Marco Etheridge's Blog, page 11

The Call of Tétouan and Touts

An old room in the old city
The days begin early in Tétouan, Morocco. The building may be built of stone, but the call to prayer permeates everything. There are a great many mosques in and around the Medina, the old city. There are mosques scattered through all of the villages that dot the valley, stretching away to the Mediterranean coast. The faithful must pray before and after sunrise. At 5:30 AM, the Call to Prayer begins to echo from the loudspeakers, first from this mosque, then from the next. It rises to a crescendo of chanting, then fades away. You, good traveler, are now awake, and very aware that you are not in Kansas anymore.
Here is video link to the Call to prayer, recorded from our terrace in Tétouan.
The Call to Prayer

























 Shadows in the Medina

To wander in the Medina is to wander in shadow and light. There are passageways that rarely see the sun, and then only for the briefest time. Tétouan is even more tangled, even more of a maze, than the Kasbah in Tangier. I feel as if this trip has been a sliding scale, growing closer and more maze-like with each town. Sevilla has its quaint lanes and narrow roads, but not as narrow as Tarifa. Tarifa, with all of the tourist boutiques, is a Disneyland version of a Moroccan town. The Kasbah in Tangier defies compass or direction, but the Medina of Tétouan makes even Bangkok look simply and well laid out.
There are far fewer foreigners here than in Chechaouen or Tangier. Fewer tourists mean less meat for the shills and touts. Ah, yes, the joys of the touts. I do not mean to pick on Tétouan, for I love this town.  But the time has come, said the Walrus to the Carpenter, to speak of many things. Many things being Shills and Touts. They are one in the same, more or less, at least in this context. Shills and touts are part of traveling, but when the meat gets thin, the hunters pounce.
You, Dear Traveler, are walking down a narrow lane. You are at peace, soaking up the ambience, enjoying the wonders of the day, this tiny stall, that amazing pile of dates and figs. From nowhere comes a voice, a polygot voice. "Español Señor, Parlez-Vous Francais, English?" He will ask where you are from. "Ah, America! Welcome to Morocco! I used to live in the USA, in Boise, Idaho."  The oddity of imagining this man living in Boise (That's Boy-Cee) Idaho, and pronouncing it correctly, is enough for him to set the hook. This has happened to me all over the world. In Sri Lanka, the shill had lived in Vienna. In Bangkok, the tout had a brother in Seattle. If you said you were from Namibia, the guy would have an uncle that lived in Windhoek. Then comes the pitch, either for his services as a guide, or for some unmissable attraction that is just around the corner. And you cannot win. To stay and talk leads to an endless barrage of how imperative it is to have a guide, or the tragedy of missing the Berber House, which just happens to be owned by his cousin. This is, of course, the cousin who lived, positively, in the same town where you went to school as a child. 
I love the shills and touts. I love to listen to their crazy come-ons. But I love it more the first five times of any given day. After that, it starts to wear thin. For My One, it wears even thinner, and quickly at that. She is my out, my safety valve. While the tout is trying to get his verbal hooks into me, she grabs my sleeve with a gentle tug, steering me away, and cheating me of the wonders I was sure to see in the Berber House. "Ah, so sorry my friend, I have to go. My wife is impatient to flee your sweet blandishments."
 
Not a Shill
Then there are the Fergusons, the self-appointed guides that are sometimes a vexation, and sometimes a blessing. On this day, climbing to the castle above the Medina, my Ferguson was just a sweet kid who wanted to show me his house. That was all he wanted, just to lead me up a few passages so I could see where he lived. Highlight of my day, that.

Climbing through the Medina


 My One and the Passageway























Blue, White, the Medina
We climbed to the castle just to climb. There is no admittance to the fortress, just a fine view at the end of a steep walk. From here, one can see the immense graveyard that stretches down into the town, just outside the walls of the Medina. On the other side is the modern part of town, complete with the King's summer palace. 
Sun, Castle, Palms


















Standing above modern Tétouan

The fortress must have been a sight when it was in good repair. There are fragments of tile mosaic scattered about the walls, on hidden pillars, in shadowed corners. We walked the thing, sweating in the noon sun. From the castle hill, the logical choice was a jaunt through the city of the dead, the vast cemetery just below us. My Heart knows I love a good graveyard.



















The dead stayed dead as we hiked amongst them, small narrow graves cascading down the hill. But there was life in the cemetery as well. Goatherds watched their flocks, nimble goats grazing amongst the white stones. There were goats doing acrobatics, goats on the hoods of parked cars, none of them the least bit concerned with what lay under their hooves.



















Sandwiches, Moraccan-Style
Walking is hungry work, and the modern city beckoned. Outside the tangle of the Medina, we settled in for Moroccan sandwiches. A long baguette is sliced, and the chosen ingredients are mushed into the soft, doughy inside. Through some sort of magic, the meat, vege, and sauce are rolled tightly, transforming the baguette. The result is a sort of baguette crust tube with a delicious filling. One of these fine treats, the Gran Deluxe version, will set a hungry wanderer back 26 dirham, or about three dollars. 

There will be more from Tétouan, because I love this town. But for now, and before the evening Call to Prayer, it's time to say "Ciao for Now!"

Tangier to Tétouan

 My One amongst the Street Market
Sometimes getting lost is its own reward. Sometimes it just leads to sore feet. Not far from our hotel in Tangier, the map showed a tangle of small lanes. The neighborhood is sandwiched between the Boulevard de Fés and Avenue Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdellah. From the map, it looked like the Kasbah without the walled fortifications. 
We walked three long city blocks, crossed Boulevard de Fés, and disappeared into a maze. The place was devoid of even the few tourists one sees in the Kasbah. This neighborhood was the real deal. Two quick twists and we found ourselves immersed in a local street market, a noisy shopping street crammed into a lane not twelve feet wide. The place was seething with folks out for an evening of shopping. From tables of bras and underwear to bootleg CDs, piles of dates to piles of shoes, there was very little that wasn't on offer.


















Fruit and vegetables were piled high on every side. The entire neighborhood seemed to be out for the evening, slowly threading their way through the stalls. There were rickety tables set up down the center of the lane, with stalls and cramped storefronts on either side. Two people could squeeze through the narrow aisles that remained, but only if they liked each other a lot. It was a case of abandoning ones personal-space bubble and plunging in. 
Shopping Tangier-Style























The local folks seemed surprised to see foreigners in this part of town. A smile and a nod were all that was required to receive a warm welcome in return. Trapped in one of the market scrums, I ended up squished against a table full of goods. The stall-keeper held out an arm to steady me. He prevented me from toppling onto his dates and figs, while at the same time giving me a shoulder squeeze and me a big smile. 
We strolled the entire market street, moving with the fits and starts of the crowd. I felt that Tangier had yielded up yet another wonderful surprise. This city is a walking city. There is simply no other way to explore the place. With every walkabout and every wrong turn, we found more gems, more hidden treasures. This last evening in Tangier, we were treated to this amazing market in an amazing neighborhood.

Walking is hungry work. We retired to our food street for some local fare. We started out the meal was Harira, our new favorite soup. The other dish is Zaalouk, an eggplant dish. I love foods that start with a 'Z.'

Paella and Calamari to round things out.
Our last night in Tangier found us lounging on the terrace at the Hotel Chellah. Sipping sweet mint tea over the dark garden, we savored the last of another fine day in this crazy city. As much as we love Tangier, it was time to move on.


















Breakfast time is Café time in Tangier. Our adopted sidewalk spot was just behind our hotel, a great place to have brekkie and watch the city go to work.

Breakfast in Morocco is a bread feast. Gluten-free folks, abandon all hope. The standard fare is a heavy crepe-like roti, round corn bread, a savory roll, and some flat bread. Add butter, honey,  nut paste, and voilá. To drink there is fruit juice and, of course, café au lait. Olives are always there, as they are at every meal.


















The cacophony of the Tangier Bus Station.
Shouldering the backpacks, we walked down the hill from Hotel Chellah. Threading our way past the press of shills and touts, we got out luggage tags and found the platform for our bus. The shouts of the touts rang through the station. A stray kitten took refuge behind our bags. Folks milled about as myriad buses came and went. It was the usual frenetic third-world bus station vibe. 
On the travel chat boards, much is made of how difficult or confusing it is to get from Tangier to Tétouan or Chechaouen. In actuality, nothing could be simpler. Walk down to the bus station the day before you want to leave. There will be ten shills there, all trying to pull you to one of the various bus company windows. Avoid the shills (easier said than done) and read the schedule boards. When you find something that works, buy the tickets. The next day, show up thirty minutes before your bus leaves. Piece of cake. This is a good Standard Operating Procedure across the world. Reliable online schedules disappear pretty quickly as one gets further away from Europe or North America. 
 
On to Tétouan!
The bus wound its way out of Tangier, heading for the open country east of the city. This has been the wettest (and coldest) spring that folks around here can remember. The hills and fields were a lush green. Herdsmen (and women) were grazing their sheep, goats, cows and horses on the thick grass along the highway. Donkeys bearing laden cargo frames pulled obstinately at their lead ropes.  
The Foothills of the Rif Mountains
Our bus climbed the foothills of the Rif Mountains, dropped into valleys, then twisted back up into the mountains. After an hour and a half, the full height of the Rif swam into view. The bus eased into the white-washed town of Tétouan.

Here is where it all went wrong
We were out of the bus station and into the sun-washed streets of Tétouan. The rest of the foriegners had stayed on the bus, bound for the tourist-darling town of Chechaouen. We were going to hide out here, but first we had to find our hotel.
When traveling as a team, it is best to trust the instincts of the entire team, not just one maniac. The maniac (that would be me) was sure that he knew the way to the hotel, a hotel hidden deep in one of the most tangled Medinas of North Africa. So... I screwed the pooch. Big-Time.
Two kilometers later, and far off course, I finally listened to the instincts of My One. She proved to be right, of course. I have an unusually good sense of direction, but when I go wrong, I go spectacularly wrong. Such was the case this day. Then, of course, I had to have a good sulk whilst ceremoniously kicking myself in the ass. I admit that this is childish behavior, and I also admit that I take a perverse pleasure in the process. It is not a great participatory sport, however. My Love tolerated as much as she could, then she found us a good café.
Islamic Cemetery, Tétouan
One of the great things about getting lost, besides the childish fits, is seeing stuff that you would have missed. Granted, it was two kilometers out of the way, and another two back, but we got to see an amazing graveyard.
 
Goats and Graves!
The main street on which our hotel was located.
Finally, after wandering into the Medina, getting lost, and paying a shill five dirham, we were at the hotel. Another lesson learned. Even with a screen shot of Google Maps, a normally good sense of direction, and an over-supply of good luck, things can go very, very wrong. If your Baby says "I think it's the other way..." at least be open to the possibility.

Looking over the Medina to the Mediterranean Sea
With the room secured and the bags stowed, all was well. We plopped ourselves on the roof-top terrace and enjoyed the afternoon. There will be more from Tétouan, including a brief dissertation on the Touts and Shills. For now, it is time to wait for the Call to Prayer. From Tétouan, Morocco, it is "Ciao for Now!'

Tangier Deux

Night, Tangier
When night falls, Tangier comes alive. Don't misunderstand. While the city vibrates like a live wire during the daytime, night brings everyone into the streets. Maybe the cramped apartments become too claustrophobic, or maybe the old Moroccan matriarchs just want a bit of peace. Whatever the reason, the nightime streets of Tangier become positively electric. It is time to walk, to find a cafe' table, to sip tea, eat, watch the night-world unfold. 
The cafes are primarily the province of men. Some cafes look as if they have never been graced with a woman's presence. Perhaps the Moroccan men feel that the sacred cafe would be profaned. As it is in Southern India, so it is here. Most of the folks one deals with are men. Store clerks, waiters, cooks, and market stall owners; in this Musilm country, they are men. There are exceptions of course, just as there are modern women who eschew the headscarf or veil. Still, a traveler will notice quickly that this is, at least in public, a male society.

The best dinner crew in Tangier
Find a tiny shoebox of a restaurant, check out the fresh fish in the display case, and belly up to a wee table. The waiter will throw down two big sheets of rough, white paper. The menu is in Arabic, so try your best Spanish or French. One of the two will probably work. Spanish is the second language here in northern Morocco.

Baguettes will appear. If the friendly cooks offer you Harira, jump at it. A staple soup of this region, Harira is a thick chicken and tomato based soup, hearty and delicious. There will be chickpeas in the bottom, egg white floating in the spices, lots of herbs. Tear that baguette apart and start dunking.

A plate of paella and a plate of grilled sardines will make a nice second course. Eat what you want, make a big mess, it does not matter. The paper will catch all the bread crumbs and fish bones. The same paper, torn into squares, serves as a napkin. The total cost for this feast? Forty-five dirhams. That comes to about $5.50 in US dollars, dinner for two. 

Night, Pool, Tangier
It is hard to peel oneself off of the streets, but a good traveler has to sleep sometime. The end of the night was spent sitting on the terrace with Te' Normale (strong, sweet tea with gobs of mint leaves) and a good cigar. Many folks take the ferry to Tangier, spend one night, and journey on to one of the more well-known tourist destinations. Fez, Rabat, Casablanca, these all lie to the south. Grimy, electric, noisy Tangier is passed by. The poor sods don't know what they are missing.

Modern Tangier, Waterfront
Stand in just the right spot on the beachfront promenade, and one can see the distinctive outline of Gibralter. From a distance, the modern skyline along the water shines white. At closer range, the age of the city becomes visible. There are empty facade between modern buildings, cracked stairways leading to twisting streets. But Tangier is getting a facelift. There is the new Tangier Port Med, ready to receive ferries and cargo ships. The shiny new city marina is just about to open. The kilometers-long promenade has gotten a facelift. Walk up the hill, however, behind the wall of white hotels, and the city changes quickly.

Jewish Cemetery, Outside the Kasbah

Above the ferry harbor, close onto the walls of the Kasbah, lies the old Jewish cemetery. Push open the gate and enter a different world. The admission is free, but the Moroccan woman who tends the place will hit you up for a few dirham. It is worth it. Historic Tangier had a large Jewish community. The tightly packed graves attest to that history. 
This is special place, a lonely place, and one that is seldom visited. It is just off the eastern entrance to the Kasbah, opposite the stone stairs. It is easily missed, but well worth the effort to find.

Spanish and Hebrew tell us of the dead.

The east entrance to the Kasbah. Dating from the 1500's, the Kasbah defies maps. This is where you get lost, immerse yourself in the state of being lost. Wander, follow whichever passageway looks best, and mind your head. There are archways that are lower than you are tall. 

From the east gate, one will find the American Legation Museum. The Sultanate of Tangier was the first foreign power to recognize the revolutionary United States of America. By the early 1800's, this building was the American presence in Tangier. While it is an interesting museum, it is also a rare chance to gain access to hidden interior courtyards of the Kasbah.

The American Legation Museum

Looking down on one of the Kasbah passageways, a rare view.
I love Tangier, but let me paint a realistic picture. This is not going to be everyones favorite city. Tangier is many things. It is gritty, sometimes dirty, and noisy. Tangier is crowded with folks on foot. The sidewalks, lanes, and passageways are teaming with people getting on with their daily lives. Pushcarts, Tuk-Tuks, and scooters will squeeze up impossibly narrow lanes. A traveler in Tangier will get in touch with his or her olfactory senses, as wonderful and not-so-wonderful aromas mix and mingle. Communication is accomplished with an ever-changing patois of Moroccan Arabic, Berber, Spanish, and French. Traffic in Tangier is a disaster, but drivers on an incredibly busy street will routinely stop for pedestrians. There are beggars here. Remember that a generous hand is well-thought of in Islam. School kids will call "Hola!" They are hoping for a reply, and smiling. Throw a sing-song "Hola" back at them and they will giggle. Food, color, noise, light, crumbling stone, polished tile, honking horns, lonely passageways, sea-side promenades, all of this is Tangier. 
Orderly, Tangier is not. Fascinating, yes. Beware, this is a place that will suck you in and ruin your itinerary. Go with it, there are serious rewards. We bought ourselves another day here. There is simply too much walking to do, too much exploring, and too many great cafes from which to watch the world go by.
From one of my new favorite cities, remember to travel well and often. I wil have one more view of Tangier because it deserves one more post. Until then, "Ciao for Now!"

Tangier

Mosque, University District, Tangier
Tangier (or Tanger, or Tangiers) is a vibrating, pulsing sort of place, exotic and energized. The streets are busy, but not just with cars. In the modern city, the sidewalks are teaming with folks going here and there. In the old city, scooters and the odd Tuk-tub dodge hordes of walking folk.

Old Tangier
Tangier is an ancient city, a city destroyed and rebuilt in cycles. Five centuries BCE, this was a Berber town. Then came the progression of empires and conquerors. There were the Phoenicians, then the Carthaginians, and the Romans. Rome fell and the Vandals came. These were the original Vandals, one of the 'Barbarian' tribes that swept through the tottering Roman Empire. From them we get the English phrase "to vandalize." See, history is cool, and there is lots of it here in Tangier.

Modern Tangier has a history that is just as complicated as its ancient history. The colonial invasions continued, with Portugal, Spain, and France being the major players. Tangier was an independent sultanate, and the first foreign power to recognize the fledging United States of America. This recognition came even while the founding fathers were busy fighting the British King. By the 1920's, Tangier was declared an international city, protected by agreements between European powers. The last sultan was exiled, and the city became a hot-bed of spies, plots, and intrigue. Everyone wanted a piece of Morocco, and everyone had their spooks in the city.

Old Cemetery and City Park, Tangier
We set out walkabout in this most walkable of cities. Tangier sprawls over the hills that rise from the Straits of Gibralter. Some of the walking is pretty steep. Even in modern Tangier, I do not believe a traveler can find a single ninety-degree corner. There is no grid here, no orderly city blocks. Get ready for a navigational challenge. Walk through a city park and realize that it is also a crumbling cemetery. Turn a corner at a modern apartment building and step into a neighborhood of past centuries. This is normal fare here in Tangier.

Streets quickly become markets. Across a small street from a crumbling graveyard, people are busy shopping. Fresh fruits and vege are the stars of this show, but there are other products for sale just down the hill. Cell phones, stereos, bike tires, there is always something you need in the market.
We walked a bit of modern Tangier to get the feel of it. The city is energetic and noisy. Traffic is hectic on the cramped streets, and there is a good bit of horn honking. Crossing a busy street is an excercise in trust. Like Saigon, one simply steps into the street and walks at a stately pace. No running, no erratic movements, and the flow of taxis will slow or stop to provide passage. 

The entrance to the Kasbah
To enter the Kasbah is to travel back in time. The Kasbah is ancient, a bizarre and wonderful maze. The Portuguese are reported to have built most of the fortification walls, but who did what and when is still a matter of debate. What you, dear traveler, need to know is this: You are going to get lost. Then you will get lost again. Just go with it, it is great fun. Uphill takes one to the battlements and half-crumbled walls above the harbor. Downhill takes one to the front gateway. If you run into a fortification wall, you just found the edge of the Kasbah. Think of it as a pinball game with yourself as the pinball.

Wizards abound
Kaftans are part of normal dress here, both in the Kasbah and in modern Tangier. There are all sorts of combinations, from clerical gowns to striped Berber kaftans. Some of the women who wear kaftans also were full burka face veils. My favorites are the brown kaftans with the extra-pointy hoods.

Walking the Kasbah
I suppose that the progression from Southern Spain to Northern Africa is good training. Starting with the narrow lanes and passageways of Sevilla, one ends up in the incredible labyrinth of the Kasbah. Not only are the paths of the Kasbah narrow, steep, and twisting, they are often covered as well. Up stairs, down stairs, ducking ones head to avoid a stone arch, it is a magical maze, a maze that people live in.
The Kasbah was featured in Jim Jarmusch's darkly wonderful film "Only Lovers Left Alive." In fact, one of the first things I saw in Tangiers was a roundabout below the Kasbah walls that was featured in a driving shot from that movie. As we explored the Kasbah more remote passageways, I looked for scenes I remembered from the movie. 

A word of preparation. You are not in Kansas anymore. Your hotel will probably be equipped with western style sit-down toilets. The rest of Tangier won't. Adapt, improvise, overcome.

Cafe Au lait, Te normal,  Kasbah
Cafe life is the heartbeat of Tangier. There are cafes everywhere, full of men sipping cafe au lait or sweet-minty tea normal. The cafes range from the size of a closet, to large glass-fronted places covering an entire corner. We found our own cafe behind the hotel, a comfy little sidewalk joint called Katrina's. Two coffees will set one back 15 Dirham in a hotel or fancy cafe. The price goes down from there. Our place was 8 dirhams for a coffee, about one US dollar. 

The ruins of Cine Alcazar, Kasbah, Tangier
We wandered Tangier until hunger snuck up on us. We were still learning the basic breakdown of Tangier eateries. There are, first and foremost, the cafes. There you will find tea, coffee, perhaps some pastry. Then there are the tiny snack places, where little plates are served for very cheap prices. The food is good, but the ambiance is somewhat lacking for a full meal. Finding the restaurants is bit more of a challenge.  

Folks in Tangier love soup and they love lemon.

We found a food place off a passageway not four feet wide. The interior was bathed in unshaded fluorescent lights. The walls, floor to ceiling, were tiled in geometric patterns of dark greens and blues. Badly faded black-and-white photos hung on the walls, photos depicting life in the Kasbah.
There was no menu. An old man recited the food choices for us, the recitation in a quiet and sonorous english. We ordered soup and mixed kabob. The food was good, accompanied by the ever-present Moroccan white bread. Lunch for two, with a good tip, came to about six US dollars.

Flolurescent Light, Tile, Kasbah
For the most part, people are very friendly here. They are also trying to get somewhere, and the quarters are tight. Walking in the Kasbah is a contact sport. You are going to touch people, and they are going to touch you. It is inevitable. A smile and a nob will work wonders. I am a foreigner, different, so people look. They are not smiling when they look at me. I smile and nod, they break into a big smile and respond. It seems to work everytime, even with the stern old men.

Sunset from our room, Tangier

Night Scene, Tangier
And I thought it was busy during the daytime. Evenings are when Tangier puts on its social face and goes out to be seen. Families promenade, couples court, old men hang out. Vendors sell paper cones of sunflower seeds. Folks sit and talk, spitting sunflower husks on the cracked paving tiles. Henna Girls set up shop in front of a cannon, waiting for customers. 
We found the nirvana of restaurant streets not three blocks from out hotel. Hidden between several big boulevards, this became our feeding ground for the next few days. But that is the stuff of the next post. 
We were walked out, happy, and tired. It was time to head back to the Hotel Chellah, our time warp from the 1960's. There are so many odd things about this hotel, I don't know where to start. The incredible vibe of "Modern Tangier, 1962!" Is so amazing, it covers a lot of the hotel's warts. The evening was done, and night was here. I wanted only a quiet cigar on the hotel terrace, which is what I had. 
From crumbling, dirty, wonderful, vibrant, noisy, and electric Tangier, it is time to say "Ciao for Now!"



 


  

Dire Straits

Tariff, Spain
It is morning, the wind is still howling, but the rain has moved on. Saying "I hate wind" in Tarifa is like saying "I hate snow" at Vail. The locals tend to get a bit snarly, as if you were picking their pocket. This day we were leaving Traifa behind. In fact, we were leaving Europe behind, making the jump to the African continent. Tangier (or Tanger) is a mere twelve miles across the straits of Gibralter. How hard could it be?

The head of the ferry queue and through security.
The ferry was scheduled for a One PM departure. We were told to be at the terminal a half-hour prior. No problem. The queue stretched through the entire ferry terminal. It was a sort of quiet chaos. The lack of any viable system would become more and more apparent as the day wore on. At that moment, we knew that there was no way that ferry was going to be leaving on time. There was nothing to to but wait.

Chaos in action.
How a system breaks down. First, high winds on the straits cause the ferry folks to cancel a sailing. The ripples from this are passengers forced onto other boats. To move the huge queue forward, they process people from the queue through security, where the queue then bumps up against Spanish (Schengen) passport control. Once out of passport control, there is a holding area for passengers. The next ferry is not ready for boarding. We did not know why, but we would eventually find out at the other end. 
Because the holding area is so chock full of people, the passport folks stop processing any more travelers. So the queue comes to another halt. The passport guys make a feeble attempt to get folks to squeeze tighter in the holding area, but it basically comes to naught. The whole time, there are no announcements, no direction, and no supervision by the ferry terminal staff. Watching the spectacle was a bit like watching an ugly Christmas sweater being unraveled. It was the only show in town, so I watched. Total time in the ferry terminal: 12:30 -- 1:50. The ferry finally embarked at 2:10.

My One, all smiles as we finally get aboard.

This should be the easy part, yes?

Adios Tarifa
There was a new line forming up, a queue inside the ferry. Folks were in line before the ferry slipped from the dock. It turns out that this line was for the Moroccan passport stamp, a line that everyone would have to go through. The line was too long to bother with. If they wanted to get a stamp early, fine. We would get ours when we got to Tangier. Foolish, foolish first-time travelers we were.

Yet another queue, the passport stamp line.


Isla de Tarifa from the water, the southernmost point in Europe.
The skies were clearing, but the winds were high, sweeping across the straits from Africa. The boat began a gentle roll, running half in the trough. And in response, there was a gentle moan that ran through the boat. The passport queue looked a little less steady. The seas ran a bit higher, and the ferry crested a few waves. The gentle moan was less gentle. Then the seasickness bags came out. 
I'm lucky. I do not get seasick. Even working the Bering Sea, the motion-sickness thing just never bothered me. I remember reading that this was a sign of a deformed inner ear. Maybe that's the reason, or maybe I just love the schadenfreude of watching others collapsing into their little blue bags. That could be it. I can be a right bastard at times.  
The boat lurched along, the queue swayed in place, and people moaned. That was the trip. Land hove into sight, and then we were in the harbor of Tangiers. The one hour crossing was, indeed, a one hour crossing. But the passport line was not moving and, without a stamp, no one was getting off the boat.

So we queued.

And we queued.

I could see Tangier from the boat deck. I could stand in the Tangier sunshine. But we could not get ashore. The Moroccan passport folks have done what I believed no one else could do: They have made the Nicaraguan passport folks look efficient. Tough duty, that. It was more than an hour before we stepped up to the harried and angry Moroccan passport stampers. No friendly welcome here, just three uniformed guys stamping for all they were worth, and still going at a snail's pace. But we were done. The entire ferry run had lasted four hours. Elapsed speed of travel, three miles per hour. We could have walked it, given some flotation shoes.

Tangier, Morocco! This is the first time in my life that I have set foot on the continent of Africa. We did our best to navigate the route to the hotel, but overshot it. In a patois of French and Spanish, we managed to get back on track, but not without some harshness between us. My One and I are a phenomenal traveling team. Still, four hours of queuing and trying not to get seasick will test anyone's last nerve. We managed to find our equilibrium, and we then managed to find our hotel. All-in-all, a tough travel day, and a high payment levied by the Travel Gods. But hey, we are in Tangier, right? Exotic gateway to Africa. Time to get after it! 

The way to the Kasbah
The streets of Tangier are lively, bustling with folks, and folks selling things. There are cafes everywhere. Men sit at the sidewalk tables, sipping coffee or sweet mint tea. We passed the cafes and shops, heading for the tangled maze of the Kasbah, the old fortified city.

Night, Tangier, looking down on the Kasbah

Main Street of the Kasbah, Tangier
Our route led us to the walls of the Kasbah, up a set of stone stairs, and under a white archway. Through the archway was a maze of twisting passages, many of them covered. It is akin to walking through five foot wide tunnels that wander crazily. The Kasbah makes the tangle of Sevilla look like a well-ordered grid. We followed our noses, our instincts, and trusted to luck. Unbelievably, we walked directly to the American Legation Museum, closed at this hour. At least it was a landmark. With only one short backtrack, we found the cafe we were looking for. We were welcomed, escorted to the above-street terrace, and settled in for an evening meal. 

Tangine Poulet, Standard Fare in Tangier.

The Souk, Kasbah, Tangier
Of course, we had to walk home a different way, getting lost being half the fun. Walking through Tangier is a gritty, noisy, magical thing. It is also a bit like taking part in a wizard convention. Many folks wear traditional kaftans. Some are clerics, or religious folks of certain sects. Others are simply wearing a kaftan to keep warm. There are women wearing kaftans, some of them with full face-veils. I swear that I saw Yoda, or at least Yoda's second cousin. It is like walking on Tatooine.
A hard travel day, but a travel day with rich reward. One short evening in Tangier was enough to cause us to extend our stay by another day. We are ready to explore, ready to get lost, and happy not to have to travel for a few days. There will be much more about Tangier. It is a place that demands description, demands attention. It is the adopted city of Paul Bowles, the destination of the Beat writers, the debauched refuge of rock bands. 
Enough, I am tired. This will be my first night in Africa, a new continent, a new country, a new city. Who could lead a more charmed life? From Tangier, Morocco, it is time to say "Ciao for Now."

Town with an Identity Disorder

Some days are easy, some days are not so easy, and some days are just weird. So it goes with traveling. We pulled up stakes in Barbate and navigated the local bus from Barbate out to Vejer de la Blanca, Vejer on the Bridge. There was a three hour wait for the main bus, but the Travel Gods smilied on us. There was a great Meson right next to the bus stop. It was cafe time!

Hanging out in style in the tiny hamlet of Vejer de la Blanca.

Tuna burger, calamari, all the good things that make waiting bearable.

Eventually we piled onto the crowded Cadiz-Algeciras bus. Barbate is about halfway between the two. This was a busy travel day so we were lucky to get seats anywhere close to each other. Our destination was Tarifa, the southernmost point on the European continent. We knew a bit about Tarifa, but we were about to learn a lot more.
For forty-five minutes, the bus climbed over steeper and steeper grades. There were higher slopes on both sides of our route. Strung across the ridges of the mountains were giant wind turbines. Huge  modern versions of Quixote's windmills swung above the Spanish rock. On this part of the coast, the wind howls off of the Atlantic. Clue Number One: Tarifa is windy, hence its fame as one of the wind-sport capitals of Europe. 

Modern Main Street, Tarifa, Spain.
The bus pulled into the modern streets of Tarifa. Every other storefront was a wind-surfing or wind-kiting business. Thee were gear shops, wind-kiting schools and rentals, mountain bike shops, and signs for vegan food. It was like landing in Boulder, Colorado, or Moab. "We are here to sell you the gear." 

Kawabunga, Dood! Surf's Up!
I have been to lots of ski towns, lots of climbing towns, and lots of trekking towns. I get the vibe, the vegan goodness, the pushing of limits. The thing is, this is still the coldest spring the Spanish can remember. We had a nice break in Barbate, with two days of sun and relative warmth. Here in Tarifa, however, the Atlantic gale was slamming into the coast, with huge grey clouds along for the ride. If I was riding a kite-board, snug in my wetsuit, I would care less. But we are walking down a grey street, on a grey day, getting blown backwards by a cold wind. 

Here is where the identity crisis begins. The first impression of Tarifa is a moderately successful sports-tourism town suffering from a slow start to the boom season. The wind-kiters and surfers must be somewhere, but they aren't on the streets of the town. But venture a bit further downhill, and one is suddenly at the archway of the old city. Hey, this is cool, and it's out of the wind. Inside the old city, there are the typical labyrinths of narrow streets and smaller passageways. There are also a plethora of trendy shops and restaurants, each geared towards the well-heeled sports crowd. If you want to get your healthy-yoga-organic-new-age Thang going, this is the place to do it. 

Old town, just before the rains cut loose.

I can see Africa!
Tarifa is also a transit town. Ferries sail the straits between Spain and Africa, carrying cars and travelers across the windy gap. This is the end of the Atlantic and the beginning of the Mediterranean. Gibraltar lies not far to the northeast. This was why we were here, to make the jump to Morocco.

Clouds above the ferry terminal.
We were fleeing Spain ahead of the Easter Holiday crowds. Tangier, Morocco, that's going to be our new hideaway. A simple one hour ferry ride across the straits and we would be back in the land of cheap hotels and cheap street food. 

See the little pointiy bit where Europe and Africa almost slip each other the tongue? That's where Tarifa is.

Isla de Tarifa, the Southernmost point in Europe.

Did I mention that it is windy as hell here? And cold? And Rainy?

This guy is having fun. Here is where the town makes their money.

Okay, time to say something nice about the town. The food is really good here. Not cheap, but good. This is a tourist town that aims at the folks who can afford expensive sports gear. There are a huge number of trendy cafes and bars, most of which seem to be of a high level of quality. Our place was a busy, family-run restaurant. The food was great, the service was great, and it was fun to watch the people show.

All that's left of my poor, dead fish.
First, to be fair, the weather in Tarifa sucked. This always colors my impressions. The modern town is cheerless and bleak. The old town reminds me of a medieval ski-resort. Not a bad place to spend one night, unless the streets are sheeted with cold-ass rain driven on a biting wind. So, yeah, there was that. I just didn't connect with Tarifa.
In summer weather, there is a lot to do here. There are Roman ruins up the coast, hiking trails in the hills, and birdwatching in the nearby national park. And there are all the water-sports one could want. When it's grey and nasty, get a wetsuit and maybe it will be fun.
So, is Tarifa a sports town, a transit town, or an historic town? I suppose the answer is all three, maybe, but I am going to be glad to climb onto the ferry and get the hell out of here. The weather forecast for Tangier is good, sunny and warmer. And hey, it's Africa! How cool is that? We have our ferry tickets in hand and we are ready to go.
From windy, Not-My-Favorite-Town, Tarifa, Spain: "Ciao for Now!"

Sand versus Barbate

Barbate, Spain, sits on a lovely beach of talcum-fine sand. The wind comes into the small bay, blowing directly off of the Atlantic Ocean. A long promenade separates the vacation apartments from the sandy beach. Here is where the locals do battle. It is a battle of Sand versus Barbate. A small army of local volunteers, armed with the tools of battle, attempt to fend off the invasion of the wind-blown sand.
Wherever there is a depression, a curb, a window sill, or a balcony three stories above the street, there is sand. The wind swirls the stuff into every imaginable crevice and cranny. Left untended, the metal window shutters will be coated in sand. Walking the promenade, I imagined the entire town buried five feet deep were it not for the valiant volunteers. The heavy lifting is done with specialized Sand-Scooper-Uppers. The SSUs are modified street sweepers, fitted with a scoop, a carrying bin, and a scraper arm. The bigger sand drifts are attacked with Bobcat mini-loaders. The rest of the work, the curbs, gutters, and the like, are cleaned with shovels, brooms, and big dustpans.

There are some things you simply are not allowed to do on the Barbate beach. No camping I understand. I see why fires would be a bad idea, and littering is always déclassé. I can tell you from direct experience that the local Spanish folk completely ignore the ban on dogs. I never saw a horse, so suppose that ban is respected. Why there would be a prohibition of showering ones canteen is beyond me. The same is true for throwing your racket. Why would that be a problem? It is a mystery to me.

A river runs through the town and out into the bay. There is band of silty water that is carried across the bay, out past the breakwater, and into the Atlantic. Deep blue water on the far side of the bay, green-blue water along the shore, and a lighter brown band through the center.
Along the river banks are the skeletons of tuna boats. In past times, tuna were fished with a combination of nets and hoisting. The tuna were corralled in a seine-type net. The fishermen worked from small wooden boats fitted with short masts. The masts were not for sails, but rather for hoisting blocks. The huge tuna were gaffed, and the gaff hook attached to a line. The gaff line was then swung through a block on the hoisting mast and the big tuna were winched into the boat.

Tuna boats from a bygone era.

Ii is still the off-season here, too cold for swimming, but not so cold that the locals aren't ready for the tourists. Our vacation apartment building was almost empty, but that will change. Atop the building, the pool is filled and ready. There is the blue of the pool, and the green-brown-blue of the bay.

Lunch is big meal here in southern Spain. There are a few places open, enough to feed the locals and a few stray tourists. The Menu Del Dia is the way to go a lunch. A first plate, a second plate, a dessert and a drink. Depending on the locale, this large lunch will set a traveler back 7-9 Euro. Today I went with the paella as a first plate. As always, there are olives and bread.

The second plate was pieces of pork loin, papas, and a big of veg. Dessert was flan, lovely eggy flan.

What does one do in an off-season beach town? Relax, enjoy a fantastic balcony, a lovely coffee, or a good cigar. Choose your poison, slow down, embrace the passing of time. There are walkabouts, real hikes, or hanging with the locals on the beach. If you simply must do something, I suppose one could help the volunteers battle the sand. 
I find that I am not the only one who enjoys a half-deserted beach town. I have gotten a good bit of feedback from folks since my last post. It seems that the charms of being one where there are normally many is not an uncommon joy. We will continue to enjoy our quiet hideaway. Tomorrow is a travel day. We have to flee the hordes of travelers that Semana Santos brings. It is the week of Easter holidays here in Spain. Schools are out and folks are on the move. Despite this being one of the coldest springs the locals can remember, hotel prices with double, and quiet little towns will become busy little towns. 
We are heading across the straits to Morocco, there to hide out with our Muslim brothers and sisters. But that is in the future and we are in the quiet present, the gloaming of the day on the Atlantic shore. From Barbate, Spain, remember to travel well, travel often, and Ciao for Now! 

Barbate Hideaway

Battling the sand incursion
Barbate is a small beach resort on the southwestern coast of Spain. During the high season, it is packed with Spanish families. But now is the shoulder season, the calm before the tourist storm. I love a beach resort in the off-season. There is a sleepy quality, a quiet waiting. More cafes and bars are closed than are open. Locals hang out at the few businesses that brave the off-season. This is the time that the town belongs to them.

Spanish Prickly Pear along the trail
Barbate sits below a spur of the coastal mountains. There are ancient villages perched on the hills above the sea. Hiking trails lead directly from the town into the hills. One can wander the winding trails to the headlands that form the bay. On a sunny day it is a great place for a long, lonesome walk.

Barbate, nestled into its small bay on the coast of the Atlantic.

The trails wander along the cliffs, high above the beach. Below us, surfers try to catch a ride on the moderate surf. We can hear their laughter as it echoes off the water. There are a few other hikers about, but for most of the day we have the trails to ourselves. Above us, a few kilometers behind the cliffs, are scattered villages that make up the Frontera de Vejer.

My One on a lonely trail above the Atlantic.

The sun shines on the surf below us, the birds put on a show along the trail. Swallows cruise the cliff face, hunting for tasty bugs. There are black-winged ibis, their long necks and bills tucked into a streamline as they fly past. The sky is a deep, brilliant blue, the sun etching everything in a crystalline glow.

Barbate, far behind us now. And the trail just keeps going, a pathway that will lure one far from home. "Just a bit further, just around that next bend..."


At the end of long walk, if is a great thing to find a family cafe just waiting for a pair of footsore walkers. Barbate is famous for Atun. Tuna fishing is a big part of the local economy and history. We chowed down on grilled tuna, frites, and something called a Russian salad. Cross up a good potato salad with an even better tuna salad and you get close to the thing.
We have three days to enjoy the quiet of Barbate, three nights in our beach apartment with a glorious balcony. There is not much to do here aside from walking, eating, hanging out, and relaxing. Tough duty, but someone has to do it.
There will be more from here, but there are beaches to walk and tuna to eat. From Barbate, Spain, it's time to say Ciao for Now!

Cadiz to Barbate

Morning in Southern Spain and, as we all know, that means cafe' y tostada. Today I jumped off the high-dive, going for the 'red butter.' Not butter at all, this toast spread is made from special pig fat, peppers, and some other savory stuff. I am experiencing two distinct sensations whilst I am eating this spread. The first is that this is really unusual, tasty, and filling. The second is that this pig-lard concoction cannot possibly be good for anyone. But I eat it anyway.

The sun is shining and we have a whole morning for walkabout. The afternoon means a bus ride further down the coast, but our bags are packed and stashed at the hotel desk. It is time to explore some more.

We stopped for a second coffee near the busy mercado. The good Spanish shoppers were out in droves, picking up fresh fish, fruit and veggies.

Orange shrimp, red shrimp, white shrimp, we got 'em.

Castillo San Sebastián 
It was the perfect morning for expoloring. The sky was unbelievably blue, and the wind had mellowed to a gentle breeze. It was time to walk the causeway to Castillo San Sebastián. The surf had been too high on the previous day, but this morning the tide was out and the reefs and shoals waiting to be climbed over.

The wide Atlantic Ocean, from whence the Pirates would appear.

The surf pounds the causeway and the surf often wins. This was where we were supposed to turn back. I kept going.

The Castillo at low tide.

Lots of rocks and tide pools to fall off of or in to.

Slippery walking, but worth it.

My One, safely atop the causeway and not at all inclined to climb down.

We had a last walk through the narrow streets, soaking up as much of Cadiz as possible. I will miss this town.

A friendly public service announcement from the local folks. I love me some solid anti-fascist Graffitti. 

If you can't do your bit to smash fascism, I suppose you could make up for it by eating a few sweet little penitentes. I think they look like a cross between South Park characters and Smurfs. I don't know how many one has to eat to get absolution, but it is a sweet indulgence. (Bad Pun, Bad! Bad! Down Boy, Heel!)
The time came for shouldering the backpacks. We trudged the edge of the old city until we emerged into the modern and busy Cadiz. Past the train station, we found our bus stop. All was well. A scant hour, and seven Euro later, we were hiking through the streets of Barbate. Barbate is a funny little beach town that is popular with Spanish tourists. The town has a great beach right off of the promenade. This is the shoulder season, and one of the coldest springs the Spanish can remember. Cold or not, there will be hordes of tourists here for Easter Week. We are fleeing just ahead of the rush. Right now, Barbate is quiet and mostly empty, with busy residents sweeping sand and painting buildings. The tourists (and money) are not far behind.

The view from our balcony. Most of the vacation apartments are still empty.

Shadows getting long on the promenade. We are going to take three days and do some serious hiding out. Barbate seems to be the right place to do it. Walks, food, long sits on the balcony, that's what is on the agenda. I love a beach town in the off season. There is a certain something, an ambience, like the ghosts of summers past.
From Barbate, Spain, it's time to say Ciao for Now! Remember to travel well and travel often.












 

Cadiz Walkabout

A Spanish Barman who takes toast seriously
Morning in Cadiz begins with cafe' y tostada, coffee and toast. What you spread on your toast is up to you, and the variety is seemingly endless. Whether smeared with olive oil, butter and jam, or pig lard, toastada is how the day begins. My One was still sleepy, so I ventured out alone. The bar next to our Hostal had everything that I needed. There was a zinc-topped bar to belly up to, an assortment of early morning Spanish gents, and a proper barman behind the counter. Some of the regulars were already nursing shots of aguardiente with their coffee. The pungent smell of the firewater was a novel accompaniment to my brekkie. I was the only foreigner in the place. It was a fine dose of local culture with which to start the day. 

Second Breakfast al fresco
With My Love was up and moving, it was time to find an outdoor cafe'. Here in Southern Spain, coffee and drinks are never a problem. Ditto for bread and sweets. Woe betide the traveler, however, who misses the strange time windows for real food. Breakfast is, as mentioned, a coffee and toast sort of affair. There are local spots that offer a more meal-like brekkie, but don't get there late. The same is true for lunch. From noonish until two PM, lunch is a big deal. After two, well, it's back to coffee and bakery stuff. From two until about four, there is not much of anything, including an open store. Almost everything shuts up tight. From four until six, stores start to open up again. From six until eight PM, it is time to hit the bars for coffee or drinks. Dinner begins around eight PM at the earliest and can run until midnight. Get used to eating late or go hungry. 

Doggie pals are part of the cafe' scene.

No Spanish town complete without the local Mercado
Fueled and caffeinated, it was time for walkabout. Cadiz may be one of my new favorite walking cities. Many of the narrow streets and lanes are devoid of vehicular traffic. There is the occasional scooter or car to dodge, but they are slow-moving, and the drivers are polite. Many of the cobbled lanes are pedestrian only. Wander this way to the Atlantic, that way to Castillo San Sebastián, or get lost trying to find another small plaza. Now matter where one turns, there is something else to discover. Out on the promenades, there are wide-ranging views across the breakwaters and surf. Turn away from the water and the world becomes a tangle of narrow passageways. What I would not give for a time-machine and a trip back to Cadiz before the internal combustion engine was invented. As it is, Cadiz is itself a sort of time capsule. 
We found the local mercado and cruised the aisles of veg and fruit, meats and fish. I dreamed of buying crates of fresh fruits and fish to ship back to Vienna, especially the fish. The star of the show here is tuna, huge slabs of red tuna. But also on offer are a stunning variety of other seafood, from fresh sardines and multi-colored shrimp, to weird-looking skates and rays. Give me a tiny kitchen in Cadiz, a short walk to the mercado, and I would live a happy life. Well, I already live a happy life, but I suppose I could be even happier.

A lovely garden photographed in the worst light of the day. Sorry. Sorry Gus. Sorry.
There are wonderful parks along the Atlantic side of the old city, with exotic plants from Africa and the Tropics. Gravel walkways pass formal topiary gardens, strange Dragon Trees, and fat-bellied palms. Raucous parrots race about, squawking and carrying on. 

Statues of side-eyed virgins, dead heroes, or famous poets, adorn the plazas. Some of the plazas are intimate and quiet, while others are crammed with busy cafes. I love the Spanish custom of memorializing famous writers. Sure, they go in for bronze patriots as well, but it is a welcome sign of culture to erect a bronze bust of a modernist poet beside the long-dead heroes.

Step into the city and it is as if you have wanderered into a maze of canyons. The world is close and shadowed.

Step out of the narrow streets and the vistas across the huge space of the Atlantic Ocean are immense.

Ensalada Mixta and Carne Merchada.
Lunch time, Tapas time. There are two basic choices of lunch. One can find a tapas bar, which is a cinch, or one can look for a Menu del Dia sign. The Menu del Dia is, as the name suggests, a Preis Fixe menu with a few choices. It is usually a first plate, a second plate, drink and a dessert. Prices run about 7-10 Euro. It is a bit harder to find the Menu Del Dia joints, and harder still to find them at the elusive lunch hours. We seemed always to be a bit early or late. It is a good thing we have a nose for great tapas places.
Our lunch joint was a tiny bar, a place recommended for its great local food. From the outside, it looked like a dark and seedy bar. From the inside, it looked like a dark and seedy bar, but with a cute little girl be dandled by her day, the barman. It turned out to be a great place. The food was lovely, prepared by hand behind the bar, and the local folks were warm and friendly. Another treasure found!  

Nightfall in Cadiz.
We walked ourselves silly and sore, exploring every nook and cranny we could find. There are certainly cultural sights to see, museums, churches, and the like.  But the real joy of Cadiz lies in prowling the twisting lanes, secret courtyards, plazas and lush gardens. When all that stone has one feeling a little claustrophobic, a quick turn to the left or right and your world will open to a grand promenade.
Footsore and weary, we returned to our little Hostal room for a late siesta and a smoke on the balcony. By six PM, the streets and cafes are teeming with local folks out for drinks and socializing. It is time to grab the kids, head for the promenade, meet the friends and neighbors. Walking about town, one sees a lot of friendly greeting going on. Cadiz is not really a city, but more of a big town. And the Old City is smaller still. There is a lot of cheek kissing, smiling, and arms thrown around shoulders. 
We roused ourselves and ventured out into the throng. Tonight, no tapas! We love tapas, but once in a while, a body needs a full plate of food to oneself. Thus, spoke My Heart, and her wish is as good as a command.  

Meat and Veg feast, Argentinian-style.
We went for the big splurge, the Argentinian Grill. There was no messing around. We ordered the mixed meat grill and the mixed veg grill. Believe it or not, that plate of veg in the photo is a half order, or medio racion. That's a good thing to know here in the land of funny little plates of food. There are three basic sizes of food, sometimes all for the same dish. Tapas, of course, is the small plate. Tapas is a good snack for one person, or a nice taste for two. Medio racion, or half-plate, is a larger plate, usually enough for two people to enjoy as a side. I don't now what a full racion looks like, but it must be a hell of a platter. Three medio racions makes close to a full meal for two people. Or just order little plates until you cannot eat any more.
Dinners run late in Spain and the nights run later. It was past bedtime before we got near a bed. There was one more little street to explore, one more corner to turn. Eventually we made it back to the Hostal. Another day of walkabout, another day well-spent. Tomorrow we would venture further south down the Atlantic coast of Spain, but not until the later afternoon. But that is the stuff of the next blog post. From Cadiz (remember to hiss it!) Spain, it's Ciao for Now!