Traveling From England to
Morocco
Once in South Hampton, England
we took a breath before booking it south in the hopes of beating Morocco’s
summer heat. For awhile, we did, and then we didn’t. But more on that later.
The Queen Mary II had done its job and gotten us to Great Britain
in fine style the morning of May 22. Two days later we were fighting the
throngs in that magnificent brick and glass rail station, St. Pancras, and soon
aboard (after much Brexit mayhem in customs) the first of four high speed
trains. The Chunnel took us to Paris, then, after an hour of mangled
conversations with SCNF (the French Railway company), two tickets to Perpignan,
France before turning southwest to Madrid and finally making it to the little
town of Algeciras at the bottom end of Spain; 1500 long miles through the
southwestern edges of Europe in case anyone was counting.
After all of that, we were now a
mere half hour bus ride to Tarifa, an ancient town that has been Europe’s
gateway to Africa for centuries. From there we would board a ferry to Tangier
and land, at last, on the solid ground of the Dark Continent.
I had been
looking forward to this day for years and the idea of finally making it across
the Straits of Gibraltar (the Pillars of Hercules to the ancients) had me giddy
with excitement. The modern Kingdom of Morocco was created in August 1956, but
its roots go far deeper. To me it was one of those fabled countries, a place of
mystery and enchantment where men in their djeelabas and and women in their
hijabs walked the clamoring markets; where descendants of Neanderthals had
migrated from Africa into Europe and Hannibal had massed his armies for an
assault on the Roman Empire; where the Moors and Celts, Phoenicians, Portuguese
and Spanish had changed and exchanged the fortunes of millions again and again
whether it was the caliphates of Islam pouring into Andalusian Spain or Franco
raising his fascist army before cutting that nation in two and auguring the
slaughter of World War II. Indeed Spain and Morocco were in many ways kindred,
if uneasy, cousins despite living on separate continents and being separated by
two religions long at one another’s throats. To me that only made Morocco’s
imminent arrival more intriguing. We were ready … except now there was a
problem.
Heading south from London through the vineyards and
farmlands of France and Spain.
It was at breakfast the morning
we were to depart Algeciras that we got word that cash, and cash only, must be
used to buy the local bus ticket to Tarifa. I was carrying a single Euro in my
pocket. Now I had a half an hour to solve the problem and began madly combing
the town in search of an ATM, or some bank or a Bureau of Exchange.
Nothing. I returned to the hotel lobby, dejected and Euro-less, when a
young lady we had spoken to earlier at the front desk said she had arranged
special permission at the bus station (right next door) allowing us to pay for
our tickets with a credit card. I wanted to kiss the woman (inappropriate) so
instead I spat out a, “Muchas gracias” way too loudly and way too many times
before (much to her relief, I’m sure) we heaved up our bags and walked to the
bus station next door. In two minutes we had the tickets in hand.
Tarifa
The ride to Tarifa swung us at a
leisurely pace through the suburbs of Algeciras and over a mountain pass, down
twisting roads and then to a ridge where I beheld the Straits of Gibraltar, and
beyond, the vast continent of Africa – home to humanity.
As the bus swung onto a ridge above Tarifa, I could make out the Straits
of Gibraltar and the coast of the African continent.
The grandness of this vision disappeared when our bus pulled into a
little parking lot and we were all unceremoniously instructed to depart. It
turned out that we were not to be dropped at the ferry station, but simply
deposited somewhere in the middle of the town to be hopelessly lost the moment
we stepped off the bus. I blundered through some bad Spanish and asked the
driver, “Donde esta ferry??”
More than once this bus driver had surely heard some clueless tourist ask
this question, and his response was to vaguely wave his hands in the general
direction of the Mediterranean, then, suddenly say in perfect English, “You may
get a taxi."
Well yeah, I thought, if I knew where to find one and I spoke fluent
Spanish.
We stood in the Andalusian heat and looked around. A young woman,
Norwegian I think, tried to help us find a taxi. She pulled out her phone and
in her best, but not great, Spanish failed to get help. And then suddenly she
departed because her our own taxi showed up. (She was heading INTO Spain, not
out.) Cyn and I snatched at our phones and jabbed at Apple Maps. Maybe we could
walk. How far away could the ferry be? After much tapping and swiping, we
finally located the ferry office, and ourselves in relation to it. We were a
mile apart.
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We began walking into winds gusting 40 miles an hour. This did not help
our progress. Tarifa is a classic beach town with small shops festooned inside
and out with caps, towels, fast food and beach paraphernalia of every kind, all
of which would have been perfectly at home along Mission Beach in San Diego or
a Jersey Shore boardwalk. In the brilliant sun the buildings looked as bright
and colorful as Edward Hopper paintings. We dragged ourselves over
cobble-stoned backstreets and followed Apple Maps down a long hill to the
town’s ancient castle and then into the docks where with amazing speed we
filled out our paperwork, showed our tickets and made it through security to
await the ferry.
We boarded the ferry to Tangier. Across the street sat the Castle of
Tarifa, built in 960 by Abd-ar-Rahman III, Caliph of Córdoba, a sign that for
500 years the Moors once ruled much of Spain.
At last, I thought, we’ll make it. The plan was to spend the next three
weeks there, where, I hoped, we’d get a proper dose of the place. Our
explorations of North America — Newfoundland, the American West, El Chepe, the Baja 1000, Vancouver and
Victoria had all been wonderful, but I was looking forward to getting outside
our element, exploring a culture and world that wasn’t as rooted in the Western
European/North American zeitgeist we had been experiencing the previous six
months.
Suddenly for reasons I still can’t precisely explain, I became concerned
about passing through Moroccan security. Irrational fears that our bags would
be upended and everything in them thoroughly scoured arose. There was no reason
for this except that anytime I pass from one country to another my guts get to
rumbling. We had nothing to fear except the world’s bureaucrats, often
determined to prove their importance by fussing with some senseless detail or
other designed to ruin your day. I knew they could do plenty of damage in any
language when they wanted to. But once we boarded and the ship pulled into the
Straits, I reminded myself to focus on the sleek, clean ferry and enjoy an hour
of quiet as we churned toward the minarets and ancient walls of Tangier.
Arriving in the fabled city of Tangier, founded as a Phoenician trading
post 3000 years ago.
All of my concerns were meritless. We passed through customs with ‘nary a
raised eyebrow. All of the work with passports was taken care of on the ship -
efficiently handled by three Moroccan customs agents who sat in their neat
uniforms behind plexiglass counters. On debarkation we strolled into and out of
the ferry building with nothing more than a desultory wave from security, and
passed into the broad parking lot to find the driver we had arranged (with Frontiers Travel in Pittsburgh), holding a sign with the name WALTER on it.
You may call me wimp for arranging a driver in Morocco, but there were
good reasons for it. Not only was my high school French abysmal (French is one
of Morocco’s official languages), but my Arabic, together with its Semitic
alphabet, which I knew would be plastered on every road sign throughout the
country, was non-existent. Without someone who spoke some English, we’d be as
lost as orphans. So I was grateful for Jabriel, our driver, as he stood in the
stiff breeze like a sentry. I immediately sensed we were in good hands. As we
walked toward him, as if on cue, I heard the adhān (Muslim call to prayer) echo across the docks from a nearby mosque. The
words rung out in Arabic …
Allah is Great! I bear witness that there is
no diety worthy of worship but Allah. I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger
of Allah. Hasten to prayer. Hasten to success. Prayer is better than sleep.
Allah is the greatest. There is no diety worthy of worship but Allah.”
Yes, we had arrived in Morocco.
Jabriel, a delightful but reserved man, long of frame and silver-haired,
preferred speaking French or Spanish or Arabic, but was passable enough in
English to chat a bit and get us to our hotel, the El Minzah. The El Minzah
is one of Tangier’s most famous accommodations, home at various times to the
likes of Omar Sharif, Aristotle Onassis, Yves Saint Laurent, Rita Hayworth,
Richard Harris, Oscar Wilde, Roger Moore, Allen Ginsberg, Paul Bowles, Ralph
Fiennes, Henri Matisse and Andre Guide. Maybe the El Minzah’s best days were
behind it now, but it was hardly a dump. I loved it’s style. It reminded me a
bit of an aging movie star. Still handsome and graceful with great bones. A
concierge paraded us around the grounds in stately fashion, and I walked with
my head on a swivel taking in the pool outside with its great sweeping palms
and olive trees below a carpet of emerald green grass, the terrace where you
could have fruit and mint tea or a handcrafted cocktail brought to you by
hushed waiters dressed in short dark suits, and beyond that a restaurant with
broad French doors that opened to a spectacular view of the Straits that
ancient humans had somehow navigated 400,000 years earlier.
Views of the El Minzah Hotel, Tangier - The entrance, our bellman, the
room and gardens
I felt as though we had stepped back into the 1930s and wondered if
Humphrey Bogart or Lauren Bacall might walk by. Soon our bellman, decked out in
his kandresse and fez was leading us along its corridors where we quickly
settled into our generous room, and prepared to prowl the streets to see what
trouble we might get into.
The trouble we found was the Diblu Restaurant near Tangier’s
docks. We had walked the city’s steep steps past small eateries and shops
wreathed with colorful scarves, sunglasses, djellabas, takchitas, qandrissi
trousers, pipes, slippers, shirts, you name it. Moroccans are an entrepreneurial
lot and I quickly learned stores and markets are everywhere. The Diblu was the
right place for a couple of famished Americans. The restaurant was a local
hangout, and our proprietor/waiter greeted us with a gleaming smile, coaxing us
in excellent English to relax and sit down. He was a tidy, small young man with
piercing black eyes. He moved so quickly I thought there might be cloned
versions of him as he laid down a menu, bottled water and mint tea. Soon he
deposited a huge, uncooked white fish on a broad platter in front of us.
"Very fresh! You eat this,” he said, his teeth sparkling against the black
sandpaper of his beard, “and I promise you'll be back tomorrow."
We gave it a thumbs up and the meal was absolutely delicious. Spectacular
food is common in Morocco. We would learn that soon enough. Meanwhile, as we
wolfed down the meal, our host taught us a couple of Arabic phrases which we
slipped into our back pockets: Inshallah - a greeting or way of saying be well;
literally “God is good or may God be with you.” Salaam - “hello.” And Shukrann
with a touch of an “ah” at the end for “thank you.” They would, I hoped, come
in handy for our upcoming explorations of Tangier the next day.
Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/the-mysteries-of-morocco
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