If Tangier were a scent its top notes would be an intoxicating melange of orange blossom, the sharp briny tang of a wet fish market in the souk, the hazelnut aroma of Argan oil smoking in an incense burner and the diesel fumes of ancient, clattering Mercedes diesel taxis.
We’ve been here for less than twenty four hours, but I was deeply smitten by this city from the moment it hove into view on our ferry crossing looking exactly as I’d imagined it, with the ancient white medina and casbah stretching up the hillside from the port, flanked by the fetching curve of the Corniche’s beach and promenade.
Our hotel, which is steps away from the medina on Rue de La Plage has a handsome, understated street entrance, but press the bell by the old metal door and it opens up to a winding stone staircase, which leads to a cluster of French colonial villas surrounded by a beautiful tropical garden with shaded sitting areas, a small swimming pool and even a ‘tree house’ which is one of the eleven rooms.
Tempting as it is to linger over rosewater and mint tea in this oasis, we dive headlong past spice and date merchants and fake designer clothing stores, into the labyrinthine maw of the souk, where pockets of food stalls rub shoulders with rug, jewellery and leather vendors who to our surprise and delight pester us a lot less aggressively than their counterparts in Egypt and Turkey. More upsetting is the constant presence of small children trying to press chewing gum and packets of tissues on us, but they too take ‘non merci’ for an answer and to our relief seem at the very least to be well-fed and well-dressed. Every so often there is a strikingly beautiful tableau- piles of perfect produce of all colours, a painter working on his canvas in front of the massive green door to a mosque, or a splash of vivid pink or gold bougainvillea or Moroccan blue and green against sparkling white masonry. French colonial influence is less heavy here than further south, and all over the city remnants of Middle Eastern, French, Portuguese and Andalusian architecture and culture collide in a heady mixture on the streetscape.
Tangerines, or Tanjawa as they prefer to be called, have been at a shifting crossroads for centuries as the changing of the balance of power in the Gibraltar Strait has time and again shaped the fate of Morocco’s northernmost port and enriched the stew of its identity and culture. We experience this at first hand as we occupy a shady table in a Petit Socco café to soak up the atmosphere and listen transfixed to the chatter of the locals as they move effortlessly between Darija (Moroccan Arabic), French and Spanish. Nearby a few grizzled European transplants continue the long tradition of falling hard for this place. Whether they have the talent or notoriety of artistic and literary forbears such as Matisse, Delacroix, Paul Bowles or William Burroughs, who for good measure took the Rolling Stones under his wing when they came here in the late sixties, seems doubtful.
As dusk nears we emerge from the maze into Grand Socco Square where a troupe of acrobats form a human pyramid to the enthusiastic applause of the crowd, but we can’t linger as drinks and dinner await back at our hotel. We discover to our surprise that we have the beautiful art-filled dining room with its grand piano to ourselves and for a couple of magical hours we enjoy one of the most special meals we can remember, cooked to order after a conversation with the chef- a simple but delicious salad of apples, walnuts, pomegranate, flax seeds and cream cheese, followed by a tagine of preserved lemons and chicken, served with rice and olives. Our waiter, Ali is delightful company and tells us wistfully about the family he has left behind in the desert city of Ouarzazate.
Tagine of preserved lemons and chicken with rice and olives: Serves Four
1 whole chicken 1.3 kg
3 cloves garlic, minced
Small bunch of coriander, finely chopped
Juice of 1/2 lemon
1 tsp salt
4-5 tbsp olive oil
1 large onion, grated
1 pinch of saffron threads
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp black pepper
1 cinnamon stick
1 1/2 cups of green olives
2 preserved lemons, sliced
Rub the cavity of the chicken with the garlic, coriander, salt and lemon juice. Mix the olive oil with the grated onion, saffron, ginger and pepper, rub this over the outside of the chicken. Place in a large dish, cover and let marinade for at least 2 hours.
Place the chicken in a flameproof casserole and also the juice from the marinade. Add enough water so it comes halfway up the side of the chicken, add the cinnamon and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat, cover and simmer for an hour, occasionally turning it over.
Preheat the oven to 150 C. Lift the chicken out of pan and set aside, turn the heat up and reduce the liquid for 5 minutes then place the the chicken back into the pan, add the preserved lemon and the olives, baste the chicken cover and place in the oven for 15 minutes. Serve immediately with steamed rice.
We are lulled to sleep by the scent of star jasmine from the garden being gently wafted by our ceiling fan. Woken by the dawn call to prayer I steal out as Sabrina sleeps on, for a walk in luminous light by the waterfront, as waiters unfurl umbrellas and lay out tables and chairs and a solitary old man contemplates life by his storefront.
First to arrive at yesterday’s café in the Petit Socco, I’m able to chat with a young waiter over coffee about the harsh realities of life in today’s Morocco and Tangier, in particular. His anxieties are many, starting with the freakishly hot and dry weather in what is meant to be the rainy season (and the danger this poses to next year’s harvest and the price of bread) and the yawning gap between rich and poor in a city where the average monthly salary of 300 Euros is barely enough to rent a small apartment. He reserves particular venom for the corruption of the elites and the royal family, relating that meals are cooked at all the royal palaces every day, regardless of whether the king is in residence and anything uneaten is thrown into the trash not donated to the needy: “The rich may mistrust us ordinary people, but there will be a reckoning (karma) and all their wealth won’t protect them…”
It’s a sobering reality check and after breakfast Sabrina and I spend our last couple of hours trying in vain to salve the guilt we feel by splashing some cash in the medina and wondering aloud how much things have really changed since the country gained its independence from France nearly seven decades ago and the city was a favourite location for colonial plot lines in English, French and Spanish language pulp fiction movies.
A tremendous read - and the first time, I'm sure, that I have seen the Rolling Stones and Delacroix, two of my great heroes, mentioned in the same sentence. All a far cry from my first Gap Year experience of Tangier, when I arrived - pleasantly stoned - with just £15 in my pocket. With a fellow "would-be" hippie, we then moved on to Fez, where we spent a week ingesting the heady atmosphere of an extraordinary place. Luckily I had just enough money left to pay for our little garret, which was a relief as the seedy landlord said he'd waive the rent if I'd sleep with him.
I've never been to Tangier, but the redolence of your writing takes me straight back to the souks of Fez & Marrakesh where similar sumptuous tableaux abound. And the lemon chicken sounds delicious. We'll be giving that a whirl, for sure!