After taking the night train to Tangier, I got to my hostel 4 hours before check in. I went up to the terrace to wait out my time until I could unpack. I drank mint tea and chatted with the workers while they set up breakfast in the dining room. A panicked man entered the terrace and pointed at me. "I'm leaving for Spain and I can't take this hash with me, do you want it?" I nodded, handed him the change in my pocket, and he left me with ~7 grams of hash from Chefchaouen. My knee-jerk elation dissolved. I had no way to smoke this shit. I found a small tobacco shop nearby and purchased the necessary accoutrement. I went back up to the terrace to begin breaking up the hash into a pile of tobacco and rolling a joint. I smoked in the sunlight, and read Neuromancer.
View from the terrace.
Check in time. I unpacked and showered. I put in my headphones and let Dan Deacon guide me through the maze of the Medina. I found my way out and down to the coast. I began walking around like the stoned tourist that I was. Every time I slowed down to look around I would invariably have a local approach me and ask me where I was going. I was used to this gambit from spending a little time in Marrakesh. They want to find out where I'm going, then try to lead me there. After arriving, they want a tip. I've had them ask for as much as $50 for walking in front of me for 2 minutes. It's part of the reason I walk around with headphones on. They're not threatening, but they're very aggressive. They don't take, "fuck off," for an answer. They'll also try to lead you into particular restaurants and shops where they earn a commission on money the tourist spends.
I love the graffiti in this city.
I kept walking down the coast and past several cafes and restaurants. I took out my headphones to enter a convenience store and purchase some unfamiliar purple beverage. That's when I meet Yusef. He approaches me and asks what I'm looking for, as I have my hand on a bottle, inside a refrigerator. I tell him that I'm ok and I'm just getting a drink. He asks if I'm American. I say yes. He asks if I want to have tea with him. My spidey-sense is tingling like a motherfucker. But, tea is cheap and I wanted the chance to have a conversation with one of this country's hustlers.
Never buy OCB papers.
We went into a cafe two streets down and I ordered mint tea. It was apparent that the waiter knew him. They laughed and I heard "American" uttered several times. He was excited to get the chance to hustle me. I felt kind of flattered. I wasn't going to give him more than a cup of tea. He didn't know that yet. After we sit, the first thing he tries to offer me is hash. But, I already have some in my pocket. So, I suggest we each throw some into a couple of joints. One made from each of our stashes and see which one is better. Of course, he keeps telling me that his is better. I don't really care. As long as we keep things even, he can't try to scam me into giving him money. We smoke our joints while looking out at the beach. Then, he begins talking about politics.
Yusef does not like Obama. He loves the Bush family. There's no apprehension in his voice when complaining that Americans have too much money. No wonder he's trying so hard to get mine. Yusef is a man that knows how to get things. He offers me tours of the local attractions, to go out drinking with him and his friends. Girls, then underage girls. He offers me his hash again. I remind him that I already have my own. It seems like he's more stoned than me and losing the thread he's been weaving. I offer to roll another joint from my stash and he accepts. I keep taking faux hits and passing it back to him. I want this guy too impaired to be effective. The side effect is a passionate diatribe about the evils of Obama and America. He rages on about Desert Storm, Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, Kuwait, and every other thing the US has done in and around the Middle East for the past 30 years. I just agree with everything he says to keep him talking. Yusef loves taking pictures of mosques.
Yusef loves taking pictures of mosques.
The sun is setting, and I want to be away from this guy before it goes down. I suggest he share another joint out of his stash, I keep passing it back to him. He says he is too high for a cafe and wants to walk. I agree to walk with him for another 20 minutes before I head back. We walked toward a small park near a mosque and I took a picture of us together. I declared our time to be over and wished him well. As expected, he kept following me. I asked him where he lived, he made an ambiguous motion toward the sky. I asked him to be more specific. It was the opposite direction we were headed. I told him I didn't need him to walk me back. He tried insisting that it was, "No problem my friend." I joked that maybe I should be walking him home because he seemed a bit wobbly. I could see the gears turning. He would end up having to walk a few miles for the chance to collect a tip. He sighed in defeat, gave me a hug, and walked away. I got back to my hostel, headed to the terrace, and lit a joint of triumph.
Weird sammich and harira soup.
After all of that tea and hash I thought now was as good a time as any to check out some street food and swing by Cafe Baba. I went down to the entrance of the Medina and elected to stop at a stall that grilled up small portions of meat and made ridiculous looking sandwiches. I chose the most ambiguous looking of the meats. Ground something, mixed with other somethings. It was squeezed into 4 little turd shapes and put on french bread. He added tomato, onion, olives, lettuce, and some chunks of a gelatinous erubescent substance that held the shape of the can it came out of. On top of that he placed a handful of fries and then covered it in hot sauce, ketchup, and some mysterious jizz sauce.
Hunger sated, I hunted for the infamous Cafe Baba. It doesn't look like much on the inside. A bunch of seats and people smoking hash. There is a picture of Keith Richards smoking a hash pipe at the table I sat at. I recognized the table Anthony Bourdain sat at. On a different wall, there is a picture of Bob Marley smoking a joint in the raised "VIP" area. This is the place musicians and beat poets would come to smoke hash and drink coffee. All they sell is coffee, tea, and soft drinks. It's strictly a place to get high and hang out with your friends. Taking pictures is expressly forbidden, so I had to slyly get some shots with my phone when the proprietor wasn't looking. I let the high lock me to my chair and watched the sunset from the same vantage point as the Rolling Stones.
Travel bros.