Morocco, day six: Tangier

There was some commotion during the night which sounded very exciting indeed.

I’m not entirely sure what it was, but there was quite a lot of shouting in French, followed by some banging, followed by the sound of chatter over radios, which I took to be the Moroccan rozzers arriving and whisking away the source of the disturbance. Anyway. I was tired today.

My breakfast was a late affair as I have adjusted to the morning call to prayer and can now mostly snooze again after it, so by ten o’clock when I made my appearance on the terrace, the sun was out and I was feeling confident in getting some early-morning sandal action. I did do a quick recce round the terrace to see if anyone was missing – I’ve become accustomed to the regular faces and was delighted to be getting nods and smiles of acknowledgement now that I’m a familiar morning fixture, or so I like to think – but everyone was present as far as I could see. The German hippy and I shook hands, and then I settled down to my matinal feast which was brought to me by the cheery bearded gentlemen who seems to do the morning shift. Once again, a glass of coffee was placed in front of me into which was poured from a height frothy milk, with glorious precision.

The joy of sandals, if you will, is that they force you to walk more slowly as otherwise they can become unceremoniously detached from your feet just when you need them, so I have taken to a much slower pace which I think is more befitting a gentleman in white linen trousers bearing a finger puppet. I decided therefore that some culture was in order, as I have done nothing much but graze and maunder, occasionally stopping to take a photograph or wonder how many people actually believe that the Rolexes and Patek Philippes with the rare quartz movement are genuine. Some even have the holographic stickers – those in the same window as the Casios – but are somehow unlikely to be hanging around in shop windows just like that.

Anyway. This is information that is not really relevant, for today I tasked myself with a trip to The Donkey Museum of Tangiers. Conveniently, this is located just a few minutes from the Syrian place – soup, mezé, yum – the walk to which today included some enthusiastic youths on mopeds suggesting that any hashish that I should require could be purchased from them, if necessary. But there was no time for that as I was off to a museum celebrating one of humanity's many faithful four-legged companions, an undeniable symbol of Morocco and once the symbols of status and prosperity.

The donkey museum is a small free-to-enter gallery and workspace where the donkey is celebrated in all its glory. While often the butt of many jokes or the basis of an insult, the donkey has been a faithful and hard-working companion to people in this part of the world and elsewhere through the evolution of humanity. Morocco may be westernising rapidly and embracing the air-conditioned SUV, but the ultimate four-by-fours in the narrow winding streets of the Medinas remain stubbornly equine. For those areas that even a Range Rover untouched by dirt can't penetrate, the donkey is an indispensable part of daily life, modern or not. I would much rather have a donkey; the donkeys built Morocco.

As well being a place for the display of hundreds of pieces of donkey-related artwork from around the world, the museum is also a place where local scientific and ecological associations can raise awareness about safeguarding local fauna and flora. There is a shop that sells a variety of donkey-themed merchandise such as postcards, bags, and cosmetics. It was a fun afternoon thing to do and the space itself is really peaceful.

I took a different route back to the hotel down the rue de Kasbah, wondering whether the oranges on the orange trees the line it are edible or just some kind of decorative species. While I was keen to try one to find out, I decided that it might simply not be the done thing, so continued my stroll via the Grand Socco, or Place du 9 avril, a square dominated by the white Cinema Rif and a big roundabout with fountains and street performers. I came this way because I had plenty of time to spare after my lentil soup, mezé, and giddy donkey experience, and fancied a stroll through the Mendoubia Garden where some children were enthusiastically taking part in a dance and clown workshop in the shade of some trees, and I witnessed – for what I think was the first time in my life – a man taking a sheep for a walk on a lead. There's no reason not to, of course, and the sheep looked as if it was having a wonderful time, though I have some concerns about its medium-term well-being.

Back at the hotel I supped a mint tea and played spot the tourist as the occasional noisy roller-bag gave the game away early or groups appeared in brightly-coloured clothes listening intently to a guide. The man in the window opposite and I shared a nod of acknowledgement. A new man, in the window below, set his chair upon the balcony and played out a long ritual involving a sebsi.

In the evening I wandered around the old wall near the port around the Bab el Marsa where down near the waterfront all was quite peaceful. After the evening call to prayer, I noticed the moon starting to rise across the water and found a vantage point on the Terrasse Borj al-Hajoui, which was the perfect place to sit quietly and enjoy the spectacle. I was not the only one, and as the streets started to come alive again as people filed out of the Grand Mosque, so the terrace got busier and I realised it was probably time I had something to eat.

Once again the Gran Café Central was my dinner destination, another historic location in the little soukh that has been serving delicious Moroccan cuisine to locals and artistic visitors alike for over two centuries. I like to think that once Camille had finished knocking out the Danse Macabre – almost certainly in my room, I’m now convinced – he nipped over the rue Siaghine for a quick absinthe and something decadent and sticky. In the absence of any of that, I had the vegetable tajine and a mint tea. It was not as nice as the couscous, but the bread selection was very nice.

Yesterday, there was a chance meeting on the stairs down to the street with a slightly mad woman who accosted both Guide and me to have a conversation about something we didn’t follow, despite her speaking languages we all apparently understood, in principle, as she rolled something cigarettey.

I didn’t see her today. I fear she may be languishing in a cell somewhere. Perhaps with a sheep.