smokingboot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smokingboot) wrote2008-05-18 05:22 pm
smokingboot) wrote2008-05-18 05:22 pm
Entry tags:
Hippy Holidays II: My part in their downfall
Tangiers.
No Indiana Jones but the next best thing; El Minzah, a 1930s luxury hotel, with deep blue water above a deep blue sky next to a deep blue sea. Swallows came swooping down for a quick surf on the pool and then wheeled up again. The waiters wore fezzes and should have looked ridiculous, but nothing takes away a sense of the absurd like courteous service. It felt like a holiday. The inner courtyard, elegantly moorish in design was frequented by bats, and people in panamas; but when the humans moved in to the piano bar to pretend to be spies, the bats stayed and played. That evening saw bright yellow roses in the fountain; the next morning red ones had joined them. Maybe the bats left them there.
Standing at the lift, as it opened, I heard someone call my name, clearly, distinctly,a well cultured male voice, no more than two feet behind me. I turned, and there was no-one there. Larians was beside me, I asked him if he had called, knowing the answer. I tried to tell myself that maybe the sound was a distortion of the noise made by the lift as it rose, but it wasn't. Nothing portentous about it. But strange.
A guide took us to the medina; we saw the tiny streets, the communal ovens, the halva stalls, the English church, the old Hebrew quarter, the old mosque, the big mosque and the little mosque, where women can pray around the body of a saint, houses of exquisites and celebrities, houses of weavers, skinny cats in every alley, one door with hands drawn in chalk all over it, eyes in the hands - a house in fear of the evil eye, of the attack of demons and witches. Carpet sellers and mint tea, chickens everywhere and the smell of hashish and cooking bread.
The guide talked tolarians about the difference between the old town and the new, for the new is growing assuredly... with bright new costa del sol type hotels all over the coastline. New town = lots of drink, safe for dancing, stay up until 3,4 in the morning. Old town = William Burroughs land, Ronnie Kray land, Barbara Hutton land, Matisse land and lots of smoke, but '...you should not go to the old town by yourselves at night,' the guide warned larians. Only when larians left us for a moment did our lugubrious companion turn his eyes towards me, and speak one direct thing; 'You should never go into the old town alone. Never.' With that, he left and went for a cigarette outside, waiting for Larians to return.
He had prepped us well for our next excursion, by ourselves into Tangiers, through the grand souk down the petit socco and up towards the Kasbah, and the sultan's museum. This was more like it for me. There were children and young adults everywhere. The night before, I had been struck, not just by the dowdiness of the women's kaftans, but the similarities of those worn by the men. It didn't look particularly discriminatory. Everyone wore long sacks of neutral colours, old men often wearing them with hoods pinned back.
Next day it was different. It was market day, and the place was full of women bringing their wares to market, veg and fruit, and bundles of fresh herbs; many wore straw hats with bright pompoms on them. I got big beautiful smiles that day from two older ladies. One had a face wrinkled like a nut; she sat on the ground separating mint from coriander or parsley, and just looked up and beamed at me affably for no reason at all. The second was a rotund lady in a dusky pink kaftan who walked with a stick and gave me a charming grin showing a gap between her front teeth. I could tell they didn't mind my tshirt and jeans one bit.
To get to the museum we had to go via the top of the medina, the old town. The museum was fascinating, built on the original site of a roman temple to Neptune; beyond the garden lay the sea and in the garden birds reigned supreme among the oranges and jacaranda trees. One ginger cat lay in the sunshine trying to ignore their infernal chirping in his efforts to stay asleep. At one point, he almost rolled on to his side, but it proved too much. He snoozed, they sang, and without a single negotiation, all was peace.
Not so for us. On leaving the museum, we determined to keep things uncomplicated and stay out of the old town. It was therefore right and fitting that we somehow found ourselves not only in the old town but lost in the old town. In the winding warren, I couldn't help but be impressed bylarians who not only spoke the universal languages of money and football but also displayed the ability to blithely wander into people's backyards and kitchens as though he had meant to all along. I found myself turning into some kind of ninja spy monk thief, watching behind us at every opportunity. My paranoia was unfounded.We got back safely, and I could only regret that I didn't have more time to explore Tangiers, old and new.
I could talk about Tangiers so much more. Suffice it to say that not only was it pleasant in and of itself, but that it also enhanced our return to the Hoopie. People and adventure, flowers and caves, the old city, the high sierra, light on the sea, clouds on the mountains...I like contrasts and yet, I must confess, this holiday has not been restful, even with the delectable rescue of El Minzah. I'm pretty tired, and must find the energy to do stuff.
Tomorrow will be time enough for that.
No Indiana Jones but the next best thing; El Minzah, a 1930s luxury hotel, with deep blue water above a deep blue sky next to a deep blue sea. Swallows came swooping down for a quick surf on the pool and then wheeled up again. The waiters wore fezzes and should have looked ridiculous, but nothing takes away a sense of the absurd like courteous service. It felt like a holiday. The inner courtyard, elegantly moorish in design was frequented by bats, and people in panamas; but when the humans moved in to the piano bar to pretend to be spies, the bats stayed and played. That evening saw bright yellow roses in the fountain; the next morning red ones had joined them. Maybe the bats left them there.
Standing at the lift, as it opened, I heard someone call my name, clearly, distinctly,a well cultured male voice, no more than two feet behind me. I turned, and there was no-one there. Larians was beside me, I asked him if he had called, knowing the answer. I tried to tell myself that maybe the sound was a distortion of the noise made by the lift as it rose, but it wasn't. Nothing portentous about it. But strange.
A guide took us to the medina; we saw the tiny streets, the communal ovens, the halva stalls, the English church, the old Hebrew quarter, the old mosque, the big mosque and the little mosque, where women can pray around the body of a saint, houses of exquisites and celebrities, houses of weavers, skinny cats in every alley, one door with hands drawn in chalk all over it, eyes in the hands - a house in fear of the evil eye, of the attack of demons and witches. Carpet sellers and mint tea, chickens everywhere and the smell of hashish and cooking bread.
The guide talked to
larians about the difference between the old town and the new, for the new is growing assuredly... with bright new costa del sol type hotels all over the coastline. New town = lots of drink, safe for dancing, stay up until 3,4 in the morning. Old town = William Burroughs land, Ronnie Kray land, Barbara Hutton land, Matisse land and lots of smoke, but '...you should not go to the old town by yourselves at night,' the guide warned larians. Only when larians left us for a moment did our lugubrious companion turn his eyes towards me, and speak one direct thing; 'You should never go into the old town alone. Never.' With that, he left and went for a cigarette outside, waiting for Larians to return.He had prepped us well for our next excursion, by ourselves into Tangiers, through the grand souk down the petit socco and up towards the Kasbah, and the sultan's museum. This was more like it for me. There were children and young adults everywhere. The night before, I had been struck, not just by the dowdiness of the women's kaftans, but the similarities of those worn by the men. It didn't look particularly discriminatory. Everyone wore long sacks of neutral colours, old men often wearing them with hoods pinned back.
Next day it was different. It was market day, and the place was full of women bringing their wares to market, veg and fruit, and bundles of fresh herbs; many wore straw hats with bright pompoms on them. I got big beautiful smiles that day from two older ladies. One had a face wrinkled like a nut; she sat on the ground separating mint from coriander or parsley, and just looked up and beamed at me affably for no reason at all. The second was a rotund lady in a dusky pink kaftan who walked with a stick and gave me a charming grin showing a gap between her front teeth. I could tell they didn't mind my tshirt and jeans one bit.
To get to the museum we had to go via the top of the medina, the old town. The museum was fascinating, built on the original site of a roman temple to Neptune; beyond the garden lay the sea and in the garden birds reigned supreme among the oranges and jacaranda trees. One ginger cat lay in the sunshine trying to ignore their infernal chirping in his efforts to stay asleep. At one point, he almost rolled on to his side, but it proved too much. He snoozed, they sang, and without a single negotiation, all was peace.
Not so for us. On leaving the museum, we determined to keep things uncomplicated and stay out of the old town. It was therefore right and fitting that we somehow found ourselves not only in the old town but lost in the old town. In the winding warren, I couldn't help but be impressed by
larians who not only spoke the universal languages of money and football but also displayed the ability to blithely wander into people's backyards and kitchens as though he had meant to all along. I found myself turning into some kind of ninja spy monk thief, watching behind us at every opportunity. My paranoia was unfounded.We got back safely, and I could only regret that I didn't have more time to explore Tangiers, old and new.I could talk about Tangiers so much more. Suffice it to say that not only was it pleasant in and of itself, but that it also enhanced our return to the Hoopie. People and adventure, flowers and caves, the old city, the high sierra, light on the sea, clouds on the mountains...I like contrasts and yet, I must confess, this holiday has not been restful, even with the delectable rescue of El Minzah. I'm pretty tired, and must find the energy to do stuff.
Tomorrow will be time enough for that.