"What's that?" exclaimed Jim.
"That's a mosque," the guide replied.
"Hell," snorted Jim, spitting out raisins, "I thought it was a church."
Our last week in Spain we took a tour to Morocco. There were 25 of us on the bus, including Jim, a Texan, who was always loudly competing with the guide for attention. Not even his wife ("Hi, I'm Alice from Dallas!") could squelch him.
After a two-hour ride from Torremolinos to Algeciras, past the Rock of Gibraltar, we took the ferry to Ceuta, a Spanish enclave in North Africa. Beyond the town we crossed the Moroccan border and met our local guide Shonee, an engaging middle-aged Arab with a red fez, yellow curved-toe
slippers and a charming smile. We then drove on to Tanger through a hard rain.
The Tanger Flandria Hotel in the center of the city was surrounded by shops and we were
surrounded by street peddlers. Phyllis, getting her first lesson in "negotiating," offended one store clerk by not coming up a little when he came down a little, so he finally went back up. Result - no sale.
My wife is, however, a fast learner. In the next shop she went up so fast, and so often, the poor clerk didn't have much of a chance to play his role. But she and he had fun and we bought an iron-and-silver vase, paying undoubtedly several dollars more than necessary.
Dinner at the hotel was memorable only for the tangerines (what else in Tanger?)
Next day a city tour. Tanger, a metropolis of 3 ½ million built on multiple hills, reminded me somewhat of my wartime memories of Algiers, with
a French flavor still evident. At the beach outside Tanger, where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet, we stopped for those inclined to mount one of the many camels lying in wait for the tourists. Phyllis and I were watching the scene when a tall, thin Arab came over with a baby camel.
"Look!" he said. "Baby. No bite. Gentle. Take picture."
Why not, I thought, and snapped a shot of Phyllis with the baby camel.
"Now I take picture of both of you," said the friendly Arab.
Such a nice fellow. I showed him how to work my camera and he snapped us with the animal, which seemed to be enjoying the whole thing.
Well, I thought, least I can do is give him a small tip - a quarter, even fifty cents. The only small bill I had, however, was a hundred peseta
note, about 75 cents. And no coins. Well, what the hell! I gave him the
hundred pesetas and a big smile.
"Thank you."
He didn't take it. Instead he shook his finger and said: "Two pictures - 200 pesetas."
"I have no change," I truthfully told him.
"I make change for you," he retorted, pulling out a roll that would choke a grown camel.
"You have more money than I do," I said. "Let me take your picture."
He grinned broadly as he peeled off my change. Jim used up a roll of film, snapping Alice on top of three different camels.
After a tour of the Medina, the native quarter, and stops at a restaurant for the "national drink," mint tea, and the inevitable carpet shop (Jim was
the only purchaser), we returned to the hotel for a forgettable lunch. With one hour left and Phyllis eager to pursue her newly-acquired
negotiating skills, we headed for the shops, running a gauntlet of street
peddlers, and wound up with a pair of copper-and-brass pots and a plate.
As we were boarding the bus for the ferry, one persistent young peddler who had first accosted us in the Medina and later on the street, wore down my
resistance and sold me a toy camel. Over the course of several hours he had
come down to two dollars and I had gone up to one dollar. As the bus pulled
out we made a deal. I stuck 200 pesetas (about $1.50) out the window and he
tossed a toy camel inside. Later I discovered it was smaller and rattier than the one for which I had been bargaining. Ah well, so much for wheeling
and dealing, Tanger-style.
A pleasant two-hour ferry ride back to Algeciras and another two hours on the bus got us to Torremolinos about 11 p.m., tired but happy with our Moroccan experience. Jim and Alice bade us a fond farewell.
The next day we drove back west along the coast past Estepona and 15 kilometers inland to Casares, a quaint mountain village in a spectacular setting with magnificent vistas, unfortunately obscured that day by low clouds and intermittent rain. We had expected that on Sunday the town would be quiet, but not so. The entire male population, seemingly, taking advantage of the non-work day, was
gathered in the square (Plaza de Espana) to watch the tourists.
While I was hunting for a parking spot, no easier there than in Malaga, Phyllis hopped out and located a likely-looking "boutique," better described as a hole-in-the-wall. When I found her, she had concluded a deal with the ingratiating owner and his wife for a wool stole and agreed on a price. The
stole was pretty, the price seemed reasonable, and after her Moroccan training I felt confident she had bargained shrewdly.
In the next shop up the street, a man beckoned us in, turned on the light and ushered us into the back room of what was obviously a combination store
and domicile. Piles of stoles identical to the one we had just purchased surrounded us.
Having done his part by luring us in, the man disappeared, undoubtedly to join his buddies in the square, and the lady of the house (shop?) took over.
Without a word of English she gave us a sales pitch we couldn't resist, particularly when she said in slow, distinct Spanish, "I make you good price."
She wrote down a figure 400 pesetas less than the amount we had just paid in the first shop. A bargain like that was too good to pass up so we bought another stole. But in a different color.
Outside, I asked my wife: "Didn't you negotiate in that first shop?"
She shook her head. "He was such a nice man. And his wife helped me pick out the right color. It would have been tacky to haggle."
I sighed.
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