‘He’s not an egg-laying bird. He’s not house-trained. He’s a liability.’
‘So why do you keep him?’
‘Oh well, I’m alone and he’s alone and we keep each other company, I suppose. He likes a bit of telly actually. He likes a cup of tea and a bit of telly.’
‘Does he like a gargle?’
‘Well, he used to have a bit of wine with porridge, but I stopped that. He got a bit fond of it.’
At this point Jonathan notices my empty glass and shouts towards the kitchen.
‘Mr Lassan!’
Mr Lassan, the third member of this menage, is Jonathan’s manservant and a compulsive kleptomaniac.
‘I had a remote control bell for Mr Lassan, but he sold it when I was in Marrakesh.’
Mr Lassan turns out to be a middle-aged Moroccan with a curious lopsided leer, which Jonathan puts down to the fact that he has a new set of teeth.
‘He can’t stop smiling because they won’t close.’
Apparently, Mr Lassan keeps losing his teeth. He says they go missing when he takes them out in the hammam, the public baths, but Jonathan suspects him of selling them. ‘I mean what sort of man takes his teeth out at the hammam?’
Mr Lassan tops up our glasses, turns on his heel and leaves with a slow, insolent swagger. Jonathan looks after his retreating figure and sighs heavily.
‘He’s a terrible tosser, but I’m afraid I’m fond of him.’
He pauses and breaks into a smile.
‘He’s like Tangier. He’s an addiction.’
Heading south and east out of the city, on the road to Tetouan, my guidebook notes what could be a good omen for the journey. Outside the football stadium we shall pass the only memorial to the great traveller, Ibn Battuta, which stands on a plinth beside it. The plinth is there but unfortunately the statue is gone. Our driver thinks it was stolen some time ago.
He doesn’t know why.
Skirting the city of Tetouan, we follow the road up a broad rising valley. The green and wooded landscape with flocks of sheep and cattle could be Wales or Scotland save for the red-capped French kilometre posts by the side of the road and the occasional vivid glimpse of Berber shepherdesses in scarlet hats, white tops, boots and bright-red knickerbocker leggings.
Late in the day we come to a town spread dramatically across the steep sides of a jagged limestone ridge. It’s called Chefchaouen. As in Tangier, there is an old and new town. The French never attempted to fuse the two together, so the old town, the medina, remains pretty much as it must have been when it was founded at the end of the fifteenth century as a mountain retreat for those Moors and Jews expelled from Spain by the Catholic Monarchs.
It is said that up until 1920 only three Christians had ever found their way into Chefchaouen, and until 1937 slaves were openly traded in its market.
Now it’s on the tourist trail as a picturesque mountain town and the hippie trail as a fine place to enjoy the much sought-after local marijuana, known as kif. Or as the rock and roll bands used to call it, Moroccan Red.
Around the long rectangular central space, the Plaza Uta El Hammam, are grouped an elegantly harmonious cluster of old buildings: the mosque with its delicately beautiful six-sided minaret of brick and plaster, the low white walls and fine doorway of the medersa, the Koranic school, and the crumbly, toffee-coloured walls of the casbah, the old castle, from whose gardens rise palms and cypress trees.
At one end of the square is a funduq, or caravanserai. These were originally intended to be stopovers for those coming into the town to buy and sell goods. Around a whitewashed courtyard two arcaded storeys provide room for unloading and quartering of the animals, with sleeping accommodation for their masters above. This funduq has not yet been tarted up for the tourists. A bed frame, painted silver, sits in the middle of the yard, mangy cats slope around bales of straw, a chicken, one leg tied by a string, is at the end of its tether, pecking at the ground. Robed men from out of town recline on plastic chairs, arms behind their heads, doing nothing much. The place smells, not unappealingly, of skins and leather and horse dung.
We are not allowed to film anything in Chefchaouen until we have a police escort, so we kill time in the Plaza eating minced lamb and sipping non-alcoholic drinks. The mint tea is good but dangerous, as it immediately attracts a crowd of bees. These are apparently a serious nuisance, especially in the warmer months, when special covers are provided for the tea, but the honey they make up here is much sought after. General Franco had his private supply of it airlifted to Spain.
A man in wrap-around dark glasses, straight-line moustache and a black suit approaches. The sort of man who could only be one of two things, a policeman or a pimp. He turns out to be our official escort. Throwing himself into the job with gusto, he shoos away anyone within a hundred-yard radius of the camera, creating the impression that the town has been hurriedly evacuated.
Despite protestations that my hamstring is getting better, Roger is keen for me to attend the public baths tomorrow and have it massaged. I have to buy something to wear. My guidebook advises shorts for men, knickers for women. Walk into the souk, down whitewashed alleyways, past buildings painted an almost fluorescent, swimming-pool blue, an effect created by mixing lime and water with the paint. Blue, in many striking variations, is the predominant colour of old Chefchaouen. Apparently it’s good for keeping evil spirits at bay.
Find a shop with a comprehensive display of shorts. The shopkeeper is obliging, and I pass a complimentary remark on the popularity of the place.
‘Many people here. Many people in your town.’
He smiles thinly.
‘Too many,’ he says.
Before turning in, I walk into the Plaza. By night, the great space is very different; more mysterious, but more personal. Irregular stabs of light pierce half-closed doors and shuttered windows. There is subdued chatter, some music, faces at upper windows, figures silhouetted on back-lit balconies. If this had been a town in Britain the noise would surely have been growing by now; there would be laughter, fights, shouting and raucousness. Then a familiar smell drifts across from the half-lit balconies, spicing the cold night air with a sweet aroma and bringing on a flush of nostalgia.
Now I understand why it’s so quiet. Everyone’s stoned.
Day Five
CHEFCHAOUEN TO FEZ
Wake feeling distinctly queasy in the digestion department. Bowel control will be essential this morning as the prospect of being washed and scrubbed and massaged before the cameras looms. Am tempted to take a tab of Immodium, but this turns intestines into Elgin Marbles and I’m not ready for that. I’ll have to rely on mind over matter, never one of my strong points.
It turns out I’m not the only one affected this morning. Anyone who had the minced lamb in the main square last night is feeling similarly delicate.
The hammam is neither health club nor massage parlour. Its function is primarily religious; to provide ritual cleansing and purification. Before attending prayers in the mosque, every good Muslim must wash hands, lower arms, nose, mouth, ears, feet and ankles. If he or she has had sexual intercourse that day, a complete body wash is expected.
The abundant amounts of hot water required for such ablutions were, and often still are, beyond the means of most households, hence the importance of the public facility.
I’m not surprised to hear that there appears to be difficulty in obtaining permission to film. In fact, I feel slight relief.
But our police escort manages to talk them into it, provided we film before the baths open for men at eleven. Women’s hours are in the afternoon.
This raises the question of who will be there if it’s closed to the public. Our drivers and our police escort sportingly agree to be extras, though, to my deep concern, they assure me that I will be stretched by a professional.