Legend has it that Hercules stood with one foot on Gibraltar (Europe) and one foot on Abyla (Africa) and pushed the two rocks apart in order to open up the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic. Hercules must have been impressed with the African side because legend also has it that he resided in what is now known as Tangier, Morocco. Obviously, I felt the needed to investigate this piece of mythology.
From Gibraltar we (Ice Station Zebra, plus 15 others from the study abroad program) took a 20 minutes bus ride to the neighboring port city of Algeciras, where we boarded a ferry that would take us to Tangier, Morocco. Although the separation between Europe and Northern Africa is less than 10 km. these two continents are vastly different. That statement is troubling to me because upon reflection I have found it quite difficult to explain their differences. Perhaps this is because I cannot point out many tangible differences- both southern Spain and northern Africa have a Mediterranean look, similar city layouts and building designs. But, the intangible differences- the smell of spice mixed with the stench of sweaty towns, the attitude of people who are willing to barter for anything, and the shift from Spanish to Arabic influences- all lead the first time visitor to feel like you are in another world. Admittedly, I had some predispositions towards Africa so I was ripe for believing I would enter a new realm of man's existence. I think that I was most surprised not to find a single black-skinned person, but people who looked like they worked at the Pita House in Greenville, SC.
We checked into our hotel room and passed out for three hours from the exhaustion of travel, hiking up the Rock of Gibraltar, and warding off its monkeys. When we woke up and made it to the lobby everyone in the group had already left for dinner. A man that hangs around the hotel offered to take us an authentic Moroccan dinner and we obliged him by jumping into his van (Mom, we weren't being naive, he was a quasi-hotel employee). We ended up at a family-styled restaurant in a neighborhood called "Kazbah." We were led upstairs to a large community table with little stools for seats. There was a four-piece band in the corner playing a zanituar, tamborine, bongos and a violin-like instrument. For dinner we were served community dishes of Chick pea soup, assorted fresh veggies, chicken and carrots over couscous, and arabic tea. Half way through the meal we asked our waiter, "How come we are the only people using our utensils?" He explained in broken English that in Morocco it is customary to eat with your hands. Then, we demonstrated the proper hand-shoveling techniques by sticking his fingers right into our food (okay Mom, now we were being naive). Somewhere in the back of my mind I could here the screams of a thousand Cotillion mothers as I grabbed some couscous with my fingers and pushed it into my mouth.
The next morning Ice Station Zebra broke from the rest of the group, who decided to follow the hotel-guided tour of the city. The thing that we most wanted to do was to go hiking into the Rif Mountains on camel-back, but that required a two day journey and we only had one Saturday. Instead, Will used his Spanish to hire a free-lance cab driver (as the driver explains it, he isn't aligned with the taxi cab industry) to give us a tour of the region. Unfortunately for Dain and I we would never understand a single word our tour guide spoke in his broken Spanish, except for those moments when Will would point things out to us. We traveled throughout the city as he pointed things, like a Saudi Arabian prince's summer mansion or an historical mosque. Soon we were outside of the city and began the slow journey along the Atlantic Coast to the old village of Assylah. Along the way, we stopped at a series of caves beneath a fishing village were it is believed that Hercules once lived. Whether or not the famous Grecian made this is home, it was neat to go spelunking and feel like you were in the presence of greatness. I bet Magnus von Magnussen didn't live in a cave! Above the surface the aroma of freshly grilled fish was too overwhelming for us to pass on. I guess Will felt ultra-inspired by Hercules' layer because he ripped his shirt off and proceeded to scarf down his serving. After looking around and noticing that he was three times the size of any other fisherman, it seemed as if the villagers looked at him as though he was familiar.
(Dining on a typical Herculean meal)
Immediately past Hercules' home, we drove around a 90 square kilometer expansion of beach and ocean front property. This area had been purchased by a developer, who was building some 15 different resort-towns. There were tractors and cranes and bricks everywhere. The developer's crew were carrying out his plans to cultivate this area into a booming tourist/resort area for the neuve riche. Looking at all of the construction amidst the beautiful palms and crystal clear Atlantic I felt like I was having an very uninspiring dream- the scenery was gorgeous and my imagination was whirling with thoughts of vacationing in style, yet I felt guilty for wanting to visit here again because I know that progress will destroy this piece of Earth's majesty.
(Inside Hurcules' den looking out into the Atlantic. Notice if you reversed this image, the light entering the cave would create a sketch of Africa's continent).
Soon we would reach Assylah, a town that is divided into two squares, one for the old village of Greek-styled whitewashed homes and another for modernity. A long forgotten fortress separated them from each other. Unfortunately for Dain and I, we didn't understand enough of the broken Spanish spoken by our cab driver/today's tour guide. But with or without an explanation, you could get a decent understanding of this coastal town just by roaming the streets. On the way back we convinced the driver to let us out on the beaches for an hour's swim. He obliged and we took turns jumping into the Atlantic's strong African currents while families sprawled out around us and the occasional camel that would stroll by.
(Front door of a typical home in the village of Assylah)
There isn't really anything extraordinary that happened from the time we arrived back at our hotel in Tangier until we reached Spain's Iberian peninsula on Sunday midday. However, something struck me as being very peculiar when we finally made it back to Granada. When I walked into my hostal I was overwhelmed by the satisfaction of feeling like it was "good to be back home" again. Except, I am not home. In fact, I am as far from home as one could be. It's funny how quickly you can adapt to your surroundings, and how relative the word "home," can be sometimes.
Signing off, from one end of the world to another.
Hunter Reid
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