Sunday morning in Tanger
It was a terribly cold night, with a frozen nose and a weird trip to New York dream where I ran into most people I know leading their normal lives into a rather more Cordoba setting than Manhattanish background. I woke up seeing the colorful tiles and Islamic motifs of my youth hostel room ( which costed the equivalent of 5 euros...) and hearing all the street noises possible; ranging from cries to sewer system workers with electrical hammers. I am in Morocco. The feeling is weird, it is my first time in a Muslim country, something I've always dreamed at. Of course, Morocco is very special, being regarded in other Arab countries as too liberal, but as my Sciences Po classmate Hind from Rabat said, the gap between the West and Morocco is so great in every aspect, that this liberal spirit could be seen as a mere reactionary one accross the Mediterranean.
I really wanted to spend the night in Tanger, as this place evokes lots of vibes, from the Ibn Battuta we studied in history of geography classes in Bucharest and later in professor Febe Armanios' great History of Islam class at Middlebury, to its interwar years of scandalising glory and depravation and its pantheon of artists and intellectuals that fell in love with the undefinable city across the time, ranging from Delacroix to Matisse, from Tennesse Williams to Samuel Beckett, Jean Genet and Roland Barthes. And being defined in my guidebook as " an old lady that refuses to look at herself in the mirror", Tanger is, at 50 years from the end of its international status, confused, decaying, sad, but full of life and of paradoxical brightness. There are many West Africans here, waiting for the day they can embark to a boat to Europe. And indeed, watching from the Terasse des Paresseux with tens of young men, their eyes lost into the horizon, at Gibraltar and Spain, that seem so close, that are so close, ( I am even listening to Los Cuarenta principales, a radio station from Spain as I am writing this...) and yet they don't have the papers to let them go into the continent they see as paradise, as the chance.
And I, looking European ( even my Spanish youth hostel mate said when I entered to the other people" oh, look there's another Spanish guy!"), I attract too many glances as being European means money. I've got proposed only this morning 7 times a hotel, being followed around, and 3 times marijuana and hashish, (all times being called "Hola ! Amigo! hey! amigo!") . While looking at the sea, this older man came to me and asked me if I spoke French. I knew what was to come next after all the advice got from Paris and from the guidebooks, so i looked perplexed, saying no. English? " I have shop! nice shop!" No... I adopted a sad look and said " nu, nu , io sunt din Romania". No problem for the guy, giving me " a, parlo italiano!". " dar nu, nu, numai romana...". But then I thought what kind of monolingual tourist can survive while travelling ( oh, yeah there are always the American and the French tourists ...), so I adopted one foreign language I could speaking, saying to myself it's not possible for him to know it. " Ich spreche nur Deutsch." " a, zer gut, Doitch! Ih schpreche Doitch!". Ok, I'm lost. i will just play with it and see what he has to sell. In fact, that is a good first Moroccan experience. he continued by underlining the traditional Romanian-Moroccan friendship, starting to hug me and saying I am his Freund, and I followed him. " Du, Romano, no Americano. Das wichtig" ( that important), and I asked shyly why. Americanos are violent and kill people he said and showed me the traditional hand to neck gesture... I emphasized at my turn how poor Romania is and how me being a student from Romania makes me even poorer. We arrived at his shop, where someone described as his Bruder started showing me hookas. As if i will go on my trip with a huge hooka attached to my already serious backpack; but I said to myself I will buy something, only to feel the taste of bargaining. This cloth that both of them were wearing. Nimm das. Ok, I said, even though this on my father would look rather bizarre ( it'my dad's bday when I arrive to Romania so this would be the gift from Morocco), but anyways. 45 euros he said, and I looked at him with a naive, yet revolted look " Aber ich komme aus Rumaenien. Rumaenien, sie wissen, ist sehr arm" ( poor, poor Romania). Ok, 350 dirham ( =35 euros), not less. No, No, La , la. I will leave. Ok, 250 dh. No, 200 is the maximum I will give. Plus that I have to take money out from an ATM. OK, you're our friend. We love you. Ich liebe dich. How many foreigners received love declarations from this guy, I don' t know... I left for the ATM with the first guy, who started telling me that he speaks 5 languages and that he works very hard, not like these other people in the streets, that are so lazy, and thus Morocco is so poor. And the government... Oh, the government, so bad, so bad. sehr schlecht. I took money from the ATM, I payed for the unknown item, then he didn't leave. You need directions to the bus? (I previously made up a bus connection at 11). No. He came with me, and then asked me bluntly for a tip, invoking, Allah knows why, his silver ring and his son's name. I gave him, as all fooled tourists do one euro, as he refused the dirhams I wanted to give. He left touching me ( I cannot describe that as a hug), saying how great of a friend I was. That was the easiest friendship I made and lost in a long time...
The Medina is a labyrinth like no others. It's so, so hard to get to a specific place and not to get lost in the myriad of possibilities that open to you, including streets, shops, hashish, pastries, open fruit markets, Colgate and batteries. The shops reminded me of early 1990s shops in transition Romania, with poor design and marketing, and that certain way of putting things in the shelves. garbage everywhere, people everywhere, noise, but above all, the best thing was the tradiotional dress of the peasants who sell fresh vegetables, something I have never seen before- a large straw hat accompanying a very colorful canvas of clothes.
Seeing a photo exhibit at a French foundation at the end of a creepy alley with peeling walls about the Tange of the 1930s left me with the strangest taste in my mouth. A cosmopolitan, rich Tanger, extravagant and wild, so different from the state of things now. These weird, undescrible tastes accompany my trip lately, from
I really wanted to spend the night in Tanger, as this place evokes lots of vibes, from the Ibn Battuta we studied in history of geography classes in Bucharest and later in professor Febe Armanios' great History of Islam class at Middlebury, to its interwar years of scandalising glory and depravation and its pantheon of artists and intellectuals that fell in love with the undefinable city across the time, ranging from Delacroix to Matisse, from Tennesse Williams to Samuel Beckett, Jean Genet and Roland Barthes. And being defined in my guidebook as " an old lady that refuses to look at herself in the mirror", Tanger is, at 50 years from the end of its international status, confused, decaying, sad, but full of life and of paradoxical brightness. There are many West Africans here, waiting for the day they can embark to a boat to Europe. And indeed, watching from the Terasse des Paresseux with tens of young men, their eyes lost into the horizon, at Gibraltar and Spain, that seem so close, that are so close, ( I am even listening to Los Cuarenta principales, a radio station from Spain as I am writing this...) and yet they don't have the papers to let them go into the continent they see as paradise, as the chance.
And I, looking European ( even my Spanish youth hostel mate said when I entered to the other people" oh, look there's another Spanish guy!"), I attract too many glances as being European means money. I've got proposed only this morning 7 times a hotel, being followed around, and 3 times marijuana and hashish, (all times being called "Hola ! Amigo! hey! amigo!") . While looking at the sea, this older man came to me and asked me if I spoke French. I knew what was to come next after all the advice got from Paris and from the guidebooks, so i looked perplexed, saying no. English? " I have shop! nice shop!" No... I adopted a sad look and said " nu, nu , io sunt din Romania". No problem for the guy, giving me " a, parlo italiano!". " dar nu, nu, numai romana...". But then I thought what kind of monolingual tourist can survive while travelling ( oh, yeah there are always the American and the French tourists ...), so I adopted one foreign language I could speaking, saying to myself it's not possible for him to know it. " Ich spreche nur Deutsch." " a, zer gut, Doitch! Ih schpreche Doitch!". Ok, I'm lost. i will just play with it and see what he has to sell. In fact, that is a good first Moroccan experience. he continued by underlining the traditional Romanian-Moroccan friendship, starting to hug me and saying I am his Freund, and I followed him. " Du, Romano, no Americano. Das wichtig" ( that important), and I asked shyly why. Americanos are violent and kill people he said and showed me the traditional hand to neck gesture... I emphasized at my turn how poor Romania is and how me being a student from Romania makes me even poorer. We arrived at his shop, where someone described as his Bruder started showing me hookas. As if i will go on my trip with a huge hooka attached to my already serious backpack; but I said to myself I will buy something, only to feel the taste of bargaining. This cloth that both of them were wearing. Nimm das. Ok, I said, even though this on my father would look rather bizarre ( it'my dad's bday when I arrive to Romania so this would be the gift from Morocco), but anyways. 45 euros he said, and I looked at him with a naive, yet revolted look " Aber ich komme aus Rumaenien. Rumaenien, sie wissen, ist sehr arm" ( poor, poor Romania). Ok, 350 dirham ( =35 euros), not less. No, No, La , la. I will leave. Ok, 250 dh. No, 200 is the maximum I will give. Plus that I have to take money out from an ATM. OK, you're our friend. We love you. Ich liebe dich. How many foreigners received love declarations from this guy, I don' t know... I left for the ATM with the first guy, who started telling me that he speaks 5 languages and that he works very hard, not like these other people in the streets, that are so lazy, and thus Morocco is so poor. And the government... Oh, the government, so bad, so bad. sehr schlecht. I took money from the ATM, I payed for the unknown item, then he didn't leave. You need directions to the bus? (I previously made up a bus connection at 11). No. He came with me, and then asked me bluntly for a tip, invoking, Allah knows why, his silver ring and his son's name. I gave him, as all fooled tourists do one euro, as he refused the dirhams I wanted to give. He left touching me ( I cannot describe that as a hug), saying how great of a friend I was. That was the easiest friendship I made and lost in a long time...
The Medina is a labyrinth like no others. It's so, so hard to get to a specific place and not to get lost in the myriad of possibilities that open to you, including streets, shops, hashish, pastries, open fruit markets, Colgate and batteries. The shops reminded me of early 1990s shops in transition Romania, with poor design and marketing, and that certain way of putting things in the shelves. garbage everywhere, people everywhere, noise, but above all, the best thing was the tradiotional dress of the peasants who sell fresh vegetables, something I have never seen before- a large straw hat accompanying a very colorful canvas of clothes.
Seeing a photo exhibit at a French foundation at the end of a creepy alley with peeling walls about the Tange of the 1930s left me with the strangest taste in my mouth. A cosmopolitan, rich Tanger, extravagant and wild, so different from the state of things now. These weird, undescrible tastes accompany my trip lately, from
the Christianization and Hispanization of Cordoba and Granada to the huge contrast between Islamic type patios in Cordoba, elegant, splendid and bright and Tanger, neglected, dusty and tired.
But this is just the beginning. I will get on the Atlantic Coast, in a random village tonight to experience something else before parting for Fes.
posted by Gruia Badescu at 3:48 AM
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