It was the summer of 2001and I was 6th of the plane and 5th in the queue for Passport Control as I'd overtaken and elderly and overweight nun as we trotted across the tarmac.  Ours was the only plane at the airport. They took a full five minutes with each of the four ahead of me.  There were four customs officials and a policeman jammed in a square plastic box. and they each had a rubber stamp but shared one hidden computer screen.  I couldn't count the keyboards.

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After collecting my bags from the carousel (it was the 6th which proved something) I found my transfer car which was a stretch Mercedes in navy blue; noting very glamorous, a 1966 model diesel and only four gears, so I think it was a local cut and shunt made out of two baby Mercs of the same year.

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The Hotel

We rumbled into Tangier for half an hour and arrived at the Chellah Hotel (£22 a night) where five sleepy Moroccans operated as a quintet to check me in, register my passport and choose a room from the bank of 400 keys dangling from the rack behind them.

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Breakfast at 7.30 rather threw them. Obviously the other 399 guests were still in bed behind roll-shutter blinds.  I chose a desert spoonful of cottage cheese, a see-through slice of Edam and a warm croissant from a dingy little oven that had been keeping a dozen warm.  The coffee was typical foreign hotel style, warm and weak.

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I balanced a dollop of cottage cheese on the end of my croissant and set to.   It was at the third bite that hot brown paste shot out of the other end and fell onto page 102 of my paperback. On licking it off the book I realised it was quite nice chocolate, and far better without the cheese.

 

I was working on this project in the period running up to Tuesday, September 11, 2001. But more of that famous 9/11 date later.

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My project
I had a contract to help a clothing factory meet European standards and had been back and fore a few times.  I had found the local people to be polite and helpful. Probably my overriding memories of that period were about food and people rather than work and consultancy.

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Eating Out

I remember going out one evening with two British expatriates from the factory, Tony and Des.  We ended up in a traditional pub with paintings of hunting scenes and pseudo beamed ceilings. But it was Morocco owned even if the lady behind the bar was English.  We each had a mixed grill and the bill for the three of us came to £20 sterling including the beers and the extra portion of chips. I noticed the others drank whisky with a coke mixer.  It seems there were no fillers like Canada Dry and Schweppes Tonic available in Morocco in those days, just lemonade or coke.

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In Town

We were in the town of Algiers which was vibrant with pedestrians, there were street traders selling everything from fake Rolex to suede jackets and plenty of locals sitting outside drinking at pavement tables.  It was let down by mountains of street rubbish, broken paving, dilapidated buildings an urgent need of paint and repairs   -   and scruffy ancient French cars.  But you did feel safe at eight in the evening, protected by the crowds. It was a male orientated society with bars full of men, but still many women about. Half the Moslem women wore hijab and niqab and half dressed in European styles although a long caftan was worn by those who'd forsaken the veil.

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In the office cleaners were orthodox Muslim and the bi-lingual secretaries were smartly dressed in European styles (or were 20 years ago when I was there).  The language in Tangier is as much Spanish as French which is the alternative official language alongside Arabic.

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It was hot and humid; definitely a two-shirt-a-day place. I was told it was an unusually cool period, but everything was brown and dusty as there had been no rain for about nine months.  When you get out of a car you fold the wing mirrors in. There is hardly any car theft but they steal accessories and any visible contents, so you can see Guardians in the shopping streets.  They wear a licence badge issued by city and patrol a set territory. You pay them (or tip them) and they look after your car, clubbing the villains with the full authority of the city fathers.

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The next meal

Food the next evening was cannelloni to start which seemed to be a pasta roll with a criss-cross pattern in cheese branded into the top by a grill  -  a rich small portion.  The main course was billed as a typical Moroccan dish. It came in a glazed shallow pottery dish like English stock pots used to be.  It was covered with a matching lid in glazed brown pottery and when the waiter removed the lid with a flourish, there wasn't much to be seen.

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There was a chunk of meat that looked like two apricot halves, all in gravy.  It tasted marvellous.  The meat was fleshy and fell apart at the touch of a fork, probably braised lamb or camel, but it had obviously been stewed in the pottery dish for a long time because it retained its considerable heat for a long time.  The apricot lookalikes were a vegetable, maybe parsnip.  They had absorbed the meat gravy and turned brownish too.  Everything was very tender and tasty but maybe too greasy for our enjoyment.  There was plenty to eat.  What looked like a small portion when the lid was removed turn out to be very nourishing and much bigger than expected when hoisted from the gravy.  It took ages to eat as it wouldn't cool down and it was a hot and humid evening.

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The final course was a standard creme caramel, normal in very respect.  I was offered a drink and chose red wine by the glass.  The gracious head waiter went away and returned shortly say: "Sorry no red wine. Rose or white?"  So I asked for rose and got white.  It was a pleasantly dry wine, but definitely not Rothschild.  That glass of wine cost more than my toasted sandwich and two Cokes at lunchtime, so maybe it was Chablis after all.

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Religion

This is a highly religious country where everyone stops for prayer. It has some merits over the Church of England.   The entire factory stopped for prayer at odd times, like twenty to five. Men go to one room and women somewhere else.  My office looked down on the huge sewing room with well over 300 people operating sewing machines,  (They made 20,000 pairs of trousers that week). There was a mixed of both sexes sitting sewing, and a sprinkling of Caucasian women, mainly as supervisors. At prayer time 80% disappear and about 20% stayed, all women; most put their head on their piles of garments and are thought to be praying.  Only a few open the Sun to page 3 and get out the pastie and chips.

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Tangier has long been influenced by Europe and has many European customs like not working on Sundays.  Not all the population are Islam but it is by far the predominant culture and you hear the minaret man wherever you may be. He calls the faithful to prayer from a Mosque tower five times a day. To my astonishment the senior office people, roll out their prayer mat, face east to say their prayers in the office and right next to my desk and PC.  They do so without inhibition of having an Anglo Catholic in their midst.

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9/11

I flew back and fore to Tangier several times that year and on one trip was joining up with Peter, our employee based in Budapest.  My ticket had been booked and paid for a flight from London to Tangier and Peter was due to fly from Budapest to join me on10th September. Then the news broke of four coordinated terrorist attacks by the Islamic terrorist group al-Qaeda in the U.S.  He immediately rang me to say he'd cancel his ticket and I said: "No we're still going and I'm on the next flight".

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There were 354 Arabs on my  757 when we flew the day after the 9/11 disaster and I seemed to be the only Caucasian. I felt very safe as they'd not bring down one of their own planes bound for Tangier Boukhalef.  I was in their office by 4 p.m. and the managers were clustered round a screen showing the News Channel.  They were as appalled as we all were at the attack and there was a general air of gloom in the office, which just goes to show this, like other mega-disasters get all the publicity but are not necessarily supported by the whole populace.

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