No Further

Brekkie in the Medina

In most journeys, there comes a point from which one will travel no further. We had come to that point. It was time to turn towards home. 

It has been many years since I was on a journey that had no end point. There have been some, to be sure. When I was a teenager, roaming about the United States, I had no idea where I would end up. Life was the journey, and not in a metaphoric sense. Now I have a home to go back to, a life to lead, books to write. Truth be told, I was ready to go home. In the last two months I had slept only eight nights in my own bed. Nicaragua, Ecuador, Spain, Morocco; this has been a long trip.

A good travel day begins with a good breakfast. We squeezed into a local cubby-hole on our way out of the Medina. Braced with good café au lait and the usual Moroccan morning gluten feast, we were ready for the bus ride back to Tangier. From there, the ferry would carry us to Tarifa. 

Broken Bus, Rif Mountains, Tétouan

We dropped out of the Medina, carrying our faithful backpacks. The modern city was awake and busy. The main bus station lies at the foot of the city, along the muddy river that runs to the Mediterranean Sea. Across the river, the Rif Mountains were bathed in morning sun. There was the usual shouting of the shills, the frantic energy of a busy bus station in a far-flung town. Without too much ado, we were on the bus and rolling north and west.

The Bus, the Rif

The countryside rolled by, green with recent rains. The same donkeys bore burdens, the same goats grazed the verge of the highway. Eventually we passed back into Tangier, the route familiar now. Past the train station and rolling into the city, the bus slowed to a crawl on the clogged boulevards. And then we were there, back at the Tangier bus station.

The Egg Van Taxi

Good travelers learn from prior experience. We were hoping to make the noon ferry to Tarifa. Based on our last trip across the Straits of Gibraltar, a one-hour ferry ride could easily turn into a four-hour ordeal. There was plenty of cushion in our schedule, just in case.

Regardless of our concerns, the Travel Gods smiled on us. We seldom take taxis, preferring to walk. But before we could take ten steps from our parked bus, a small man appeared. "Monsieur, Madame, taxi?" We inquired about the fare to the ferry, got a fair (sorry, really, accident, couldn't be helped) price of forty dirham, and were told to "wait, please." The man jogged off and, within moments, returned with the Egg Van. I could not believe our luck. These tiny Suzuki vans are a standard vehicle across Southeast Asia. The little vans were made somewhat famous in The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, a series of novels by Alexander McCall Smith. Now we were going to get to ride in one!

It was as silly a vehicle as it looks, more rattle than substance, but we whisked along the waterfront to the ferry terminal. As we passed one of the Tangier locations for Jim Jarmusch's Only Lovers left Alive, I said a smiling Au Revoir to this great city. I will certainly be back.

 

 The Tangier-Tarifa Ferry, Sans Maniacal Crowd 

And then everything went like clockwork. There were no huge crowds at the ferry, there was no long customs line. All was well. We made the noon ferry without issue, chopping across the rough seas, back to the European continent. One hour later, we were in Tarifa, Spain, far ahead of schedule. Spanish passport and customs was a breeze, and we found ourselves back on the cobbled streets of Tarifa. Some days it's easy, some days it's not.

Strange Man, Tarifa

We are come to Tarifa at the Easter weekend, the culmination of the Semana Santos. This was our one night of dropping some fairly serious dough on a hotel room. When we had left Tarifa, rooms were going for fifty euro and up. Booking ahead from Tétouan the best we could do was seventy euro. But for that, we had a charming little room and a great sun terrace. To our great wonder, Tarifa actually showed us the sun. The clouds broke, and the white-washed city was bathed in a Mediterranean glow. Even the normally howling winds subsided. 

The narrow lanes of the old city were thronged with the pious and the not-so-pious. The pious, in their Easter best, were crowded around the churches for this holiest of weekends. The not-so-pious were enjoying the spectacle from one of the many crowded bars and cafés. The joint was jumping, and we decided to jump with it. Thee were snacks to be eaten, coffee to be drunk, and people to watch. Tarifa was showing us its gentle side, and life was good.

Carpaccio Atún 

Since we were paying the big euro prices for a hotel, we splurged on dinner. Finding an open table in the old city proved to be a futile endeavor. Just across from the ferry terminal, we found a sweet Italian joint. Not only were the staff Italian, but most of the diners seemed to be as well. It was busy, noisy, and smelled amazing. Bingo! Dinner found. 

Another travel day spent, albeit with a minimum of stress. Tomorrow would find us on another bus, bound for Cádiz, and then a train to Dos Hermanas. For the nonce, we were enjoying the unexpected fruits of a warm Tarifa on a festive night.

From Tarifa, Spain, and homeward bound, it is time to say "Ciao for Now!"