(Morocco)...I have only been to Africa on two occasions, both times to Tangiers in Morocco, which is rather like saying one has been to and knows of Mexico by only having ever gone to Tijuana, which is close to the truth, as I have been to Cancún and the Yucatan Peninsula, and only there, twice. Tangiers (Tanger, Tangier) is a maze of alleys. The first time I was there was in 1990, and two memories stand out. The first was when some masonry fell off a building and landed by my feet. The locals showed great concern, one leading me by the arm to a shop, which surprisingly did not belong to an uncle, relative-in-law or childhood friend. It was around the time of Bush War One, and Morocco had dipped its oar in with the Friends of the Coalition, or whatever spurious title at that time had been given to the U.S.-backed alliance. "It's Saddam," one person joked, as to the cause of the falling stucco or wall remnant.
The second vivid recollection was the smell of the souk following a five-minute rain storm. The humidity literally bounced back with vengeance, and the pungency of rotting herbs, spices, fruits and vegetables was what I imagine Victorian chroniclers would refer to along the lines of a "rude affront to one's delicate sensibilities." The smell filled my lungs, not just my nose, but I think I was still enjoying myself immensely.
My return was in 2004, and this time I was part of a press trip, not travelling under my own steam. Our guides were adept at getting us from the ferry to the "safety" of a restaurant, where I refused to wear a Berber hat while being photographed with the very nice members of the house band (the photo someone did take of me shows me appearing to be speaking Arabic to my new best friend, sharing some hugely witty repartee, which was definitely not the case, unfortunately. He spoke English, which depressed me; not his ability to do so, but my ability not to be able to speak Arabic back to him).
From the restaurant our handlers adeptly moved us without incident (a lucky escape, I think they called it) to a carpet warehouse. I took one spin around and moved towards the door. "Do not leave," a sentry uttered, "it's dangerous out there." "No, it's not," I replied. I left and was immediately surrounded by hawkers, but they tend to become bored with me, although that is still a 15-minute process, as I do not become rattled. I began talking to a shop owner who did not seem at all interested in my potential custom, and we chatted in Spanish while watching a television- and radio-repair man stare through a magnifying glass squashed into the round of his eye in a shop that he — a thin man — must have daily dificulty getting into and seated. I had a fabulous time, depite the whole day being billed as the "Two Lands, Two Worlds, One Day" Tour.
Anyone who has read the literature of Spain or especially heard its music knows that tag line is bosh. I managed to even get out of the city itself that time to head to the other Pillar of Hercules, the Cap Spartel, which contains the Grottes d'Hercules, the Caves of Hercules, as opposed to the Rock of Gibraltar, which is a curious place worthy someday of another letter on this blog.
I made the stupid error of pointing my camera towards an army building, albeit a building standing alone with no soldiers nearby and nothing else apart from a sign saying "Army" to distinguish it from any other building in the area.
A policeman whistled, I raised my hand as though to say sorry and pointed my camera to take the photo above. It is one of my favourites, although it is on a small digital camera and has a resolution more minuscule than the IQ of a gnat. I would like to know how to make a 72-dots-per-inch digital photo larger in scale, without reducing quality, but I suspect that this is not possible to do. The photo reminds me of Paul Bowles' wonderful novel The Spider's House (http://www.paulbowles.org), from scenes in which members of Morocco's independence movement skulked around his pages.
I expect the woman in the photo was concealing some item or mission, don't you? I wonder what the Arabic on the wall says? Probably something very trivial that would spoil the current riot of my imagination. I saw Paul Bowles once, in New York City. He was here for surgery, and someone persuaded him to speak at the New School. I had to sign up as though taking a semester-long class in order to purchase my ticket, rather than just immediately hand over some cash. He looked ill and was brought out in a wheelchair. He read from one of his novels, and then answered questions from a mediator. It was interesting.
There was no signing of books, and I winced when I saw one fan come to the event wearing a djellaba, or jellaba, the heavy winter type, not the thin summer one, and in July. I expect she was hoping he'd see her across the audience and make some sort of connection. (There's a book store in New Orleans, on Pirate's Alley, that had in 1995 a whole series of signed Bowles books, which I later realised had all been signed when Bowles was in the States for the penultimate time and also for surgery. That time he, obviously, had signed some books, perhaps stunned by post-surgery medicines and across his hospital bed. One can only guess at what these books are passing hands for now?) Talk has been of another trip to Africa, this time to Mali. I hope this happens, although it would be easier to do this from my original home of London. Perhaps not that much easier. From Paris, yes.