Tangier: An Interzone Tapestry
From the moment you hit the ground in Tangier, it punches you right in the nose, a strong whiff of salt, spices and incense-laden air. Welcome to Morocco, baby! A stone throw away from Spain, this place was once deemed as the gate way to Africa but now perhaps the reverse might be truer.
Tangier is one of a kind, no doubt! A geopolitical anomaly born out of its damned strategic location. An irresistible real estate for the colonial vultures who carved it up into a special status called “international zone” from 1923 to 1956! In two words, political polygamy. Need more context? a destabilized region under foreign rulers who marginalized Moroccans. But those days are long buried in the past. look, I hate to bore you with history, but that’s exactly what gives this tea it’s unique kick here. It’s what put Tangier on the map, transforming it from some Arab and Berber Kasbahs into this sprawling Medina, a cultural melting pot.
Alright alright alright, enough with the lectures. Let's get down to business as usual: FOOD. Moroccan food. If this place didn't have a history, it'd still be crawling with tourists just for the grub. So, straight from the airport, it’s time for some lunch at the legendary "Restaurant Populaire"—a family-run joint, generations deep, serving up whatever the hell was caught or dragged out the sea from that morning. No menus here, mademoiselle. Everyone gets the same treatment. First up: warm bread, olives, fiery harissa paste, roasted nuts, and this weird, tangy juice that looked like tamarind but could've been anything for all I know. I’d be bullshitting you if I claimed to know the ingredients. Then came a steaming bowl of soup, thick and hearty, followed by a seafood tagine swimming in local herbs. The main event? Drum roll… Grilled Sea bass and—hold onto your hats—baby shark skewers! No less to any delicacy and finally, just when you think you’re about to explode, they hit you with dessert: pomegranate and crushed nuts drizzled with honey. Sounds like a goddamn feast, right? Well, let me make something clear here! there’s no such thing as too much good food. I ain’t suffering no regrets today, Take a walk soldier!
OK, maybe that walk is mandatory now. Let’s plunge into the seething Grand Socco. Forget those notifications, follow that mangy cat and float through the alleyway. Let me be fucking straight here! This place is not for some pale white chicken skinned uptight people, at least not for more than a day. Every corner is a Schrodinger’s test. You never know, a vivid mouthwatering candy shop or a right hook of swirling miasma. Baby you bought the ticket, now enjoy the ride. And believe me, so did many people. The kind of people I dig, the cats I would follow anywhere. From Twain, Bowles, Rolling Stones to William S. Burroughs! this place was intoxicating to a different dimension! All throughout the 20th century, Tangier has been a magnet to the soul-searching bohemian artists, writers and free thinkers. The results? The enchanting, “The pipes of pan at Joujouka”, freakishly obscene, “the naked lunch” and an existential odyssey “The sheltering sky” are just few to name. these works of art are still shinning jewels. They all send shivers down my spine.
I find myself meandering deeper into the souk now, passing the market, tasting everything I can grab, as one must! Window shopping the antiques shops, crammed with remaining bones of the bygone Tangier. Finally, I hit the Petit Socco. Here we are: “Café Tingis”. An old school hangout for the expatriates. Get your seat, order your coffee and keep the eyes and ears on the street, it’s got a story to tell. I'm here to soak up the details, to let them seep into my bones. For company, I’ve Abouayoub and Rahmouni, father and son who’ve lived and seen it all. Somewhere midst of our conversation, Abouayoub drops this nugget. Apparently, a few Indian merchants were settled here back in the 50s and 60s. Didn’t know that. Nice surprise. Feels good. A little jolt of pride. With that, I bide my goodbye and slip back into the narrows. Back home, we have a saying, “He who moves to the town must come to the lake”, likewise, an attendance to “Café baba” was inevitable. Opened back in the 50’s, it has been a symbolic counterculture spot and a refuge for hashish. From Royals to The Rolling Stones, they all hung out here. I must say, sipping mint tea in this thick hazy smoke-filled room just melts the time and life loses its context. And guess what? They sell sweets!! Like a plate full!!! Habibi sweets!! And just like that, before you know it, the sun’s clocked out of Africa.
As night falls, the medina transforms into more alluring labyrinth, its streets pulsing with something darker, more seductive with the hum of a thousand whispered secrets. Wandering through its winding alleys until it spits you out at Fort Independence, where the path opens to a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean Sea. A place to kick back and conspire over glasses of mint tea and cigarettes burned down to the filter. The Tangier of today—is it still some kind of international freak zone? Hell no. This city now pulses with the heart of Africa, a rich tapestry woven from Berber, Arab, Jewish, and Andalusian influences, all blending together in a glorious, chaotic mosaic. What truly has been Soul of Tangier from thousands of years… still exists.
