Wednesday 8 February 2012
The camp receptionist printed out our boarding tickets, and Luzie bought us all a cortado. What a way to start our trip to Africa, (we’d visited Kenya on a prvious trip so this was our second time to the continent).
The dry run we’d made into Algeciras the day before helped us find our company Acciona’s departure port. Charles popped into a tobacco shop to put money on our phone, then we got in line. With Dian at the wheel, Charles couldn’t help but be envious that this ferry allowed cars to drive on instead of backing on as he had had to do in Greece and Italy.
The paperwork for the car and the passports was done at the Moroccan border. The first impression wasn’t exactly the best, what with their office window broken out and covered with cardboard. A man made eye contact with Nicole while he tried to open up our back trunk. When he realized it was locked he just smiled. Another man who had an “official” nametag (but still wanted a tip: “The government doesn’t pay me!”) helped us get the proper forms to fill out, then directed us up the hill towards Tangier. We weren’t in Kansas anymore.
After a quick tour and transfer of keys, Bachir and Mustapha left. Nicole, Charles and Aziz went in Aziz’s car to buy insurance for our van (a necessary formality, but not much good in case of a real accident). Charles got the Moroccoan currency of dirhams at an ATM and paid the travel agency for the ferry tickets, but Aziz wouldn’t take a penny. Meanwhile Dian rested and made pasta for dinner.
During dinner a neighbor in the apartment complex knocked on our door with a distraught German who had seen our van with its German plates and thought that WE were Germans who could help him. After politely but firmly telling him no, Charles rejoined Nicole and Dian. Later, Charles went downstairs to pay the night guard to watch our van (this is how it works in Morocco, and the neighborhood night guard is even recognized by the local police). We finally fell asleep in the chilly apartment with the call to prayer echoing off the walls of the city below.
We were up at 6 AM to catch our ferry to Tangier! Unfortunately in the dark as we were leaving we made a u-turn off the pavement into SAND, DEEP SAND, NOTHIN' BUT SAND. We pushed, the workmen from camp came over and helped, then gave up and handed Charles a shovel. We used our hands and any board nearby to scrape away the sand from under the van. We knocked on our new friends Heinz and Luzie’s camper at the early hour of 8:15 and they came over to help without hesitation.
Finally after an hour and a half of digging we were able to push the van onto solid ground. Looking back at the foot and a half deep holes our back tires had left we shouted, “Hallelujah!”
On board the clean and handsomely furnished ferry, we could see the Rock of Gibraltar close up (but not close enough to see the infamous monkeys). 55 minutes later after a smooth crossing we landed on a sliver of Spain, called Ceuta, in North Africa.
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| Driving into Tangier |
We took a wrong and ended up driving the longer inland route into the city. This wouldn’t have been a big deal, but Bachir Attar was waiting for us at the apartment of Paul Bowles, where we were to stay, and needed to leave by 2 PM. On top of that the needle was in the red for diesel, plus we had let Rick Steves’ recommended tour guide Aziz Begdouri know that we were coming, and he was waiting for us in the city center.
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| Aziz |
From the road we called Bachir who said not to worry, he would be there, and when we called Aziz he said the same. Finally we found the huge mosque that Aziz told us he would be waiting by, and from across the giant traffic circle we heard, “Charles! Charles!” Music to our ears. When we pulled over we embraced like long lost relatives. He led us to Paul Bowles’ apartment where a plaque in the entry hall read:
Paul Bowles
American writer and composer
Lived here from 1960/1999
We were honored to stay in Cherie Nutting and Bachir Attar’s friend’s (now deceased) home which still had photos of the many famous personages who had visited that very apartment. Mustapha Attar, Bachir’s younger brother, welcomed us with tea. We offered them tangerines and Bachir ate one, regaling us with stories of his US music tour around the time of 9/11 when he talked down the FBI. Another story was about being 5 years old and watching Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones dance by the fire to his dad’s music in Jajouka “like in a dream.”
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| Charles, Bachir, Aziz, Mustapha and Dian |
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| The totally legitimate insurance building |
When Aziz left with the invitation to call if we needed anything, we started bringing up clothing and linens from our van to our flat on the fourth floor, climbing 115 steps each time.
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| Freezing in the apartment |
During dinner a neighbor in the apartment complex knocked on our door with a distraught German who had seen our van with its German plates and thought that WE were Germans who could help him. After politely but firmly telling him no, Charles rejoined Nicole and Dian. Later, Charles went downstairs to pay the night guard to watch our van (this is how it works in Morocco, and the neighborhood night guard is even recognized by the local police). We finally fell asleep in the chilly apartment with the call to prayer echoing off the walls of the city below.
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