shipping traffic passing through the Straits from deep inside the Rock. The apes also monitor everything from atop and occasionally visit town to wreak havoc on powerlines and tasty rubbish bins.
Having had my fill of stodgy pub pies, Marks & Spencers and (most of) the inhabitant´s grim attachment to Blighty (and visceral distrust of anything emanating from Madrid) i headed back across the frontier. The only road in and out passes directly across the middle of the airport runway. Half a dozen times a day a plane lands on or takes off and all road and pedestrian traffic in and out comes to a halt. And as luck would have it, just as i arrived at the tarmac the barrier fell to allow a British Airways flight hurtle off over the sea, back to the motherland.
Tarifa
Tarifa was my final port of call in Spain. A chilled out surfers´paradise populated in large part by ex pats of various nationalities - typified by the blonde scraggy haired surfer types who lounge around town luxuriating in their languidness. Even at this time of year the walled old town is a pleasant place to stroll or sit out with a beer and some fresh fishy tapas. From the beachfront the minarets of Tangier can be seen glinting in the sun across the water.
The next morning i headed to the ferry terminal full of beans. A oneway ticket to Tangier came at a reasonable price for a trip to another continent - €35. The journey is short - one hour - and Moroccan immigration helpfully carries out the tiresome stamping of passports on board. On the way over i contemplated what lay ahead. I knew little of Morocco. In my mind it would be poorer than Spain, much poorer, but still relatively modern and urbanised. Tangier would have a cool charm that lingered from its days as a haven for the beat writers, artists and the hippies that followed them. Guide books and fellow travellers had warned of the hustlers, the scams, the pratfalls. But proper preparation is difficult to calibrate - being too concerned with the Dangers and Annoyances - to use Lonely Planet-speak - can create unnecessary separation from local people and culture. How to strike the balance i wondered as the door of the ferry unwound onto the quay.
Tangier
Tangier ferry terminal is large and it is nearly fifteen minutes walk from the ferry to the exit and the outside world. With my 15Kg backpack and a smaller day-bag slung from my shoulders i am balanced and mobile but not agile. I was about fifty yards from the ferry when my first friend approached. He had been on board my ferry, a fellow traveller and native of Tangier returning from Spain to visit family. He warmed me in grave terms about the hustlers and not to trust anyone. I hadn´t seen him on board. Was he a hustler or a friendly local? Before we reached the exit he disappeared, seemingly sidetracked by an acquaintance.
Immediately outside the terminal is a small square with shops and taxis whizzing by trailing little blue clouds of smelly smoke. Men were sitting, standing and leaning everywhere. Watching the new arrivals. Standing on your own, with a backpack on your back and looking for a taxi is to cover yourself in honey and walk naked past a bee hive. They descended. I had my prepared answers, my disinformation. Yes, i know where i am going. Thanks you, yes i have a hotel. Yep i know how to get there. You´re very kind but i dont need a guide to take me through the Medina. Tomorrow, yes i leave tomorrow. To go to Asilah. No i don´t need a drive. Yes i do have a hotel in Asilah. No i wouldn´t like a better one, but you are so very kind to offer.
I swatted away the swarm but some are clever, constantly mining for useful information. And indignation is available on tap as a weapon in the event of a failure to engage amiably. How do you pick the genuine welcomes from the guy who is keeping you distracted whilst his mate filches your wallet? And how much information do you give.
As i stumbled into the city from the ferry terminal in search of a bed i encountered Moustapha:
- Hola! Ca va? Welcome to Morocco. Hey... hey (louder), i am talking to you. (You dont get away that easily. You can´t ignore me entirely if i walk along side of you.)
- Hello (Here we go.)
- English?
- Irish. (Not English.)
- You speak English, yes? (I couldn´t give a stuff where you are from.)
- A little yes. (Perhaps i can pass as a Gaelgeoir who speaks only a little English.)
- What is your name?
- John
- Hi John, i´m Moustapha. Welcome to Morocco (Trust me, i am your friend.)
- Thank you. (Bugger off.)
- First time in Morocco? (Just how naive are you?)
- Yes. (Dammit, i wish i had read enough to pass myself off as a regular visitor.)
- You travel around Morocco for long? (Roughly, how much money are you carrying?)
- Just a few days. (Even i´m not answering that one.)
- You need directions? I can show you the way. (For a price.)
- No thanks, i´m fine. I know where i am going. (I am lost but I want you to disappear before whipping out the map.)
- You look for hotel? (You´re lost.)
- I have a hotel. (I dont have a hotel.)
- Which one? (You´re lying.)
- Chellah. (Fuck, think of any hotel named in the guide book).
- You go there now?
- Yes. (Fuck.)
- Come, I show you the way. (Gotcha.)
- No thats fine i´ll find it. (No you don´t.)
- But you are lost, let me show you. No charge. I just like to help people out. (This will cost you big time).
- Well, just point me in the right direction. (I am losing the will to fight you off.)
- Come, follow me (I know you have just come off the ferry, the sun is weighing down that enormous bag on your back and you do not have the energy to resist.)
And so the barnacle attached himself. At the hotel he asks for cash for guiding me. Even though he had said "no charge". I decide it will be simpler to give him a token amount to get rid. I proffer ten Dhiram (about €1).
-What is this? This is nothing. One Euro.
- You said there was no charge.
- And there is no charge. All i ask for is a souvenir. I give my time, i help you out.
- Dude, you took me to where i was already going.
- But you were lost and i showed you the way here. Thats worth something. Give me Dh100.
- No chance. It only took five minutes to get here.
I place another DH10 in his hands and tell him thats this is niusance money and i have now reached the limit of my generosity. He snorts derisively, and then says that tomorrow he will be my guide in the Medina. I tell him i have no need for a guide. A furtive glance over his shoulder and he leans towards me and offers me hashish - "the best in all Morocco. Zero-zero." With this he brings his bunched fingers to his lips and extravagantly kisses the air and whistles, his eyes arcing to the ceiling. I thank him and decline. Moustapha turns on a heel and says he will see me tomorrow. Now that he knows where i am staying i have little doubt but that i will indeed see him tomorrow. Dammit.
As i head up stairs to my room Moustapha is engaged in conversation in Arabic with the hotel manager, no doubt demanding a commission for delivering a customer to the hotel. It matters not that i was coming here anyway. I unpack in my room long enough to allow Moustapha to disappear. I then stroll up to the old Medina for a wander. The Medina - as with Fez and Marrakesh - is a crumbing maze of tiny alleyways and roads that are almost covered over. Every nook and cranny is home to humans or cats. Simply strolling through the alleys is a guaranteed way of getting lost. Maps become useless in narrow, unending claustrophobic maze. A compass would at least allow you to determine North from South. The spider webs of paths are too small and too numerous to be accurately reproduced on a useful map. Once lost, this will be evident to all the world and no shortage of men from boys to Grandads will offer to lead you around or away or to wherever you are headed. At one point i try to fend off the attentions of Moustapha II by telling him i am headed to the Petit Socco. You are lost he replied. I said i was not lost just wandering - you cant be lost if you are wandering. You are wandering to the Petit Socco and you are lost. Because this is the Petit Socco, you are standing in it now. Come, let me show you around....
The souks are full to bursting with carpets, shisha pipes, craft work, traditional clothes, food, spices, jewellery. The shopkeepers desperately entreat the foreigners into their stores. "Come, come, come i have best carpets. You want carpet, come in, we talk, you have mint tea. No pressure. It is all free. It is free, free to look. Cheaper than Asda." The sales are hard. Accepting the ubiquitous urgings of mint tea is to accept an invitation to be harrangued at length. "Which carpet is your favourite. No not to buy, just which one you like? To look at? Ok, ok i do you good deal on this carpet. Why you not want this carpet, it is good yes? The woman she work for three months to make this carpet. Berber carpet, from the mountains. Nowhere else in the world will you get carpet like this. If you not want to carry it we can send it home. You give us your address it is will be there before you. Maybe for your mother, your mother she like carpet? Your wife? Girlfriend? Sister maybe. Your neighbour, she will like carpet when you come home."
In the evening i return to the Hotel. I am leaving early in the morning so i withdraw to my room. Not long after sitting down and getting my bearings i become aware of a repititive clanking noise on the street outside my window. I pull back the curtains and look down from the fourth floor. On the footpath opposite the hotel a tall burly youth with long, curly dark hair and a black and orange leather jacket - not looking entirely unlike Michael Jackson in Thriller - is holding a five foot length of timber as thick as his grip. As people park or retrieve their cars he bangs the weapon menacingly and extracts a fee, presumably for his security services. His business goes on unhindered for about two hours before i fall asleep.
The next morning i check out early in order to catch a train to Aslih, a small fishing village South along the coast. As i leave the Hotel, Moustapha emerges from places unseen with a smile most people would reserve to express their feelings on winning the lotto. We exchange familiarities - he offers drugs, guidance services, carpets, drives and hotels and i offer a sufficient degree of fortitude to withstand him politely for five minutes. Then i bundle myself into a taxi to avoid having to humour him as i walk to the train station. Moustapha offers to accompany me in the cab. I tell the driver to move it. As Moustapha disappeared in the background i laughed at the sheer bloody theatre of it all, and i am certain that Moustapha laughed a little too as he scanned Hotel lobby for his next meal ticket.
posted by Supertramp | 7:18 AM
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