Exploring Tangier, Morocco – Photoset and trip report.
Trip Report by Jane Berentson
So I knew we were going to be safe. On the four hour bus ride to Algeciras, Jeff showed me his arsenal of safety contraptions. A few locks, some steal cable, a belt with secret chambers, an underwear wallet, a slash-proof steal mesh bag, and some metal niner to shove in the door jam. Hum the MacGyver theme if you know it. I showed him my vast collection of Spanish pop CDs. Hum Alex Ubago if you know it. You don’t.
Friday morning we embarked for Tang?r on a rather impressive boat. It swayed, we slept. Once our passports were stamped (in arabic, oh yeah) we decided to take a bus tour with what felt like a group of martini tipping spanish middle aged country clubbers. Since Tang?r was originally occupied by a handful of other nations, spain, france, belguim, yawn, we cruised through all those neighborhoods, a cave, and some palaces. All not nearly as exciting as camels. And to the joy of all my discovery Chanel/animal planet/zoo lover dreams, there were two baby ones. They were almost as cute as the Atlantic hugging its baby brother the Mediterranean just in front of our eyes.
Saturday morning I forgot about the two hour time difference and sound the reverie at seven, but the free continental breakfast was worth it. Almost. I will never feel comfortable drinking OJ out of a wine glass. So we walked for about eight hours, did a sociological study of Moroccan six-year-olds, held our breath through a fish market, paid respects at a cemetery, and tried to politely but sternly refuse the solicitations of the local merchants whose offers were as nagging as the depressing urine/trash rancid stench. I just don’t need any bongo drums. I am better at this that Jeff. I say Yes more, but I can shake them off faster. I’m tough like that. Oh and I almost
forgot. There was this natural pharmacist dude who I believe could have a very successful infomercial. I mean, who wouldn’t turn down a special herb that cures snoring, diabetes, hangovers, obesity, and impotence? Only for one easy payment of 4?! Meanwhile, we made a friend, Isabel from Madrid. She handled the whole traveling with your family thing very well for a nineteen year old. After a day of fasting (except for an encounter with a hole in the wall bread dude) there was a lengthy Moroccan food binge, highlighted by belly dancers, some fire trick guy, traditional music, and even audience participation. Don’t ask Jeff about it though. He was too busy hiding his face so the sultry sequin lady wouldn’t lure him onto the dance floor.
By Sunday I was ready to sink my stinky feet in some spanish soil. Apparently, so were two Moroccan teenagers who tried to sneak on our boat. Two and some hours later we moved and continued to teach Isabel and her brothers that EgyptianRatScrew/RussionBootySlapper card game. Victor dominated. And about that whole Casablanca terrorist thing, yes, a ginourmous catastrophe. I mean, I can run fast and kick hard and Jeff has got all those James Bond safety toys, but there is so much nasty danger that is out of our greasy little hands. Como es la vida.
Venga. Jane