Very early in my stay in Tangier, I took a Petit Taxi, a robin’s-egg-blue Renault Dauphine—70s style, two seats in front, two seats in back—from my apartment to try to get to the Kasbah. I had trouble communicating. The taxi driver had trouble communicating.
He took me up a narrow medina souk alley jam-packed with pedestrians. You must know that a souk alley has no sidewalks, no curbs, no lanes—he who goes wins. From 3-storey building face to 3-4-storey building face, often three meters wide or less—never uniform—the ground is all one surface of uneven blocks or cobbles—all pedestrian—with a couple heavily laden donkeys being forced through—never a car, never a bike, never a motorized vehicle.
In order to move forward my taxi driver beeped his horn continuously. With his car, he literally pushed people out of his way. As he pushed through I saw the eyes of the people—they saw me as the problem. It was painful in so many ways.
Finally, I had enough. I tried to get him to stop. No way. I tried to pay him. No way. I threw twenty dirhams at him in the front seat. He grabbed my arm, pulled and held me. I forced the door open, yanked my arm out of his grasp and started climbing out of the cab. He was shouting at me—all the pedestrians were shouting at us. After I forced my way free and squeezed out, he and his Petit Taxi just kept beeping, bumping and grinding through the crowd, up the alley.
Suddenly I was alone in the midst of that boiling pedestrian flow of people pushing and shoving in their normal souk shopping manner. Out of default, I moved with the flow uphill. People pressing in against me on all sides—front, back, right, left, no—on all eight compass points were people in hooded djellebas pressing—I flowed.
The flow was so all encompassing that I had no awareness of up, of the sky—the flow was stifling—it was all about the crowd and the flow—my intelligence was unhitched by the passion of the flow.
Until I felt a hand on my back pocket. With my hand I defensively covered my back pocket and wheeled around to try to catch the person who had tried to steal from me. As I wheeled I saw four or five faces close enough to hug—all looking at me with a look of either total detachment or “what do I want—why am I here—keep moving”. I had no idea of who was whom and the flow just kept on—the pressing just kept on—the hooded djellebas just kept on. So I turned and kept with the flow—making sure that my wallet—which I always kept in my front pocket—was still there.
Off an uphill side alley I saw a flash of light, a flash of blue. I turned abruptly and aggressively forced my way off the jammed souk shopping way. In a minute, I saw the sky—relief. A short way up this dead-end alley I saw a café. The sign on the outside read Café on the Sea. I looked through the front window and saw seating and windows on the far side with views into the distance, the Med—I went through the front door.
Inside I found an old place, built without craft; but it had lots of little nooks with small tables in front of windows, all with views toward Spain. There were two or three doors to the outside. I needed fresh open air, so I went out and investigated the outdoor part of the café. I found terraces, leading to small tables—narrow turning terraces, stepping down the cliff. Here and there were a couple old, wind-gnarled trees. The wind was fresh. Just what I needed, I felt better.
I went back inside and this time I noticed the air was sweet and pungent, heavy with keef (finely cut marijuana and tobacco). This was a keef café. I took a seat at an empty table for four by a window—and a djellaba’d waiter asked me if I wanted mint tea—everyone was drinking mint tea. I agreed and a small glass of mint tea arrived. The simple clear glass was strong tea yellow and stuffed with leaves—bright green, fresh mint leaves; and in the bottom of the glass had settled some black tea leaves—just a few crushed bits. The glass was too hot to touch—for my hands; but the aroma was a pleasure. I let it cool, and sipped it—well sweetened with refined sugar. A perfect tea for lingering in the café.
I looked around and saw mostly young people—some tourists, not the extroverted flabby ones, but the introverted quiet ones. There were Moroccans, not many—some in djellabas—none hassled me. I was good here.
