A Quest for a Beer in the Sun

Ceuta (1)

A Quest for a Beer in the Sun

29th May 2023

Sometimes the simple things in life can be the best. And sometimes those simple things that we’ve taken for granted in the past can take on whole new dimensions of importance.

Especially when away from home, away from your comfort zone.

Don’t get me wrong – I love my life here in Tangier. But nowhere is perfect. So here begins my next quest.

Ham and cheese croquet, bacon and egg, pork stewed in whisky... I deny that this was just one meal, just because they are all in the same photo... Well, maybe there was nothing else on the menu....? Did that lie work? 

There's beer! See. Not everything is pork... I don't crave just pork tapas...

Secret Naughty Pleasures

Being a Muslim country, pork is hard to come by and very expensive if I did.

I never used to eat it that often – it was always one of the more expensive meats. But if I wanted some – had a craving for a good pork chop with apple sauce and cauliflower with bechamel…

Or some pork spare ribs cooked to a soy and honey glaze…

Or the late morning brunch on a Sunday of eggs and bacon with bubble and squeak and baby mushrooms after a late night of more drinks than I maybe should have had…

Or a whole leg of ham roughly cut by hand into thick slices to go on a soft fresh bread roll with mustard and tomatoes…

Or one of my favourite Christmas plates of that roughly sliced ham, cherries, and wedges of the juicy sweet Kensington mangoes which I could buy by the box (and very happily eat by the box) for the two weeks leading up to Christmas in Australia…

– it was there to be bought. It was my choice whether to pay for it.

So missing it was a surprise.

Then there is the sight of bare flesh. Who’d have thought that would be such a pleasant thing, and something I’d miss. Even at the beach the women are covered over. And to be honest, a hijab is kind of similar to a sack in designer features.

But these things are not what I am looking for. My quest is threefold.

1.       A border run to renew my visa.

·2.     Some tapas. Or pasta. Or anything non-Moroccan. Because one thing there is no shortage of in Morocco is Moroccan food. 

3.      And a beer in the sun in a public place

To be sure, there is plenty of sun here – it’s Morocco. Beer is also available – Morocco for most of the year is one of the more relaxed Muslim countries. There are even a couple of places with inner courtyards and enclosed gardens where you can sit outside to drink.

But in a public place…?

Not a chance.

(In all of Tangier, one bar on the water front, Terminus Cafe, but not usually in the sun - I’ve no idea how they’ve managed permission for this!)

It’s no big deal to overstay a 90 day tourist visa. You just need to go to the wilaya (police HQ) a few days before you actually leave with a bunch of photocopies and fix it. The first time or two there isn’t even a fine. Between covid, border closures, and a home country which wouldn’t even let its own citizens back – and a little shortage of round-to-its – I’d actually been in Morocco for almost 2 years, and all I got was a “don’t do it again” with barely even a frown.

The whole city seems to run on smoking hash. You may not be aware that Morocco has some of the best hash in the world. The pretty green hillsides around Tetouan and Chefchaouen – well, lets just say they’re not covered in plants that are collected for the vegetable markets.

It’s easy to buy your supplies of Beldia hash at dozens of cafés, just $2 for a nice little piece which will keep you happy for a bit.

But whatever you do, do not be caught with a bottle of alcohol in your hand – not even an empty one.

When you buy it at one of the bottle shops, it will be wrapped up in newspaper and put into a black bag to hide it. Some taxi drivers won’t even let you in their car if they know you’ve got one on you, even hidden away in your bag. One charmer drove off on me with my foot half in the door when he heard the tiny chink of 2 bottles in my bag!

The Alcohol, wrapped up in newspaper, then carried in a black bag to hide it.

You have to be just as careful discarding them. Even empty they should not be visible or obvious as you walk your rubbish to your nearby bin corner.

Muslims are not allowed to sell alcohol or to own a bottle shop. Only the non-Muslim Berbers from the south are allowed to do that. But don’t for a moment suppose that this means that Moroccans don’t drink. Any bottle shop – the one attached to the big Carrefour supermarket for example – will be full not of foreigners, but of Moroccans.

In fact, Morocco even produces alcohol. There are several vineyards across the country which produce wine - especially around Meknes and Fes, and three brands of Moroccan beer produced here – Casablanca and Flag (Speciale) which I find similar in taste to Heineken, and Stork with its yellow and orange label, the one I choose.

Moroccans are allowed to buy alcohol and do.

Except during Ramadan.

So be mindful if you travel to Morocco – during Ramadan almost all food shops and restaurants are closed during the daylight hours. And most of the bottle shops and bars will be closed for the whole month. Fes, for example, an old capital city which prizes itself on being a cut above and more pure, will sometimes go completely dry during Ramadan – and every single outlet for alcohol including the big touristy hotels will be closed.

A thing unique to Morocco, especially the north, and a few left over parts of Spain around the Granada area - free tapas with your beer or wine. This is a favourite stop in Tangier - Le Coeur de Tanger. All the food is free - and here, keeps on coming til you're full, finishing with a huge fruit plate. It is nice to sit outside on the balcony, but notice how the trees and smoky railing make sure you are hidden from site. 

But in Casablanca, Rabat and Tangier it is likely you can find something. For example, Tangier usually has a couple of bottle shops which will stay open with restricted hours – such as the delicatessen Casa Pepe near MacDonalds. You can probably find a couple of foreign owned drinking places, such as the Spanish club Casa d’Espana, and some 5-star hotels with bars available to their guests.

This is where I step up and feel like I’m the black market or mafia at work. No one who is Moroccan or  from a Muslim country, or even who has an Arabic name, even if they have a UK passport and don’t speak Arabic, is allowed to buy alcohol during Ramadan. This means they have to get a bit more creative, find an alternative avenue - the time of year when my blue eyes and Aussie passport suddenly makes me the popular girl on the block.

I have heaved heavy bags loaded with requests along the streets. But publicly handing over the bottles is not an option. So where to do this? – in a city with almost nowhere open.

One year had me surreptitiously passing the requested contraband beneath a table at MacDonalds. Regular glances around while the money and goods exchanged hands, I must have been the most laughable sight, since my behaviour could hardly have appeared innocent.

So all this brings me back to my quest:

1.       a border run,

2.      some tapas and sangria,

3.      and that elusive delight – a beer in the sunshine – in a public place.

Combine this with being in the middle of Ramadan, this time I decided to take the taxi to Ceuta. Yes - a taxi ride to Spain without crossing the water! ;)

There are two Spanish cities in Morocco – Ceuta and Melilla. Just over an hour away and a mere 50 dirham (€5) grand taxi ride to Fnediq on the border, I picked Ceuta.

Besides the little blue petit taxis (which cannot leave Tangier), within Tangier and across the top of Morocco the best way to get around is neither by the tedious and uncomfortable buses, nor do you need to pay out a fortune for a normal taxi.

The grand taxis are like mini buses. Each has a fixed route that they travel. They go when they are full – 6 people. The fare is fixed and not very expensive, and the wait will rarely be more than 10 minutes or so.

The trick is knowing where they start from. There are taxi stops all over the city centre, each one for a different couple of destinations.

No signs. Of course.

So my quest begins:

·       Visa run

·       Tapas and beer or sangria

·       That elusive beer in a public place

The road to Ceuta runs mostly along the sea. So the way was a treat of blue vistas and the Spanish coastline on a typically glorious day. Via Fnideq – try saying that fast a few times over – the Moroccan border city next to Ceuta and I am dropped at the border. With one whole day up my sleeve before my 90-day visa will run out, I step out into the sunshine –

A view of Spain from Tangier

And walk to Spain.

Just remember here, I’m from Australia. The only place you can walk to – or drive to – in Australia is somewhere else in Australia.

So taking a stroll to Spain is an extraordinary thing for me.

Passport stamped, I arrive in Ceuta, and with a cheap bus ride past the fort, I am in the city centre in Constitution Square.

Coastline from the north of Morocco, looking across to Spain

The differences aren’t immediately noticeable, but they are there. The footpaths are very neat paving stones fitted perfectly together, not the rugged and badly set square stonework found all over the Tangier medina – a rustic look and one I think full of character. Just different.

I pause at a crossing to wait for a car to pass…

…and with a screech of tires it stops.

This is startling. The car, I realise, is actually following rules.

I remember my first weeks in Tangier and how daunting it was to cross a road. Every time I obediently stopped to give way to the traffic there would be squealing of breaks and cars stopping suddenly almost causing an accident.

I was the problem. I was causing these near misses.

In Morocco it is a give and take, a flow like the Yin and Yang in China. You do not, I learnt, stop. Because then nobody knows what you are about to do. The trick is to keep moving, slowly. Everyone factors this in. They can see your direction and your intentions.

I was very proud of myself when I managed to start crossing the street like a Moroccan, to judge what the cars were doing, to cross with a flow between cars which always passed me without issue.

In spite of my initial impression of crazy driving, it is actually a very ordered process. Behind their steering wheel they are remarkably aware. They are ready for every eventuality. This is made clear by the fact that I have so many times seen the cars stop for a cat as if it were a person.

And there are cats everywhere.

The cars share the streets with people, as well as the cats and dogs.

So being ready to move between the traffic, a car stopping so radically in front of me was a very strange experience.

Here, I realized, they followed the rules.

So now let me find a place with tapas and beers in the sun.

But everything is closed. It’s not Ramadan. It is Sunday. This is another thing so strange to me – I have got so used to the shops all being open all the time – except for Friday afternoons.

A quick question and I am told of a good place to eat. They serve…

Moroccan food.

Ah, no. I’ll take the Spanish, thank you.

A fresh set of directions, a little more exploring, and I find a sushi shop and a Chinese restaurant. This is just too far from Asia to be inspiring. It may be good food, but I have lived in both countries, Japan for 5 years, so I know it won’t be Japanese food.

The tally so far – Arabic, Chinese and Japanese food.

Following some new directions I find myself in a complex offering

MacDonalds

And Burger King

And KFC….

Again, I can get these in Morocco. Even if I am here briefly, I will have some Spanish food.

Please…

How is it that I can come to Spain and yet find it so hard to find Spanish food! I just want a nice little tapas shop with beers. Or sangria. So I walk further along the harbour boulevard.

And there it is!

The café with tables in the sun…

…serving beer!

Not the usual Spanish cheap – at €3 – but it is a beer. In the sun. In an open plaza.

In a public space.

Of my quest I have ticked off the third one. I have had my beer in the sun in a public space. But now I am hungry, and still the tapas seem elusive.

Then I recall a place that I had seen on the bus on the way which had seemed busy. That is always a good sign. I have too many times gone to the empty restaurant only to find out why everyone had gone somewhere else.

I have no idea where the buses go from. The streets are one-way and I can’t see where they return, so I walk. It’s not so far – just 10 or 15 minutes. In Tangier anything under a 30-minute walk seems like a waste of a taxi fare. A bit of sea and beach, a walk past a fort surrounded by a moat – something I must come back to check out – a climb to a bit of a view, past a mosque which is oddly silent (I didn’t once hear the prayer call from it) and there it is. A rather plain blue-green place. But plenty of people, telling me that the locals know that it is good.

Bar el Pescador (Antiguo Asador tapi)

I step through the door to a blast of noise and bustle. Even though it is nearing 4pm, every single table is full bar 2. I wedge between the children’s playground and the constant traffic of the waiters rushing from the kitchen balancing both full and empty plates of food. Above me is an old sign on the building – Cruzcampo.

I count up the coins I’ve exchanged and have left, carefully calculate what’s on the menu, and order a half plate of calamari. But all in Spanish – and I don’t have a Spanish sim card – I have no idea what everything is.

What’s good?

The waiters were full of smiles for me. She points to one.

I have no idea what it is, and my close-to-zero Spanish is completely useless. But the price works, so I take her word for it, nod and wait to see what I have ordered.

Lamb on skewers, it turns out, barbecued and delicious.

Oh, and of course, the sangria. Or 2. That delightful Spanish red wine-based cocktail with lemonade, fruit and spices.

But now I have my second quest completed. I have had my tapas. I have had my beer in a public place. Now to complete my third. I have left Morocco so my visa did not expire. Now I need to renew it.

Back to the border by the beach, the walk across to Morocco, a fresh stamp for another 90 days, and back into Fnideq.

I have completed my quest!

·       A beer in a public place.

·       Tapas and sangria.

·       And a successful visa run.

This is when it really hits me.

I am confronted by streets seething with people. Because being Ramadan, everyone is out in the late afternoon, shopping for food, killing time waiting for breakfast at sundown, and incredible contrast to the calm of Ceuta, or Sebta as the Moroccans call it.

It is chaotic and messy and oozing life and energy. And this, I realise, is what I like.

With sweet memories of sangria and beer in the sun, and the good feeling of being back in my non-comfort comfort zone, I push my way between the writhing streets and stalls of people to find the taxis back to Tangier. A blissful ride in the front seat this time, with the most glorious views of the Mediterranean glistening in a sinking sun over the hills of Spain, I find my way back to Tangier.

It dawns on me as I gaze at the azureness of the sea that somewhere along the way I seem to have moved to Morocco. It is no longer a passing stop. I don’t know how long I will be here. But it has become my home and where I live.