Tangier, Between the Sea and Me

I have always loved the feeling of being on the move in public transport. During my time in Morocco, I tried different ways of travelling: the high-speed train from Rabat to Tangier, the local train from Tangier to Asilah, the intercity bus back again. The bus to Chefchaouen was the most memorable. I sat at the back, the road uneven beneath us, reading as the Rif Mountains passed by the window. We drove through white Tetouan. In my hands was El Tiempo Entre Costuras. In the novel, Sira arrives from Spain and settles there. That overlap — landscape and page — felt more precious than any landmark. It felt like the first, simple joy of travel.

Before coming to Morocco, Tangier was the city I looked forward to most. Half of my imagination came from the 1960s hippie trail. Young people left Amsterdam or Paris, crossed Eastern Europe, Istanbul, Tehran, Kabul, Peshawar, Lahore, and travelled all the way to Goa or Kathmandu. Some, on impulse, crossed the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier, stayed for weeks, smoked, and then continued east. The Rif Mountains, known for their cannabis fields, added a hazy layer to that long journey.

The other half of my imagination came from literature. In the twentieth century, some of the strangest writers passed through Tangier. Paul Bowles wrote The Sheltering Sky here. Later came William Burroughs, Peter Orlovsky, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac. Even Bob Dylan sang, “If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier.” Years later I learned he would sometimes change the city’s name in live shows — she might be in Babylon, in North Saigon. Tangier became a shifting coordinate between songs and books.

Morocco’s history deepens Tangier’s tone. At the edge of the old world, Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, Spaniards and French all left their mark. Berber people moved between mountains, plains and sea. Civilisations overlapped. The result is a country that feels layered, half medieval, half modern, touched by colonial traces.

Yet Tangier does not feel entirely Moroccan. In spirit, it feels Mediterranean. I cannot define what that means. Only that such cities seem closer to one another than to their own countries. Alexandria, Tunis — I imagine them the same.

That afternoon, we found a place where we could watch the sea for hours. From the hill, under a clear sky, the mountains of Andalusia seemed almost within reach. This land was once an international zone, full of restless stories. Now it rests quietly. The sun brushed the waves. The crossing of the strait felt like a metaphor. Only twenty kilometres apart, yet divided by geography and politics into separate continents. Some travel back and forth. Some leave and never return.

A friend once joked that many handsome men in Spain probably carry Moroccan blood. Perhaps that is fitting. Let them scatter like dust across the Iberian Peninsula, carrying with them a quiet longing for Africa.

我是如此喜欢搭乘公共交通在路上行驶的感觉。  

在摩洛哥的旅途中，我尝试了几种不同的交通工具：拉巴特到丹吉尔的高铁，丹吉尔前往艾西拉的普通火车，艾西拉返回丹吉尔的城际公交。丹吉尔往返舍夫沙万的大巴则最令人难忘，坐在大巴末排颠簸着读书，窗外掠过里夫山脉，经过白色的德土安——手中正在读的《时间的针脚》里，希拉从西班牙来到摩洛哥后，正是在这座城市落脚。这种经历仿佛来得比逛景点更珍贵，好像找到一种属于旅行最初的快乐。  

来摩洛哥之前，最期待的城市就是丹吉尔。  

对我而言，丹吉尔的想象一半来自六十年代的嬉皮文化。年轻人们从阿姆斯特丹、巴黎出发，穿越东欧、伊斯坦布尔、德黑兰、喀布尔、白沙瓦、拉合尔，一路来到印度果阿或加德满都。有些灵机一动的旅行者，会从欧洲跨越直布罗陀海峡来到丹吉尔，在这里停留、⻜上几周叶子，再启程往东方走。地中海旁的里夫山脉是闻名世界的大麻产区，生产廉价高品质的大麻，为这段旅途增添了几分迷幻色彩。

另一半想象则来自文学。二十世纪几个最奇特的作家曾在丹吉尔停留。Paul Bowles在此写下的《遮蔽的天空》⻛靡全球，随后William Burroughs, Peter Orlovsky, Allan Ginsberg、凯鲁亚克等垮掉一代纷至沓来。连鲍勃迪伦都在歌里写道“If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier”. 很多年之后我才知道，他在现场表演中戏谑般修改过几次地名，她不仅可能在丹吉尔，她还可能在在巴比伦，在北⻄贡......

摩洛哥的历史给这座城市增添了复杂的底色——⻢格里布作为旧世界的尽头，腓尼基人、罗⻢人、阿拉伯人、⻄班牙人和法国人都先后改变了山地、原野和沙漠海洋间游涉的柏柏尔人。文明交织的摩洛哥，带着一种迷幻繁杂的中世界古典加上近世殖⺠文化混合的⻛情。  

但丹吉尔似乎不是摩洛哥的，而在精神上混杂着地中海的性格，我说不清什么是地中海特质，总觉得这些城市仿佛与地中海其他城市关系密切，反而与自己国家关系淡漠，想象中的亚历山大、突尼斯都属于这样的地方。

那个下午，我们找了一个地方，可以一直看着海的那边。坐在丹吉尔的山丘上，万里无云，安达卢西亚的山脉似乎肉眼可⻅。眼前这片土地，作为曾经的国际共管区，发生过多少波澜壮阔的故事，如今都平静得如同暮年。  

渐渐的，太阳的光线开始摩挲海浪，穿越海峡像是一道隐喻，搭上离岸的航船，相距不过二十公里，却被地理与政治划分成了不同洲际，有人往返奔波，有人一去无返。  

曾听一个朋友打趣说，在西班牙看到的帅哥，大概率有摩洛哥血统，真好，就让帅哥们像尘土一样散落在伊比利亚半岛的版图上，永世带着那份对非洲的乡愁。