Dire Straits

Tariff, Spain

It is morning, the wind is still howling, but the rain has moved on. Saying "I hate wind" in Tarifa is like saying "I hate snow" at Vail. The locals tend to get a bit snarly, as if you were picking their pocket. This day we were leaving Traifa behind. In fact, we were leaving Europe behind, making the jump to the African continent. Tangier (or Tanger) is a mere twelve miles across the straits of Gibralter. How hard could it be?

The head of the ferry queue and through security.

The ferry was scheduled for a One PM departure. We were told to be at the terminal a half-hour prior. No problem. The queue stretched through the entire ferry terminal. It was a sort of quiet chaos. The lack of any viable system would become more and more apparent as the day wore on. At that moment, we knew that there was no way that ferry was going to be leaving on time. There was nothing to to but wait.

Chaos in action.

How a system breaks down. First, high winds on the straits cause the ferry folks to cancel a sailing. The ripples from this are passengers forced onto other boats. To move the huge queue forward, they process people from the queue through security, where the queue then bumps up against Spanish (Schengen) passport control. Once out of passport control, there is a holding area for passengers. The next ferry is not ready for boarding. We did not know why, but we would eventually find out at the other end. 

Because the holding area is so chock full of people, the passport folks stop processing any more travelers. So the queue comes to another halt. The passport guys make a feeble attempt to get folks to squeeze tighter in the holding area, but it basically comes to naught. The whole time, there are no announcements, no direction, and no supervision by the ferry terminal staff. Watching the spectacle was a bit like watching an ugly Christmas sweater being unraveled. It was the only show in town, so I watched. Total time in the ferry terminal: 12:30 -- 1:50. The ferry finally embarked at 2:10.

My One, all smiles as we finally get aboard.

This should be the easy part, yes?

Adios Tarifa

There was a new line forming up, a queue inside the ferry. Folks were in line before the ferry slipped from the dock. It turns out that this line was for the Moroccan passport stamp, a line that everyone would have to go through. The line was too long to bother with. If they wanted to get a stamp early, fine. We would get ours when we got to Tangier. Foolish, foolish first-time travelers we were.

Yet another queue, the passport stamp line.

Isla de Tarifa from the water, the southernmost point in Europe.

The skies were clearing, but the winds were high, sweeping across the straits from Africa. The boat began a gentle roll, running half in the trough. And in response, there was a gentle moan that ran through the boat. The passport queue looked a little less steady. The seas ran a bit higher, and the ferry crested a few waves. The gentle moan was less gentle. Then the seasickness bags came out. 

I'm lucky. I do not get seasick. Even working the Bering Sea, the motion-sickness thing just never bothered me. I remember reading that this was a sign of a deformed inner ear. Maybe that's the reason, or maybe I just love the schadenfreude of watching others collapsing into their little blue bags. That could be it. I can be a right bastard at times.

  

The boat lurched along, the queue swayed in place, and people moaned. That was the trip. Land hove into sight, and then we were in the harbor of Tangiers. The one hour crossing was, indeed, a one hour crossing. But the passport line was not moving and, without a stamp, no one was getting off the boat.

So we queued.

And we queued.

I could see Tangier from the boat deck. I could stand in the Tangier sunshine. But we could not get ashore. The Moroccan passport folks have done what I believed no one else could do: They have made the Nicaraguan passport folks look efficient. Tough duty, that. It was more than an hour before we stepped up to the harried and angry Moroccan passport stampers. No friendly welcome here, just three uniformed guys stamping for all they were worth, and still going at a snail's pace. But we were done. The entire ferry run had lasted four hours. Elapsed speed of travel, three miles per hour. We could have walked it, given some flotation shoes.

Tangier, Morocco! This is the first time in my life that I have set foot on the continent of Africa. We did our best to navigate the route to the hotel, but overshot it. In a patois of French and Spanish, we managed to get back on track, but not without some harshness between us. My One and I are a phenomenal traveling team. Still, four hours of queuing and trying not to get seasick will test anyone's last nerve. We managed to find our equilibrium, and we then managed to find our hotel. All-in-all, a tough travel day, and a high payment levied by the Travel Gods. But hey, we are in Tangier, right? Exotic gateway to Africa. Time to get after it! 

The way to the Kasbah

The streets of Tangier are lively, bustling with folks, and folks selling things. There are cafes everywhere. Men sit at the sidewalk tables, sipping coffee or sweet mint tea. We passed the cafes and shops, heading for the tangled maze of the Kasbah, the old fortified city.

Night, Tangier, looking down on the Kasbah

Main Street of the Kasbah, Tangier

Our route led us to the walls of the Kasbah, up a set of stone stairs, and under a white archway. Through the archway was a maze of twisting passages, many of them covered. It is akin to walking through five foot wide tunnels that wander crazily. The Kasbah makes the tangle of Sevilla look like a well-ordered grid. We followed our noses, our instincts, and trusted to luck. Unbelievably, we walked directly to the American Legation Museum, closed at this hour. At least it was a landmark. With only one short backtrack, we found the cafe we were looking for. We were welcomed, escorted to the above-street terrace, and settled in for an evening meal. 

Tangine Poulet, Standard Fare in Tangier.

The Souk, Kasbah, Tangier

Of course, we had to walk home a different way, getting lost being half the fun. Walking through Tangier is a gritty, noisy, magical thing. It is also a bit like taking part in a wizard convention. Many folks wear traditional kaftans. Some are clerics, or religious folks of certain sects. Others are simply wearing a kaftan to keep warm. There are women wearing kaftans, some of them with full face-veils. I swear that I saw Yoda, or at least Yoda's second cousin. It is like walking on Tatooine.

A hard travel day, but a travel day with rich reward. One short evening in Tangier was enough to cause us to extend our stay by another day. We are ready to explore, ready to get lost, and happy not to have to travel for a few days. There will be much more about Tangier. It is a place that demands description, demands attention. It is the adopted city of Paul Bowles, the destination of the Beat writers, the debauched refuge of rock bands. 

Enough, I am tired. This will be my first night in Africa, a new continent, a new country, a new city. Who could lead a more charmed life? From Tangier, Morocco, it is time to say "Ciao for Now."