Am back in Tangier as the travelling companion of Mr MacGowan. Here for a week. This time, we’re in the El Minzah hotel, which is more Graham Greene than Bill Burroughs. The rooms cost a pricy £100 a night, but it’s a plush 1930s affair with immaculate terraces, courtyards, swimming pool, sea views, free wifi (though I have to bring my laptop to the ‘Business Room’ on the first floor), staff in fetching fez-topped uniforms, belly dancers in the restaurant, large gardens and indoor fountains, all tasteful rather than tacky.
I’m not sure if it’s worth staying here at the El Minzah for the full week. I fear a number of ‘deductions’ will be added to the final bill, find some of the staff a little officious and unfriendly, and am all too aware that I must often come across as an idiot monoglottal English tourist asking to be milked for his money (or rather, my host Mr MacGowan’s money).
Though that’s the suspicion brought on, probably unfairly, by the infamous ‘faux guides’ who approach you on the streets. Even men marked with laminated ‘Offical Tourist Guide’ badges who insist they’re not hustlers steer you to another man who will get you a taxi, then to a taxi driver, then to a third man who says he is your Official Guide for… for walking you from the taxi to the hotel, and so on. A man who walked us from the ferry to the taxi asked for 50 euros (£33) as I rummaged through my wallet. What on earth did he expect me to say in return? I gave him 10, he asked for 15. And got it. £10 for five minutes’ work. Well, I was really paying him £10 to leave me alone.
And this was a man with a laminated Official Tourist Guide badge. I’m getting better at smiling and saying ‘sorry, no’. I’ve been here before: I should know what to expect. But when you’ve just walked off a ferry after two hours of being thrown about on the sea, you do feel rather fragile and off your guard.
Maybe some of these gentlemen are indeed Official Guides. But I just want to be left alone until I actually need help.
The ferry crossing from Algeciras was an unusually rough ride. We were caught in a storm, and the horizon line through the windows dipped in and out of view with nauseous rapidity. During the journey, you have to get your passport stamped by a police officer, who commandeers a table in the corner of the cafe. The pitching and tossing of the ship didn’t bother him in the slightest, calmly working away and stamping the pages while his queue of passengers held onto columns and rails for dear life.
“More like the Irish Sea than the Med” says Mr MacG.
