Tetouan tales

Tetouan was not unlike the Hotel California. With kids offering hashish in dark corners and the streets a winding maze, it truly felt that you could check out any time you liked but you could never leave.

I arrived in the morning on a bus from Tangier. The hotel had lost my reservation and pointed me in a vague direction towards other hotels. I walked the Blvd Mohammed V, its cobblestone street blocked off by temporary gates. Peopled walked along the street anyway, and that evening it became a veritable pedestrian mall.

Trying various hotels I ended up at the Hotel A----, run by a Moroccan woman named Aziza. She spoke Spanish; I spoke French. I registered and paid for the room and thanked her in Arabic.

After a shower and a change, I dove into the medina, passing the royal palace. Later I learned that the king was in residence, which explained the heightened security. The main plaza in front of the palace was blocked off, and police patrolled the area and the medina.

The old quarter was a jumble of white washed buildings, main thoroughfares, and alleyways. I let myself be drawn into the rivers of people wandering through and soon found myself at the main gate, next to the palace. Diving back in I let the current take me to the eastern gate, passing various souks selling leather, wood carvings, clothes, and jewellry. Village women crouched in corners selling cactus fruits.

That night I wandered the streets of the new quarter, between the Place Hassan II and the Place Moulay el-Mehdi. In the Place Moulay el-Mehdi a fountain was lit with colored lights. An Arabic soundtrack accompanied the display. I ate in a sandwich shop, packed with groups of people before returning to my hotel. I stood on the terasse and looked down upon the throngs. Aziza appeared with a youngish man in tow. His skin was drawn too tightly across his face and he spoke in the manner of people who have learned English but have not had the chance to practice; he spoke but never listened.

He told me he was there for the first time; he lived in Rabat. He was there to do interviews for the radio. He asked me what I thought of Morocco and asked me why I thought there was little tourism. I said that I thought there was supposed to be a lot. Just two million, he said. Nothing compared to Turkey or Spain. I told him maybe it was the cost of flying there, which seemed to be what he wanted to hear.

He told me he had taken two years of English but didn't continue his studies. He said the majority of Moroccans didn't like to lear. He said after university there were no jobs. He asked if I were out on the terasse earlier reading a book. I said I was and he seemed pleased. It's good to read. He said, "I have the spare time and the money but I don't have the motivation to learn more English." I said one requires a reason.

Night had long fallen. A crescent moon rose above the town. The mountain air had grown cold and I clutched my arms, shivering. I was stilll in a t-shirt. He bent down to tie his laces and I apologized. It's cold, I said. And I have an early bus to catch. He held out his hand and asked my name. We introduced ourselves and I retired to bed, the sounds from the street rising dimly to my room.
Posted by eku at September 9, 2005 8:12 PM