Saturday 25 February 2012
Sweet Home, Tangier . . .
We arose from our secured parking spot in front of the apartment building of American writer Paul Bowles' former longtime residence (where we got to stay on our first trip through, courtesy of Cherie Nutting and Bachir Attar, good friends of his), to await our friend and white knight Aziz Begdouri, who offered to pick us up and take us to Cafe Hafa for one last visit to that hallowed literary hangout (Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, Ginsberg et al), even though it was Saturday and a busy work day for Morocco's leading tour guide.
When we say our car and parking spot were secured, we're referencing the odd system they have of designating one person, usually an older man, to watch over the cars parked on his block. If you're going to be there a few hours you hand him a few dirhams, overnight 10 ($1.20/euros .90). He'll sometimes appear as soon as you park or sometimes you won't see him for hours or even days. Several times previously we had to leave the money with a nearby shopkeeper, who gets it to him. We guess. But everyone there swears the system works and if there is any problem reported to the police the first person they go after is the watchman, demanding answers. Good old Morocco - it works, after its own fashion.
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| Ismael, Currito, Aziz and Charles |
Aziz showed up smiling hugely as usual, with a surprise: his two sons in tow, Ismael and Currito, on their way to English lessons at the American language school. Aziz' wife is Spanish and they speak her language, his and English at home; he turned uncharacteristically sober for a moment when Charles asked him about the English lessons - "Of course, you must have a good command of English to succeed today, no question, yes, no question." A father obviously dedicated to providing the best opportunities for his sons, we knew from other conversations how much he valued family. If he treated his customers like gold, he treated family like precious jewels. And we still marveled at how much time and attention he gave us while juggling the rest of his busy tour business.
On the way to the school we found out that Currito (7) had been playing and replaying the CD Dian gave Aziz of her "Modern Music from Outer Space" as sung by her VaVa LaVoom persona, or more accurately, one song, "Casey Casey Casey." So Dian sang it in person, with Nicole harmonizing, for him in the car, and we think he enjoyed it but in shyness he turned his head to the side window and didn't show his face once. Very sweet.
After dropping the boys at school we proceeded toward the cafe but Aziz made another stop, dashing into a doorway to come back with bags, "a traditional Moroccan breakfast," he proudly announced, really good Moroccan bread sort of split into sandwiches, some with goat cheese and some with our favorite, Amlou.
Charles had expressed a desire to go early to the cafe, to get some writing done at the same place that inspired so many great writers, and asked Aziz for directions to walk or catch a cab, but instead he offered to take Charles early then come back for Dian and Nicole later. Not wanting to put him to that much trouble, we decided longer time at Cafe Hafa was something we'd all like and Dian hatched a plan to occupy Nicole and herself. She brought some clothing items, like the mink coat her mom had mailed for warmth, a caftan, old-school Ray Bans, a black fur hat and her makeup bag, and recreated the '40s-'50s look that reigned in Tangier's literary heyday at a photo shoot by Nicole. Charles moved off by himself and did manage to write a column for the Santa Monica Daily Press that he felt good about, and read it to all when Aziz joined us again.
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Amlou and cheese with bread
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Charles moved a couple of times as the place started to fill up, then gave up and settled in, musing how packed it must be in summer. But locals loved the place too and new arrivals seemed to be Moroccans of all age groups, including the young men at the top tier who were smoking a hookah (Middle Eastern-style water pipe, large, with hose). Dian noticed them too and despite some misgivings, decided this was an opportunity not to be missed, so she and Nicole approached them to see if what they were smoking.... really was. Yes. It was. And they didn't mind demonstrating how it worked for the curious visitors.
Aziz later explained that while kif, the marijuana variety grown in Morocco, and the hash that is made from it, are officially illegal, the government has reached an accommodation (that the neighboring European nations don't appreciate much) with "the industry" to limit growth and production to one certain area (the one in the Rif Mountains that we drove through the day before, that ordinary tourists never drive through unless they are looking for the goods, which of course explained the enthusiastic welcome our van's foreign plates got us) and sort of look the other way. But he also explained that we were perfectly safe there, that because of the government blessing and control the criminal element had mostly been eliminated. Gosh, Charles said, that's exactly what I've been saying for years is wrong with the US' "war on drugs" that results in prisons overflowing with minor violators and now a neighboring nation nearly out of control with drug violence. But the government of Morocco doesn't tax it, and that could be a source of more control and moving some of the vast mountains of money away from drug warlords and into government coffers. But that's just one non-smoker's opinion...
Before we entered Cafe Hafa that morning Aziz beckoned us in the other direction, a few steps away onto a large rock area overlooking the Straits of Gibraltar. He pointed down to the depressions all over the surface and told us, "These are the ancient Phoenician tombs. Long before the English, French, Spanish and Portuguese, the Arabs, the Byzantines, the Vandals, Romans and Carthaginians, the Phoenicians conquered the Berbers of Tanjah and ended their westward march here, believing the ocean beyond to be so vast that it must be the end of the world." "Otherwise," Charles quipped, "we Yanks might be speaking to you now in Phoenician."
Finally it was time to hit the road to make our ferry in Ceuta, where we had landed 17 days and a lifetime's adventures before. Aziz drove ahead of us to the edge of town to make sure we didn't get lost, and we stopped and bade him a warm but reluctant goodbye. The drive back was by the coast and beautiful, but not as striking as our arrival introduction to Morocco and North Africa. That memory, of heading up the mountain into unknown territory and culture and being thrilled by the beauty of the mountains and sea, was an indelible one.
The breeze of getting through return customs that Aziz predicted didn't happen. It was much easier, but the lines were long because of the important Spanish holiday many Ceutans were returning home for. We were cutting it close to make the early afternoon ferry and missed by an hour but easily made the 5 o'clock crossing. We zipped out of Algeciras port to our beloved propane refill station, then back out the familiar road to Tarifa, only this time instead of free camping we went for the campground right next to it, for hot showers and easy Wi-Fi before our departure for carnival in Cadiz. Our Moroccan adventure, we all agreed, was a definite highlight of our year-long trip.
After paying a pretty big toll we opted to program our GPS for no toll roads, and promptly found ourselves on a farmer's gravel road. 50 minutes later, just outside of Sevilla, we pulled into Camping Villsom which, though pricey, seemed like the respite we needed for catching up on the blogs, e-mails, paying bills, drying clothes in the hot sun, and dying hair.
While doing laundry in the giant Maytag machine, we met Suffolk folk Diane and Ian who gave us some wonderful camping tips for Portugal. They had had a van like ours, which drew them to our plot in the first place.
Charles made a delicious pasta dinner and we all had hot showers before bed!
