Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
I can't remember why we felt it was necessary to visit North Africa but that's where we were headed when we left Ibiza. I have a vague recollection of Dick having talked about the possibility of employment at the huge American Air Force base at Casablanca. Maybe that was the motivation.
All I had to do was mention the word 'bedbug' before we left Ibiza and all three of us were guaranteed to spend sleepless nights in the bunks we had reserved for the night journey. I recall lying awake alertly awaiting for the first hint of a bug bite; an imagined bite was almost as effective as a real bite; Dick claimed his body was covered with 'real' bites. As we disembarked we were met by a small group of urchin hustlers each of whom guaranteed to lead us to the cheapest, cleanest, finest bed and breakfast pension in town. After visiting and rejecting two or three recommended locations while still lugging our heavy rucksacks our guide had given up and wandered off and Bill and Dick were imploring me to please make a selection. This happened at Alicante, where Bill's first 'Kristallnacht' (as we jokingly referred to the occurrence) also took place. We had finally decided on a pension whose owner was a middle-aged woman who kept referring to us as 'muy simpatico'. It actually translates as 'very nice' but until I looked it up in the dictionary I was wondering what it was we were sympathetic about. It would, in fact, have been appropriate because I was sympathetic to her concern about Bill's penchant for breaking glass. It seemed that anytime he was near a glass window it was only a matter of time before we would hear the sound of shattering glass. We were never really able to account for this behaviour except that it seemed any time Bill stood near a glass window with his substantial bulk he would lean back and precipitate a vitreous disaster. We eventually suggested that he stand near the centre of any room we were in at any particular time to minimize the effect.
Meanwhile Dick had discovered that the mistress's sixteen year old daughter was taking guitar lessens and since he was familiar with a few chords he had unwittingly begun to seduce her with his talents. We had stopped over in Alicante expressly to see the bullfight on Sunday so Angelica was broken-hearted when her mother refused to allow her to accompany us to the Plaza. Three strange Americans, and unchaperoned as she would be? Caramba! What would the neighbors say? She may have been right; although the Plaza was very large and otherwise modern. Their ideas about sanitary facilities were unusual. The urinals were all along the inside of a waist-high wall running along inside the concourse. As a result all 'pissers' were able to stand relieving themselves while looking out at the spectators filing into the arena and vice versa.
We decided to spring for the 'expensive' seats in the shade because of the heat and were seated in the second row back from the ring. We knew we were getting close to the 'big time' when the door of the first chute was opened and a huge black Miura bull charged out looking from side to side for something moving to attack. A bullfighter with a large cape came out and confronted the bull as the other members of the cuadrilla watched the bull's hooking movements closely. The bullfighter was replaced by another member of the group after making a few passes.
Fleet-footed banderilleros appeared from the burladero and ran at an angle toward the bull who tried to range in on these moving targets. As their paths converged at the middle of the ring the banderilleros raised high on their tiptoes momentarily, plunged the brightly coloured banderillas into the huge hump of muscle at the animal's neck and scuttled quickly back to the safety of the burladero. The banderillas were more of an annoyance than a serious injury.
Finally there was a blaring of trumpets and two picadors riding huge draft horses rode slowly into the ring. They wore hats with round crowns and stiff black brims and carried long poles with sharp lances fixed to one end. The horses themselves were heavily padded with protective mats hanging down to within a foot of the ground. The picadors' legs exposed to the bull were also covered with protective leather and padding. The bull, frustrated by his inability to make contact with the swirling capes of the bullfighters, stood bewildered momentarily in the centre of the ring. Then he saw the movement of the picadors and charged at the nearest horse without hesitation. The horse came to a halt and the burly picador leaned toward the charging bull and braced the lance below his arm with the sharp metal dagger pointed directly between the bull's shoulders. The collision brought the charging bull to a halt and the horse and rider reeled backward from the impact. The picador bore down as hard as he was able until the bull finally backed off a few feet in consternation.
When he charged again he attempted to get his long sharp horns underneath the padding on the side of the horse. Had he been able to do this he would have quickly disembowelled the horse and possibly wounded the rider. But he failed to get his horns completely under the horse's padding. Then a most astonishing thing took place; the bull simply lifted the horse and rider completely into the air and ran ten or fifteen feet before slamming them into the side of the burladero! Bullfighters with capes rushed out to distract and draw away the bull while the partly unhorsed picador got reassembled.
The enraged bull was cleverly manoeuvred over toward the other picador and did not hesitate to charge again. Once more he was met with cold, sharp steel which was ground cruelly into the massive neck muscles. I learned later that unless this was done the bull would never lower its head sufficiently to allow the matador to get in over the horns for the final kill. I had no trouble believing this after seeing the incredible display of strength when the bull lifted both horse and picador earlier in the corrida.
After additional vicious 'pic' work the matador came out from the burladero carrying a red muleta and began a series of exquisite veronicas and natural passes that drew the usual roars of approval from the crowd. A chest pass done while on his knees drove the spectators wild. Finally he cited the bull and as it charged one last time he dove over its horns and plunged his sword to the hilt in a perfect estocada. The beast stopped as if struck by a train, then sank slowly to its knees and rolled to one side, lifeless.
-o-
The next day we were back on the train heading for Granada. Prior conditioning by Bob Dunlap and his ilk had convinced us that it would be a crime bordering on matricide to pass through Granada without taking a tour through the Alhambra. The Moors invaded and conquered Spain in the first century and Granada was the seat of the Nasrid kingdom, one of the last great Muslim Spanish states. In the 14th century its monarchs built La Alhambra, the 'Red Castle'. It was a memorable visit--one we will never forget. The view from the pillared Sala de Los Reyes (Room of the Kings and Queens) toward the The Court of the Lions far exceeded anything we had previously considered to be exquisite.
There were inlaid patios and porticoed pavilions, magnificent gardens, beautiful fountains and relaxing pools, all functioning as effectively as the day they were built hundreds of years previously.
Of all the souvenirs we should have had from Europe there was one we assuredly should have had but our stinginess and skepticism did us in. Just outside the main entrance to the Alhambra was a small group of Arabs who had complete Moorish outfits in different sizes; caftans, burnooses, daggers and slippers, the lot; there was even a camel resting on the ground nearby. The deal was that we would dress in these Berberesque outfits and have our black and white photos taken by the 'skilled' photographer on hand. It was only going to cost us a couple of dollars each,..in advance! That dampened our enthusiasm immediately. The photos would be sent to our addresses in America. Ha, ha! they must have realized that we were aware that we would hardly return to complain if they absconded with our money.
Let me give you another example of our niggardliness. The number for forty in Spanish is 'cuarenta'; the number for fourteen is 'catorce', (I'll admit they sound similar to the unpracticed ear!) Dick's high school grounding in Spanish gave him an advantage by default to which we became accustomed. I guess you should say I became too accustomed; Bill didn't know a word in either French or Spanish. Soon after we left the train in Granada we came to a restaurant that was advertising lobster for lunch. We sat at a table and questioned the waiter about his lobsters. Were they large, mature lobsters? Were they fresh? How much did they cost? His answers were Yes! Yes! and 'cuarenta'.
'How much is that?' I asked our permanent translator.
'Fourteen pesetas,' he replied. We were too seasoned to show astonishment, so, expressing reluctance we ordered lobsters. As he hustled away I said to Dick, 'Christ! that's only thirty-five cents apiece, we may as well order a litre of white wine when he returns.'
'Good thinking!' Bill chipped in. He knew what lobsters cost at home. The lobsters were indeed marvellous. After a timely interval to allow our digestive processes to proceed the smiling waiter returned with the check:
3 Langosta @ 40 ptas. 120 ptas. 1 Litro Vino Blanco 20 ptas.
A stunned silence ensued. I finally found my voice. 'Forty pesetas? I thought you said fourteen.' We had pissed away a dollar each on huge, fresh succulent lobsters! Abomination! Dick was summarily dismissed as official interpreter and it was decreed that in future all quotes in Spanish would be required to be in writing. It seems ludicrous now that we would have complained about paying a dollar for a meal that even then would have cost ten times that much at home but we had an opportunity to stick the needle in and we weren't about to pass it up.
'You can't fire me, anyway,' Dick grumbled, 'I've already resigned!'
'Yeah, yeah,! we chorused gleefully.
Gibraltar seemed to grow without limit as we approached until we pulled into the train station at Algeciras. Direct entry into Gibraltar by train was not permitted and we were told we would have to finish our journey by ferry. We left the train and walked into the town of Algeciras with the incredible bulk of 'The Rock' towering above us. We found our usual cheap type of lodging without the assistance of local urchins and repaired to a local tapa bar. After several drinks we returned to our room and napped until nightfall.
My instincts must have been honed in Ibiza because even without consciously searching for a 'red-light district' we found ourselves walking past a group of Spanish-style brothels. There were about six similar buildings, each with a doorway draped with a beaded portiere. There were girls of every size and many different shapes standing in the doorways showing off their tarty wares.
'Momentito, senors! Momentito!' one would say. '?Deseaba usted algo? Did you want something?'
'We may as well go in one of these places,' I said, 'We can tell them we're 'just looking!''
'I'm not sure that's a wise idea,' Dick said.
'What's the matter, ya afraid we might get screwed?' I laughed loudly at my own joke.
'It's not that, it's just that they may be expecting something.'
'So what? It didn't bother you two sissies in Ibiza, did it? You went in there and they didn't live up to your expectations! You afraid you might get held hostage by two bosomy hookers if you don't partake? Come on, grow up!'
We finally ventured into one of the brightly-lighted front rooms and found, to our amazement, an air of genuine easygoing unconcern.
'Have a seat! Would you like a drink? Have a look around, no hurry, take your time.' We couldn't believe it; there was no attempt to sell us watered-down drinks, no pushing of the 'product' in any way.
I saw one particularly attractive girl sitting primly on a sofa across the room. She had long black glistening hair like most of her companions but hers had a soft wave and she showed a faint evidence of Moorish ancestry from long ago. I guessed her to be the equivalent of the 'octoroon' of the deep south in the States. She smiled when she saw me staring at her. White even teeth and milk chocolate skin like smooth satin.
'?Como se llama usted ? What's your name?' I said.
'Natalia' she replied shyly.
'Let's check out a few other places,' Bill said.
'I'm quite happy here with Natalia,' I said.
'Bill's right, we should see what else is available,' Dick said. 'After all, there are at least three or four other places we haven't been to!'
'Chrissake! You two are the bloody limit,...first I couldn't get you to come into just one, now you want to do the complete tour. You're not getting lumps of shit in your blood, I hope!'
'No bloody way,' Bill was quick to assure me. 'We just don't want to make too hasty a choice, that's all!'
'Right!' I said, 'I'll tell you what..I'll check out two more places with you and if I don't see something I like I'm coming right back here.' Then I went over and spoke quietly to Natalia. 'Yo lo veo mas tarde! I'll see you later!' I was becoming quite fluent in emergencies. Natalia smiled sweetly and said 'Hasta la vista!' She had dimples!
We wandered down the street and were entertained with drink, free viewing and hospitality at a couple more of the friendly bordellos but I failed to see anything that compared with Natalia. They were still vacillating when I told them to get stuffed, I'd see them back at the room in due course. I then proceeded back to see Natalia, who it seems was otherwise previously engaged. Shit! Now I was really pissed off! If I'd been upset when the boys decided we should continue the tour, I was furious when I returned to find that Natalia was no longer available. I walked back to our room grumbling to myself only to find that my roommates were not available either. I finally went to bed planning serious butt-kicking the next morning.
-o-
When we finally left Algeciras we had to pass through Spanish Customs and Immigration.
'How long have you been in Spain?' the officer asked.
'Just on a month,' I replied. He was thumbing through my passport examining every page carefully.
'Where did you enter the country?'
'I'm not sure, some place north of Barcelona. Doesn't the stamp on my passport show the port of entry?'
'That's the problem, sir. There's no stamp from a port of entry to Spain on any of your passport's papers. Do you recall seeing your passport stamped?'
'As a matter of fact I don't; we never left the car, in fact. We were hitchhiking along the Riviera and when we got to the border the officer came out and gathered up our passports. We just sat in the car waiting until he returned with them. It never occurred to me to look for the stamp.'
'Just wait here a moment, please,' he said and walked into a back room. He returned a few minutes later wearing a faint smile.
'It seems you are in the unique position of being in Spain with no documentation to show you have entered. We suggest that if you intend to return you secure a visa.' I knew that a visa was not required for Canadians but as a suspected Royalist spy I decided it would be wise not to argue.
'Where would I get one of those?' I enquired.
'I would suggest the Spanish Embassy in Gibraltar,' he said as he handed me my passport. Why did I have the feeling I'd been scammed? I was to find out when I visited the Spanish Embassy in Gibraltar.
I soon found myself leaning against the taffrail of the ferry from La Linea to Tangier. After making our way by ferry and train as far as 'The Rock', Bill and I had cleverly conceived the idea of presenting ourselves to the authorities in Gibraltar as bona fide British subjects en route to the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II and would they please be kind enough to arrange accommodation for us on one of their aircraft or naval vessels (free of charge, of course. Either method would be satisfacory, we weren't all that fussy). We planned to attend to these matters after we had concluded our visit to Tangier.
The scene on the dock at Tangier was one of moderately controlled chaos. I remember being approached by a grubby little Arab urchin who offered Moroccan currency. He held out what he claimed were one hundred paper notes and asked for the equivalent in pesetas, or, Heaven forbid, American dollars! He proffered the stack of bills and urged me to present the exchange requested. 'Good deal, man, good deal!'
I had become habitually skeptical of all street hustlers by this time so, overlooking the possibility that the notes were counterfeit I reached over and forced his hand open. As suspected I found that he had only fifty notes instead of a hundred but had folded them double to give the impression that he was making a straightforward deal. I waved him away with a look of disgust. He flashed an impish smile, laughed, and ran away into the crowd. This was an early introduction to the variety of scams extant in Spanish Morocco.
Our intention from the outset had been to find a cheap but respectable pension somewhere in the Casbah, the old native section of the city surrounding the fortess. Realizing this was dangerously close to an oxymoron we nevertheless trudged up the narrow streets looking for a place to stay. Lo and behold: we spotted a sign projecting from a building that read 'Hotel Londres'. A hotel with a name 'London Hotel' spelled in French; the ultimate oxymoron, and located in the depths of the Casbah in Spanish North Morocco, already! We did the appropriate thing and checked in, the beds being 'bug free' and the room rates cheap. A dollar a night and three meals a day included! This was the scene of Bill's second 'Kristallnacht', but more of that later.
We had heard much about the fabulous beach at Tangier so headed down to view it the following day. It was indeed spectacular, a great crescent of pale golden sand stretching in each direction as far as we could see. We had been sauntering along for only about five minutes when I heard a hissing sound behind us.
'Pssstt! Señors!' I turned and saw a grubby-looking individual in a dark European-style suit. He was not wearing a tie and his shirt could have used a bit of a rinse. Both he and the suit were slightly frayed around the edges. He kept glancing nervously over his shoulder toward the town.
'I have found very nice ring in sand. You want to buy?'
'Tell him to bugger off, it's a scam!' Dick snarled.
'No, not scam! I find on beach...I show.' He glanced over his shoulder again before reaching into his pocket and bringing out what appeared to be a gold man's ring with three large diamonds set into it. He handed it to me and I examined it carefully. I'm no expert so even with a jeweller's loupe I wouldn't have been able to tell if the stones were genuine.
'How much?' I asked bluntly.
'Two thousand pesetas!'
'Goodbye!' I said, handing back the ring. The hustler glanced back over his shoulder again; he had me convinced he was concerned about the police.
'Okay, one thousand! I must sell!'
'Sounds fishy to me,' Bill said.
'I'll give you five hundred and that's it. Final offer.'
The hustler adopted a look of pure agony. I was convinced he was about to leave when suddenly he said 'Okay! You very hard man!' He watched as I counted out five hundred pesetas and the transfer took place. He walked back up the beach looking like a whipped dog. I felt like I'd made the deal of my life.
'Let's have another look at that thing,' Bill said, suddenly showing interest. It was his turn to examine it closely.
'You may have made a sharp deal there,' he said grudgingly as he handed it back. I slipped it onto my finger and held it up to admire. The diamonds sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight.
'I'll give you a thousand for it, right here and now,' he said suddenly.
'Bullshit!' I said, 'you don't even have a thousand pesetas.'
'I could give you an I.O.U.'
'Yeah, yeah! Just forget it,' I said.
'I still think you got ripped off!' Dick said, not without a tinge of envious doubt, I noticed.
'I tell you what I'll do,' I said to Bill. 'I'll give you a half interest for five hundred and I'll take your I.O.U.!'
'Deal!' Bill said, 'I'll make out an I.O.U. as soon as we get back to the room.'
There was no 'souk' or Grand Socco in Tangier at that time; a huge market plaza where dozens of shops are clustered. Instead, the narrow streets were lined on one side by tiny one-person stalls. The 'streets' were really just narrow alleys and a large man could extend both arms and touch the buildings on either side; they were crowded with people at midday. Loudspeakers turned up to full volume intoned the exotic music of the East. On occasion the music would be shut off and the high wail of the muezzin would be heard calling the faithful to prayer five times a day.
"Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar" (God is great, God is great, God is great.)
We weren't buying, despite the entreaties of the stallkeepers squatting by their wares. We were just looking, 'rubbernecking' as we called it. There were flower sellers, dried fruit sellers and cold drink sellers, a man squatting by a spice stall with wooden bowls filled with dried mint, ginger, sesame and coriander seeds, cinnamon, tarragon and cloves. There was a holy man, dressed in a jellaba, turban and ragged slippers, squatting on his heels, motionless but muttering noiselessly to himself.
We approached a merchant crouched beside a table covered with what appeared to be a pile of licorice candy. As we came nearer a street urchin ran up and handed him a coin. The merchant took it, picked up a small metal hammer then reached over to the candy pile. As he reached it a swarm of flies flew up and allowed him to pick up a lump of white candy! He whacked off a chunk of the candy and handed it to the child, who ran away happily licking the candy which had so recently been covered with common flies. The merchant had replaced the larger piece and it was quickly being obscured by the flies which had been hovering nearby.
Bill and I had lingered to watch the display of the candy vendor and Dick had wandered on up the alley ahead of us. We had just started after him when he came back toward us wearing a wide grin.
'You have everything but a canary feather sticking out of the side of your mouth.' I said. 'What's up?'
'Just follow me,' he said. 'I've got something really interesting to show you!'
'Do tell,' I said skeptically.
'I guarantee it'll interest you,' he said with a low chuckle. He finally stopped in front of a tiny alleyside stall beside which a grubby-looking Arab in a dark suit and a red fez was squatting.
'Do you see what I see?' he said gleefully. He pointed to a small open box near the middle of the display, It must have contained at least forty rings identical to the one I had bought on the beach the day before!
'Go ahead,' Dick urged, 'ask him what they cost.'
'Okay,' I said. I picked up one of the rings and looked at the stallkeeper. 'Cuanto cuesta?'
'Cuarenta.' was the reply. Forty pesetas! and that was before I'd made a counter offer. I probably could have had it for no more than twenty-five pesetas! I heard a burst of laughter from behind me. It was obviously Dick, marvellously amused, getting even for all the needling he had received following the 'lobster incident'.
-o-
I frequently leaned against the door frame of the hotel and enjoyed watching the world drift by. The bodega across the alley was no more than spitting distance from where I stood and bits of laughter and odd ends of conversation splashed through the doorway whenever the swinging doors were pushed aside. To my left the narrow cobbled alley ran past some shops and an open-front cafe which lent its greasy odours to the general aroma. The wine in the bodega was cheap; you could say that everything in Tangier was cheap, or should I say 'inexpensive'? When you say 'everything ' in Tangier you mean exactly what the word implies. From the ultra-modern European section at the top of the hill to the teeming, fly-ridden alleyways of the Casbah below one can find individuals ready and willing to provide, for a price, goods and services to satisfy the most exotic appetites. One evening we were sitting in the screened-in porch on the second floor of a building somewhere deep in the Casbah. We were in the midst of strangers who were packing the bowls of small ceramic smoking pipes with what appeared to be shredded grass then lighting it and inhaling it with a single quick inhalation. They referred to it as 'kief', but of course it was hemp and some of the participants had already assumed a sleepy, tranquil state. Ironically, they were all drinking a srong brew of non-alcoholic mint tea!
-o-
As I lolled against the door jamb at the front door of the hotel each day, a steady stream of natives padded by, the women dressed in long, hooded jellabas and veiled so that only their dark brown eyes were visible. Most of the men were garbed in similar fashion but their hooded robes were woven of coarse brown wool and looked like great converted gunny sacks. A little Arab boy passed occasionally, making the rounds of the bars, balancing a large wooden tray covered with hot nuts. For one peseta he would fill your hand with nuts of your choice. He never failed to stop and offer his wares regardless of our many previous refusals. His smiling good humour was typical of the dark-skinned urchins.
Another young Arab sat frequently on the stone steps of the bar on the opposite side of the alleyway and although his dark, kinky hair and wide nose gave a good clue to his ancestry he was dressed in strong contrast to the others. He had acquired faded blue jeans somewhere and topped these with a white tee shirt. He wore the commonplace rope sandals. I guessed his age to be about eighteen years. When I first saw him he had been playing with a small kitten, a fluffy ball of white that jumped and tumbled on the stone alleyway like an animated snowball. Later, I saw him engaged in conversation with a young Arab girl whose age I estimated to be twelve or thirteen and was not wearing the customary veil of purdah. Maybe it doesn't apply to young maidens I thought. She was wearing a jellaba and I was struck by her dark attractiveness. They whispered and grinned and shoved each other as though in argument. Finally, he rose and walked over to the wall of the corridor next to the bodega and drew a five peseta coin from his pocket. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and rapped it sharply against the stone several times then wheeled and walked slowly up the corridor and disappeared through a doorway. After a moment his little friend rose and followed him.
-o-
Bill had joined me at the front door of the hotel to watch the passing parade, A tall Arab girl of exceptional beauty approached us and flashed a beautiful white-toothed smile and looked directly at us with her large dark brown eyes unlike the usual shy averting of the eyes to which we had become accustomed . I guessed her age to be about fifteen.
'She winked at me!' Bill exclaimed incredulously.
'Yeah, yeah! you wish!'
'No, I swear! She looked me straight in the eye and winked!' Dick had joined us by this time and Bill told him of the events he claimed were underway. He scoffed as I had. Meanwhile the girl had walked on up the alley to the corner.
'Look!' Dick said. 'She's stopped and is looking back!' Sure enough, the girl was standing at the corner, looking back and smiling. 'Go for it, she wants you, pal!'
'Do you think so, really?' Bill said. He was obviously tentative.
'This is the chance of a lifetime...I wouldn't hesitate if I were you!' I said. Just at that moment the young woman gazed back wistfully one last time then walked into a side alley.
'Here goes nothing!' Bill said determinedly and strode up the alley. As he came closer to the corner his pace gradually slowed. Presumably he was mentally visualising the various possibilities he might encounter; there was strange sex, of course, but there were also various kinds and shapes of Arabic daggers that could be slipped painfully into his anus... and that was before they were twisted! He paused, gazed wistfully in the direction the girl had disappeared, then turned and walked slowly back down the alley to where we were standing. I reckon Bill often wondered whether he had made an unfortunately conservative decision on that occasion. On the plus side there was still no AIDS epidemic extant.
One evening we were drinking in the bodega across from the hotel and got into a conversation with an American chap and his wife.
'You seem to be very familiar with the Casbah, Mr. Croul,' she exclaimed.
'Please,' he said, 'just call me Dick,' he said modestly.
'Thank you, Dick,' she said. 'We were on a tour to Tetuan this afternoon so we never had an opportunity to walk through the Casbah.'
'We could take you on a little walk through if you like,' Dick offered magnanimously on our behalf. Where do you get this 'we' shit? I thought.
'Oh, could you? That would be wonderful!' Joan (for that was her name) gushed.
'We'll just finish our drinks and take off, then.' Dick said affably. It was nearly eight o'clock and already dark.
'I'll just powder my nose and be right with you,' she said.
As soon as she was back we set off,...all five of us. We walked straight up the hiil for three short blocks and turned left into the heart of the Casbah. The streets were deserted; even the stray dogs seemed to have disappeared. There wasn't a hell of a lot to see, compared to the teeming bustle of midday. We had gone about another fifty yards before the 'shutter slamming' began. Second-story shutters that had obviously been left open began slamming shut as we proceeded up the alleyway. At first I assumed that it was an isolated coincidence but when it continued for a full hundred yards or so I began to think someone was telling us something. Something like 'Go away, infidels are not welcome here at night!'
'This is making me extremely nervous,' Joan said. 'Maybe we should consider going back.'
'Good thinking!' I said.
'Whatever suits you,' Dick said reluctantly. 'Nothing much to see at night anyway.' We headed back down the alley away from the sound of slamming shutters. We returned to the bar and had a nightcap before making the ritual goodbyes and heading back to the Hotel Londres. The door was locked.
It seems that either we had not been listening or else the receptionist had failed to tell us that the hotel was regularly locked up at eight p.m. and residents were required to carry a key. Fortunately a window opening into the reception area had been left ajar and we were able to open it enough to gain entry. Dick scrambled through first, followed by me, followed by Bill, followed by the musical tinkle of glass. He'd done his 'Kristallnacht' thing again! I made the necessary explanation the next morning and they marked up the replacement cost to Bill's account.
-o-
One day we walked right up through the Casbah to the viewing area at the top of the hill. We were sitting on a stone bench gazing out over the ocean panorama when I became aware of a 'presence' on the bench a few feet away. I turned and saw a man who reminded me of the one who had sold me the ring on the beach. Believe it or not, he shuffled over to me and said 'You want to buy lovely ring?' I reached into my pocket and slipped the beach ring over my finger.
'You mean like this lovely ring?' I exclaimed loudly, holding it up close to his face. He assumed a shocked look and, although I hesitate to use the word, he literally bolted away and disappeared into the crowd below. When we had finished laughing we agreed that the 'beach ring' investment may have been worth it after all.
At that time Tangier was an international port run by a thirteen nation commission. A few years before we were there the government built a big modern settlement and started moving the natives out of the Casbah and into the new facility 'for their own good'. They moved back as fast as they were moved out. A sort of balance had been achieved by the time we were there. The natives claimed the new settlement was boring and they liked the Casbah; they had always lived there and they liked it. I'm not sure I blamed them. So did I!
After a week Dick decided to move on. He had a friend working for the U.S. Army Air Force and had said there were jobs available. Bill and I walked with him as far as the station and bade him goodbye then returned to the hotel to check out.
— The End —