By Tim Cleary
The shape of my journey was a loop. The good thing about loops is that you begin in one place and return to it later, allowing you to experience your start point and end point – the same place – as a resolution in your mind, a lesson in experience.
My lesson began and ended in Tangier, fabled Moroccan city, known to many as the adoptive home of Paul Bowles and other members of the Beat Generation. I had wanted to travel to Morocco ever since I met warm-hearted Moroccan immigrants who had served me lamb tagine, couscous and mint tea when I was living in France. I had also become obsessed with Berbers, the indigenous population of North Africa. And, since Algeria was still a little risky following civil war and brutal killings since the 1990s, Morocco was the best place to go in order to meet them – other than Paris, Marseille and Lyon, of course.
Tangier is a Berber city to the core since many Tanjawis have their roots in the nearby Rifmountains, home to Riffian Berbers and Tarifit, the local form of the Berber language. I expected this port to be as welcoming as the low-lying, comfortable divan in the front room of the Ababou family home inFrance, where I had been waited upon like a reclining pasha.
Arrival
However, upon arriving on a ferry from the Spanish port of Algeciras, I was shocked to meet rude, obnoxious Moroccans. I walked off the ferry with a bulging rucksack and a spring in my step, but soon realised that I was being followed by a man who had clocked me as a naive young European as I climbed the steep streets of the old town to find my hostel. I was followed not for a few minutes, but for longer than half an hour and, despite repeated attempts to fend him off – in French, English, and my approximations of Spanish and Arabic – this pest of a man just would not leave me alone.
Finally, I arrived safely inside the protective walls of the hostel for a mint tea, and mulled over my sense of paranoia. A short while later two men, wearing smart suits, walked in and sat down to chat with me, making me feel at ease with their smooth talk and flattery. The next few hours involved more mint tea, sweet pastries, a cruise in their car along the seafront, meetings with their friends, extended families and – bizarrely – dogs. Lastly, I was given a schedule for the following day, which would apparently involve a shopping trip for me to stock up on rugs, babouches (leather slippers) and djellabas (the local robe-like outfit), which I would definitely have to wear if I want to travel safely around the country. I nodded politely, went to bed and had wicked nightmares about unsavoury characters following my every move, all day, every day for the rest of life.
Departure
I awoke early the following morning, fled the hostel, constantly looking over my shoulder, and caught the first train out of town.
Leaving Tangier was a liberating experience: it opened up the rest of Morocco to me. I was a fresh-faced young Westerner who had been hit very hard in the face by the reality of how desperate people can be in a port city a short distance across the Strait of Gibraltar from European wealth, but the rest of the country was a breeze. Travelling by train, coach and grand taxi (an old Mercedes that is shared with other travellers on longer distance journeys) allowed me to see landscapes as varied as the verdant north, the Atlas mountains of the centre and the dusty pre-Sahara as you move further south. I travelled from Tangier to the Roman site of Volubilis, then to the cities of Meknes and Fez, then onwards to snow-covered towns such as Sefrou, Azrou and Ifrane. From here, I travelled further south and swam in the oases found near the river Ziz between Midelt and Tafilalt. After experiencing desert at the edge of the Sahara, I moved west to Ouarzazate (popular for film sets, including Gladiator and Lawrence of Arabia) and then through the hairpin turns of the High Atlas to Marrakesh, before heading to the sea at the charming harbour of Essaouira and following the Atlantic coast north via Casablanca, Mohammedia, Rabat, Salé, then back to Tangier – where it all began.
I certainly met lots of Berbers along the way – and Arabs and French, for that matter – so my obsession was satisfied. People welcomed me into their homes, served me couscous and very sweet mint tea, just like I had experienced in France. I was made to feel welcome by some of the most generous, trusting and hospitable people you will meet, all because I had struck up a conversation on a coach or in a café, or because I had chatted to someone in a museum. They were all confused by my negative opinion of Tangier – “It’s a port – that’s the way it is”, “Perhaps you had culture shock”, “Did it really happen?” – and made up for this bad PR with even more kindness. A few more people followed me, but they understood implicitly that I had already toughened up and gave up quickly.
Return
As I walked back to the port in Tangier to take my ferry back to Spain, I spotted the same two well-dressed men chatting obsequiously to a young European on a café terrace. As I approached the ferry terminal, I passed another European, sporting a rucksack, who was excited to be in the opening stages of a journey through a new country. We exchanged a looks and, as I walked past, I noticed that he was being pursued by the same man who had followed me away from the port upon my arrival in Morocco. We also made eye contact. I gave a wry smile and he winked at me in return, and moved on swiftly with his mind set on fresh bait.
Recommended reading:
Saharan Journey by Sven Lindqvist
Travels – Collected Writings, 1950-93 by Paul Bowles