Rif Kif Le Tangier

We buy our tickets for the coach to Tangier which is a lot less hassle than the last two journeys and relatively luxurious. Due to my complete lack of preparing for Morocco I thought we’d be straight into desert watching wild camels cavort but to my surprise we start climbing up a dusty track and are soon looking back at the sea through a hazy dusk. As we climb higher the guys tell us that we’re at the start of the Rif Mountain range which goes along the top of Africa. Up the top we stop at a check point where police walk up the aisle eyeing up the travellers. At one poor guy they stop and rummage through his bag then drag him unceremoniously off. Out our window we can see the cops yelling at him whilst brandishing a bottle of Johnny Walker whiskey so I think he’s about to get bottled, with a full bottle. One cop then smashes the bottle on a rock and they drag the poor bloke off to their hut. The coach starts again leaving him and our mates tell us smuggling whiskey is a massive mistake like smuggling drugs through Europe. After that excitement we doze before reaching Tangier and are spewed out into a madness of humanity. Nothing has prepared our European sensibilities for the heavy barbequed meat smells, brightly coloured cloths and cacophony of a completely foreign tongue. Wow! We now really have arrived in Africa... 

Turns out that Tangier is still fairly European but we’re not to know at the time. At this point we’re all going to go our separate ways and student Mustafa invites us to his family home in Casablana which Simon and I readily agree to. He’s a lovely bloke. As we all are getting night trains we have a few hours to kill and wander the streets. One of the wide boys wants the Moroccan replacement for alcohol if you catch my drift. As we’re in Tangiers he doesn’t want to pay the street price as he says he’ll get ripped off so we traipse around trying to find a really good deal. Whilst with the Moroccans no one bothers us but if Simon or I fall ten yards behind to take in some sight or smell we are pounced on by locals trying to sell us kif. For what sounds like a ridiculously cheap price. We tell Mustafa but he says they’re tourist prices and goes ever further into the heart of the city. After a while offer to buy it for him in return for their generosity but he won’t let us be ripped off thereby getting the nickname Mustafa Gooddeal. Eventually he grudgingly gets his dried goods and we make our way back to the train station. Fond farewells and visit us in England here’s our numbers and we’re alone with the other Mustafa on a train down the coast. Folk smoke really long wooden kif pipes with clay bowls pushed on to lessen the heat of the smoke. It’s the equivalent of drinking Watney Red cans on British Rail (you can tell how long ago this was!)  As Mustafa Gooddeal pressed a package into my hand when saying goodbye Simon and I think well, when in Rome...  our Mustafa doesn’t partake having weaned himself off whilst in Scandanavia which having known those natives surprises me looking back. Anyways we rush through the night dreaming the dreams of lotus eaters before coming into the clean seaside town of Casablanca.

Home comforts...