I was so excited for today. And even the mild hangover that lingered through the morning couldn’t contain my excitement. I was finally going to Africa. This is the one continent that I have almost been to so many times but never set foot on. On the ship, we had patrolled the waters off the coast of Somalia for months, just staring at the shoreline. And I had taken the ship through the Suez Canal in Egypt between the Red and Mediterranean Seas on three occasions, getting excellent views of the vast desert on either side of the narrow canal, but never getting off and setting foot ashore. And my ship was supposed to pull into the Seychelles, African islands just north of Madagascar, but that plan somehow fell through. And now I could see the coastline of Africa looming in the distance, just beyond the shores of Tarifa in Spain. And I had ferry tickets in hand. I was really going, if only briefly, finally.
I slept in to about 10:30, just in time to roll over to the kitchen and snag some free breakfast before they packed it up. I needed to eat something, I was starving. I had an hour afterwards to shower and pack up and check out. I did and then ran some errands around town before heading down to the ferry. I got some cash from the ATM and bought some food from the little grocery store for the ride. And then I retrieved my bags from the hostel and made my way to the ferry landing just down the road. This terminal and its port are small for such a drastic international, intercontinental crossing. I walked into the terminal, flashed my passport, and was stamped out of the European Union, hanging in international limbo. I boarded the ferry and took a seat. The ferry was packed with people. I noticed off to the starboard side of the passenger seating area a line was forming that quickly became long enough to wrap around the entire length of the ship, a fast ferry so not too big, and around the stern as well. I couldn’t imagine why people were waiting in line. But it didn’t take me long to figure out. Once we got moving, people who were standing in the line had to hold on to each other and the things around them to keep from being thrown to the side. The seas were kind of rough, not surprisingly, and since the ferry was a fast one, we jostled pretty violently all over the waves. One by one, people inched their way forward to wait to get their passports stamped into Morocco. The Moroccan government decided it would be more efficient to get this taken care of on board the ship, as it was moving, old people flying around and spilling drinks. I think the incentive to wait in this line was to get this process taken care of before pulling in to maximize their time in the city and not have to wait at customs when debarking. Fair enough. But I didn’t much care and couldn’t be bothered to stand in line with everyone else. I waited until right before we pulled in to hop in the now much shorter line and I had to wait only a few minutes after pulling in to get myself stamped and cleared to enter the country. So I did and then debarked. I was in Africa.
My first task, and the task I have in every new place, was to locate the hostel and drop my bags. Lugging around big bags always makes you a target. People know you’re a backpacker when you have 50 pounds of crap strapped to your back, wandering around a place, looking for something recognizable. In Europe, locals just look at you like you’re any other tourist (but I don’t like that too much either), but in Morocco, it’s as if there is a big sign on your back that says, “I’m a tourist, I need a place to stay, take my money!” As soon as I got off the boat and onto the pier I was bombarded with taxi offers, and a simple “no, thanks!” is never sufficient. They will ask you three or four times and in different ways to try to persuade you to take the taxi. And when I finally got past the hoards of taxi drivers, I was bombarded with locals asking me if I needed a place to stay, or if I needed directions, or any number of a million other questions that always end in them trying to get money from you. It’s really, really annoying. Politeness will not get rid them. And no one (I should say, almost no one) is generally concerned about your well being. Directions lead to tips, places to stay are always overpriced, taxis are overpriced, guides are always a ripoff, for tourists that is. I’ve experienced this before. It is a common tactic I’ve found throughout the Middle East and all around India. Luckily I had some experience with this and I was expecting it. I was able to brush past most of the unwanted attention. But my problem was I couldn’t figure out where the hostel was and every time I took out a map or looked at a street sign, three or four people would distract me. I had a booking with a hostel that was in the heart of the medina, the old town, in Tangier. The medina is a mishmash of narrow alleys and buildings on top of buildings and secret passages, its like getting lost in Aladdin’s bazaar. The hostel was somewhere in this place and it is impossible to orient yourself in the medina because every twist and turn and alley and underpass and overpass and magic carpet looks the same. You can barely see the sky in between the buildings rising inwardly above you. Don’t get me wrong, the medina is really, really cool. You really do feel like you could jump along rooftops and steal loaves of bread with your pet monkey, Abu. But it’s not so much fun with a 50 pound bag strapped to your back.
I was approached by a thin man, probably in his mid-40’s, missing half of his teeth, who flashed me a small card that had the name of the hostel I was searching for, the only hostel in the city as it turns out. Frustrated and overwhelmingly disoriented, I said, “yeah, where is this place?” He said, “no problem, I will take you there.” He introduced himself as Abdul and as he walked me towards the hostel, he started pointing out things and teaching me Arabic words as we passed. I could see where this was headed, but I really did need to find the hostel. Finally we did and I was buzzed in. Abdul, I guessed, was going to wait for me outside the door. I walked and checked in at the front desk. This is such a cool place for a hostel. The hostel is located in one of the old, traditional Arabic buildings of the medina. The building is directly interconnected with the others in the medina, nothing but a small wooden door built into an Arabic shaped (I don’t know how to describe this shape, straight sides and a mushroom top that is pointed at the very top) cut through the side of a wall. Otherwise, all buildings and walls blend together. The hostel had six, very small floors, none of which had windows, naturally (there are no windows in buildings like these). The first floor had the reception desk and a couple of dorm rooms (including mine) and the second, third, and fourth floors also had rooms. Each floor was connected by a narrow stairwell that led up the left side of the entrance way and each floor circled around the center of the floor which was open through from the top to the bottom. A railing separated the floor from the open center. And each floor wound in a circular pattern all the way to the top. A long, Arabic style chandelier hung from the very top and reached all the way down to right above the reception desk. The chandelier was made of tin sheets, I think, blackened, and in it were cut hundreds of small star and moon patterns through which the light would shine. The fifth floor had the kitchen on one end and the other end opened up into a bar and terrace that looked out towards the sea and towards Spain. But the best floor was the top floor, the roof top, an open air terrace that sit high above the busy medina below, with undisturbed views of the strait and of Spain, far from the chaos of the medina and bazaar, way below. The hostel was beautifully and tastefully decorated in an Arabic style, as is the Moroccan custom. This is such a cool place. I settled into my room, a small cave within the building, dark, dimly lit (but tastefully - and probably functionally). I grabbed a map from reception so that I’d be better prepared when I had to find the hostel again upon returning later on, and I set out.
It was early in the afternoon so I had plenty of time to explore. And I was right, Abdul was outside, waiting for me. I groaned quietly to myself for the agony that I would have to endure over the next 10 minutes or so as I had to figure out a way to ditch this guy. He immediately came up to me and offered to give me a tour of the medina. I sort of felt him out, asking what he meant by tour and if it was free. He said, “Of course it’s free! I’m a friend. I take you through the medina, you take some pictures, two or three hours, no problem.” I told him I wasn’t interested in a tour, that I wanted to just walk around on my own, but he just kept repeating that I could trust him, that everyone else around couldn’t be trusted, that it was free, no problem. I had seen this exact same song and dance in Nepal. No matter how many times I told him I wasn’t going to pay him any money for showing me around, he did anyway, and I let him follow me and tell me things, in Nepal. But of course he demanded money in the end. I of course didn’t and the next 10 minutes were a very unpleasant period of time as I tried to ditch the irritated “guide”. Abdul kept following me, and it was especially hard to ditch him because I didn’t know where I was going and he knew that fact quite well. I kept telling him I wasn’t interested and he kept following me, telling me stuff. We walked to a nearby vista, with viewpoints of the sea. I asked him very firmly this time to leave me be. He got frustrated and started to walk away. Suddenly another guy approached and started to sweet talk to me in French (most of the people in Morocco, if they speak a foreign language, speak French) and Abdul conveniently swung in to confront the guy and say in English, “no! this guy is with me.” The other guy kind of backed off with a kind of gesture of respect, like, “oh, ok, Abdul, sorry about that. I didn’t know.” And then Abdul turned to me and said, “See, you can’t trust anybody around this area.” If this sounds like a show to anybody reading this right now than you would be right. It was a clever tactic but I’ve seen it before. Every one of these guys knows each other, the medina is small, and they all work together to try and lure the tourists in. But not this tourist! Eventually I started getting really angry and told him to buzz off and all that and then he changed tactics, he demanded money in order to leave me alone. That’s sort of the last trick these guys will pull when all else fails. But I was having none of it and then he got angry and stormed away.
I wasn’t affected in the least. Unlike Rome when I felt my trust had been betrayed by the happy hour woman at the bar, which put me in a very sour and down sort of mood, I expected this and was proud of myself for winning this round of the endless game. I was never harassed by anyone in the Medina again. It’s as if they all heard through the grapevine that I wasn’t buying any of it and none of them tried to bother me after that. It was a good feeling.
I had a map but navigating the medina was still nearly impossible so I allowed myself to just get lost. I wandered all around, deep in the bazaar, barely able to see the light of day through the cool, dank alleyways. Eventually a small pathway spat me out of the old district just north, inland, towards the beginning of the new city. There was a huge fountain circled by a roundabout for cars and a park and sitting areas. I took a seat in the sun, happy to be in the fresh air again. I wandered uphill back towards the sea, just north of the Medina, passing some beautiful buildings and neighborhoods. I walked along a metal working street, much like the one I visited in the early part of the trip in Kashgar, where metal workers were hammering away and slicing through tin sheets, making those chandeliers like the one that hung in the hostel. They also made for good lanterns and other decorative pieces. I walked through a park where local boys were playing soccer, actually everywhere there were local boys playing soccer, in the street, in the park, in the alleyways of the medina. I kept going higher and higher, hoping that it would lead me to a good view of the strait and of Spain beyond. I found one eventually, a small road that led to a rocky outlook and park where locals took blankets to sit and picnic, the wind blowing in from the sea. It was a beautiful day so the sea was bright blue and Spain was clearly visible. It was a great view. I climbed back down and kept on through the neighborhood in the direction of the medina.
Eventually I wandered into the medina again, but this time in the section known as the Casbah. This small section of the medina is famous as a place where many European artists came to take up residence. The place was a small artist’s haven and place of inspiration. To me, it looked like the rest of the Medina, but it was cool to walk around an area so famous. But I was tired of getting lost and of the crowds. I walked back towards the hostel and after three or four tries, wandering around in circles, I found it again and let myself in. I spent the rest of the evening on the terrace, sitting in peace, watching the sun slowly set on the horizon. There were a few others up on the terrace as well. One guy sat in silence by the edge with his feet propped up and binoculars in hand. He had a birdwatching guide book on his lap and he was searching the skies and the other rooftop terraces around us for exotic birds. There was also an American guy, a student from Ohio who just graduated from Brown, now teaching English in Madrid. And we met a few other Americans down in the kitchen. One of the hostel employees was cooking a dinner of Moroccan rice and vegetables and for a small fee, we could partake in the meal. So we did and it was excellent. The big group sat around the table until late in the night chatting about our adventures. I particularly enjoyed the stories of people traveling around Africa, a region of the world I know nothing about.
I only had one more full day in Tangier. I didn’t have any specific plans. Just to walk around a little and make more good use of the peaceful rooftop terrace. I think I could spend the rest of my life on that rooftop terrace. What a cool place.
I slept in to about 10:30, just in time to roll over to the kitchen and snag some free breakfast before they packed it up. I needed to eat something, I was starving. I had an hour afterwards to shower and pack up and check out. I did and then ran some errands around town before heading down to the ferry. I got some cash from the ATM and bought some food from the little grocery store for the ride. And then I retrieved my bags from the hostel and made my way to the ferry landing just down the road. This terminal and its port are small for such a drastic international, intercontinental crossing. I walked into the terminal, flashed my passport, and was stamped out of the European Union, hanging in international limbo. I boarded the ferry and took a seat. The ferry was packed with people. I noticed off to the starboard side of the passenger seating area a line was forming that quickly became long enough to wrap around the entire length of the ship, a fast ferry so not too big, and around the stern as well. I couldn’t imagine why people were waiting in line. But it didn’t take me long to figure out. Once we got moving, people who were standing in the line had to hold on to each other and the things around them to keep from being thrown to the side. The seas were kind of rough, not surprisingly, and since the ferry was a fast one, we jostled pretty violently all over the waves. One by one, people inched their way forward to wait to get their passports stamped into Morocco. The Moroccan government decided it would be more efficient to get this taken care of on board the ship, as it was moving, old people flying around and spilling drinks. I think the incentive to wait in this line was to get this process taken care of before pulling in to maximize their time in the city and not have to wait at customs when debarking. Fair enough. But I didn’t much care and couldn’t be bothered to stand in line with everyone else. I waited until right before we pulled in to hop in the now much shorter line and I had to wait only a few minutes after pulling in to get myself stamped and cleared to enter the country. So I did and then debarked. I was in Africa.
My first task, and the task I have in every new place, was to locate the hostel and drop my bags. Lugging around big bags always makes you a target. People know you’re a backpacker when you have 50 pounds of crap strapped to your back, wandering around a place, looking for something recognizable. In Europe, locals just look at you like you’re any other tourist (but I don’t like that too much either), but in Morocco, it’s as if there is a big sign on your back that says, “I’m a tourist, I need a place to stay, take my money!” As soon as I got off the boat and onto the pier I was bombarded with taxi offers, and a simple “no, thanks!” is never sufficient. They will ask you three or four times and in different ways to try to persuade you to take the taxi. And when I finally got past the hoards of taxi drivers, I was bombarded with locals asking me if I needed a place to stay, or if I needed directions, or any number of a million other questions that always end in them trying to get money from you. It’s really, really annoying. Politeness will not get rid them. And no one (I should say, almost no one) is generally concerned about your well being. Directions lead to tips, places to stay are always overpriced, taxis are overpriced, guides are always a ripoff, for tourists that is. I’ve experienced this before. It is a common tactic I’ve found throughout the Middle East and all around India. Luckily I had some experience with this and I was expecting it. I was able to brush past most of the unwanted attention. But my problem was I couldn’t figure out where the hostel was and every time I took out a map or looked at a street sign, three or four people would distract me. I had a booking with a hostel that was in the heart of the medina, the old town, in Tangier. The medina is a mishmash of narrow alleys and buildings on top of buildings and secret passages, its like getting lost in Aladdin’s bazaar. The hostel was somewhere in this place and it is impossible to orient yourself in the medina because every twist and turn and alley and underpass and overpass and magic carpet looks the same. You can barely see the sky in between the buildings rising inwardly above you. Don’t get me wrong, the medina is really, really cool. You really do feel like you could jump along rooftops and steal loaves of bread with your pet monkey, Abu. But it’s not so much fun with a 50 pound bag strapped to your back.
I was approached by a thin man, probably in his mid-40’s, missing half of his teeth, who flashed me a small card that had the name of the hostel I was searching for, the only hostel in the city as it turns out. Frustrated and overwhelmingly disoriented, I said, “yeah, where is this place?” He said, “no problem, I will take you there.” He introduced himself as Abdul and as he walked me towards the hostel, he started pointing out things and teaching me Arabic words as we passed. I could see where this was headed, but I really did need to find the hostel. Finally we did and I was buzzed in. Abdul, I guessed, was going to wait for me outside the door. I walked and checked in at the front desk. This is such a cool place for a hostel. The hostel is located in one of the old, traditional Arabic buildings of the medina. The building is directly interconnected with the others in the medina, nothing but a small wooden door built into an Arabic shaped (I don’t know how to describe this shape, straight sides and a mushroom top that is pointed at the very top) cut through the side of a wall. Otherwise, all buildings and walls blend together. The hostel had six, very small floors, none of which had windows, naturally (there are no windows in buildings like these). The first floor had the reception desk and a couple of dorm rooms (including mine) and the second, third, and fourth floors also had rooms. Each floor was connected by a narrow stairwell that led up the left side of the entrance way and each floor circled around the center of the floor which was open through from the top to the bottom. A railing separated the floor from the open center. And each floor wound in a circular pattern all the way to the top. A long, Arabic style chandelier hung from the very top and reached all the way down to right above the reception desk. The chandelier was made of tin sheets, I think, blackened, and in it were cut hundreds of small star and moon patterns through which the light would shine. The fifth floor had the kitchen on one end and the other end opened up into a bar and terrace that looked out towards the sea and towards Spain. But the best floor was the top floor, the roof top, an open air terrace that sit high above the busy medina below, with undisturbed views of the strait and of Spain, far from the chaos of the medina and bazaar, way below. The hostel was beautifully and tastefully decorated in an Arabic style, as is the Moroccan custom. This is such a cool place. I settled into my room, a small cave within the building, dark, dimly lit (but tastefully - and probably functionally). I grabbed a map from reception so that I’d be better prepared when I had to find the hostel again upon returning later on, and I set out.
It was early in the afternoon so I had plenty of time to explore. And I was right, Abdul was outside, waiting for me. I groaned quietly to myself for the agony that I would have to endure over the next 10 minutes or so as I had to figure out a way to ditch this guy. He immediately came up to me and offered to give me a tour of the medina. I sort of felt him out, asking what he meant by tour and if it was free. He said, “Of course it’s free! I’m a friend. I take you through the medina, you take some pictures, two or three hours, no problem.” I told him I wasn’t interested in a tour, that I wanted to just walk around on my own, but he just kept repeating that I could trust him, that everyone else around couldn’t be trusted, that it was free, no problem. I had seen this exact same song and dance in Nepal. No matter how many times I told him I wasn’t going to pay him any money for showing me around, he did anyway, and I let him follow me and tell me things, in Nepal. But of course he demanded money in the end. I of course didn’t and the next 10 minutes were a very unpleasant period of time as I tried to ditch the irritated “guide”. Abdul kept following me, and it was especially hard to ditch him because I didn’t know where I was going and he knew that fact quite well. I kept telling him I wasn’t interested and he kept following me, telling me stuff. We walked to a nearby vista, with viewpoints of the sea. I asked him very firmly this time to leave me be. He got frustrated and started to walk away. Suddenly another guy approached and started to sweet talk to me in French (most of the people in Morocco, if they speak a foreign language, speak French) and Abdul conveniently swung in to confront the guy and say in English, “no! this guy is with me.” The other guy kind of backed off with a kind of gesture of respect, like, “oh, ok, Abdul, sorry about that. I didn’t know.” And then Abdul turned to me and said, “See, you can’t trust anybody around this area.” If this sounds like a show to anybody reading this right now than you would be right. It was a clever tactic but I’ve seen it before. Every one of these guys knows each other, the medina is small, and they all work together to try and lure the tourists in. But not this tourist! Eventually I started getting really angry and told him to buzz off and all that and then he changed tactics, he demanded money in order to leave me alone. That’s sort of the last trick these guys will pull when all else fails. But I was having none of it and then he got angry and stormed away.
I wasn’t affected in the least. Unlike Rome when I felt my trust had been betrayed by the happy hour woman at the bar, which put me in a very sour and down sort of mood, I expected this and was proud of myself for winning this round of the endless game. I was never harassed by anyone in the Medina again. It’s as if they all heard through the grapevine that I wasn’t buying any of it and none of them tried to bother me after that. It was a good feeling.
I had a map but navigating the medina was still nearly impossible so I allowed myself to just get lost. I wandered all around, deep in the bazaar, barely able to see the light of day through the cool, dank alleyways. Eventually a small pathway spat me out of the old district just north, inland, towards the beginning of the new city. There was a huge fountain circled by a roundabout for cars and a park and sitting areas. I took a seat in the sun, happy to be in the fresh air again. I wandered uphill back towards the sea, just north of the Medina, passing some beautiful buildings and neighborhoods. I walked along a metal working street, much like the one I visited in the early part of the trip in Kashgar, where metal workers were hammering away and slicing through tin sheets, making those chandeliers like the one that hung in the hostel. They also made for good lanterns and other decorative pieces. I walked through a park where local boys were playing soccer, actually everywhere there were local boys playing soccer, in the street, in the park, in the alleyways of the medina. I kept going higher and higher, hoping that it would lead me to a good view of the strait and of Spain beyond. I found one eventually, a small road that led to a rocky outlook and park where locals took blankets to sit and picnic, the wind blowing in from the sea. It was a beautiful day so the sea was bright blue and Spain was clearly visible. It was a great view. I climbed back down and kept on through the neighborhood in the direction of the medina.
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| The view of the start of the new town from my seat by the fountain |
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| The fountain and roundabout, just north of the medina, my "safe spot" |
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| Kids playing soccer in a park, the medina in the background |
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| This park was a nice spot to sit and relax, a reprieve from the crowds of the bazaar |
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| A shot of the medina from the park |
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| A group of girls picnicking by the cliff edge, looking out towards Spain |
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| A Moroccan boy contemplating the world, looking out towards the sea |
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| A shot of the medina from outside, the Casbah section is on the near right |
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| A typical alley of the Casbah |
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