You despise me don't you, Rick?

I've never worked out whether that line from Casablanca is a plea or a statement of fact. The important thing for the moment is that Peter Lorre says it to Humphrey Bogart in "Rick's Cafe Americaine". We are on the terrace of the Cafe Tingis in the Petit Socco, drinking mint teas served by a waiter who looks disturbingly like him (Peter Lorre). He knows everyone local who passes by, and greets them; those he doesn't know, he invites in. He didn't know us. Now he does, and he's offered to take our photograph. The Petit Socco is a crossroads within the Tangier souks, and just across the road is the Cafe Central where William Burroughs found inspiration for "The Naked Lunch". As we sit drinking our tea, a group of people files past. They are led by a travel guide and look quite
frightened as they pass by, beset by a swarm of men and boys hawking everything from plastic camels to red fez hats, from watches to miniature derboukahs.
They disappear down the Rue el Mouahadine, following their guide's upraised brochure, and the buzzing swarm follows. The Petit Socco is definitely not beautiful; the cafe fronts are crumbling, the street is being dug up and the smell of drains and diesel fuel is strong, but it's every Grahame Greene story you've ever read! Better informed and more confident than yesterday, we spend the late morning exploring the tangled streets inside the medina. Jibali tribewomen have come in from the surrounding countryside because it's a Sunday market. They sell fresh vegetables, especially parsley and mint, and definitely don't want to be photographed. Africans are selling fish, and local Moroccans are doing everything from mending Mobilettes on the roadside to polishing shoes and cooking brochettes that smell deliciously through the whole street. We had breakfast at the hotel - finding it after negotiating a maze of stairs and corridors where bric a brac was stacked high - carved doors, lamps, ornate furniture - but by now we we're feeling hungry again and try Restaurant Hammadi in the kasbah, where we get live Berber music thrown in with our lunch because a tourist group is eating there, too. The rest of the day passes with us exploring or watching; the chaotic traffic is directed by a smartly dressed, armed, policeman who blows a whistle to signal who can move and who must wait. On a roundabout, he holds up traffic so that a group of pretty girls can photograph each other against the fountain that's in the middle. When things begin to move again he blows frantically at a driver who has accidentally turned left at the roundabout in his truck instead of going straight ahead. The driver stops and there is a lot of form-filling. Money changes hands and he drives on. A few moments later a smart car does the same illegal manoeuvre; there are smiles, a handshake, and no action is taken. Welcome to Tangier, it seems.Our train leaves Tangier at 9:30 pm, and we head to the station in plenty of time. Our way takes us along the beach, where new hotels are springing up. It's become showery by now, but there are still scattered groups of people here, playing football, eating picnics, courting. A tired man in a suit and cracked shoes walks up to us, "Wallet? Very soft, like a camel.(I swear this is what he said!) One Euro." We said no, and walked on; he followed. "A very good wallet. Two Euros. One Mark." He looked done in, but I don't need a wallet. We've seen so much of this kind of effort today. Men (usually) putting a huge amount of work into raising a tiny amount of money in a deal of some kind or other. How much do they need to make before they can say, "Enough!" and go home? Where's the line between a successful day and a failure?
The rain begins to fall hard and we hurry on to the station, shining brightly with its new promise in the distance. We're early, but it gives time to write some impressions down. Tangier has been fascinating, confusing and attractive, in spite of its ugliness and decay. There's far more happening here, at many levels, than we can hope to fathom in only 36 hours!
At 9:30 pm precisely we're allowed onto the platform and hurried into our coach by the conductor. It's separated from second class by a door that's chained shut. We're discover that we're sharing a compartment of 4 berths with a local woman and her daughter. They're both dressed in hybrid Moroccan/European style. It doesn't take us long to settle down, and we fall asleep to the sound of the rain pattering on the windows as we go.