Filed under: maroc, morocco, morocco travel, morocco traveler, north africa, tanger, tangier, tangiers, travel, travelling
First of all, I would like to thank all of our readers for getting us over the 1,000 hit mark – I think this would be a good time to start selling out, so expect adverts sometime in the near future. I’m mainly writing this post in response to Jimmy’s recent criticism of my work ethic; I haven’t written a longish post recently, so I thought I’d do one now.
Tangiers is largely disappointing. The city of myth, of Burroughs, Bowles and Burgess, is dead. In it’s place has been born the bastard, unwanted love-child of European future and African past; with the coming and going of tourists and their sought after currency comes the transience of development and regression. For every shiny new building, every monument to progress, there is a vacant plot of scrubland filled with ageing rubble and mounds of waste plastic and twisted metal. But the city’s attitude to the tourists that drive it’s economy is interesting; the hustlers and pushers, as Frank has already said, are everywhere, but only very rarely are they aggressive or intimidating. It’s as though they have a certain respect for their quarry, and if you are quick with your “non non non”s (as Frank is – I just walk past oblivious) and are firm yet polite, they will back off, obviously aware that they have met their match in a visitor who is prepared for their tricks, swindles and approaches. But despite the rundown state of much of the town, I don’t want to do Tangier a disservice – the nature of it’s business and the less-than-priveliged lives it’s citizens lead all make it a rather easy target for somebody like me to attack. I’m also reigning in my criticism because I suspect the Medina is probably one of the most vibrant places we are likely to visit. The old part of the city, the real part of the city, it is all tangles and webs of intertwining paths and passages, full of stalls selling inexpensive fruit, vegetables and chickens, but also of people selling what they can to get by: old men with broken locks and mobile phones (I suspect mine might be among them, but I wouldn’t have the audacity to ask for it back if it were), people selling individual cigarettes to those passing by who are well off enough to pay more for the convenience, and jobless teens whose rugs laid out on the ground display the fruits of their scavenging. And then, of course, there are the amputees and childbearing, who ask repeatedly, politely, for “one dirham, one dirham” (about six pence). The buildings are crumbling, the vehicles spluttering, and everything feels distinctly real. And, finally, I hold nothing against Tangier because I know the best is yet to come. And also because everything is really, really cheap.
duncan
Filed under: morocco
Tangier was once a bustling international city, occupied by the French, Spanish, Portuguese, Germans, British at one time and different dissections of those five at others. Tangier was once a place where beat poets and artisans congregated to party and while away time in tea shops. It was once a place where Jimi Hendrix, Cat Stevens and other such fine musicians passed through as well as the site of extravagant parties of a certain Woolworths heiress and Malcolm Forbes. Aside from the busy, charmingly derelict Medina, all the attraction it possesses stems from what it once was, and that which it no longer is. The bars, cafes and theatres that once made the Medina so attractive are now either closed, or run down to the point of drabness due to the banning of alcohol within its walls and the exodus of western residents in the latter part of the 20th century. Many exquisite buildings, like the pictured Cervantes theatre, are now depressingly derelict. The newer parts of town are for the most part, poorly maintained, cluttered with grizzly, concrete tower blocks, which seems to be the case with mots modern port towns. presumably it is still attracting tourists due to its position as a transport hub and the fading myths about its history.
The other thing that strikes you about this city is that; despite being populated by friendly and charming people, there is a substantial quantity of men loitering around the port, beach and medina who will try to bustle you into shops or try to sell you “booze, hash, coke and lovely girls,” often very persistently and sometimes threateningly, seemingly unaware that even if i wanted any of these products, and i do not, I would certainly not be buying them from a dodgy looking bloke stalking me down the street. We have developed ways of getting rid of them, and as there are only a few dozen in town the incidents have noticeably declined as they have worked out that these particular ladies are not for turning.
Having said all of that, I want to make it clear that this town is not entirely without charm, the souk displays an impressive array of produce, the food is cheap and very tasty and the people, when not trying to screw you over, seem friendly, accommodating and considerate. Also, I was warned that Tangier is no longer anything special, so have not been hugely disappointed, and have certainly not lost hope in our Moroccan adventure. next, we are off to Chefchauen, supposedly the most beautiful town in this country.
I also want to make clear my deep sense of gratitude to the, waiter, cook and kitchen assistant at “Restaurant Agadir” for crafting and serving us an exquisite three course meal with fresh orange juice for well under a fiver each. This is the one GREAT thing about Tangier we have found so far, though this will probably be replicated across the country. This has also reenforced my view that “Rough guide” beats “lowly planet” on every front.
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Well, we’ve arrived in Tangier and the locals have done their best to hustle, con and make idiots out of us without success. We still have most of our belongings (although I think my phone has been stolen – that or it’s buried at the bottom of my bag) and the place we’re staying in is clean, and, incidentally, deathly quiet. I imagine that today we’ll hit the Medina and do some haggling, but I’ll leave a lengthier explanation of our arrival in Morocco to Frank.
P.S – Does anyone know any Arabic?
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We’re in Gibraltar, on British soil, and it’s raining. This town has to be one of the most bizarre places I’ve ever been – I have visited before, so I sort of knew what to expect, but the strangeness of the place still struck me. When you go through passport control, you could be walking into any MOD facility – there are warning signs and razor wire everywhere. But once you get into town, you could be in the centre of Teignmouth. The shops are the same, the chavs are the same, everything seems reminiscent of faded British seaside charm. It’s almost as though the Gibratarians (as they like to be called) are trying to cling on to their adopted nationality by replicating every aspect of so-called British life. It’s actually quite sad, because once you get away from the high street the town acquires its own olde-timey charm, continental yet grounded. And the rock is pretty spectacular; I climbed it this morning and saw the macaques (who were too busy eating their apples to pay me any attention) then struggled against the wind on the way down. We’re staying here for one more night so Frank can go to the Bank tomorrow morning, but after that it’s onward to Tangier and the great unknown.
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Tonight will be our last night in Seville, a fine city that has treated us rather badly. the temperature has ranged from chilly to bitingly cold, and rain seems to start falling just as i begin to get lost. I have taken this as some kind of meteorological “piss off.” this, coupled with the woeful inadequacy of the hostel’s insulation, has mean that i have spent large periods of time hunched over radiators, wrapped in blankets, reading the guardian and the “rough guide” to Morocco, a book so helpful (infinitely better than it’s “lonely planet” equivalent) that there seems less and less need to actually go there.
I would like to take a brief moment to reflect on some of the oddest people we have encountered our travels so far, by this i do not mean the people who we have actually talked to, who have, without exception, been enchanting. Indeed, somewhere, wondering around Barcelona, there is a young Swedish man called Dick, so benevolent that he may well be the third coming. I am becoming sidetracked , what i mean to focus on are the crazies and mentalists who seem to make up a sizable proportion of the European population. The most amusing was a Bus driver in Valencia who appeared to have some variety of total mental collapse while driving his bus. he had stopped at a crossroads, locked the doors of the bus, unflinchingly staring dead ahead. his breakdown must have been one of absolute bleakness, stark enough to prevent him responding to the gathering crowd, staring at him through the windscreen, the wall of sound coming from car horns, frustratedly tooting from the lines of traffic stretching as far as i could see and the furious motorists banging madly at the pneumatic doors, presumably in the hope that that after some 15 minutes of breakdown, he would snap out of it, tell himself to cheer up and drive on, happy that he could go home to his doting wife and loving children, or something. this situation was eventually broken when police pried open the bus doors and dragged the guy out. what was particularly strange is that he did not seem to be moved at all by the presence of law enforcement officers, he instead continued with his blank uni-dimensional staring and remaining limp as he was jostled out of his own bus. i stopped watching after this, the Spanish police didn’t like my ogling. Among other mentalists we have encountered the pick must be the following:
A man in a Barcelona Bar who kep touching Duncan and then asked him to take a picture of the maniac in question posing with a few women who had just walked in, aparently muttering in spanish, im going to scrrew them all, or somthing to that effect. endearing really.
A Man in Marseilles who grabbed Duncan’s leg while screaming “nigger” at a woman walking past. Perhaps sensing a kindred mentalist spirit, they tend to gravitate towards Duncan.
Many others have been spotted but are not worthy of mention yet, rest assured that there are certainly enough to perform some kind of “Midnight Express” styled grindstone circling.
Anyhow, tomorrow, Duncan and I voyage to our last stop before Morocco and the great unknown, Gibraltar. we hope to acquire a union jack and ascend the rock, put two fingers up to the Spanish, and toast my birthday and Britannia. God save the Queen.
P.S. Despite our outwardly frosty reception of the news, both Duncan and I are pleasantly surprised by the idea that Pascoe is not quite the monumental quitter we took him for. we wish to congratulate him, both for deciding to meet us for a short time, and for finding a new girlfriend.
Filed under: Uncategorized
So, you thought it would never happen. How wrong you were. It is I, P-Unit, come from the early shift at M&S, to tell all those who hath doubted my fortitudity and glathliness and versitatiousness that I am, in fact, going to Morocco! I’ve got the funds, I’ve jacked in my job, I’ve booked the flight and I’m ready, by God I’m ready to follow in the footsteps of Bing and Bob, and Duncan and Frank, and head off on the road to Morocco. I’ve got an appointment with a nurse who’ll shoot me full of drugs, plus a Lonely Planet guide and one hell of an open mind! Abroad, HERE I COME!!
Forgive me if I sound a little over-excited, but I’m on something of a high at the moment. I passed my driving test on the 17th of January, my plans for Morocco are all falling into place, I’ve had all the right university offers and, to top all that, I’m spending this weekend in Paris with my lovely girlfriend! Plus, I’ve handed in my notice at work, which is wonderful. A load off my mind, because working in a fridge kills one’s soul. I’m trying to decide what books to take with me. Does anyone have any suggestions of longish, good books? I am already committed to taking “The Trial” and “An Evening Of Long Goodbyes”, and I’ve thought about re-reading “Heart Of Darkness”, but I’m not sure it would throw a positive light on our African adventure. Oh, dear, what to do…x
P-Unit xx
P.S. – Does anyone know where to acquire a money-belt? A bandolier would be just as handy. And if a strange man at the airport asks me to transport something out of the country for him, you know, down there, should I tell him to shove his package where the sun don’t shine? Or should I refuse? (Wahey!)
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It’s our third morning in Seville (or Sevilla as the locals call it), and I can’t help but think that we’ve come at the wrong time. A large part (and also the best part) of the city is currently being dug up to make room for the brand new Metro system, which means noise, smoke and generally unpleasant conditions for casual strolling. The weather isn’t great (although saying that we have still been quite lucky – it’s snowing in Cordoba and Granada), and a heavy, grey murk seems to have descended on the town during the course of today. However, the underlying beauty of the town still seems to have shone through – some of the architecture is fantastic, and I can tell that during summer, and when they aren’t being dug up, the wide shopping precincts are a joy to behold. Also, the grafitti is pretty poor compared to Barcelona and Valencia – most of it mere scrawlings and scratchings, petty slogans and vacant messages. There’s no art to it, no pleasure in viewing it. It makes staring at the wall a very dull experience indeed. At the moment, the town is full of scarf-clad Americans who throng around the sculptures in the Plaza de Encarnacion by day, and by night loudly tour the local bars, drunkenly dodging the buzzing scooters whose riders throw their arms up in continental gestures of annoyance. And the backlash is beginning – you only have to walk a short distance from the main tourist drag before you encounter stencil-sprayed displays of resident frustration – “tourists go home” being one of the more popular slogans. Still, I’m savouring it now, due to the fact that our next port of call, Algeciras, is apparently a hellhole, frequented only briefly by travellers making the short crossing to Tangier (which is precisely what we’ll be doing). We’re going to the train station today (which means a short bus journey) to buy tickets for tomorrow. That is, of course, if Frank ever gets up – left to his own devices he could probably sleep in until next Wednesday evening. Frank might do a post later today, possibly even Pascoe…if not, the next good word will be from Gibraltar, or maybe Algeciras.
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Today was supposed to be a great day – having neglected the Nou Camp in Barcelona and the Mestalla in Valencia, I decided that I would visit the Manuel Ruiz de Lopera, or Betis’ stadium, to those who haven’t spent as many hours of their life playing Champ Manager as me. I was especially looking forward to it having seen them draw 1-1 with Barcelona last night. And so, dead on nine o’clock, with Frank still asleep, I set off, directions courtesy of Google maps. Seemingly due to it’s location, Seville is freezing cold in winter until the sun comes out, which means the morning and evening, and this morning was certainly no exception. Still, I was confident that I would find the stadium, have a look around, and return just in time to walk through the midday heat. Needless to say, I got lost. Admittedly, Seville doesn’t seem to be as labyrinthine as Valencia, where upon setting out for a quick walk around the block you have to take a map just in case the city draws you down one of it’s endless alleyways that gradually get smaller and smaller until you end up engulfed in nothingness, but it is still pretty bad. Maybe it was because it was early in the morning, maybe it was because I confused a park with a plaza, or maybe it was because I wrote my directions (courtesy of Google maps) on the back of a bus ticket, but after an hour of walking in circles I realised that I had reached the height of my navigational skills and decided to head home. Again, I got lost, this time because it had started raining and the writing on the back of my bus ticket began to blur. I took wrong turn after wrong turn, still cold, still fed up, still not in sight of the stadium. It took all my powers of deduction to reason the way home, and once I got there it stopped raining. Brilliant. Oh well.
P.S – A note to everyone we promised to send postcards to – I’m working on it, but I wrote the Spanish word for stamps on the back of a bus ticket and now I can’t find it…(why do I do it?)
Travel
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I’m sitting here inspecting the gash running down my left index finger, contemplating what sort of fool would leave a razor at the bottom of a bag pocket. Really, i should be contemplating quite how we are going to get to morocco and where we will stay once we are there. it seems that the country is, aside from the odd five star hotel, is almost entirely off the Internet radar. this means that our habit of booking hostels on-line before arriving in places will not be achievable. this leaves my rather stayed self in something of a masochistic panic. This will probably result in a vicious bout of Duncan goading. oh well, the good news is that, as with all my internal turmoils, this one will pass as fast as it came, the bad news is that it further weaken my already overworked, under exersised heart, meaning that when Duncan puts 30 pep pills in my morning coffee as as part of our ever spiraling recriminations, I will be pushed to full cardiac arrest. a worry for another day i suppose. Seville, by the by, is a very nice city, and despite the vice like cold of the morning, as the clouds passed and the sun came out, the fine day revealed Seville as the charming city it is. a good day was marred only by getting lost several times, finding myself traveling in what i am sure were conceptually impossable circles. this seems to be a recurring theme of this trip, most likely stemming from my total shunning of maps, but Ive come to accept this as a pleasurable, if bewildering, experience. Also i feel i may have lost a dangerous amount of blood. a full report on Seville may be posted tomorrow.
Filed under: Uncategorized
For some reason I never thought we would be spending this much time in Spain, but as it happens it’s pretty good. We arrived in Sevilla late last night to discover that the area around our hostel is populated with two Starbucks, a McDonalds and a Burger King, and I imagine that during the course of our wanderings today we will discover a KFC tucked away somewhere. Yesterdays train journey was a pretty mammoth ordeal – eight and a half hours, most of it inland and so lacking the coastal views that I have come to look forward to. That doesn’t mean to say the terrain wasn’t impressive, just that this time it looked more like Death Valley than the Mediterranean, all scorched, scarred earth and the occasional bit of vegetation struggling to survive. Incidentally, trains in Spain don’t seem to have two engines (i.e one at the front and one at the back) like they do at home, so one of the best places to watch the scenery is out of the window at the back of the last carriage, where you can see everything in semi-panorama without it flashing by at an obscene speed. So for part of the last leg between Malaga and Sevilla, I sat and watched the rails retreat with a guy who, judging by the number of butts that lay scattered on the the floor, was slowly working his way through a packet of cigarettes (apart from when the conductor was passing through – then he was just admiring the scenery). Sevilla seems fine, apart from the fact that I was woken up at about half six by someones alarm clock – the owner then insisted on turning on the light so he could rummage around in his bag, find the offending clock thing, then seemingly turn the volume up just to annoy me.
P.S – I hope the people reading this in Devon are doing some serious looting in Branscombe. I’d be grateful if you could salvage me a motorbike, and maybe a car as well. Godspeed.
