Come Walk with Me in Tangier
I remember the first time I walked up this street in Tangier.
It seemed like such a strange street, so steep and narrow with its kink in the middle - cars parked, people everywhere, a myriad of tiny shops that I still hadn’t learned to make sense of.
That was over two years ago now. Since then I’ve been away, stuck in London during the first covid lockdowns, roamed some more through the summer, and stuck again in London.
But I’ve been back in Tangier now for nearly a year, and the street has become a familiar one. I walk up and down it at least twice most days. It is the street where I now live.
The treasure of living at the top of a hill – at the top of one side of a little valley – is that both leaving and returning home are a good uphill exercise. An excellent way to get fit and keep losing weight. But the first time up is one that everyone remembers.
Stepping out with confidence quickly becomes a laboured journey of gasping for breath, burning lungs and aching leg muscles – a quick glance up because surely you are nearly there – only to see that the landmark still seems miles away. The first time I even had the added value of a 20kg backpack. I very quickly learnt that the best way up was slowly, to focus on one foot at a time, to let my feet eat their way up the road at their own pace.
Now, of course, I step out with confidence all the way to the top – a quiet little inner smirk at the tourists labouring their way up it for the first time, on their way to the gate to the kasbah – the old fortified castle at the top of the old medina (town centre) – where i live.
I have lived in many amazing places, but let me tell you about this street where I live now.
I often have breakfast on my rooftop where I have an amazing view of the bay in the morning haze. Today a little fog is whispering across it under the chill morning sun.
As I turn the 360 degrees I have a view of the old city and its tumble of white buildings which cascade on top of each other, crenelated castle tops and wooden viewing platforms, painted from this very spot where I am now standing by a close and talented friend.
Artist friend Noel Bensted, work in progress on our rooftop - a remarkable eye for detail of the old buildings of Morocco and Senegal and the amazing people who live here. Please take a look at his other works on his site. My favourite is the Senegalese with the bright pants - or maybe the one outside the Thieves’ Market in Fes…
Noel Bensted, Senegalese man, 2021
Then there is the kasbah itself, its unpainted stone walls rising to the highest point. I keep turning to take in the view across to the mosque – the building which by law must be the highest point in town, and back around to the Boulevarde, the spot where I am headed today.
I have sat many nights on this rooftop watching the seagulls looking like ghost birds gliding in their own party in the dark sky, lit up only from beneath by the lights from the kasbah, flitting in and out of view. I danced under them to Arabic music always somehow engaging, a magical full moon above the bay, a slight sea breeze across my forehead and just enough to shift my hair.
Tangier Bay at night
But now it is day, a crisp and sunny winter one – maybe 17 degrees, though it feels colder than the 15 degrees I was used to in Australia.
I’m am about to head down the stairs to the street but I pause. The doleful muezzin prayer call has just started. First one, then another, until I can now hear all of them competing across the air space above Tangier singing their respective prayers.
Because this is what you expect a pharmacy to look like
Once downstairs I call out s’bah lkher to the man I buy emergency supplies from. He will load me up with half a dozen words in Darija (Moroccan Arabic). One or two I have a chance of remembering, but more than that and I forget them all. So today I keep going – the dog on the rooftop three floors above him tucks his paws over the edge and barks twice.
I march my way down the hillside, past the cats. And the cafés and restaurants and little shops, breathe in the glorious smell of the bakery which sells biscuits made from almonds. And doorways that seem to be everywhere, inviting me to wonder about their worlds as I pass by.
A bread shop part way down
I prefer the road. I find it easier than negotiating the steps. But I must step aside when a car comes up – usually in a gear too low. Then one comes up with its pedal flat to the floor.
Some are like this – a notion of right of way. It flies past, missing me and several kids pouring out from the blue and white junior high school by less than inches. At least he’s going the right way up this one-way street. Many scooters come down, coasting and silent so you don’t even know they are there.
Street art - colourful electricity meters on a local juice shop with rooftop terrace dining.
Did I mention that road rules here are just a suggestion? People and cars weave between each other. I’m actually impressed at how few accidents I’ve seen, considering this. But I’ll admit, crazy as their driving is, they are more vigilant than I’d say an Aussie counterpart is.
In spite of my bumbling to learn the I’ve only actually been ‘hit’ once. A typical scenario. A parked car, another grounding its gears on its way up the hill past it, three of us pedestrians in the almost non-existent space left between all this. But the young lad on his scooter feels that he has such a great need to keep going that he squeezes his way between us.
It was a glancing blow to my hand – not even enough to cause a bruise – but I had my say when I passed him a minute later where he’d stopped on his ‘oh so urgent mission’, and was now slowly dismounting, he nodded and smiled at me to say it was all ok. I did a lot of yelling. And he nodded and smiled a bit more.
Because in the end, this is Morocco.
If we were to change everything here that was a bit annoying to our western minds, we would lose Morocco and end up with… just another Western country. And the whole reason we are here is because it’s not.
I stop of course at my café – one of my regulars. The café Colon – such an inglorious and popular name around Tangier. It actually has nothing to do with one’s health or bowel movements. It’s an abbreviation of Colombus. I have yet to discover why he is such an important person in Tangier, but half the hotels and cafes seem to be called Colon.
From Cafe Colon, the newly refurbished cinema and a music band
Mohamed brings my kahlwa hlip – make sure to clear your throat to make that ‘h’ sound. And at all costs, don’t mix the letters around and end up asking for some ‘milky balls’.
A glass with an inch of coffee on a saucer with four sugar cubes – yes, diabetes is a problem here. And a glass of water. The milk is poured with a flourish from a height. And it is always so hot. To perfection!
I sit with my café au lait, on the footpath lined up with everyone else, back to the wall and facing the street. When I was first here I couldn’t understand this. Why aren’t they even facing the friend they’ve come here to spend time with. How rude! My Australian brain chirps.
The other day I saw some tourists sit down around a table, some with their backs to the street. How odd, I think this time. How can they watch what’s passing by on the street that way. Here cafés aren’t just a place to meet with friends. They’re a national pastime. They have a rhythm. Even on a noisy street there is something meditative about sitting with your sweet mint tea or coffee and watching life as it passes.
I am about to pay and move on when there is a sudden screeching from the street. No - not a traffic emergency - a pipe player. The high pitched sound perhaps better suited to the open spaces of the desert and the mountains echoes across the high ceilings of Cafe Colon.
A little hungry now before my afternoon and evening classes, I drop into the very next shop – Abou Tayssir. We call it “The Syrian”. Run by a lovely pair – old friends now, three whole tables and a bench squeezed inside, it is a place of amazing food!!!! If by any chance you have followed me here, please drop in and say hello from me. Three dips with Lebanese bread, the most amazing borek pastries, superb shawarma kebabs if you want to keep it cheap or are on the run…
The film crew trucks of the movie I was almost in are not parked on the street today. They have been filming in the medina. And thankfully the roadworks are long over – an eye opener for us safety conscious westerners.
A game of dodge the biggest truck and watch that swinging digger. Fans of Bob the Builder, eat your heart out!
Now I need to keep going – on past the bread shop, the egg shop which is barely the size of a single bed. Most shops here are smaller than a standard garage and would not fit your car, some the size of a basketful of warm nuts and seeds.
There are two things I wonder about these tiny shoebox shops – How do they make a living out of such a tiny space? And how do they decide on their particular range of products, being that none of them are big enough to fit everything. Shopping is a matter of knowing who has what. This place always has rice and pasta. If I want tomato puree I need to go to the one further up . But first I will just have a chat to Bilal while I buy some of his chicken.
Literally the size of a single bed
At first this was daunting to me. How did I know how much something was, or if they even had it? Could I trust that they wouldn’t cheat me? Now I love these little shops. And I know that along this little strip, they are more likely to call out my name and chase after me to give me forgotten change.
Today I won’t visit café Jamaica – looking over the Grand Socco and its fountain, a tiny snippet of the sea visible from its rooftop terrace. And excellent coffee and mint tea, I might add. I’ve paid two and three times the money in fancy shops and only found some watery version – never a good investment. I’m also not going to Cinema Rif today – my current writing café. I have somewhere else to be.
Fountain at Grand Socco
I pass the man who is always on the street corner with a small upside-down box over his head. I haven’t yet figured whether he’s completely crazy, or it’s just a substitute sun hat. And I will never ask, because that would only destroy the charm of his existence.
As I approach the archway into the souk (marketplace) a smallish old fellow in a stripey blue djellaba comes up to me.
Wait – djellaba?
That’s the straight robe worn here a lot. It’s a remarkable piece of clothing. It goes on over everything. If you’re in need of a quick grab from the emergency shop it can even go on over your pyjamas. I mean, that has to be the deal of the century. Right?
And in the winter they are of a heavier weave and they pull up the hoods. Suddenly I’m walking around Tatooine from Star Wars with heaps of the Sandpeople – except they’re giant sandpeople.
Giant Sandpeople
So this smallish old fellow with a map of life wrinkled into his face comes up to me, and in a light bouncy voice he says – “Rice and fish, lovely bubbly.”
And then he is gone.
Just like that.
The street is a constant string of openings. I have walked past some of these doors daily for months, and only realized last month that they’re not all shops – that some are doorways into a whole rabbit warren of indoor market places.
Not a construction site - the entrance to the markets
I walk into my ‘shopping centre’, Souk Bara – the tiny shops with more varieties of olives than I knew existed – I counted over 30 different types in one of these shoeboxes. Then there is the chicken and beef counters, the little place where I buy my soy sauce and nori, and then of course further down there are the ones hanging with intestines and spleens, goat’s heads and cow’s hoofs… yes, for dinner. Coming with an aroma that makes me hurry forwards to the one in the fish markets.
Through the fish markets and up the stairs towards my destination. I carry my spare one dirham coins in my hand to easily drop into the hands of one of the many beggars – always the old man who stands on the steps up to Jamaica. And some others I now recognize. The black lad with no legs below the knees. A mother with her baby, probably a refugee from the south. The 12 year old child who only wants the half eaten shawarma in my hand – which I give up easily. I have no idea how they survive. There is no social security here, just those willing to drop a dirham into their hand.
I make my way up past the El Minzah – a flashy hotel of another era. Since the 1930s it has hosted a huge range of famous people – Tom Hiddleston, John Malkovich, Kenzo, Yves Saint-Lauren, Winston Churchill, Jean Claude Van Damme… Tangier used to be a mecca for artists and creative people. I think the undercurrent is still there. I know so many people drawn to this place who are artists and fashion designers, musicians and movie people.
But I don’t visit the hotel for its amazing views of the bay, beautiful pool and fancy food. I have never eaten anything here. I use it as a convenient – and very pleasant – toilet stop.
And then of course, there is the Café de Paris.
For me it is like stepping into the movie Casablanca. It is of that era – again, the 1930s. It has the charm that evokes my images of Tangier before I came here – a sanctuary of memories. No wifi, laptops are banned. But it has coffee and the sweet mint tea that is claimed to be the best tea in all of northern Africa, even by non-Moroccans. As I pass, the waiters in their black and white vested penguin suits greet me by name.
And on top of all that, it is the setting of one of my favourite movies.
After my first visit to Tangier I rewatched the third of the Jason Bourne movies. The thrill of recognizing every single street scene in Tangier was only topped when I realized that the big café scene in the middle of the movie was at my very favourite of all Tangier cafés – at the Café de Paris.
Lined up to watch the street
And now I am here. My favourite spot in Tangier. A four year old is climbing on one of the canons. One of the ladies selling the hand henna art looks up hopefully. The shoe shine keeps on at his task – actually still a thing. It’s quite grand to sit with your shoes being cleaned.
But what I come here for is to look at Spain.
Some days the view is hazy but today it’s clear. The autumn-winter weather has much better visibility.
Not just another country, but a whole other continent.
Someone said to me – so your favourite spot in Tangier is where you can look at another country?
The white strip on the far shore is Tarifa, Spain.
Ah – you’ve missed the point. I’m from Australia where everywhere is remote. When you fly north from Sydney – to Hong Kong or Bali – you’re flying over Australia at jumbo jet speeds for four hours. This time I came west via Qatar – and I still hadn’t left Australia after 6 hours.
So yes. My favourite spot – not just because I love looking at the Mediterranean – but because the concept is so wild to me. From here I can stand and look at another country – another continent – just twenty miles away. I look at the white streak of Tarifa. I wonder what it was like for people who were here centuries ago who had never been over to Spain, for whom getting there wasn’t even an option.
Then I realise, I am one of them.
It is a mere 45 minute ferry ride and the easiest way to do a run to renew the three month tourist visa. Yet in my time here, even after a year, I have not been to Tarifa. I am as much stranded – covid stranded – possibly in some ways even more so – as those past generations who maybe stood in this same spot looking across the sea.
It is a good thing for me that it’s a place I am happy to be stuck in.