The battle of the Souk of Tanger
My first independent trip outside Germany was in 1980. But after all what happened on this trip I am surprised today that I still was so keen on travelling afterwards.
The Alhambra in Granada. It has not changed a lot
We had started a bicycle tour in Madrid and the friend I had cycled with had gone home with the bicycles from Granada. I wanted to make some more good use of the interrail ticket which had brought us to Spain. At that time, Morocco was part of the internet experience. So why not add something special to this first trip of mine and go to another continent. After Morocco I had another destination in mind: in Ponferrada, at the border of Asturias to Galicia in the north of Spain, was one of the last steam operated railway lines in the western part of the world. An experience I did not want to miss.
The Patio de Arrayanes (Court of the Myrtles) in the Alhambra ... almost without tourists
My idea was to take the train from Granada to Algeciras and from there a ferry to Tanger. This involved changing trains in Bobadilla. It was the main railway hub where the line from Cordoba to Malaga crosses the line from Granada to Algeciras. Another line branches off to Sevilla directly. At the time most of the local trains were operated with rail buses very much resembling the famous German “Schienenbusse”, popularly called “Rutsche”. They not only offered spectacular views of the scenery but also over the track in front and behind the train since the driver’s cab was open and you could look right over his shoulder.
Rail buses waiting for departure in Bobadilla
These trains ambled leisurely along the winding, non-electrified lines. I had to take one from Granada to Bobadilla and then change there for the connection to Algeciras. Much like a steam engine, the rail bus had to get a supply of water in the station in Archidona. Note that at least seven Caballeros are officially employed by the railway to let our little train progress smoothly through this little station. Although it has little importance it is well maintained, the depot freshly painted, the trees trimmed, roses are in bloom and the cobblestones look tidy and without patches. I am sure for the convenience of the waiting passengers and the staff they also had a clean and free toilet somewhere next to the building. However, there also are first signs of neglect: the paint of the goods shed is flaking off and although the simple loading gage is still there the cargo siding was probably not used for a long time and weeds start growing between the rails.
Refilling the water tank in the station of Archidona
Today, the station of Archidona, remote from the town, is not served any more. The old track between Bobadilla and Granada has been replaced by a modern high speed line. Although the modern line passes closer by the actual town the fancy trains on their way to Granada only stop once in Loja. And of course the views they offer of the scenery are worse than in the time of the slow, uncomfortable and loud rail bus.
Diesel engine waiting for new tasks in Bobadilla
The modern trains also bypass the old hub of Bobadilla but instead use the stations of Antequera Av or Antequera Santa Ana. However, it is still used by trains to Sevilla, Malaga and Algeciras today. In 1980 I had to wait for a considerable time in Bobadilla for the departure of the railcar to Algeciras. Waiting in a station is never a penalty for a railway buff. There was plenty of activity in Bobadilla, which still saw freight traffic with big American style Diesel engines and was served by long distance trains. The later were Talgo trains, a construction developed in and basically unique to Spain. Note that the engines still bear a name, and in particular the name of a holy virgin, in this case it is “Virgen de la Almudena”. Probably in the hope that the holy spirit would help the train to arrive safely.
View from the train
To descend to the coast the line from Bobadilla to Algeciras has to cross the coastal mountain range in a long sequence of tunnels and curves. Around the scenic town of Ronda it bends in two horseshoe curves. Even today it takes 3 hours to arrive in Algeciras. On the way there were frequent stops to let oncoming trains pass, giving me the possibility to take some pictures.
On the line to Algeciras
Interesting enough the line was built by the British in 1888 to have better access to Gibraltar. To avoid annoying the Spanish the line ended in Algeciras and there was a branch to the border. In 1980 the land border between Spain and Gibraltar was still closed. The only way to get there without flying was via ferry from Morocco.
The driver's cab of the rail bus
At the time the ferry between Algeciras and Tanger in Marocco and the Moroccan railways were part of Interrail. My budget was limited to something around 100 DM for another week of travelling. I counted on sleeping in night trains and ferries and to buy from time to time the odd sandwich. I only wanted to stay in Morocco for some days and then go back and continue to the north of Spain. I hardly had any luggage either. The bicycle bags from the trip around Spain would not have been very handy to travel on a train with. My cycling buddy had been so nice to take mine home with him. What I had left was a rather big sleeping bag in which I had rolled up a set of extra clothes and my few toiletries.
Port of Algeciras, in the background the rock of Gibraltar
On the ferry I met another German guy and we decided to take a train together from Tanger down to Rabat or Marrakesch,. None of us had any travel experience. But it felt reassuring to have somebody to travel with.
On the ferry
After the ferry arrived in Tanger we were approached by men in brown kaftans. They had a badge identifying them as official tourist guides of the Moroccan government and offered to take us on a free guided tour of the city. This must have been the time when the concept of free city tours started …… . Since they were quite pushy we eventually succumbed and selected the one who seemed to be the most trustworthy. When he heard about our plans to take a night train he tried to dissuade us. We rather should stay the night in a hotel and take a daytime train. By chance the entrance to a hotel was closeby. However, the prices by far exceeded our budgets. When we declined to take a room the guide become a bit less friendly.
The Souk of Tanger
He led us into the Souk, the old part of Tanger. Of course I never had been in a place like that before. We strayed through a maze of passages so narrow that they never saw a ray of the sun. Ports even darker led into obscure establishments full of strange smells and impressions. Everything seemed to be crowded. I held on to the little I carried with utter despair, thereby desperately trying not to loose eyesight of my new friend and our guide, who passed through this mess with an uncomfortable speed.
Following my new mate in the Souk
Already after a short while we had lost all orientation. Our guide entered one of the dark doorways and we ended up in a carpet store. In no time each of us had a tiny cup of steaming tea with 100 % sugar content in front of us and an eloquent sales person started to spread out carpets between the three of us. Yes, three, the sales man, my mate and me. We only noticed later that the guide had disappeared.
Artisan's workshop in the Souk
Although we constantly pronounced that we had no plan to buy a carpet the salesman insisted. The reason of excess luggage did not count, the carpet could be sent to our home address by mail. Size was no problem either, they had also very small carpets for the decoration of tables also. Prices were debatable. We were invited to negotiate. What is your price then I tell you mine. The pile of carpets between us grew in height. How long would it take to clean the mess away? How to leave without buying? Would they be annoyed?
The carpet dealer
Eventually we managed to get away. It was clear that this meant that several local families would go without dinner for at least a week. Our guide was nowhere to be seen. We were in an alley we had never seen before. Since the sun does not get down into the narrow alleys it even was difficult to assess in which direction to proceed. It even was difficult to persue in one direction since none of the alleys followed a straight line. Now, without the guide, everybody in the street seemed to be after us. Look here, Mister. Come into my shop mister. Cannabis, Marihuana, Cocaine, Girls …. everything was for sale here. And carpets. Special price.
In the Souk
Eventually I even lost my new mate in the jostling. Now I panicked even more. A couple of young guys surrounded me. Each of them said something, one grabbed my camera. He wanted to buy it, he said. I ripped it out of his hands and hit it at his head with full force. They disappeared.
Girl customer
Ports have the advantage that they usually are at the lowest part of town. Eventually I found my way back to the ferry terminal. I was fed up with my stay in Morocco and get the next ferry back to Spain. The sooner the better. It was getting late in the afternoon and the last ferry to Algeciras was about to leave soon. I went to the right line and waited for the departure.
Suddenly there was an announcement. Something was wrong with the ferry. The departure was cancelled. That meant that those waiting had to stay for another night in Tanger to get a ferry the following day. What a horror. I went to the office of the ferry company to ask what to do.
Modern quarter in Tanger
This is where I met Carl, Mats, Johan and Gunnar, all older than my father at the time. The difference was that my father would never have travelled on a senior interrail ticket loike they did. Like myself they wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible. And if this was not possible they proposed to insist on a hotel room paid by the ferry company. In the office of the ferry company they led the discussion. The reaction of the ferry company was that they wanted to close the office. It was late and there were no more ferries for the day anyway.
The Swedes did not relent. We refused to leave the office. Meanwhile other people who had wanted to go on the ferry had arrived. It helped a lot that two of my new protectors had wandered around in the terminal and told everybody to come to the office and help complaining. Meanwhile it was so full in there that people had to wait outside. It was like a small revolution.
After a while the ferry company caved in. Two buses arrived. The intention was to bring us to Ceuta. From there a late ferry would depart for Algeciras. The plan was challenging. At the time there were no motorways in this area. The driving time was more than 2 hours. In addition the bus had to pass the border inspection at Ceuta. It was meticulous then but probably not as strict as today. Haste was necessary.
There were several buses. Mine was full. As soon as the bus had departed from the ferry terminal I had the urge to go for a pee. It was a simple Moroccan bus without fancy luxury like a toilet. The bus would have to stop for me to let me out, preferably close to one of those poor trees needy of some humidity. It would have cost us valuable time. If we had missed the ferry it would have been my fault. How could I risk that? But the urge became worse. My entire central body started to ache. An embarrassing catastrophy was about to happen. With terminal determination I got up and went to the driver, trying to communicate my predicament in a mixture of Spanish and English and some clear pointing to the affected area of the body. The driver understood. Unfortunately I had voiced my need in the middle of Tetouan, a big town with no way to find a hidden spot. With pain in my middle I stood clamped to a handrail next to the driver and prayed for the appearance of the Tetouan town limits. Eventually the bus stopped. I hardly was able to climb down the stairs to the pavement any more. A couple of waist high scrubs dotted the desert landscape. No shelter anywhere. I made my aching way to the end of the bus to at least avoid the gaze of the worried faces of most of my travel companions. It did not come. Under the burden of time pressure and guilt I tried and tried again. Eventually it worked. And then it did not stop anymore. How much time had I wasted here? Feeling relieved but guilty I climbed back into the bus which immediately kept going again. What a luxurious means of traffic a train is ….. After I had settled back in my seat the girl behind me sighed and confessed that she was badly in need as well but had not dared to go.
Entering Ceuta
Eventually we came to the border. While all the Moroccans had to leave the bus the Europeans were allowed to stay. A border guard came inside to check the passports. Then we had to wait for a long time until the others were finished and allowed to come back to the bus again.
The port in Ceuta
When we continued and arrived at the port the ferry had just cast off the landlines and the gap to the jetty started widening. The bus started blowing the horn. We stood at the waterline and gazed stupefied at the departing colossus. I felt so bad that I considered of drowning myself in the turbid waters of the harbour basin. But the other bus had arrived late too. It was not only my fault. And I rather preferred to spend a night in the streets of Ceuta than in the Kasbah of Tanger.
The port in Ceuta
Suddenly a sound of surprise went through the waiting crowd. The ferry had left the port but did not continue. It turned around and slowly made its way back to the jetty. Now the faces were bright with joy. We eventually had made it. We boarded and the ferry steamed off towards Algeciras in the beginning of the night.
On the ferry
It is only 39 km from port to port. The ferry should have been able to do that in about an hour. But our fate was not yet resolved. The lights of the port of Algeciras to the left and of Gibraltar to the right were already clearly visible when the reassuring constant roar of the engines died down to a soft hum. The constant vibration of the colossus had given way to the sound of the waves splashing against the hull. Something was definitely wrong here.
On the ferry
An announcement revealed the secret. There was an engine problem. A tug was supposed to arrive to help us into the port of Algeciras. That took some time. It was late even for Spanish standards when we finally got into the port and were able to deboard. Again the four Swedish Senior Interrailers with their sound experience bailed me out. Remember that this was the time before the arrival of internet, online maps and booking platforms. Arriving in a foreign city usually meant a lot of wandering around to find one’s bearings. Even worse in the middle of night. However, they found slices of pizza in a late night joint and a cheap cot in a dormitory of some cheap hostelry for all of us. I would not have dared to even ask there.
The coastal range on route from Algeciras to Babodilla
Meanwhile I also had discovered that there was a problem with my camera had a problem. When I used it to hit a head in the heat of the battle of the Kasbah of Tanger the ring to set the distance was broken. Autofocus was unknown at the time. For the rest of the trip the only possible focal distance was around 10 m.
This was my first experience of leaving Europe. So far I never went back to Morocco again.
Countryside station on the line to Algeciras with steam age time water tower
The next morning I continued to my next goal, the last steam operated railway in the developed west at Ponferrada:
Other posts about the same trip:
Rail bus in the station of La Indiana on the route to Algeciras
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