Evening in Tangier

There's a sandy bay about two miles west of Tangier . It's enclosed by steep rocky headlands and approached by a broad, flat-bottomed valley that opens out of the last tumbles of houses clinging to the steep hillsides that are the edge of city. A few thin cows and some nervous sheep graze among the dwarf palms, weeds and debris. You can't see the port or the city from the bay; it's just the place you'd choose to load contraband, or drop off a spy, if you wanted to avoid the port authorities and prying eyes. It was here that we found ourselves as dusk fell. This was a surprise. An hour or two earlier, we'd left the taxi at Place de France which is just at the point where the old city (mediaeval) begins to blend into the new (19th century) city.
We decided that we'd save the medina and the souk for the next day, but would skirt the medina walls and cut down northwards to our hotel for an early shower, supper and bed. Well, we'd been on the road since early morning, and Morocco-time is two hours behind Spanish time. We got lost ever so easily, but recognised that we were lost with much more difficulty. The broad avenue quickly gave way to steep, narrow streets, just wide enough to walk through, though we had to step aside pretty quickly when the ubiquitous Mobilettes clattered by. These may be loaded with anything from bundles of mint to two passengers, a microwave oven and a box of live hens and they negotiatethe twisting narrow alleys at surprising speed. The buildings are tall and narrow, so it's impossible to get any idea of where you are in relation to anywhere else you've already been. Every new street seems familiar, time after time! At one point we passed the same discarded sofa in a narrow street twice within half an hour.It was fascinating, though; all around we saw the same pattern of behaviour. Women, dressed very smartly in either western, hybrid or traditional style, going about their business purposefully, often in chattering groups, sometimes in dogged silence; men, unless they were stallholders or shopkeepers, seemed usually to be drifting, and at a loss as to what to do next. We got lots of eye contact, many smiles, some waves and only a very few unwanted approaches. We were, though, very obviously, off the tourist trail. Shops were dark rooms opening onto the street, their wooden shelves piled high with assorted stacks of goods, or stalls where fish lay in rows on a slab while their guts lay in mounds on the floor. But back to the bay ... "If we find the sea," Faith said, "we can follow the beach around to the port."
Leila was sitting alone on a rock, and said hello to us as we walked past her out onto the sand. She was about 9 years old and proudly showed us her newly henna'd hands. We agreed that they waere beautiful; they were. She was still there when we retraced our steps, having decided that we weren't good enough climbers to cross the rocky headland and follow Faith's plan. She walked with us along the valley back towards the houses. She was amused by our French, but we managed to chatter with her as we went. She was interested that we were such a long way from the city centre, and thought we must be camping. We found out that she's in Grade 5 at school, and lived nearby. She waved to some of her friends playing amongst the buildings, and we talked about the grazing animals, the beautiful plants and a group of children playing derboukahs (drums) high up on one the valley sides. We walked on together until we came to the bottom of the steep street where we had to turn left to begin to find our way back. Leila wanted us to go home with her, but we explained that we were bushed and really had to find our way back to our hotel. And so we all smiled, said goodbye to one another and, waving, set off on our separate ways.A surprised man under a makeshift shelter at the bottom of the hill pointed us in the right direction for Place de France; further on, a group of women added detail. They were very amused at where we'd been and said that we'd have to keep straight on, but had a climb, and then a descent and then another climb ahead of us. With their help, we passed the sofa a third time and, eventually, found ourselves back on the map.
By the time we reached the hotel, Faith was exhausted, and we'd walked about 5 miles since leaving the taxi. We showered, changed our clothes and went down to the hotel's restaurant for supper. Once again, it was high Moorish - arches, stucco, coloured glass and tiles everywhere. We ate chicken tagine and drank water (no alcohol for sale anywhere we'd seen all day), followed by soothing mint tea. We fell asleep to the sounds of the street and the port.

Sometime in the small hours, we heard the (very loud) call to prayer from the minaret just outside the window, but I'm afraid it didn't rouse us completely enough to compel us to rise up and join the devout of the city.