March 24, 2000

Roger Williams

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It is cold here. The wind is at our backs—from the west—and the confluence of the Mediterranean with the Atlantic is supposed to be raw. But it is near the equator and only mid-October, so this is somewhat unexpected.

Since it is so much colder than the trip going out, the weather seems to model our day. We did not end on an up-note and I think that I was more optimistic this morning when we disembarked. Certainly some of my idealism has been dashed. Also, I am not at all proud of my behavior towards our local guide and his efforts to show us the real Tangiers.

This morning the sun is high, and with the offshore breeze, the smell of the sea has become less pungent than last night. We arrive at the pier before 8:30. I used the long lens and the binoculars at the beach just as the sun came up before breakfast, but I could not make out the hills across the strait. Are the barely visible black mountaintops, the original genesis of the moniker, the Dark Continent?

Our normal tour guide gets the day off. This tour is event and action-packed so a day off is probably sorely needed. A broken wrist at the top of Gilbraltar, a stolen and recovered valise on arrival in Madrid and the curator strike including picketing at the Alhambra has made me appreciate his expertise and value.

"Call me Shabali", he says. This is unsettling to me. If I say this to someone astute, they say "I did not ask what I should call you, I asked what is your name". But, my first impression of him registered no surprise. Maybe I do not normally think of Arabs as tall, but otherwise his olive skin, traditional dress and prominent nose make complete sense. The early establishment of eye-contact—in contrast to the people detained at customs in the airport—signaled his greater exposure to westerners like ourselves. His strong handshake and welcome to Morocco smile with all teeth showing were reassuring.

Our bus is waiting and it will hold no more passengers than our small group of 16. Actually, it is not quite big enough because I must crowd in to a single seat directly facing him within 3 feet. The proximity only throws him slightly off balance, but he is experienced and his delivery remains unaffected and obviously very practiced.

From this vantage point, I can discern a remarkable attention to detail in his dress and manner. I can only remark on this when I scan the driver—who he speaks to in Arabic—and some of our other local hosts. His hair is cropped short, curly like mine, a skull cap often repositioned. Is this an attempt at a regal bearing? Now my curiosity is piqued, and his authenticity needs validation.

It is hard to tell if his fingernails were done in a shop, but they are nothing if not precise. These are fine hands, no calluses, and these are repeatedly checked too. Some people who deal with the public and who must always be well-mannered and manicured, seem to expend minimal maintenance effort. I know that this is—almost always—heavily practiced as well. To appear to exert no effort is also an affectation, but the opposite always seems less refined, almost uncomfortable to the person.

His shoes are leather and apparently Italian. Probably more than one month's pay for some of the people we meet later. Now I am concerned.

The dichotomy between white cap and robe—traditional Islamic dress—and the manicured thumb with those sleek, thin-soled leather shoes point to a contradiction. It will be more than one year later before I will read about Muslims who embrace modern technology and convenience and who see no conflict with the tenets of their faith. But the flag was raised and that was what started it.

"Welcome to Tangiers, an ancient and proud city", he started. "Today we will see many phases of the city. Some will reinforce and others will blow away stereotypical images of the city that you may have brought with you today".

"First we will drive through the city center up to a hill in the old section where most of the city can be seen. As we do this, I want to tell you about the people of Tangiers."

I know that it had a history of being repeatedly overrun like Spain. It is a widely coveted place of obvious strategic importance.

"There have been 3 types of people who have inhabited Tangiers until the present. The Arabs who originally came from the Middle East. The Berbers who are basically nomadic horsemen and lastly those we call the "blue people". The Arabs have the most influence. The Berbers have always been rough and uneducated. And the blue people are from the south and we call them the blue people because they would rub a blue substance on their foreheads in order to protect their skin from the sun.

He studies my face. I listen to him pronounce each word. He has only the slightest trace of a British accent. He explains carefully, almost apolitically. Weren't they were colonized by somebody? He is the pride of this, his city.

"What do you mean when you say that the Berbers were and are uneducated?", I ask during a short pause. Since we have been together for more than one week, my tour mates are used to this type of question from me.

Without missing a beat, he explains: "During the time of French Colonialism, the Berbers were not permitted to go beyond the eighth grade but,..". He feigns a contemplative look and continues "and also their families did not trust the French schools. They thought it was a type of brainwashing.".

His face betrays no irony and perhaps he perceives none. The influence and impact of education on a subject people can be counter-intuitive. In any case, his breadth is perceptible as well as his willingness to discuss any and all subjects.

As we pass through the city we can see mostly French cars and trucks, frequently hearing the plaintive wail of emergency vehicles and smelling the exhaust from the aging smokestacks and backfiring autos. Most people are wearing western clothing although you can see the occasional fully-covered woman, attired in black. As we traverse this modern metropolis, he gives us more factual detail on history, religion, culture and the like.

When we arrive at the hilltop vista point, our departure from the bus is immediately met by hawkers trying to peddle pathetically cheap goods like earrings and plastic turbans. He views them with a distant, wry, knowing smile as he waits for us to leave the bus. He point to various parts of the city through the thick haze, completing the material in less than 10 sentences. He gives us the impression, though I am not sure how, that we should not buy anything from these hawkers. A much larger bus pulls up behind us and its passengers form a very large crowd, as we move spryly back into place for our next leg.

We are traveling through farmland now. Goats, chickens and other animals roam an unfenced field around and in between low growing produce, maybe squash. The plants are very sparse and I am surprised that any crops can grow here in this aridity. There are certainly no irrigation pipes to be seen. We stop too abruptly in a dirt field in front of some broken down bungalows. Our awkward stop generates a cloud of dust through which it is difficult to tell why we are stopping.

A moment later, as the dust ascends, it becomes clear that this is for the obligatory camel ride. As we leave the bus this time an identical set of hawkers descends, this time with higher quality goods. With his nod to and banter with the senior member of this group, we do review this melange of products. Some of the older men on the tour are helped onto the camel, who looks moth-eaten and completely displeased. The curved stick wielded by the handler fits uncomfortably under the animal's chin inducing its abbreviated motion. It seems to know that too much enthusiasm will evoke the handler's ire.

I cannot restrain myself. Sidestepping the checkerboard-like dung in an exaggerated manner, I move over to where he is standing on the sidelines. I turn almost completely away from the crowd to ask in the flattest voice I can "Where did you go to school? France or somewhere else in Europe?" He regards me calmly before answering, "No, here at the main university in Morocco". "Did you study literature?" I ask. He shrugs "Mathematics".

I am not quick enough. For Arabs, math is traditionally the highest calling. My guess was in lieu of asking about English—which many expatriates have studied—to see how he refined his precise speech. I have also squandered some of my good will by eliciting the answer to an obvious question not in the presence of the group at large. Retreat with an embarrassed bow is the only appropriate response, in order to wait for all of the people to finish their camel rides. One of the older men celebrates getting on and off successfully by buying a sultan's hat and getting his picture taken.

As we drive through what appears to be a picnic area, littered with neglected, abandoned vehicles and tractors, a couple of families are having a picnic amongst discarded plastic wrappers. It is unclear whether the guide and driver intentionally took this route. He informs us that we will now proceed to one of the great homes of Tangiers owned by the estate of Malcolm Forbes. He surmises that we have already heard about it since Liz Taylor and Ronald Reagan visited this house one time for the old man's birthday. It seems unusual that he would be taking us to a home owned by an American but, of course, homes owned by people like Forbes must be scattered throughout the world.

Sometime during this leg, he remarks that Morocco is doing well economically, maybe he said doing better? One of my tour mates, a tall man only slightly older than me, booms out a question about the per capita income of Morocco. This man and I have engaged in a friendly typically-male competitive banter throughout the trip. I am not sure what prompted this question; I am noting the squalor which I had seldom seen during my visits to Europe. I do not know what his exact answer was but I laughed when my tour mate said "$9000 per year, huh? That's what you think it is?" as we descended from the bus in front of an immense white mansion. It seemed that the pavement in front had started just a few feet before.

We filed in to see the cathedral ceilings, Moorish architecture, dripping water and a patio area with seemingly no end. American-style plumbing fixtures were individually noted by all tour members who had not seen such in nearly 2 weeks on the Iberian peninsula. The house was sparsely furnished so it had a museum quality about which our guide noted the relative infrequency of Forbes's visits here.

The patio has steps that lead down to a level only 3 feet lower, but greater in area and bounded by a 4 feet high solid white fence with railing. The view from the railing is of the rocky cliffs of coastal Morocco and the vast Atlantic. We surmise that going west would lead to the Azores or Canarys and our homes beyond. I have begun to move to the back of our group since I have been too vocal and I can see people stretching over my shoulder to see the gestures of our guide. The waves crashing below are loud enough to force him to shout and everyone is straining to hear.

We cannot see the metropolis at all even though we are obviously very high above sea level. Tangiers is now far to the right beyond the hills. I went to the far end of the balcony to crane my neck to try to see a building roof or even the top of a mast from one of the huge ships we saw in the harbor less than 2 hours ago. Presumably Forbes selected and approved this site, so his love for Tangiers was not great enough to include it in his view from this great balcony.

Bringing our guide back into focus, I realize that he is talking about Islam. The point seems to be that the excess demonstrated in this structure is not present in Islam; that everyone just follows the Prophet and salvation is not found in ostentatious displays such as our setting. It is in fact a sermon, delivered red-faced, near the top of his voice in a capitalist temple with the ocean spray providing the audio background. I think I see him glimpse the surrealism.

We broke away. A couple of people mouthed "Okay! Okay!". A small amount of time is spent viewing the immense collection of toy soldiers set up in a mock battle, including artillery and general's headquarters. None of us can tell if any of the soldiers are Arabs or Berbers, or Cowboys and Indians for that matter. They are all exceedingly intricate, sterile and appear to bear no relevance to their location. Our guide is outside, regaining his consistent breathing, so we do not want to ask him.

As we reboard the bus, I am fully within the moment and simultaneously completely oblivious to the dynamic. "9000 sounds high", I supposedly wonder aloud. "750 dollars a month might be higher than Spain. It is hard to believe that the per capita is higher here than just north in Spain!". There is still a hazy sun overhead but the overcast on the bus is enveloping.

Trying to burn it off, he tells us that he gave a tour to Elizabeth Taylor and he was her favorite. Well, maybe not her favorite, but he did give her a tour. "Were her eyes really green?", one of the older ladies chimed in. He was not sure but she was stunningly beautiful, he is certain. The tall man in our group had not had enough. "Isn't it true that Muslims can commit bigamy? That doesn't seem very enlightened with respect to women, does it?"

He plowed forward. "Actually the Koran says that a Muslim can have up to 4 wives, but it is done in a humane way. The man must be able to afford it."

"I would think that the women would argue" came from the rear.

"No, they are always in separate households. A woman must be a queen in her household!". This was another archaic concept to our western ears.

Our last stop of the morning was to a snake charmer outside the casbah. I did not know that this French word translated translates to "alcazar", the walled fortress we saw in every city on the peninsula thus far, with the most impressive one being the one in Toledo. Several beggars of all stripes rushed up to us touching our bags and clothing. He told us not to be alarmed, that they were harmless.

The snake charmer on the other hand, looked as dangerous as the snake, but this reptile was truly entranced by the lilting melody emitted from the pipe. Some of our guide's friends had come up and he chattered knowingly with them occasionally motioning towards us. Just then, some bells rang and some high-pitched singing could be heard in the distance. The response to this call to prayer was immediate and unconditional, even seemingly by the snake. In spite of this, our guide tells us that the snake charmer would be happy to stay and perform his trick if we want him to and presumably we will pay. Maybe next trip. The knowing smile returns.

The casbah itself is a medieval world. It features high walls making it dark at midday, some poor children with only an empty 2 liter plastic coke bottle to play with and a deformed beggar apparently lying on the ground, but upon closer inspection is actually standing, because he has a grossly configured torso atop a pelvis with no legs, holding a mashed coffee cup shaking a few coins. Further along in the vendors stalls, there are mostly fruits and vegetables and relatively few meats on display. It is so dark, I look up for the sky, realizing that part of the reason for the darkness is that the top of the building is a rampart like the top of a rook chess piece, further obscuring the light.

We were told not to leave any belongings on the bus, so as we made alternating right and left turns twisting farther into the labyrinthine structure of the fortress, I tried to remember how I could get back out if I got lost somehow. Also at this point, having surrendered my passport on the trip across the strait this morning, I felt a twinge of fear. Our guide's friends were assigned to the rear and middle of our group to keep us from getting separated in the crowded marketplace.

Now it felt like North Africa. Past an untold number of storefronts, we make two quick left turns, up a tall, thin stairway and into a heavily curtained dining room. The sun shows more clearly now, than at any time since we entered the fortress. The tables are low and the chairs seem so small most of us are scared to sit down. The lunch of curried lamb and coucous is delicious and paying only for the 7 cl. Pepsi Lite testifies to the global reach of U.S. commerce. The sleepy musicians strum the sitar in the corner. I could not even tell that they were playing until a noisy crowd of tourists at a nearby table left the restaurant. There was a small cup for donations, but they nodded appreciatively just for applause.

He came from behind a curtain and clapped his hands together twice rapidly. As we filed out a different door than we had entered, I resigned my attempt to sense our position or direction as we reappeared on the street without going down any stairs. There was even more light on this walking path, so I thought that we were on another level.

His pace had picked up slightly and he seemed to gesture to some of the small vendors as we resumed our left and right turns. He would smile occasionally but now it was tight and if I called to him, he would stop and notice that some stragglers in our party were losing ground and even one of his friends at the rear was helping an older woman on the uneven pavement. The path sloped downward and it seemed we entered another section of the walled city.

The "Berber pharmacy" was filled with shelves from floor to ceiling jam-packed with glass jars, each filled with what appeared to be a root or growth suspended in a brine solution. We all sat lined up on low benches for the "show". He did not feel comfortable here either as the pharmacist's children played noisily in the outer alcove. Saffron, hyacinth, hibiscus and a powerful dose of a eucalyptus-like substance were all for sale at very reasonable prices. A novelty purchased by several women was a green substance formed into lipstick that turned red, only when applied to the lips of women. Whenever men tried it, it was clear or stayed a faint green on their lips.

We are back out on the street only a few pesetas lighter and he is definitely walking faster now. My gait must be elongated to keep up. I watch the back of his Italian shoes to make sure I do not lose sight of him. Twice during this leg of the walk, I call his name just to slow him down. He looks up from the intense stare focused at the ground and looks back through the crowded street for his friend at the rear of the pack. His face is blank now, a penetrating gaze makes contact with the rear of the group and he immediately turns around to continue the rapid pace, not acknowledging us in the front at all.

Abruptly he stops in front of an unmarked store with some stairs inside, waiting patiently for the rest of the group to catch up. It had been a long day thus far and we were all tired. Looking out past all of our faces, he explained that this was the last stop on the day's tour, the traditional rug merchant. Part of the fun of this stop was to bargain with the proprietor and he wanted us to be relaxed and not feel pressured. These sentiments were expressed with a warmth that was only slightly forced.

Entering the huge room with 20 foot rugs rolled and stood on end was like a scene from Ali Baba. He spoke with the merchant in low tones apparently as friends. The merchant was warm and friendly saying that he had once been to Philadelphia in the USA. He spoke English almost too quickly with a thick Arab accent. Again a long row of benches was the seating for the audience. The merchant laid out more than 25 rugs before us, the tassels of layer upon layer snapping to rest just inches from our feet tucked under the bench. The colors and textures were beyond description and he did not want to give us the price of any of them before we showed interest in one.

The dyes that must have been used made me think of the liquids that we had seen previously in the pharmacy. I thought of the looms and mill where these rugs were made. Finally, one of our member's questions was regarded as a sincere interest and the first price of $4500 was heard. I know that to bargain most effectively anywhere in the world, cash would get the best price. The merchant assured another couple that credit card transactions would be handled swiftly and safely, just like the shipping, but I was wary. Those with a serious interest were separated from the browsers, like me, and we were allowed to look around freely or drift downstairs into the giftshop, while the used-car salesman routine was initiated in earnest.

Downstairs, the mix of products was dizzying, or maybe it was the wafting incense. Several dummies and mummies were standing next to glass cases containing pendants, embroidered jewelry cases and animal teeth. You could easily outfit an Indiana Jones movie set with all of this stuff. I picked up a large knife similar to the one I bought in Toledo. This one was curved to nearly 180 degrees, rusted in spots in order to look like an antique and was difficult to remove from its sheath. Picking it up attached a salesman to me, whose stance and training were obviously in high-pressure sales. "Is this an antique?", I started.

"Definitely!" was his immediate response.

"OK, what age is this piece?" I asked, backing up from his very close position near my face.

"Oh, very old! I am not exactly sure, but at least 300 years old and only $75", he intoned with a sly grin.

"Well, thank you. That is interesting." I said slowly, putting the knife back on the display case. With his proximity and manner I did not want to even take out any money. As I walked away, he followed me and I think his sandals touched the back of my shoes.

"OK...OK...I will sell it to you for only $40, but I am losing money on this deal!" he said, oblivious of its effect on my interest to buy. We had a more staccato exchange about another item during which I had to leave the store with a loud "No thank you!" in order to make him retreat. I stood at the doorway watching a lady from our group badgered by another salesman with a scarf.

Back outside, I enjoyed the fresh air and tried to see into the upper floors of the building where the rugs were being sold, but to no avail. Just then, our guide came up to us from an oblique alleyway looking refreshed compared to how he looked during our walk to this store. He was joined by his assistants who quickly entered the store to round up the other members. I surveyed the crowded street. There were men sitting on steps watching passersby and women holding children wrapped in cloth. We seemed to be the only westerners on this small back street, I asked if we were going back to the boat now, and he gave me a single serious nod. Within moments of this, one of the young men who was watching the street walked up to me holding a T-shirt and started saying in a quiet and very determined manner "15 dollars…only 15 dollars".

I repeated "No thank you" to him a couple of times before we had all been accounted for and our guide turned around without one word and started walking. I heard that the price of the rug had gotten all the way down to $1100 until the concerns over shipping overrode any interest in buying it. The hawker with the T-shirt followed me as we walked faster through what appeared to be a more dangerous section. I tried to drift to the back of our group to help the stragglers but it was difficult to tell the boundaries of our group as it seemed like the Mosque had just let out. I could barely see the white skull cap as it bobbed up and down with the quickening pace of our guide. The noise on this walkway was increasing as the hawker continued "10 dollars, what about 10 dollars?"

The cement for this path is also uneven and one of the older ladies almost slips. Two of us help her walk as more hawkers join in shouting their prices and thrusting their goods in front of our faces. I am disoriented. It feels like we are being whisked through a shooting gallery, taking thrusts from all sides. Another woman is crying "what's going on?" while we admonish her to just move swiftly in a forward direction.

Before I realize it, we are passing through a gate that surrounds a white building in the sunshine, where guards are posted, preventing the locals from following us. My favorite hawker is separated from me and stands with his face pressed between the grates of the fence yelling "5 dollars, 5 dollars is reasonable!"

This must be some governmental building, since guards with rifles are posted throughout. Our guide laughs animatedly with his assistants and some governmental people. We all flop into chairs, exhausted and feeling like we have just survived an ordeal. The wind blows up here but the dust it contains makes you turn your face away. The harbor is visible again although I cannot tell which ship we will leave on. Bottled water is sold at the equivalent of 4 US dollars, more than we have paid anywhere since leaving the US. I ask our guide about the building and he feigns ignorance, then laughs with his friends. It sounds like the last laugh.

We see the bus pull up on the road several feet from the gate. We realize with dread that we must pass back through the crowd waiting at the gate. We take a long drink of our water in anticipation of the exit ordeal, but everyone is energized to see the finish line.

As we approach the gate, my hawker has moved to the rear of the crowd. I help one of the older ladies over the tall, uneven curb. I expect to hear my hawker's voice, but I cannot detect it amongst all of the yelling. I realize that a boy in a wheel chair is holding the T-shirt that my hawker was trying to sell. He cries out weakly "3 dollars…3 dollars". We reach the door of the bus where our guide is standing. The full toothy smile is in evidence again as he bids us warm wishes and farewell. I wait until everyone is on the bus before boarding. I can detect no difference in my send-off by our guide. Most of the hawkers have dispersed and moved away from the bus. As I take my last footstep from the continent, I hear the small voice say "surely you can pay one dollar!"

March 24, 2000

Roger Williams

[email protected]