Across the Straits

---

"On a slightly rough sea, but of the purest blue, the ships glides without rocking or pitching. On the left, the horizon is lined with a few clouds; on the right, by the mountains of the Spanish coast". So wrote Henri Matisse aboard the SS Ridjani in January 1912, as he sailed, for the first time, to Tangier.
Ninety-five years later, an hour behind schedule, and with all thought of 'gliding' gone, the ferry ploughed its way across the Strait of Gibraltar. The sun was setting west over the Atlantic and the water was dark beneath the gilded flecks of the wave-crests. Little was visible through the smeared windows, and I was yet to glimpse Morocco. I tried to get out to deck. A plump Spanish steward with a moon face and pursed lips asked me what I was doing.
"I want to get out", I told her. She looked at me with bemusement.
"But if you get out, you will be in the water", she explained gently.
I was aware of this. Eventually, I was directed to a cramped smokers' area at the rear of the ship, from which it was possible to enjoy a wholly obstructed view of a fraction of the Spanish coast, all the while drinking in the fumes of a belching engine and the nicotine perfumes of some fellow passengers. I re-entered and surveyed the ship. It was soulless, with little indication of our place or direction. The few passengers there were stood in a throng, waiting to have their passports stamped. Most were men, Moroccan and young, in garish T-shirts and styled jeans. The air was heavy with aftershave. A few men wore long hooded 'djellabas' and some women were veiled and swaddled, looking incongruous in the wide armchairs as they waited for their husbands to have done with the bureaucracy of travel. All seemed expectant, and there was little talk or movement, save for the cries and laughs of six children who swung from headrests and hid beneath life-jackets as their veiled mother struggled to control them, preoccupied with the incompatible concerns of her own dignity and that of her family.
Then, just after 6 o'clock, life began. It started quietly, with a gentle murmuring as the sun spat its final rays over the horizon, then quickened as pastries and sweets appeared as if from nowhere, oozing honey and dusted with sugar and almonds. In the alcove by the luggage racks, the father of the simian troop removed his sandals, lay a small mat upon the floor, and prostrated his long body eastwards, quietly reciting the Fatiha: " Bismillahi rahmani rahim, al hamdu lillahi...In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, praise be to God..." The twenty-sixth day of Ramadan was over. An exodus of smokers headed outside and quickly decided that the "Authorised personnel only" barrier was unnecessary. I joined them, and for the first time I was able to see south. Tangier was bright and close.

---