Beer in Tangier leaves us Blotto in Morocco

Rob should have been a spy! Wherever we went, he’d be continually casting surreptitious glances at reflective surfaces to determine whether we were being followed.

One morning I went below decks to find him in semi-darkness, well back from an open porthole, peering through the binoculars. “What on earth are you doing?” I asked him.

“We’re being watched,” he replied ominously.

Willy, Rob and yours truly were aboard Kalinka—our 52 foot ex-British Navy launch—tied up in Tangier Harbour.

The Old Kalinka

Rob passed the glasses to me. Sure enough, from a tower overlooking the harbour someone in a uniform had a pair of binoculars trained on us. Over the next few days we ascertained that this was not simply a casual glance by someone bored with his job—we were being watched.

Not long after this discovery we received a note inviting us to dine the local yacht club. It was signed by a Colonel who, it turned out, was in charge of port security.

Rob, who claimed knowledge of foreign matters, filled us in on certain points of North African etiquette. “Never insult an Arab by refusing his food,” he gravely advised Willy and me.

The Colonel, it turned out, spoke perfect English and we had quite a jolly time of it at the club. Through subtle probing he attempted to determine the purpose of our visit to Tangier while plying us with beer and an enormous plate of little fried fish with crunchy bones and large pleading eyes—the equivalent, I assumed—of our Western chicken wings.

In order to avoid insulting the Colonel I grabbed liberal handfuls of the horrid things and, when he wasn’t looking, stuffed them into my jacket pocket. The unfortunate fish were consigned to the toilet during washroom visits. I later discovered that Willy was doing the same thing.

Rob on the other hand, was dutifully stuffing them down his gullet.

When the plate was empty and the Colonel asked if we’d like more I replied enthusiastically in the affirmative. Rob gave me a withering look.

After a couple of hours the Colonel suggested we go to his favourite bar—an invitation to which I readily agreed. The beers had loosened us all up and we were having a fine time.

Prior to leaving the yacht club, I was handed a rather substantial bill. So much for the Colonel’s hospitality.

We went in our rental car through a maze of narrow cobblestone streets until these became lanes and we could drive no further.

Prior to leaving the club, the Colonel had mysteriously placed a travel bag in the trunk of our car. Now its contents were revealed—civilian clothes. Right there in the street he removed his gold-braided uniform, folded it carefully and changed into his civvies.

We walked the remaining few blocks up to the hill to the Colonel’s bar—which turned out to provide not only alcoholic beverages, but young damsels for rent.

Rob had always had a strange fascination for ‘Ladies of the Night’. I say strange because his interest was of a platonic nature. He viewed them as Fallen Angels and cast himself in the role of saviour—one who might restore them to their former state of grace.

On this particular evening, he chose a waif-like girl who appeared to be rather lost and shy.

Sir Rob darted from the bar, located a street vendor and returned to present his chosen ‘damsel’ with a bunch of wilting flowers. She appeared to be baffled by the gesture. He attempted to clarify the situation by giving her money—enough for an entire night of her favours—while laboriously explaining that he wanted nothing other than her friendship.

Rob and Willy

This appeared to puzzle her more than the flowers. Not so much the gesture I suspect, but his attempt at an explanation. Rob considered himself a bit of a linguist. He knew a couple of words from a number of languages and, when traveling in foreign lands, would throw them all together to create a kind of international stew.

The girl gave him a somewhat disdainful look and went off in search of a ‘normal’ customer.

I suspect this little episode rather soured Rob’s evening. For while Willy and I happily gulped down the glasses of Scotch the Colonel was ordering and clowned around with a couple of the girls, he became a trifle morose. “This is not a good idea,” he whispered darkly to me. “I think we should head back to the boat.”

There was no reasoning with me at this point though, so Rob left the bar with an ominous shake of his head while the Colonel, Willy and yours truly carried on sloshing drinks down our throats.

Later in the evening, Willy and I happened to meet up in the washroom. “Who ja think’s payin’ fr’all thish?” Willy slurred. Recalling the Colonel’s ‘generosity’ at the yacht club, I opened the washroom window and the two of us slipped out into the night.

Strange how an excess of grog has a tendency to make the most stupid things you do seem hilarious. As the two of us went bouncing down the cobbled lane-way to the car, we were looking at each other and absolutely roaring with laughter.

I somehow managed to navigate the vehicle through the labyrinth of alleyways and get us back to the boat. Must have been three in the morning.

Around ten the same morning, ‘Rob the Righteous’ shook us both awake. “Well, you’ve done it now lads,” he announced despairingly, ushering us both to a porthole.

On the dock were four uniformed men carrying sub-machine guns. And the Colonel. He was still in his civvies as his uniform was nestled neatly in the trunk of our car.

He was not unpleasant when I went down the gangway to greet him. I suspect he was still drunk. I gave him his uniform and he made no mention of the bar bill.

A year or so later, following another visit to Tangier which resulted in ‘an incident’, Rob and I were escorted to our vessel by military personnel and advised not to return.

I’ve often wondered if our friend the Colonel played a part in that ignominious departure. Or was it simply our own doing?