Morocco, day twenty-two: Tangiers
Babouche, cat, babouche, cat, babouche, cat, a-ya-ya
Fajr was at 5:44 this morning but I quite enjoyed the (mostly) melodious réveil knowing that this was my last full day in Tangier.
As my cough is a little better I felt I should lie in bed a little longer to ensure recovery before taking only a light breakfast – coffee, juice, no whale music – on the terrace of the Café Tingis (the Roman name for Tangier) before heading off to the "Moroccan prices" soukh – so said the man in the hotel – which is to the side of the Cinema Rif, the historic monument opened in 1938 on the Place du 9 Avril 1947.
The Cinema Rif is now home to Cinémathèque de Tanger, a cultural conservation effort responsible for maintaining one of the largest collections of Moroccan and North African films in the world and the conservation of vintage film and poster collections. I felt I should go to the cinema, but there was nothing on that I wanted to see, but I did have a little poke in the café downstairs where I found another Pun Ksy electricity meter on the wall outside. People thought it strange I should photograph it; perhaps they've become used to them.
The Place du 9 Avril 1947 takes its name from the date Sultan Muhammad V delivered the Tangier Speech appealing for the independence and territorial unity of Morocco, which ultimately brought the colonial era to an end. It's now a bustling square-cum-roundabout with fountains in the middle around which buzz all manner of vehicles in varying degrees of horn. Around the eastern flank are some restaurants and little roads down to the fish and food markets, to the south is the cinema Rif and the roads leading into the more contemporary commercial part of Tangier, and to the north among the snack shops and cash machines is the entrance to the old Medina and the Bab Al Fahs which leads to the top of the Rue d'Italie. On the west is the Sidi Bouabid mosque and behind that the Anglican church.
With the Cinema Rif in front of me, I followed the square a few metres to the right and went up the steps at the end of the building to where the stalls with all the clothing are to be found. I'd been told by the receptionist in the hotel that this would be a much better place to find anything to wear that I'd like to take back with me, and using the example of the babouches in yesterday's stamp-buying exercise, they were indeed a third of the price and also came joyfully devoid of curiosity about marital status. The irony is that had I wanted to buy babouches in Fès, I'd have saved another fifty percent or so as Fès is the home of the babouche. How little I knew before I came here.
As it was Friday and my last day, I had little in mind except copy the kitties and lie around sunning myself. Unfortunately, there were no sunning opportunities to be had as the weather for my last full day was not amazing and the roof had been closed off by the hotel because they're having work done. So instead, I decided I should have couscous for lunch because, I have been told, couscous is a Friday lunchtime meal and I'm clearly odd for thinking of it as something one can have at any time of any day. In my case, I wasn't having it at any time of day as the Café Tingis had had a run on at lunchtime and so I had to make do with just a tagine. This was nice, but it was not the traditional Friday lunchtime couscous I'd been building up to.
Instead I had couscous in the evening at the Restaurant Ahlen on the rue des Postes, another recommendation from the hotel receptionist. The couscous was really good, and I had a ginger tea to go with it in an attempt to shift the remains of the Casalurgy. There was much theatrical tea-pouring at other tables; great fun to watch.
The reality that I am leaving such a wonderfully friendly place after nowhere near enough time to explore it sufficiently to do it justice is setting in and it wasn't until the evening when I sat down to do some very last-minute oh-my-good booking of trains and places to stay that I finally committed myself to leaving.
The maximum a European citizen can stay on a tourist visa is 90 days, which I think is the perfect length for my next over-wintering visit. The trip home via Barcelona isn't happening, boo hiss. I thought it would've been cool to do a night in Málaga then get the Iryo to Barcelona and have a night or two before heading home via Canfranc or Toulouse, but I was quickly exposed to the horrors of European prices again so my dreams and schemes shall have to wait until another opportunity for a journey presents itself and instead I've decided to rush home as cheaply as possible. Some people have suggested I'd like to come back for Eid al-Fitr – the end of Ramadan – as everyone dresses up and it's a bit of a party atmosphere.
I'd be up for that were it not perilously close to Easter, for which I'm probably going to England.
After dinner, Guide met with me at NBTA for a final minty tea before a little evening wander and told me that it has been declared that Ramadan will start on Sunday.
The king has also said that nobody is to bother buying sheep to slaughter as the price of sheep has been driven up by insane demand and lack of rainfall and nobody has any money anyway. This pronouncement has brought the price of sheep tumbling down so there might yet be another declaration, although probably not. Guide needed to buy something from the food market, so I tagged along and had one last lungful of spices and olives and all those wonderful smells – apart from the goat, obviously – that have been such a treat for the last three weeks. I nearly bought some harissa. A kitty almost got taken home with me.
Anyway. All that's academic. That's it. Shukran, Morocco. You are awesome.
