Back in Morocco

The first steaming, fragrant glass of mint tea gave me a rush; I was happy to be back in Morocco and eager to begin my two-month residency.

I came from Spain via the one-hour ferry trip from Tarifa to Tanger. By leaving from Tarifa rather than Algeciras I ask able to arrive directly in the port of Old Tanger (Tangier) and avoid the extra expense and time of traveling into Tanger from the new port Tanger Mediterranean, where most ferries dock these days. It seems that heavy car ferry traffic from Spain and back has caused huge delays and the new port is intended to solve that problem; soon only cruise ships will be docking in the old port.

Being met by Hassan was a blessing. (Hassan was the wonderfully helpful tour arranager and guide Marilyn and I hired for our five-day whirlwind visit in mid July and now he's here as a friend to get me back to his village where I'll work with Club UNESCO, which he introduced me to. ) Hassan took over the handling of my too-many, too-heavy bags and the arrangements for travel to Bhalil. What a relief after two weeks of struggling my way alone around southern Spain with the cumbersome luggage. God and my angels had thankfully delayed the complete collapse and break of a wheel off my larger suitcase until Hassan was there to help; it would have been a disaster a few hours earlier.

Tanger has the atmosphere and charm travelers expect of it, and it was especially festive for my arrival, being a politically-oriented holiday. There were music performances along the beach, photos of King Mohammed VI everywhere, and bright red banners bearing the Muslim star symbol waving in the breeze over the streets and on many of the modern white office buildings in the business district that seemed a world away from the nearby medina with its narrow streets, small shops, souvenir vendors, and the always-crowded cafes facing away from the edge of the medina. The cafes are always filled with men who spend hours talking, playing cards, or just watching the strollers and tourists in the wide-open area adjacent to the busy port. It was my pleasure to sit there, too -- probably the only female patron unless there was another tourist I didn't see -- watching people and engaging playfulled with a little girl who was circulating among the tables, begging, She did not appear to be suffering so we gave her no money but let her finish off our yogurts. She was quite a little flirt and I had no doubt an adult was somewhere nearby, supervising her work.

I was astounded by the vastness of the beach, which stretched farther than I could see, and especially by its width. (The tour book said this beach used to be rated third most beautiful, after Rio and Miami.) As wide as it was, it was fairly crowded, especially near the water and along the outer edge with its boardwalk type sidewalk for promenaders who didn't choose to get sand in their shoes. This is the Mediterranean, but Tanger is situated near that tip of the African continent where the waters of Mediterranean join the Atlantic, and it's just a hop and skip down the Atlantic coast to other beach towns.

Culturally, the scene reminded me of beaches I saw in Muslim-dominant areas on the Swahili Coast of Tanzania and Kenya (and it was drastically different from the Costa del Sol beaches where I was sunning a week ago, surrounded by lots of barely-clad bodies.). For me it's interesting to see how multi-layered women manage to enjoy the beach, with long garb lifted to allow wading in the water and with sun hats or ball caps sitting atop their scarved head and shoulders. Quite a few women in Morocco wear the scarf in an almost western style, tied behind the head, but most have it wrapped around neck and shoulders and extending well beyond their hairline at their forehead. And, of course, their arms are also covered, unless they are among the relative few women who have chosen to dress in western attire.

I stayed in a small hotel in the medina, going upscale by choosing the US $25 room with its own bath in preference to the $20 room with shared bath, only to find the bath came with no towel, no soap, no toilet paper --- at least it was mine, though. In the morning it was time for the train trip to Fez (also spelled Fes). What can I say? Our compartment for eight people was full, all sitting there sweating because the air conditioner was not working and the window is not designed to open. Nearby compartments held more comfortable passengers because at least they were across from aisle windows they could open for a hot breeze; the two aisle windows opposite our compartment were stuck shut. Fearing I might, literally, pass out from the heat and closeness, I resorted to standing in the narrow passage way next to a window. It was a long 4-1/2 hours.

In Fez, Hassan found a local taxi to take us and my heavy, broken-wheeled baggage to the other stand to find a long-distance taxi. Before long we were arriving in picturesque Bhalil, my home for the next two months.