An old room in the old city
The days begin early in Tétouan, Morocco. The building may be built of stone, but the call to prayer permeates everything. There are a great many mosques in and around the Medina, the old city. There are mosques scattered through all of the villages that dot the valley, stretching away to the Mediterranean coast. The faithful must pray before and after sunrise. At 5:30 AM, the Call to Prayer begins to echo from the loudspeakers, first from this mosque, then from the next. It rises to a crescendo of chanting, then fades away. You, good traveler, are now awake, and very aware that you are not in Kansas anymore.
Here is video link to the Call to prayer, recorded from our terrace in Tétouan.
The Call to Prayer
Shadows in the Medina
To wander in the Medina is to wander in shadow and light. There are passageways that rarely see the sun, and then only for the briefest time. Tétouan is even more tangled, even more of a maze, than the Kasbah in Tangier. I feel as if this trip has been a sliding scale, growing closer and more maze-like with each town. Sevilla has its quaint lanes and narrow roads, but not as narrow as Tarifa. Tarifa, with all of the tourist boutiques, is a Disneyland version of a Moroccan town. The Kasbah in Tangier defies compass or direction, but the Medina of Tétouan makes even Bangkok look simply and well laid out.
There are far fewer foreigners here than in Chechaouen or Tangier. Fewer tourists mean less meat for the shills and touts. Ah, yes, the joys of the touts. I do not mean to pick on Tétouan, for I love this town. But the time has come, said the Walrus to the Carpenter, to speak of many things. Many things being Shills and Touts. They are one in the same, more or less, at least in this context. Shills and touts are part of traveling, but when the meat gets thin, the hunters pounce.
You, Dear Traveler, are walking down a narrow lane. You are at peace, soaking up the ambience, enjoying the wonders of the day, this tiny stall, that amazing pile of dates and figs. From nowhere comes a voice, a polygot voice. "Español Señor, Parlez-Vous Francais, English?" He will ask where you are from. "Ah, America! Welcome to Morocco! I used to live in the USA, in Boise, Idaho." The oddity of imagining this man living in Boise (That's Boy-Cee) Idaho, and pronouncing it correctly, is enough for him to set the hook. This has happened to me all over the world. In Sri Lanka, the shill had lived in Vienna. In Bangkok, the tout had a brother in Seattle. If you said you were from Namibia, the guy would have an uncle that lived in Windhoek. Then comes the pitch, either for his services as a guide, or for some unmissable attraction that is just around the corner. And you cannot win. To stay and talk leads to an endless barrage of how imperative it is to have a guide, or the tragedy of missing the Berber House, which just happens to be owned by his cousin. This is, of course, the cousin who lived, positively, in the same town where you went to school as a child.
I love the shills and touts. I love to listen to their crazy come-ons. But I love it more the first five times of any given day. After that, it starts to wear thin. For My One, it wears even thinner, and quickly at that. She is my out, my safety valve. While the tout is trying to get his verbal hooks into me, she grabs my sleeve with a gentle tug, steering me away, and cheating me of the wonders I was sure to see in the Berber House. "Ah, so sorry my friend, I have to go. My wife is impatient to flee your sweet blandishments."
Not a Shill
Then there are the Fergusons, the self-appointed guides that are sometimes a vexation, and sometimes a blessing. On this day, climbing to the castle above the Medina, my Ferguson was just a sweet kid who wanted to show me his house. That was all he wanted, just to lead me up a few passages so I could see where he lived. Highlight of my day, that.
Climbing through the Medina
My One and the Passageway
Blue, White, the Medina
We climbed to the castle just to climb. There is no admittance to the fortress, just a fine view at the end of a steep walk. From here, one can see the immense graveyard that stretches down into the town, just outside the walls of the Medina. On the other side is the modern part of town, complete with the King's summer palace.
Sun, Castle, Palms
Standing above modern Tétouan
The fortress must have been a sight when it was in good repair. There are fragments of tile mosaic scattered about the walls, on hidden pillars, in shadowed corners. We walked the thing, sweating in the noon sun. From the castle hill, the logical choice was a jaunt through the city of the dead, the vast cemetery just below us. My Heart knows I love a good graveyard.
The dead stayed dead as we hiked amongst them, small narrow graves cascading down the hill. But there was life in the cemetery as well. Goatherds watched their flocks, nimble goats grazing amongst the white stones. There were goats doing acrobatics, goats on the hoods of parked cars, none of them the least bit concerned with what lay under their hooves.
Sandwiches, Moraccan-Style
Walking is hungry work, and the modern city beckoned. Outside the tangle of the Medina, we settled in for Moroccan sandwiches. A long baguette is sliced, and the chosen ingredients are mushed into the soft, doughy inside. Through some sort of magic, the meat, vege, and sauce are rolled tightly, transforming the baguette. The result is a sort of baguette crust tube with a delicious filling. One of these fine treats, the Gran Deluxe version, will set a hungry wanderer back 26 dirham, or about three dollars.
There will be more from Tétouan, because I love this town. But for now, and before the evening Call to Prayer, it's time to say "Ciao for Now!"
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