TANGIER
And so how does one describe Tangier? The colors the sounds the smells the tumult of people tumbling down the tiny streets that cascade like rivulets from the Kasbah and onward through the Medina. It all runs together like a minimalist poem on maximum overdrive.
Tangier can be overwhelming, and intimidating. I've traveled in other countries, mostly through Latin America. But this is different, very different. It's our first time in an Arabic country. The signs are in three languages. None of them is English. Due to Tangier's history and location, the signs are in Arabic, French and Spanish (fortunately for us). But most of the language that fills the air is unintelligible to us, although in this port city there are people fluent in numerous tongues, and conversations can flow seamlessly through them all. The picture, in its entirety, reminds me of scenes from movies, vaguely-remembered and enticing, yet with a whisper of danger.
We're all captives of our own millieu. Our culture shapes us regardless of our intentions, and we are burdened with its preconceptions. The idea of traveling in an Arab country was freighted with years of 'Evening News mentality' – a catastrophizing mindset we have learned to mistrust in our other travels. We decided to take a look for ourselves. What we found is different, and yet not. I have a feeling it's a good thing we chose Morocco, a stable and relatively progressive Arab country with a strong European influence, for our first step into the Arab world.
On the street we pass people wearing long jellabas, tagias (the traditional round caps), and babouches (traditional slippers), easily removed to enter the mosque for frequent prayer. But here in this Europeanized city the 'native attire' actually tends more toward Adidas shirts and Nike sneakers, and even Western business attire. We pass a kid wearing a surfer shirt that reads, "I'm so Board." Another t-shirt reads "I'm Muslim. Don't panic!" There are still plenty of men wearing long jellabas and women in headscarves, but it's not the dominant dress.
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Using her handy iPad, Carolyn booked us into a nice-looking place called the Hostal Dar Jameel. We follow the directions on a circuitous pathway (with only a few serious deviations) until we are deep into the medina and finally at the door. So far, the general tumble-down, dirty walls, disrepair, and disarray of Tangier don't appear to bode well for us. But then the door opens and we're transported to a different experience altogether. We seem to have stumbled upon the Pasha's forgotten palace.
We're staying in a 'dar,' or 'riad,' a traditional home of several stories around a central court that's covered with a skylight. It's the standard and traditional lodging style available in any medina. The walls of the Dar Jameel are a gorgeous riot and clash of tile that would be difficult to pull off in the hands of someone less talented than the person who accomplished this work. The ceilings are also filigreed with design, and the furniture is simple but elegant. Our room is large and overlooks the central court. There's a large shared bath in the corner for the two rooms on this floor.
Each morning we retire to an upper veranda where we're served a delicious and filling breakfast of yoghurt with honey and raisins, breads with goat cheese and marmalades, fruit, fresh orange juice, and coffee or tea. We enjoy each breakfast with a view out across the entire city, past the minarets of numerous nearby mosques, and over the bay.
Carolyn picks a thick volume of The Collected Works of Allen Ginsburg from the shelf and reads "Rotting Ginsburg." The aging images resonate more now than they did in our youth. I thumb through a book of Garcia Lorca.
It's easy to feel like a sultan in this covered terrace far above the city, and we retire to this sanctuary whenever the experience of Tangier becomes more than the senses can assimilate.
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For us, the learning curve is quite steep as we cope with a blizzard of new terms we'll need to deal with in order to navigate through Morocco. Medieval Arab cities were built on high points for defense. At the top was the Kasbah, or fort. Sprawling around the Kasbah, within the high city walls, was the Medina with its residence houses, souks and bazaars filled with carpets, clothing, brass work, jewelry, everything you might expect. Every day we pass through these colorful souks laden with merchandise on our way to visit various historic buildings. Mosques are everywhere. There's a seamless quality to life throughout the medina, where there's little separation between commerce, religion, and everyday life. There's very little greenery in the medina. Contrast that with the well organized plan of wide streets, parks, and set-backs in the Ville Nouvelle, built later by the French.
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On our very first day wandering through the Kasbah, we are fortunate(?!) to secure the services of a guide named Abdullah. He's dressed in full jellaba, babouches, and small cap; and he happily shows us the sights. Those include the homes of Paul Bowles (author of dark stories, and perhaps the city's most famous expat), and his friend Matisse, along with the haunts of Ginsberg, Corso, and the other Beat Poets who hung out here in the 1950s.
Abdullah points us down various alleys to numerous hidden doorways of recent historical significance and I dutifully snap pictures of all of them. But soon we're trying to remember just whose door was whose. The confusion mirrors the confusion of alleyways that comprise the medina itself. Later, I'll realize that all of my photos in the medina are vertical, because there's no way you can get back for a wide angle shot. In this jumble of narrow streets the only evidence of some 'important residence' is a half-hidden doorway.
After much winding through another confusion of slender corridors, Abdullah announces, "This is the home of Matisse."
In a little nook we see an entry door, surrounded by tile. I say, "But I thought we saw Matisse's house several alleys back there."
"Ah yes, Monsieur," he says, "but this is Matisse's other house."
"Oh. I see."
"And here, Monsieur, ees thee home of Kirk Douglass's sister."
Kirk Douglass's sister?
It turns out that today is indeed our lucky day because, due to his long history in Tangier and his deep connections in the Medina, Abdullah is able to offer us the rare opportunity(!?) to visit a Berber carpet salesman.
The Berber gentleman (named Ali Baba, I think) graciously invites us into his four-story emporium stacked with piles of carpets made by fellow Berbers from his home in Merzouga, which lies far to the south, at the edge of the Sahara. His young assistant quickly brings us freshly-brewed cups of steaming mint tea, as we relax to a CD of Moroccan music.
Ali suggests we look at the extraordinarily high quality of a few very large carpets, but we tell him we're backpackers and unable to carry much more weight. He looks skeptically at our grey hair, probably not imagining we could backpack anything very far. But then he shows us several small carpets made from Genuine Camel Hair, that you can scrape or tug, with no damage to the fabric. The colors are subtle and resonant, looking like no others we had seen. We're intrigued.
"OK, how much is that one?" The first fatal step has been taken.
We recoil at the price, as he tells us how it had been made by his grandmother who is one of the most renowned weavers in the village. Soon, it seems that most of the carpets in his place were made by his famous grandmother, and they all took a long time to make. Just how old is she, anyway?
Soon the price is lowered, for his "new friends," but still too much for us.
"Do you have children?" he asks. Family is a very important topic in Morocco. How your family is, and what you are doing for them determines your importance in life – in effect, your social net worth. Family, to a Moroccan, is worth more than money.
We mention two children, but quickly explain that we'll have to send them off to work in the salt mines to pay for the rug.
"But Monsieur," he explains, "my cheeldren, already they work een thee salt mines!"
Ali recovers quickly.
"With thee carpet, I'll also geeve you these." He pulls out two very fine place mats printed with intricate designs. "Each of your cheeldren must have a remembrance of thees moment."
"I respectfully hand back one of the place mats and explain, sadly, we'd only need one because we'll have to sell one of the children to buy the rug.
Finally, we come to a deal when the price is lowered again and Ali convinces us we've just scored the bargain of the century, entirely due to our canny bargaining skills. Now we just have to find another niche in the already-crowded backpack so we can carry the thing.
As we are leaving, he insists that Carolyn choose a pair of earrings from the hundreds hanging from the wall. He says she has good taste, this is a gift that he wants her to have.
Abdullah meets us back outside and explains, "He is Berber. I am Arab. Look at our skin. He is dark; I am light."
The Berber is a golden reddish nut-brown that looks like the iron-rich sands of the Sahara. Abdullah is darker than me, but lighter than the Berber.
"We all live together here," he continues, "Arab, Berber, Christian and Jew. We all live in peace." One wonders how much history Abdullah has read.
Yet, one hopes Morocco and the rest of us are beginning to become more tolerant after learning from the tragedies of the past. All considered, Abdullah was knowledgable and entertaining, and his introduction to the Kasbah and medina was a good investment of a few dirhams.
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For dinner on our first night, we head to Restaurant Hammadi. The Lonely Planet description sounds interesting, even as the comments popping up on Carolyn's iPad indicate it's kind of a tourist place. (Tourists? Who, us?) But maybe that's what we need on our first night. Plus, it's likely to have a bar!
The streets of the medina are absolutely packed with people doing their usual evening thing of crowding through narrow streets and seeing what, if anything, is new. The tea houses (teterias) are packed with men only, sitting in chairs facing the street. But the crowding takes a bit of getting used to. I can't really imagine most of the people we know feeling comfortable wandering the area at night. We question just how comfortable we are, but maybe comfortable isn't really the word.
Soon, we find the Hammadi. It's just outside the medina, past several teterias, and up a flight of stairs. It's decorated like the Arabian Nights with blue-striped divans and red carpets on the walls. We're seated by an open window and we lounge around on overstuffed cushions feeling like pashas as our waiter brings olives (of course) and various other curious things to enjoy.
We settle in to watch what's happening in the street below and to order a bottle of decent Moroccan Cabernet Rouge. We ask the waiter where it's from and he answers "Morocco," with a puzzled look. We try to find out more about exactly where in the country they have a wine industry. He ends up reading the bottle to little avail – pointing to where it says "Product of Morocco" on the side. It's clear he's never heard such an odd question before. After the waiter leaves, we figure out that this Cuvée de President is from an area 40 km north of Casablanca. And it tastes good enough for us.
Down in the street, commerce continues late into the evening. At one point, a round of singing erupts as the men in the teterias find common voice. We don't know what it's about, but none of the waiters seem surprised.
Dinner arrives, and so does a traditional band that will be playing various Moroccan tunes for the evening. We don't care if it is 'touristy,' they're very good, and so's the food which, thankfully, has lots of veggies. After Tangier, we plan to travel the less-beaten path. We'll have plenty of time to get 'authentic' later in the trip.
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Early one afternoon I'm reading a book on the upper terrace and watching kids playing street soccer in the small dilapidated square below. It's a quiet overcast day in May and a cloud cover makes the temperature very pleasant. I look out toward the harbor and watch fishing boats depart for the day, or return with the catch. There is laundry hanging on most of the roofs below, and a sudden downpour gives everyone's laundry a second rinse. Nobody scrambles to bring in the clothing. The tapping of various craftsmen echos through the canyons below, as they make products to sell in the souks of the medina. The relative quiet is interrupted by the call to prayer.
It's 1:30 in the afternoon as loudspeakers crackle to life in minarets all over the medina, and the ancient call of the muezzins drifts over the city. Six times each day, they sing the summons to prayer and the faithful stream to the mosques, leaving their babouches at the doorway. To me, an outsider, it's a charming sound that reminds me of passages in the Rubaiyat:
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Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after some TO-MORROW stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries,"
Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"
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But the muezzins may be only an annoyance to someone who grew up here and might consider it less 'exotic.' Sometimes, calls from the several nearby mosques mingle into a grand cacophony, and it takes on a kind of battle-of-the-mullahs quality. But it reminds me several times each day that this is the most exotic place I've been so far.
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An interesting mix of people pass through hostels. We meet a mother and daughter from the US and now returning to Tangier, the city where the mother was born. She hasn't seen it in 30 years, and yes, it's very different, but it's still much the same. They tell us of an excellent fish restaurant called Saveur de Poissin. It's up a long alley filled with stairs, and we make a point to visit it that evening.
But later, as we pass through the Petite Socco, (a small square in the medina) the restaurants are filled with men fixated on a TV broadcast. I speculate that maybe it's some kind of Koranic thing they're watching, since it's all men and they are staring so intently at it. But when we glimpse one of the TVs we realize it's an entirely different form of religious experience. It's an important soccer game between Barcelona and Manchester United for All The Marbles. This one is for the European Championship. We grab a table at the Café Centrale where we only get a glimpse of the TV at the next restaurant over, and decide to enjoy dinner right there, snatching a glance at the tube between bites of a delicious tajine (platter) de pollo with veggies.
This is definitely a 'Barca crowd.' Barcelona is ahead 2 to 1, and the entire square erupts in cheers every time the Barca goalie blocks another Manchester shot. Then Barcelona scores again and the passion is barely containable. There are lots of Barcelona t-shirts in the crowd, most of them with Lionel Messi's name on the back. The place goes crazy as the game ends and the entire medina echoes with the roar of cheers. Nobody leaves his seat during the Post Game, as the Championship trophy is presented and the stars are interviewed. Nobody wants to miss any of the passion. Then it's over, and crowds stream out the doorways to disappear into the warrens of the medina, still discussing that one great save or score. A small dog trots past us wearing a custom-fitted Barcelona shirt. There are just some things that are important in life.
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We seldom see dogs in Tangier, or the rest of Morocco. Instead there are cats, quite a few of them, staring hungrily ahead, not bothering to ask for a handout. But drop half a sandwich on the ground and they'll eat it. Bread and all. Because of all the cats, there are probably no disease-carrying rats or mice in the hidden corners of the medina.
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The following evening, we go in search of Saveur de Poissin and finally locate a dilapidated sign. It points down an alley that's lined with vendors, like many of the streets in and around the medina. Inside the restaurant, there's no menu; there's just the 'meal of the day.' It's whatever delicious thing the cook conjures up for the evening. They bring us course after course of too much good food to consume until we're both full. Then they bring the main course, a sizable fish for each of us. This is followed with dessert. The cost? We remember that it was a bit costly by Moroccan standards, but it wasn't a lot.
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There's always a certain amount of time spent planning our next 'escape route,' how we'll get to the next place on our loose schedule; it's just another part of the adventure. We decide to skip Marrakesh and Fez because we read about all the hustlers trying to get you into their cousin's carpet shop, and we've already had that essential Moroccan experience.
We decide to go to Meknés because it sounds less 'touristy,' and because there's an old Roman ruin nearby that sounds interesting. We head to the train station to find out when the trains leave for Meknés, how much the tickets are, all that stuff. We plan to catch the #13 city bus from the port entrance to the station, and find the CTM cross-country bus station, but no sign of local buses. I asked a gentleman outside the office about it and he stepped inside to ask at the counter. There were no more buses from the port entrance, he said, but why didn't we just take a taxi? We explained that we like to take local buses whenever possible so we get a better view of everyday life in the city. He said "Well, why don't you just come with me then? I'm driving right by there." We said that wasn't necessary, that we'd be fine. He had come to pick up his young daughters from the bus, and he offered again. We looked at each other and accepted.
It was a short ride down Avenue Mohammad VI, as Carolyn and the two young girls sat in the back. They studied us in silence, with their wide and beautiful brown eyes, since they only spoke Arabic. We thanked him again at the entry to the train station. It was a very kind offer.
After getting our tickets, we enjoyed a leisurely walk along the broad malecón back to the medina. It was a Sunday afternoon and the beach was filled with people. The wide parkway that parallels the beach was also filled with families out enjoying the day. Dads were kicking soccer balls with their sons, or nuzzling their babies. Moms were at the playground equipment watching out for their children. It could have been a beach town in the US, or anywhere else in the world.
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MEKNES
The following morning, after another delicious breakfast, we don our backpacks and hike about 2 or 3 miles back to the Tangier train station. It's a fine morning – slightly overcast and cool – and the walk back along the malecón feels like a good thing for us. Soon we're on a very clean, modern, and quiet train heading for Meknés. It will be about a four-hour trip. We pass through fertile rural countryside where mules and donkeys are plentiful. Small towns pass by the window. We pass a town with a viable salt industry; hills of salt stand beside numerous salt pans. It's an almost-biblical panorama.
The station at Meknés is far from the medina, where Carolyn has found us another nice riad to spend four days exploring one of the important "Imperial Cities" of Morocco. And there's much to explore in and around Meknés, the city built by Moulay Ismail, the ruthless leader who unified Morocco in the 17th century. We hop into a turquoise Peugeot "Petite Taxi" and head for the medina.
Like our lodging in Tangier, the Riad Zahraa is another welcome surprise. We step through the front door and into another colorful space of tile-covered walls and quiet rooms, although the mix of tile design is less riotous than in Tangier. The colors tend toward a tasteful terra-cotta-based palate, and our hosts are very gracious. Although we find few people in Meknés who speak English or Spanish well, we start to adjust to our surroundings. 
As we had hoped, there are fewer people trying to get us into their carpet shops, and they seem more content to just let us look without being forceful. I did hear one salesman mention "flying carpets" as I walked by, and I laughed over my shoulder. But he got my attention. Just think how much we could save on airfare….
The medina in Meknés is undergoing major renovation. They're doing a very good job of replastering the old walls, and they're building a roof system of intricate traditional design to shade the souks during the summer. It's going to be worth returning someday to see how beautiful it will be.
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VOLUBILIS
About half an hour from Meknés are the ruins of the Roman city of Volubilis (Try saying that a few times when you've had an extra drink or two!). Our hosts arrange for a driver named Mohammed to take us there in a "grand taxi." These Mercedes 240-D taxis are ubiquitous in Morocco and are used mostly for travel outside the cities. Each city seems to have it's own taxi color scheme. In Meknés, they're grey with a black roof. We step into the cab and notice there are no window cranks on the doors. That will be the case in every cab we take throughout Morocco. But it's a warm day, and Mohammed hands me the one window crank he keeps on the front seat so I can lower the window just a bit. After a half hour ride through rolling and fertile countryside, we're at Volubilis.
After the Romans left, around 300AD, Volubilis still remained occupied for hundreds of years until it was looted by Moulay Ismail for the marble to build his palace in Meknés. Most of the rest was destroyed by the powerful Lisbon earthquake of 1755. What's left today stands on an outcropping overlooking the fertile fields below. There are a couple of very large residences measuring 1700 to 1800 sq. meters (around 17,000 sq. feet) where the beautiful mosaic floors are still intact. Today they are known by their most outstanding features (the Hercules mosaic, the Diana mosaic, etc.), but the original builders and important owners have been long forgotten. The silent ruins recall a fragment of the poem, "Ozymandias" by Shelley:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Volubilis is now a haunted place where ancient ghosts lie restless beneath their impressive works. And nobody remembers who they were. A few columns remain standing, and storks build their nests on them each year. The network of Roman baths and plumbing, an enduring legacy, also remain visible.
Our guide, Mustafa, wants me to move through the ruins a bit faster, but I linger long to take pictures and experience the place. He says I take pictures like the Japanese. I think, "Good for them." Mustafa points out a phallus, a fertility symbol, carved onto a grain-grinding stone.
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MOULAY IDRISS
On another nearby hill stands the holy city of Moulay Idriss, named for the man who brought Islam to Morocco in the 8th century. It's the 5th holiest city in Islam and until recently, non-Muslims were not allowed to spend the night in the city. We climb the winding streets, but as non-Muslims, we're denied entry into the mosque. We stashed the guide book, but something about our appearance seems to give us away.
A very talkative guide named Shaquille latches on and directs us through the maze of winding alleyways. After a long climb to an adjacent hill, we look down onto the mosque and the city, with Volubilis in the distance. Shiny green tiles delineate the area of the mosque. Shaquille says the green is a holy color that signifies our essential connection to the natural world. We had seen many green tiles in other places without understanding their meaning. He tells us the call to prayer is essential to all devout muslims, but the late-night call is only for the most devout. It's kind of an 'extra credit' thing, we guess.
On our way back to Meknés, we mention to Mohammed how talkative Shaquille was, and he laughs and agrees, as he shakes his head. We then ask him about the fact that some women wear the headscarf and others don't. "Some people go to the bars," he laughs again, "and some don't. Morocco is a free country."
As we return to Meknés we recall that so far we haven't seen many bars, except for the nightclubs along the beach in Tangier. Moroccan dinners are served with tea, water, juice, or a soft drink. We really haven't missed not having wine or hard liquor much. The local diet, heavy on roasted meats and vegetables, and light on booze, seems very healthy.
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Back in our riad in Meknés, we hear the call to prayer as it is broadcast over the city from multiple minarets. After a while we tend not to hear these calls over the bustle of the day. But as for the one at 4:00 a.m. that echoes over the quiet city, you may doze through it if you're staying at a riad that's semi-well insulated by heavy masonry walls. But if you happen to awake while it's underway, you might have to wait about 15 minutes to get back to sleep. Fortunately, the guy near us had a decent voice, so the early morning serenade wasn't too painful. But some of the other guys sounded like the wailing of tortured souls lost in Dante's Inferno.
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There are numerous large and impressive masonry 'Babs' (gates) leading into the medina. One of the distinctive features in every Bab is the large number of fist-sized holes carved into the stucco in a random pattern. These are occupied by the thousands of swallows who fill the skies all day with their song, and clean the skies of flies, mosquitos and other airborne vermin.
One day, we find ourselves at the Bab Berrima. According to our tiny map, we're not all that far from where we're staying, across from the historic Bab Mansour and through the Bab Aissa, at the Riad Zahraa. So we decide we'll wander back in that direction, through the medina, and explore some new places along the way.
We walk through the Bab, past the homes and shops of the Old Mellah (the former Jewish section), into the vegetable-seller area. The piles of ripe veggies make Carolyn wish she'd rented a place with a small kitchen. Then it's onward into the meat-vendor area, with rows of dead goats and chickens hanging from the rafters. Next, we're into the woodworkers' section, where intricately painted headboards are leaned against the walls and filigreed tables tempt us to buy, although there's no way we could backpack it out of here. Then we're in the upholstery area where mounds of loose felt and stacks of foam cushioning stand beside rolls of heavy brocade fabric. We figure this must be where aspiring Sultanas have their overstuffed couches made. I take pictures, many of them, but something – I don't know what – tells me not to. I still regret not recording those workshop scenes.
Finally we come to another Bab. We ask around in our halting French and find it's the Bab Berdaine The Bab Berdaine? Where the hell are we?
According the map, we're now at the far end of the medina – about twice as far from the Riad than when we started. There are so many Babs here that I've got the song "Bab, bab, bab, Bab-Barbara Anne" echoing through my head. (A 1961 hit by The Regents, it was #1 in Norway!)
But it's a hot afternoon, and we're getting tired. It's time to throw in the towel and catch a petite taxi back to the Bab Mansour, where we can easily find our way to the Riad. As we stand just outside the huge old masonry gate, a three-wheeled moto/taxi pulls up and the driver motions us to the back. It looks pretty rickety, but we don't have far to go, so we climb in over the tailgate. There's another guy sprawled in there already, and he and the driver have a heated discussion. Then the driver wheels us around and speeds away from the medina, down to the dry river crossing and on toward the Ville Nouvelle, which sits on the opposite hill. We figure out that the other guy had already paid him for a ride way over to the Ville Nouvelle, but he didn't want to miss out on our fare, too. So now we're on a crazy ride in an unsafe vehicle being passed by large trucks and cars. If any of them hits this contraption, they'll have a smudge on the bumper, but we're history.
The other guy jumps out at his stop in the Ville Nouvelle, and we're off again to the medina, in the same heavy traffic. When we get to our stop, the driver wants 30 dirhams for the ride, plus that unwanted tour of the city. That's twice what a petite taxi would have cost us, so I refuse. I offer him 20 dirhams instead, which he readily accepts with a smile. Due to my canny bargaining skills, I probably got him down to only 10 dirhams more than he was actually expecting, anyway. I remind myself once again that these guys perfected the bargaining game centuries ago. The best I can ever do is not get nicked too badly.
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Despite the fact that we've seen a few tour groups in the medina, Meknés, overall, has fulfilled our hopes to experience a bit of Morocco that's not swarmed by tourist crowds. But the time has come for us to move on, to return northward, to experience a much smaller city named Chefchaouen.
