Balmy Tangier Summers
(los veranos locos de Tanger)
John Romero
To a well-seasoned traveler, a visit to Tangier ought to be an unforgettable experience. If only because of its beachfront… and the sublimely perched white city, presiding over a gentle curvilinear beach, looking less like a Roman amphitheatre today as it did before tourism got out of hand in the early sixties and destroyed the beach front with massive ugly blocks posing as International Hotels, the Almohades, the Sol-Azur, etc…
The Rif Hotel, now sadly defunct, was however historically more in tune with the character of the town. After all, Nazi spies had made the Rif their haunt and abode during the war years, and it retained a character of its own, although never as special perhaps as the Minzah Hotel. The Minzah, once Lord Bute’s home, has also been the haunt of WW 2 spies, but instead the Americans and the British were the one to enjoy its comfort and luxury.
Many world beaches are considered idyllic because of the tropical settings: Seychelles or Costa Rica, surfing at Waikiki, even indulging in a hot Christmas on Bondi beach, or even simply controlled voyeurism on Copacabana & Ipanema.
For me at least, none of the so-called top world beaches attract the same level of attraction as Tangier beach. I recently spent ten days in Costa Rica on vacation, and we looked for a beach that would rise above all beaches, but all we found were ‘brochure’ beaches whose attraction was the white tropical sands, the green tropical palms trees and the light tropical green/blue warm waters of the Pacific.
Oh Dear! is that not what people go looking for in the summer? Oh yes, and I forgot the odd two-metre Iguana, lazily soaking in the humid heat, breaking the monotony for a few minutes…Copacabana was no exemption, a beach ripe with historical acclaim and a backdrop of decaying beachfront tallish residential buildings, and a spread of International hotels, that did little to changing my mind about Tangier…
However a beach, of no particular acclaim that I am aware of, I discovered on a crack of dawn steamy morning in Mumbai India. I had flown in late the night before, and gone straight to bed in a classic Holiday Inn hotel, which I was told sat on the beach. My jet lag alarm clock made sure of an early rise, 5 am to be precise, and as I drew the curtains open, I was considerably surprised to see the beach extending out ahead of my window to the left and to the right. My sleepy eyes gradually started to focus on the beach and I began to notice movement on the dark sand. Then I realized that there were people on the beach…Lots of people. I checked my watch again and it confirmed 5 past 5 am. I was a little disconcerted; I had never seen such a busy beach at the crack of dawn. In fact it was still mostly dark, bar a faint creamy orange break in the distant sky giving notice of yet another hot sultry day ahead. I stood there, bare skinned, in a half dreamy state pondering whether I should take a walk on the beach, foregoing breakfast. In any case breakfast was not available so early. Three steps down from the hotel veranda pool area and my feet sank into the sand of Juhu Beach.
Juhu Beach in the State of Maharashtra, is located 18-km north of Mumbai city centre, it's a major beach site on the shores of the Arabian Sea and is one of the well-to-do localities of Mumbai where one can find apparently the bungalows of the famous film personalities of Bollywood. It's also a favourite shooting site among the filmmakers as many film shots use Juhu Beach. I have to say, I did not notice any grand villas on the way from the airport the night before, but I guess they are so grand that they are mostly secluded. But I did not know any of that and I did not need to know. The scene in front of me was mesmerizing. There were hundreds of people, indulging in a variety of activities. Early morning exercises for some, deep sleep for others, quite still, having spent the night on the beach. The more dynamic ones were busy creating sand castles of intricate and fascinating details.
Others were bathing their camels in the Arabian Sea. Never knew camels liked sea dipping… At least the Tangier camels do not seem to join forces with the hordes of tourists that crowd the beaches. I must be getting my camels and dromedaries mixed up. Dromedaries obviously like the salty ocean taste…
A few were bathing in their white clingy gowns and I walked on and felt uncomfortable with my jeans and sneakers. People in their traditional white gowns must have felt so relaxed, light and cool. I envied the light dress. I dared not take my shoes off for fear of injuring my feet. The sand was not exactly inviting, with debris and objects that were probably best avoided.
There were jugglers and I briefly stopped to watch them. I smiled at them. They returned a comforting smile that signaled the acceptance to a foreigner that had dared interrupt their daily ritual. But this beach reminded me of Tangier beach in some strange way. The white backdrop was sadly missing, but because of the notion that a beach is not exclusively a place to gorge on sun and sea air, is also a living place to do just about anything. Tangier beach is a bit like that. However here I was not accosted by anyone and nobody really cared if I was there or not. It was as if being so early in the morning, no self-respecting foreigner would have the temerity to break the activities of local residents by descending on to the beach and share in the ritual. Not that I was actively sharing, but more like absorbing the antics, the furtive glances, the bare curiosity and the nonchalant demeanour of these wonderful people that I have grown to like and admire over my multiple visits to India. This was a beach like no other I had seen. People came here to play in the circus of life, not to show off their latest tangas or Gucci sunshades, but to enjoy a much simpler life…and that was comforting and warming.
It could be said that I was brought up on the beach. So for ‘beach’ people, it will be easy to understand, relate to and share what life close to a beach is all about. The people of Rio and the people of Sydney share the exact symbiotic relationship with Copacabana and Bondi beaches. So do Tangerines or Tanjaouis. They also share the same beach ‘DNA’. However there is one remarkable difference. Tangier beach is unique, not because the beach itself has vastly superior attributes than other perhaps more noteworthy world beaches, but because of the history surrounding the beach and the city. There are two aspects to Tangier that impacted its development throughout history. The city on the hill that provided strategic surveillance of the straights of Gibraltar, and a curvilinear bay of a few kilometers in length, that promoted a very long sandy beach near the town, and then became interspersed with rocky promontories right up to Malabata Point. The bay, since the early days of colonization, [Tangier is probably one of the most colonized territories in history], proved to be an important place where ships could shelter from the harsh weather conditions that often prevail in the Straights of Gibraltar. From the Phoenicians who established early trading posts around 450 BC at Tingis, gathering importance in trade relays with Spain, to the brief 25-year occupation by a British garrison under Charles II, following a Portuguese occupation. The sheltering potential of Tangier bay was however not enough for the British who built a mole to protect the ships of the day, that came to supply the garrison, and to trade with the outside world. It is to be expected that the building of the mole had a marked effect on the development of the beach. This mole although mostly destroyed by the exiting British garrison, was much later rebuilt and extended.
Right up to the 1800’s the city of Tangier was basically encased within the Medina walls, which date from the Portuguese occupation. The sea was considerably closer to the city walls. However by the 1900s, the extension of the city began to take place, spilling out of out of the Medina precinct, and then reclaiming over the sea, an area that is today part of the commercial harbour. The beach during this timeframe has also changed. It became much wider, due to the mole influence in correcting and managing currents. The length of the beach, of course, remaining practically unchanged.
The summers on Tangier beach were long and I was young. Three months to be precise of total abandonment, of glorious sunshine and gleaming blue seas – of sailing errands in our little dinghy, a Mirror that we had painstakingly fixed up during the winter months.
The ‘Lungo Mare’ beach walk by the Avenida de España, a two-way vehicle road that was dissected by a Palm tree lined walk that provides welcome shelter during the hot sunny day and humidity canopy during the evenings. There one could sit for hours and enjoy the evening with either a drink or simply a delicious ice cream from the well know Valencianos next to the Marco Polo Hotel. The Palm Trees had been a present from the Government of Spain to the City of Tangier in the 20s when the avenue was being built.
During the summer days, the Avenida metamorphosed itself in a buoyant, activity filled thoroughfare. A people crossing to the beach from the town, an opportunity for street gamblers to make a killing – incessant money games where one never won, and one always lost, where one would invariably be ridiculed because nerves would prevent you from noticing the blatant cheating that took place. You soon learned that the first experience was invariably the last one.
The cactus fruit seller, taking advantage of the summer crowds, sold beautifully sweet ‘chumbos’, a local cacti fruit also know as Barbary figs with orange coloured flesh and a myriad of pips that you ate and hoped that digestion would take care of the rest. Unfortunately it mostly did not.
The water seller, a colourful character, dressed in a bright red tunic, with dangling shiny brass goblets attached to two black leather belts that crisscrossed his torso and waist, advertised cool water contained in a goatskin. The ambulant water seller was an enterprise probably as old as the town itself. However in all the years that I lived in Tangier, it never occurred to me to buy a goblet of water. A probable self preservation attitude, that tourists perhaps ignored and paid the ultimate price of a two-day repeat commute to their toilet.
The sand was exceptionally soft, runny, golden white, and in those International Tangier days, it was spotlessly clean too. The beach was wide - the shore was a good five minutes walk from the ‘balnearios’ (beach café / clubs) that lined the road. At midday the sand would get extremely hot, and people trying to reach the shore, would run for a while, stop and lift their feet one at a time for a few seconds of relief from the penetrating heat, not unlike desert lizards. I remember the young ones struggling through the crossing, until rescued by an adult.
The beach was as most beaches tend to be – a place to make new acquaintances, and even first loves. The beach in Tangier was a place to meet incredibly well known people, or sometimes just gaze at them.
Such an encounter was in 1968…
I am waiting outside one of the ‘Balnearios’ changing rooms armed with a piece of paper and pen. My friend Maribel G…, that first innocent short-lived summer girlfriend, makes a rather embarrassing request of me. All excited, she urges me to get for her Brian Jones’ autograph, indicating that he was in one of the changing cabins and that he would shortly come out. I remember being uneasy as I waited for this semi-god of Rock and feeling a little embarrassed and rather inadequate. After a few interminable minutes, Jones came out. I immediately noticed his rather striking drawn facial features with beady bloodshot eyes and that seemed to say ‘they even haunt me in Tangier’. The mild Levant disturbed his classic Beatles golden hairstyle. He was surprisingly short in stature, not what I would have expected (television misrepresents people’s appearance). His skin was milky white with a touch of sunstroke over his shoulders. A string of Moroccan beads hanged around his neck. He did not seem to be too ruffled by the fact that I presented him with a piece of paper and a pencil, urging him to scribble his autograph. Either he was very civil or so high on Majoun or Kif, that being accosted by me probably did not matter to him that much. He signed off. Trying to keep the moment alive, I asked him what he was doing in Tangier. He cleared his throat and gently declared with a passing grin “I am here to play the pipes at Jajouka”. With that he moved on and joined a small group of people that were lying on the blistering sand a few feet away, amongst them his girlfriend Suki and a sound man George Chkiantz and possibly too Brion Gysin. In fact Jones had come over to record the Jajouka musicians. In those I did not know who Brion Gysin was.
Tangier beach must have over the years welcomed, entertained, satisfied so many famous and infamous people. Let’s not forget that Tangier was throughout its long history was a cozy paradise for the travelers and for those that made it a home, and a haven for criminals and smugglers.
And the Beach was there for them all…
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