Ootini!

Tangier, Morocco. The engines roared to life as the boat pulled away from the dock. An angry tempest spewed forth from the stern, propelling us forward, into the deep blue waters of the Straight of Gibraltor, that thin blue band that seperates these two incredibly disparate lands. Europe and Africa, a stones throw away, a world apart. My stomach unsettled as our vessel raced towards the shore of the Dark Continent, as if realizing I had chosen an express elevator to Hell. That's a bit harse, I suppose. After all, Africa was my intended destination, and though the temperature in Africa often exceeds that of Hell, it's rather pleasant this time of year. I steadied myself as the boat docked at the port. Our first destination: the infamous port town of Tangier, Morocco.


Filled with hustlers, touts, con-men, smugglers, and the like, Tangier leaves one indelible thought in most tourists minds: leave now. In fact, so many people have hopped in taxis and told the driver to "step on it" that there are actually deep grooves in the pavement leading from the port to the edge of town. Many a traveller had warned us about the scum and villainly of this vile place, with its unsavoury characters and complete lack of Starbucks. Truth be told we were both a little frightened by the stories we had heard about this rough and tumble town -- so we stayed for two nights.
The Medina (old town), where we spent our time, is built into a series of steep hills that begin just a few hundred yards from the shore. Row upon row of boxy, white houses pile on top of one another in a curious jumble up the hills, spilling across the top and down the sides. Hiding beneath this white-washed facade is a labrinyth of narrow twisting alleys, endless markets, and spurning dead ends. Beyond the Medina a more modern (but still seedy) city emerges, but where's the fun in exploring Moroccan Harlem? The Medina was buzzing with life. The streets are packed with fascinating individuals, and I mean no disrespect, but a large portion of them are dressed exactly like jawas, which raises Tangier's stock immediately in my book.
After deboating (you can deplane, why not deboat?) Xander and I wandered the streets, getting lost every fifteen seconds, until a helpful individual led us to the hotel we were looking for. In this case helpful means that we paid him a couple of bucks to leave after we got there. I cringed a little bit upon seeing the shared squat toilets we needed to use, but hey, this was Africa -- it was time I lowered my expectations a little. For example: where one expects a traditional toilet, expect two footpads with a hole in the ground; where one expects a bus, expect a bush taxi jammed with more people than a clown car; and where one expects potable water, instead expect fatal amoebic dysentery. Such was our new life, and once we got settled we quickly threw ourselves into the fray.
Tangier is a trial by fire. Though strangely quiet at first--we thought the stories exaggerated--we were soon beseiged by incessant touts hawking everything from guiding services to magic carpets (aka, pee-stained carpets). And they don't take no for an answer. They follow, they beg, they bribe, they threaten, they guilt--come to think of it, it was a bit like the last time I went on a date. The first time you are approached you speak with them and decline. The second time, you decline a bit more forcefully but still politely. The third time, the politeness has vanished and you beg them to leave you alone. The forth time, you avoid eye contact and keep your lips tightly sealed to prevent any words from leaking out. By the eighty-seventh time, you proactively knee any Moroccan you see directly in the groin. It is a daily battle. As a grizzled veteran of these wars did tout: ?Welcome to Morocco, my friend. If you are very curious, would you like to see what is behind the door?? Indeed I do.