Tetouan, Morocco

Tetouan from the roof of the Riad Dalia

When I realized Morocco was just a ferry ride away, I added it to my itenerary: who wouldn't? I chose Tetouan because I knew people went there, and that as an ex-Spanish possession, my Spanish might get me through.

I took a bus from Seville to Tarife, the route Luis had advised to avoid border hassles at Ceuta, the other crossing. It was a breathtaking ride, hills swathed in olive trees, dramatic mountains, and scraggles of villages, with the occasional ruined farmhouse. Tarife is a touristy beach town; when I arrived, the woman at the cafe near the bus station said the ferry was just down the road...30 minutes later, suitcase jumping cobblestones behind me, I arrived to find the ferry's gates had just closed and I would have to wait two hours. I changed some money, bought a phone (never could get my phone to work) and waited...it didn't seem an interesting place to someone with a suitcase in tow. Especially since one of the wheels was worn to a nub. The two hours became three when it turned out that I had bought tickets with the other ferry line...

When the ferry arrived, there was much flashing of passports to armies of officials, and then passengers and baggage surging out into a huge parking lot. I was immediately surrounded by four or five men, all offering various stories and offers. It was Ramadan, they said, and the buses were not running until dark, 9:30. No consensus on whether trains were running. One tall young man reminded me a little of my son, except he had a manner that was at once fawning and aggressive...would  I like a tour of Tangier? A trip to various places, to do various things (nothing unsavory, but still, overwhelming, and I wanted to get to my hotel, an hour away, before dark.) Then an older gentleman wearing a New York Yankees cap stepped up, shooed the younger guys away with fussing and glares, and offered me a taxi ride the 45 km to Tetuoan for 35 Euro. Done! He drove around saying he had to get permission form the taxi authority-- you get to the point where you just have to believe all is well. We chatted in a fairly mutually incomprehensible but cheerful melange of Spanish, English, French, and in his case, Arabic. He often broke of our conversation to shriek angrily into his radio, gesticulating wildly; I saw this often, very dramatic and demonstrative speech with immediate change to calm conversation. There were Moroccan flags all along the route, because the king was to make a procession from Tetouan to Tangier. Here are some other things: a Laughing Cow (aka airplane cheese) factory which provided vans for commuting workers. Dramatic mountains coming closer every moment. Scrubby roadside buildings or compounds. Rows of newly planted palm trees, with their tops still tied so they stuck straight up as vertical shocks. Cab decor: a goat hoof containing a silk violet leaf hanging from a knob on the dashboard. As we neared Tetouan, the mountains, the Rif, loomed. Tetouan is in a bowl

the map

surrounded by mountains, and the air is cool (70 at midday) and fresh. I arrived at the Teatro Espanol (the car could not go into the medina itself because the streets were so narrow, and there was o question of my being able to find my own way through this labyrinth to the hotel in its heart), where I was to call someone from the hotel to guide me; I had been sent a map electronically. But the taxi driver had a friend in mind. This friend made several detours to stop at preferred shops, including a Berber shop with clearly third-rate kilims supposedly made with cactus silk: still have no idea about whether this can be true. This guy  showed me his  book of rugs he had shipped-- there was someone from Farmville! We rattled down crowded narrow streets past open markets with junk, piles of Ramadan sweets, fish, apricots, tomatoes, live poultry milling around, metal plumbing parts, boxes of tiny motors, screwdrivers, and wrenches, leather goods, rows of tunics, piles of scarves, and mothers, babies, skinny cats, and the occasional huddled group of men raptly watching the world cup on someone's cell phone. The sounds of Arabic wash over us as we careen through the medina snaking this way and that. So much to see, smell, touch, and hear, and so much already forgotten!
 Finally we got to the hotel, my guide hauling a now wheelless suitcase. Hamad, a lanky man, slinks around in jeans and doesn't say much to me; Jasmin, a lovely blonde Dutch girl who is spending the summer here, manages the guests. Looks like Hamad doesn't really like the situation but Jasmin speaks Dutch, French, Arabic and English that I know of, and Hamad limps by with minimal English, so there you are.  I was given the first of many glasses of mint tea, and given the tour. Another courtyard arrangement, covered with gorgeous tiles but no surface that was vertical or horizontal, exactly; upstairs to my room on steep stairs that were of uneven heights; and into a cool, airy room. She showed me the roof in the golden late light, which gave a sensational 360 degree view of the town and surrounding mountains, and a closeup view of the neighbors' arrangements and activities. They also (bliss) served a really great meal, a wonderful take on pasta e fagioli, a lamb tagine with butternut squash and pickled lemon, and fruit. An unexpectedly long travel day with a happy ending.

The typical idea of Muslim countries is unlike what I have experienced, though my visits have been brief and limited in scope, and I am clearly a Western visitor. I saw that adult women wore scarves and dressed modestly; but did not hide. My guide and every other person I encountered were very helpful and friendly, and treated me with respect. (I did not wear a scarf or long dress, but was dressed reasonably modestly.) I did notice that women seemed busier and less willing to talk with me, but also less likely to speak Spanish: they tended to have Arabic only. People seemed generally cheerful. I often encountered guys trying to sell me things or services, but a clear calm 'no' always suffice. Even when I went searching for an ATM out of the medina and got lost in the dark with a stash of cash, I at no time felt at all unsafe. It may be different in other places in the Arabic-speaking world, but in many ways, I felt more at ease in this place than in American cities.

Tetuoan seems so ad hoc; no right angles, don't really want to know details of the plumbing and electricity arrangements. It looks as if pulling one small stone out of a  wall would cause the whole place to gently settle into itself, give off a small cloud of dust, and be gone. But it all seems to work, and has for centuries.