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Buy drugs by bookmark Tangier

Night Boat to Tangier

Buy drugs by bookmark Tangier

Paul Bowles’ Tangier, lost and half found

Buy drugs by bookmark Tangier

It was in a sixth grade social science textbook that I first came across Tangier, in a chapter carrying a brief history of the seven islands of Bombay. When princess Catherine of Braganza married King Charles II in , the Portuguese handed over two of their coastal possessions—in two different continents—as dowry to the British: Bombay and Tangier. However, the name stuck. Perhaps because Tangier appeared to be inextricably tied to the city of my birth at the moment of its own birth as British Bombay. A couple of years later, Tangier re-entered my consciousness in a more substantial way. The protagonist, an Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago, arrives in Tangier after making the short crossing over from Spain. He is on a journey to the Egyptian pyramids where, according to a Romani dream interpreter, there is a treasure waiting for him. I could not get past the first few pages. In the circumstances, I decided to do the next best thing. I read about Kerouac rather than read him. From the high priest of hipsters, it was but a short hop to the Beat Generation and the hallucinatory, non-conformist world they came to represent. Again, the novels were hard going, but the narrative of their own lives seemed to fit in nicely with the countercultural experiments some of us innocently believed ourselves to be teetering on the edge of at the time, such as taking the overnight bus to Hampi wearing charsi pants, dreaming of travelling the world. Someone should have told us then that the world is too big to truly find a way out. Yet, there is no denying that the subsidized idealism of young adulthood is the purest. Recurring in the narratives of the Beat figures was the city of Tangier. Tangier was in its last days as an international zone which had been jointly administered by the European colonial powers and the US since Burroughs came to call it—was the last utopia of permissiveness. There was no forex control a dollar fetched three times the francs it would in Paris , visitors could stay as long as they liked without bureaucratic interference and some of the best cannabis in the world from the nearby Rif Mountains, called kif was openly available and consumed in the cafes of the storied walled city, the Medina. Almost as soon as the Beats got off their boats, they sought Bowles as moths would a flame. I came to Bowles not via Morocco, but his other enduring love: Sri Lanka. It was October and I was on a bus going from Matara to Galle on the road hugging the country's incredible south-western coast. Near Weligama, from the window, I spied the top of a whitewashed Latin-style house through the tall palms crowding a small island just a hundred metres into the ocean. We were past it in a flash, but I was intrigued. What was this place, cradled by waves, peeking out like a Mediterranean promise under the gleaming Lankan sun? In Galle, I found some answers. The house was Taprobane, constructed by a Frenchman who had purchased the island in , the self-styled Count de Mauny-Talvande. True to his inveterate travelling, the essays are wide-ranging—from moving around with pet parrots in Central America to conversations with orange-robed monks in Bangkok. Yet, it is the pieces on Morocco, and particularly Tangier, that left the deepest impression on me. He settled there in When he died of heart failure in , he had been living in a little apartment outside the Medina. In Bowles, such publications had the ultimate insider. Throughout, Bowles draws readers in with so many light touches. I had come across the name of a city in a school textbook as a year-old. The Alchemist had given it a skeleton and the Beats had provided some flesh. But it was Bowles who had breathed character into it, given it a life of its own. My Tangier finally had a personality—irresistible and entirely borrowed from Bowles. Like many others before me, I knew I had to visit someday. It happened in the spring of From the hill-town of Chefchaouen, we took the afternoon bus to Tangier. Moroccan light is a special thing—we watched as it suffused the yawning landscape with a graded yellow glow, reserving its best for highlighting the turquoise and emerald green of lakes in the distance. Herein lay the entire dream of the third-world expat—looking outside is quite different from actually being out there, threshing corn or shepherding goats and only just beginning the long walk home. Yet, the world is what it is and what can one do beyond attempting an awareness of there being another perspective. The romance died with the passing of the 4pm light as we entered the suburbia around Tangier—shiny boards announcing economic zones and all the other accoutrements of industry. The bus came to an abrupt halt just off the highway. We rode onto Boulevard Pasteur lined on both sides by neglected art deco affairs , chatting to the driver in our smattering of terrible French. The Rembrandt was also where Bowles had arranged a meeting between Burroughs and British painter Brion Gysin in , during one of Gysin's exhibitions. The rest is history—it was Gysin who introduced Burroughs to the famous 'cut-up' technique physically splicing a text and then re-arranging the pieces to create a new text that was deployed in The Naked Lunch and subsequent works. Appropriately, the Rembrandt exuded a washed-out air. The wood panelling around the key-holders was riddled with ancient-looking scratch marks and the musty air seemed to have settled comfortably on the walls. After the dinginess of the reception hall, it was a surprise to walk into the spacious bar with its large windows overlooking a small pool and the partially obscured harbour. As yet unlit neon signs of beer brands faced the red Rexine barstools. It was the sort of place where old colonials came to reminisce or regret. The desi millennial has time for neither, because our visas are strictly time-bound and our parents are waiting at home. We bundled into a taxi again, this time on a quest to find the mythical cafe on the cliff, the one they called Hafa. After going up a gentle slope, and skirting the part of the Medina known as the Kasbah, we were dropped in front of an alley in the Marshan district. Buildings on either side obstructed a view of the sea, but we could feel and smell it. In the s, it was here that he learnt to count in Arabic while playing Lotto during Ramzan. From our vantage point at the very top of Cafe Hafa, we could see, on successive terraces of this plunging amphitheatre, the bobbling heads of its patrons, facing the Straits of Gibraltar and the sensation of Spain. The floor was littered with peanut peels and biscuit wrappers. The blue and white tiles had long lost their cooling sheen—they were now specked with dirt. On the rough stone tables lay empty glasses of Moroccan mint tea, some inhabited by flies made mad by the sweet poison of the dregs. But all of that did not matter—everyone was here for the view and the air. As we nursed our mint teas and tried to make out the hills of Andalusia, the seagulls had ceased careening overhead and evening had glided into night. The young men with trendy haircuts in imitation football team tracksuits were all beaming because Real Madrid had just beaten Atletico Madrid in the Champions League. Putting Europe behind us, we headed back into Africa. We spent the next couple of hours looking for the Tanger Inn, supposedly a bar frequented by the Beats and attached to the Hotel El Muniria, Beat headquarters when Burroughs was holed up in a room there, putting together the manuscript of what would become The Naked Lunch. Google Maps initially pointed us to a place about a five-minute walk from the Bab Fass, one of the gates into the Medina. Then, we had a taste of how abruptly chaos turns into desolation in Tangier. Barely a few minutes from the din of the Bab Fass, we were in an ill-lit labyrinth of questionable pensiones and deserted staircases. Alley cats lurked in the corners, nibbling on fish bones. Quickly, we walked out into the main street and I will not deny being relieved to come across a cafe full of men watching the football. Seedier still was the street on which we finally found the Muniria after running rings around the new town in a taxi. Funnily, it was almost behind the Rembrandt. We took the slope down from the Boulevard Pasteur. There was sudden dank, and not a soul to be seen. From the bottom of the slope, Pasteur seemed like a faraway dream. Committed to this subterranean world, we turned left and headed briskly towards a lit board some paces away: the Tanger Inn. The windows on the floors upstairs appeared to be boarded up. It all looked quite foreboding. The vibe and aesthetic was instantly recognizable as urban lounge-bar. That is not to say that its antecedents were not hinted at. On the TV, the video of an electronic dance music concert played on loop. These were incongruous with the rest of the decor. At the bar counter, a couple of girls chatted to two soft-spoken men in rapper caps. It is easy for the bookish to forget that there are those not burdened by history. Even in a city like this. Even in a place like this. One of my two companions was booked on the overnight train to Marrakesh. We made our way to the train station a short distance from the Rembrandt. The shops were pushed far back from the wide street. Tangier, in general, seemed to be bathed in lugubrious lamplight. I think I understood what he meant. The next day, we decided to negotiate the Medina. In light of day, the crumbling pastel facades and rickety wrought-iron balconies of the cheap pensiones came across as charming. We stood in front of the dilapidated art deco edifice of the Gran Teatro Cervantes. It was tempting to read in this building the entire historia of Spanish North Africa—the dream and its doom. At eye level, the white arch marking the entry to the Jewish cemetery fittingly stood right next to the commerce of the fish market and the spice shops. Entering through the Bab Fass, we surrendered to the Medina, passing arched doorways and century-old water fountains peppered with hypnotic zellij the patterned, mosaic tile work of the Moors. Even the Indian merchants—Sindhis who had set up shop when the city was a customs haven—had almost all gone now. This building had been gifted to the Americans by Sultan Moulay Ismail in , a tribute from the country that was the first to formally recognize American independence. Until the move to Rabat in , the building was used as the American consulate. The little histories are seamlessly integrated into the official one in a way only made possible by the kind of town Tangier was in the 19th and the first half of the 20th centuries. Everyone was somehow connected to everyone else. This is best typified by the pocketbooks available in the museum shop and produced by Khbar Bladna, a small publishing house started by Tangier resident Elena Prentice in Tangier nostalgia is an industry unto itself. The crowning glory, of course, is the museum's shrine to Bowles. Two rooms on the upper floor commemorate his life and work. First editions of books that are currently out of print, handwritten notes from his epic journey around Morocco to record its traditional music, the copy of a score he wrote for a play put up by the American School—it is a fitting tribute. The building deserves a Khbar Bladna edition of its own. A complex structure that has been modified and re-purposed over the years, it abounds in architectural delights, largely of Moorish provenance. In classic Medina tradition, the tiny entrance does not betray the size and craftsmanship of the interiors. All in all, this was easily one of the finest museums I have been to, and a lesson in the preservation of legacies—both public and private. In search of sea views, we ambled to the highest point of the Medina—the Kasbah. In the final act of blithe hipsters seeking a time warp, we ducked into the venerable Cafe Baba, visited by Kofi Annan and Anthony Bourdain alike. There was a dirty mirror on the sky-blue wall, but this was the most atmospheric cafe of them all, full of framed photographs and newspaper cuttings. Near the entrance, elderly men in the North African traditional dress, djellaba, huddled together with their sibsis a thin pipe of Berber origin. Further inside, in front of the TV, young locals kept an eye on phone notifications while working the rolling paper with nimble fingers. The air was redolent with the slow burn of moist herb. From the window, I could make out the terraces of the enormous Sidi Hosni, a house once owned by the Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton and the scene of an almost surreal ball that Bowles attended and later described for Kulchur magazine. He had reported seeing a throne of brocade and spears, gypsies imported from Granada, an American flag made of flowers and the silhouettes of natives wordlessly taking in the bacchanalia from the roofs of their own houses nearby. We walk back down the stairway into the lower reaches of the Medina. Its denizens have shut shop for the day and the stray cats are already out to skulk stealthily through the night. Again, that shift from chaos to desolation without warning. I am thinking that I should put Tangier behind me. The pursuit of the past is futile—it will only recede further. I remember how he ended his autobiographical prose-poem, Paul Bowles, A Life:. Vikram Shah is a recovering commercial lawyer, gradually realizing that the bills do not pay themselves. Never miss a story! Stay connected and informed with Mint. Download our App Now!! It'll just take a moment. Looks like you have exceeded the limit to bookmark the image. Remove some to bookmark this image. You are now subscribed to our newsletters. Tangier, timeless sin city However, the name stuck. Paul Bowles: golden man, enigmatic exile Almost as soon as the Beats got off their boats, they sought Bowles as moths would a flame. Where the past lurks: Rembrandt and the cliff cafe We rode onto Boulevard Pasteur lined on both sides by neglected art deco affairs , chatting to the driver in our smattering of terrible French. Into the heart of Beat town, the El Muniria and the Tanger Inn We spent the next couple of hours looking for the Tanger Inn, supposedly a bar frequented by the Beats and attached to the Hotel El Muniria, Beat headquarters when Burroughs was holed up in a room there, putting together the manuscript of what would become The Naked Lunch. View Full Image. An example of zellij. Photo: Vikram Shah. The American Legation Museum. Photo: Apurv Tyagi. Subscribe to Mint Newsletters. Internet Not Available. Wait for it… Log in to our website to save your bookmarks. Yes, Continue. Wait for it… Oops! Your session has expired, please login again.

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