Rain splatters against the ferry window. Behind us, the grey shores of Cádiz. In front, somewhere in the mist, Africa. We’re on a boat to Tangier, Morocco, and just like Toto predicted, the weather is shit. Wrapped in coats and confused about the signs in French, we watch the northern shore of Africa fade into view.
I know very little about Africa. Ask me to place any country on a map, and there’s a solid chance I’d get Madagascar and flunk the rest. In my mind, it’s a T. rex skull-shaped outline with a Comic Sans question mark on it. So, I decided that as part of ✓ Project Bucket List, I’d visit the place.
Originally, I’d envisioned some multi-country expedition, travelling through different points of interest and developing a deep understanding and appreciation of each area. As time has gone on, and I’ve spent my modest savings on spa days and horse rides, I started to reevaluate and decided that the scale of this trip would be reduced to lunch.
If you’re raising an eyebrow at this point, and using words like “colonial mindset” or “reductionist“, you’re completely within your rights, but it’s my bucket list, and I do what I want.
We arrive at 12 o’clock and, actually, Tangier, if you’re listening, tell your people not to swarm tourists at the port. It’s jarring. The minute you step through security, you’re greeted with calls from loud men who are desperate to help you at the cash machine, and taxi drivers who follow you around until you’re far past their cars. Everyone here is hustling, trading, or selling something. Chaos is commerce, and commerce is chaos.
We head to the Medina, the historic centre of Tangier, a winding town of ancient buildings, filled with shouts, barters, food, and products. Motorbikes skid through the streets where children kick balls around, and vendors set up shop in alleys and on sidewalks. After our introduction at the port, we’re on edge, uncomfortable with making eye contact.
As we meander, I begin to notice small details that seem completely commonplace in Tangier, but would be such rare and curious scenarios in Europe.
At the top of a steep hill, an older woman in shawls kneels on the ground, an open multipack of tissues strewn around her. As people reach the top of the hill, wiping sweat off their brow, they stop for a moment to exchange a few words before exchanging a coin for a pack of tissues.
On a corner, a young boy, no older than 12, is selling a motorcycle helmet and 2 packs of cigarettes. I notice a young man walk past him, before doubling back and purchasing a cigarette from him.
In a busy street surrounded by eatery touts, a beggar is handed a pile of change by a man wearing a tarboush, and shortly after, a woman carrying a bag full of leafy greens does the same.
Money is infinitely more liquid in Tangier than in the UK. Hospitality workers walk around with a wad of cash in their pocket like a spiral notebook. People barter heavily. Information is exchanged in a quick-fire, gossip machine-gun, and money passes hands in quick, small bursts.
See, £16 was enough throughout the day for us to buy coffee, orange juice, water, lipstick, a fridge magnet, a ceramic jar, and lunch. With such small margins and such a hectic and fast-paced environment, who maintains the Medina? There are no card machines, no receipts, no tax, just fluid movement of money. And as I look around at all this money changing hands, I begin to question how the economy here works.
I lose myself in thoughts of shadow economies. It occurs to me, without all the financial infrastructure I’ve come to expect, the Klarnas and the loyalty apps and the gadgets and the gizmos that track conversion rates and upsells and crossells and downsells and loans and credits and APRs, this place is running just fine.
Sure, the quality of life is likely lower than in parts of the UK (I can’t speak for all of it), and there’s poverty all around. But instead of the cold-hearted face of the UK population, these people are a pulsating web of care for each other.
The rest of the afternoon is filled with visits to the more metropolitan areas, Cafe Paris, and Cafe Haffa, where we have the single best mint tea I’ve ever had in my entire goddamn life. I did the math, and while I only explored 1/152,000,000 of the landmass of Africa, I already took something away from it.
See, we’re all so bogged down with formal institutions. You don’t need a business bank account to sell something in Tangier. You just show up and trade. Money is what money was, not some score in a bank account. The West is so concerned with economic structure that it was a wake-up call to see it stripped away.
In fact, I say strip it all back. Kill the banks, ban taxes, and give everybody a fat wad of cash to spend on cigarettes. Tangier exposed how over-structured everything is at home. I’ve realised how far removed I am from the simplicity of trading something for something.
As we sit sipping our mint tea, I see the Strait of Gibraltar stretch out in front of me, the spot where the Atlantic meets the Mediterranean. The physical gap is about 20 miles, but the psychological one feels infinite.
