The ferry to Tangier (tanger to the locals with a soft “g”), left at 1700 instead of the scheduled 1600. This was quite inconvenient as I had accommodation booked in Casablanca which was more that 300 kilometres away from Tangier. Casablanca was purely to cross something else off the things to do before I die list. If the movie was called something else or it did not have Humphrey Bogart then I don't even think it would be on the horizon, the main things I knew about the place was that is was in Morocco and it was the title for one of the all time great movies.
On the Ferry was a guy from the Island of Guernsey (an exotic Pom??), we drank a lot on the way, he was one of those fellows who was a constant traveller and volunteer in 3rd world countries. He also had a touch of the larrikin and managed to spend time in lock ups in quite a few of those destinations. It is very easy for rich people to write big cheques and get public praise when they hand them over in front of the media, but people who give up their time, and any chance they may have of enriching themselves in the process, to help others are far more generous.
The bus from the destination port at Tangier was free but that was the last cheap thing in this country. Waiting at Tangier was a very helpful person named Hassan. He showed me where the bus station was which of course had no buses to Casablanca until 11.30 that night, a problem for me but not for Hassan, he then took me for a ride (in more ways than one) to another bus station a short drive away in a taxi that cost me 2 Dirhams. At the station was a bus about to leave for Casablanca, that cost me 100 Dirhams and Hassan's assistance cost me 100 Dirhams. I suppose it was an initiation into how things are done here but it did get me on the bus and I would not have managed that on my own. They clearly have no idea of the elements that make up a legally binding contract however, either that or they choose to ignore them.
The bus trip was long and boring and on arrival I was greeted with more “Hassan's” all offering me help which I declined on this occasion. A fellow traveller who seemed to know where he was going was Spanish so I had a brief chat to him and he pointed me to the taxi rank outside. The taxis were old and decrepit looking, had no seatbelts and not very inviting, as I walked out of the bus station about 5 drivers descended upon me all trying to get my fare. I showed one of them the address on my Iphone and they all gathered around and had a chat in Arabic, one of them knew where it was so off we went. The taxi was not running when I got in and immediately after I shut the door I was surrounded by the other drivers, the driver then got in and received a push start from his very obliging colleagues. I later found that all the taxis were like this, they either parked in such a spot that they could roll start without any assistance, received assistance from other drivers or kept the engine running; clearly a car battery was an optional extra and an unnecessary expense.
I kept a careful eye on the meter and when we arrived it was on 22 Dirhams. The driver imemdiately lept out of the cab and without saying anything grabbed my bag and carried it inside. I gave him 25 Dirhams for his trouble and thought that was the end of the matter. Unfortunately he did not think it was enough and wanted 30, for some reason he complained to the guy at reception at the hotel. Apparently the cost of the ride combined with the carrying of the backpack for 20 metres inside the door added up to 30 Dirhams, again the concept of a legally binding contract had escaped the driver. As I had already been fleeced once (it was two people but as it was a team effort on their part it counts as one instance), I stood my ground and explained to the driver that the meter said 22 and I gave him 25 in my best Spanish which I was hoping his French would allow him to understand. I won that argument, probably only because I was the one with the power as I had what he wanted, with Hassan, he had what I wanted so I used the power shift to my advantage. I don't mind tipping, in fact I am a generous tipper but I object to the tip being demanded regardless of the country or culture, I was prepared to give the driver 30 Dirhams at first, but his request for 30 when the meter said 22 made me change my mind immediately. There was some time for a quick catch up with emails and facebook prior to bed, but the time was deceptive as there is a 2 hour difference between Morocco and Spain, so it actual time and my body clock did not agree with each other.
Sleep was a strange affair, the bed was slopped slightly so one side was lower that the other, if it had have been a slight slope end to end then I could have coped with that without a problem, but being slightly lower on one side meant constant waking up to relocate myself to the middle of the bed, actually it was to the other end, the closer to the high side I was the longer it took to start hanging off the low side thus longer periods between re-adjustments. In any event, by the time it got to 7.00 am I had enough of the bed and went downstairs for the breakfast that was part of the package. After a quick shower it was off to the big wide world of Casablanca. I did try to ensure that I scrubbed off the words “Stupid Tourist” that were firmly tattooed on my forehead but I was to discover later I only removed the word stupid, unfortunately I was always going to have the word “tourist” displayed boldly for all to see.
I was supplied a map by the hotel which as a black and white photocopy with very few of the names of the roads provided. The map would have proved more useful if it was to scale but as I found out, not only was the scale out, it varied on different parts of the map. This would have not been so bad if the the road names were on the map, but it made life more interesting.
After about 500 metres of walking I was approached by a fellow who saw the tourist tattoo, 'Hello my friend,; here we go again, I took a different approach this time and tried Spanish, “hola” to my horror he started speaking Spanish, fortunately it was out of a Spanish phrase book so it was easy to understand and the psychology of these guys was becoming apparent. I kept on walking but he followed and kept talking, when you are a professional fleecer of tourists you need thick skin and persistence. Unfortunately I had to stop at a busy intersection so I had to stop. My shadow continued to talk and it got to the point where I just wanted him to go away and was prepared to pay for that to happen. I had a brief conversation with him and he wrote down my name in Arabic, which I must admit I was very impressed with. He then drew me a map of all the good surf breaks and started to tell me all the good things about Casablanca. At my wits end I said to him that I would give him 10 Dirhams to leave me alone, we agreed and we both kept our word, that is a legally binding contract.
The Medina had a bit of a market area for fruit and veg and a number of people with permanent stalls as well as very makeshift stalls selling cigarettes, sweets, chocolates and tissues, clothing, counterfeit designers label bags and shoes. One guy was very insistent that I by a top off him for 5 Dirhams which admittedly was actually very nice, locally made and very cheap; but I was backpacking and determined not to add to my load, there was also a small issue of baggage limits on Ryan Air which I knew I was under at the time of packing at home and determined not to jeopardise.
The tourist office was nowhere near the location indicated on the map, in fact I never did find where it was despite finding a few landmarks that were supposed to be in the vicinity. I also gave up hope of finding the central market after constantly revising my position compared with the map and the supposed location of the market. I was surprised when I stumbled on the market by accident. Having found the market it should only have been a matter of crossing the road and walking east for 50 metres to find the tourist office, I now think that the tourist office is like centrifugal force, it is fictitious as it does not exist at rest (the best reference for the full explanation of fictitious forces is Stephen Hawkins' “A Brief History of Time”).
At the my vegetarian animal rights tree hugging left wing hippie attitude was to receive a very big shock. The site of meat in a butcher or fish in a fish market does not concern me, but when I see a whole cows head hanging by its nose from a butcher hook then I start to get a bit queasy. Shortly thereafter I saw o live chickens sitting very diligently on a scale while the stall holder placed weights on the counter side to determine their weight, that done he grabbed them very roughly by the wings and took them to the chopping block to be dispatched. I had to avert my eyes and walk very quickly although as I was to find, sights like this were everywhere in this market and just part of local life. I rationalised to myself that the hypocrisy of meat eating was certainly not present here. In Australia people will continue to eat meat providing someone else does the dirty work of killing the animal and transforms it into a product that has no resemblance to the animal it was once attached to. At least here the relationship between the living creature and the end product is on show and the people are willing to do, or at least witness, the dirty work being performed. I wonder how many more people would join me in my lifestyle choice if they had to purchase their meat products in this way. Did I mention that pontification is one of my strengths?
I noticed three young kids, about 10 years old at most, behind me. Something about these kids made me suspicious so I moved to one side and let them get in front. Shortly after I noticed them behind me again and very close so I did the same again. I came to a crowded area where I had to slow down and ease my way through, I felt some pressure on my backside so I looked around and sure enough there were the three kids one with his forearms pressed into my rear with out any good cause other that to check my pockets which is a common location for people to keep their wallets. I religiously keep all my money and cards in a money belt so there was no way they were going to get anything. I may be jumping to conclusions but the combination of them acting suspiciously in the first place, continually ensuring that they were behind me and waiting for a crowded situation before pressing up against me makes me think that I was on safe ground. I gave the kids a smile and shook my head, tapped my back pockets and said “nada,” to which they ran off laughing, little shits.
Whilst Milan and Marseilles had dogs everywhere, Casablanca had cats; in the market, Medina, around the streets, walking in cafes they had the freedom of the city without challenge. In the market and median they served a purpose, the contents of the recently dispatched chickens and the unwanted parts of the fish were always quickly removed by these very effective street cleaners. It would have been very easy for them to thrive in these conditions, an abundance of food and plenty of urban decay to provide sufficient nooks and crannies for sleeping and bringing up the children.
The Mosque at Casablanca is a breathtaking structure that consumes an enormous amount of beach front land. The building, courtyard and adjoining garden are magnificent examples of the North African architecture and the insistence on symmetry. Civic pride, which was lacking in the other areas of the town, was in abundance here. The beach would have been a great place for a surf, there was a very clean right hander and I'm sure I would have found a tour guide who would have found me a surfboard to hire, a wetsuit and looked after my possessions while I had a bit of fun; my previous experience with the not so voluntary tour guide system in Morocco however was enough to remove all temptation. It was time to leave Casablanca, my itch had been scratched and I had a cultural experience that I would never forget.
A quick push start and the taxi was taking me to the railway station. I paid an inflated price for the journey but at the time I was beyond caring. There was a 1 hour wait for the train so I left the station to go to the cafeteria next door. Immediately I walked out of the railway station I was approached by a fellow who must of though I was Spanish because he greeted me with “hola amigo.” On this occasion I chose to ignore him completely The cafeteria served a nice coffee and the waiter kindly provided me with power for my laptop. There was a wireless connection available so I happily read the Australian and English news sites and drank coffee with a croissant and a bottle of water. There was an unusual system at the cafe, the waiter appeared to pay for the order then take it to the table. I watched this for a little while and every time a waiter collected an item from the counter to take to a table he handed money over. I concluded that the waiter was paid by the customer and the difference between the cost of the item and the amount paid was the property of the waiter. I was however handed a register docket with my order so either the register docket had the waiter's margin built in, or the system was just an easy way for the waiter to separate his tips from the actual cost by keeping everything the customer gave him. I am still not sure if the waiter got a salary from the cafeteria or survived solely on the customer payments, and whether there was a built in waiters margin on the docket or gratuities only. My bill was 30 Dirhams, I handed the waiter 50 and indicated in my best sign language that no change was required. He seemed very grateful, he might have muttered the Arabic equivalent of “tight arse” as I left however.
The train to Tangier was like the bus, long and boring. Some of the stops were bizarre, there appeared to be no platform on a couple of occasions and on others the platforms were nothing but a raised area of crushed rock. Still people got on and off the trains at these locations. There were people everywhere on the sides of the tracks, shepherds, kids playing football, families, farmers, at times it seemed like watching trains go by was a bit of a national past time. I was constantly tossing up in my mind if I should go to Spain and abandon my overnight stay in Tangiers but in the end I thought I would be a bit of a quitter if I didn't follow my original plans just because Casablanca disappointed me.
Once again at Tangiers railway station I was greeted by many friends who were all tripping over themselves to help me, outside old decrepit taxis were queued up and the drivers were approaching everyone to get their fare. I ignored everyone and everything and walked directly from the station to the old port from where I had directions to the Riad where I was booked. Unfortunately I had to walk past the stop where the ferry buses arrive so again, me with “stupid tourist” tattooed in bold letters across my forehead and the dead give-away backpack on my back, got approached by more unofficial tour guides, one of whom recognised me from the previous day. He was another persistent fellow who was very talented, he could organise a ferry trip for me for 40 Euros, even though they were 35 Euros in the proper outlets, he could find me a taxi or a bus to wherever I was going, take me to my accommodation, it was astounding the array of talent available to me. After about 10 minutes of ignoring him he finally got the hint and left me alone, I then purchased my ferry ticket for the following day at the bargain discount rate of 35 Euros with no gratuities required.
The gentleman who sold me the ticket also pointed me in the direction of the Riad (at no cost), so I headed in the direction he pointed. I knew that if I found Hotel Central then my accommodation was very close. That said a very persistent fellow seeing me reading my email that contained the directions and looking around for street signs very kindly offered to assist. I continued to walk and totally ignored him but he had thicker skin than the others so I told him that he can stop following me, he was not under any circumstances going to get money off me and he was wasting his time. He continued to follow me of course and When I reached the Riad he kindly opened the door introduced me to the owner and left. I asked the owner if he knew that person and he did not, clearly another part of their strategy, know the names of the people at reception in the hotels and Riads. I was tired, grumpy sweaty and just wanted a shower and a cold beer. It was hard to get beer in Morocco but the main street facing the beach is very European/Mediterranean so there were bars there.
Refreshed and changed I was looking forward to a drink and a wander around the market that was operating into the evening. Unfortunately when I opened the door and walked into the street my shadow and new best friend was waiting; he yelled out “Hello my friend” so I turned around went back inside and had an early night.
The following morning after breakfast I stepped out dreading the the thought of bumping into Mr Persistence, fortunately he was not there so I proceeded to wander around the Medina. It was cleaner, friendlier and less chaotic than Casablanca but still had a very similar feel culturally. Still I did not feel that it was a location that would make me want to stay longer than 1 day which I had no intention of doing anyway.
I was making my way to the Kasbah and walked past a tour group who were having the history explained to them. There was a fellow trying to sell souvenirs but as soon as I walked past and he realised that I was not part of the tour group he started to follow me. Again persistence was his strong point but I continued to walk without acknowledging his presence and eventually he went away. Unfortunately for me his place was taken by a young apprentice who took up the chase. This guy was no more than 15 years old but showed all the skill and persistence of his older counterparts. After a short time I asked him if he would go away if I gave him the change in my pockets, he agreed, there was a couple of English 1 pound coins and 2 Euros so it was a reasonable sum, about 40 Dirhams when converted; apparently they use the coins to buy Dirhams off tourists as they depart Morocco. He kept his word and left in the other direction leaving me to go to the Kasbah in peace. The Kasbah is an amazing place, the artefacts in the museum dated back to the Roman days so BC. I couldn't imagine how much looting went on prior to them getting their act together and how many artefacts are sitting in private collections but I imagine that it happened more than once. There are no prizes for guessing what the earworm was walking around the Kasbah.
Kasbah aside, the beach front was very European so by the time I had been to the medina and the Kasbah there was not a lot left for me to do. I had not eaten since breakfast and did not really want to eat food from the small outlets unless it was fruit that I could peel. The restaurants along the beach front were certainly more reputable looking but I decided to eat later on the ferry, I had a big breakfast so I could wait.
Eventually it was time to leave so I grabbed my backpack and went to the bus stop. As usual I was accosted by someone who yelled out “Hola Amigo” to which I ignored completely and walked purposefully to the bus stop. One of the restaurants was selling beer, I had 45 minutes to kill so Indulged in Morocan beer which tasted like beer. The bus stop was only 100 metres away and the bus came about 15 minutes after I got there. Immediately the bus was descended upon by people who unloaded and offered their assistance to every passenger who had stupid tourist written on their forehead. One attempted to put my backpack on the bus but I was very insistent that I do it myself, I then kept a close eye on the side of the bus to ensure that my pack stayed there. Prior to the bus leaving a fellow approached me and asked me for a tip for the people who helped me load, I refused and told him that I loaded it myself. He then asked me who was going to ensure my luggage was still on the bus at the port, point taken I gave him my last 10 Dirham coin and to my relief my bag was there at the other end.
I was glad to get onto the ferry but I was also still curious about going to Marrakesh, next time. I don't blame these people for trying to make a living and clearly persistence pays off. But when you don't want their help it is certainly annoying. The food on the ferry was quite appalling so I was still looking for lunch, it was actually getting close to dinner time but the ferry only took 1 hour so had to wait a little longer. I spent the night in a boarding house in Algeciras, I was booked on a bus for Sevilla the following day. Sleep was very easy that night.
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