On the second day, despite the high temperature, I attired in jeans and long sleeved shirt to respect the Islamic culture and proceeded to seek out the shadows of Interzone's past. The street hustlers on a whole are friendly, they all claim to have girlfriends in England and visit them on a regular basis. They like to talk and share a joke, after making it clear that I didn't want to go shopping and that I know my way around they quickly said goodbye.
First stop was the Caf� de Paris, a legendary meeting place full of locals drinking mint tea (liquid Wrigley's spearmint gum). The place had all the atmosphere of a Scarborough sea front cafe in winter, impossible to imagine that this was the inspiration for Rick's Bar in the film Casablanca.
On to the Medina, the main throughfares are packed with shops selling ten kinds of crap: ugly leather bags, duff electrical goods, fake watches and pretend Ray Bans. Every street leads to the Petit Socco (a tiny widening of the narrow streets) where the Beat writers once drank. This was the heart of the then red light district but now the centre of thousands of tiny shops. In 1956 Interzone fell under Islamic law and the sale of alcohol was banned in the Medina. Unable to get a decent drink Kerouac fucked off and left Burroughs to hang out to pick up young ass. He wrote to Ginsberg, "I get on average ten very attractive propositions a day."
From here I headed for the Kasbah through narrow streets that make The Shambles in York look like a motorway.
It seems a daunting place: a labyrinth of streets, alleys, steps and only a few
exits through the walled enclosure. The town is built on a steep hill and the
simple rule is up for the Kasbah and down for the beach. The old Clash song rattled my brain
"the sheriff don't like it" and not surprisingly for the Kasbah is falling to bits. The crumbling walls would be condemned in Britain but here one can stand underneath admiring the huge cracks and wonder how much longer before it could possibly stand.
The city that once thrived on a seedy knife edge is now ready to topple
down the hillside and crash into the port. For two days I'd searched, but the
erratic glamour probably left with Kerouac. Oh well there was plenty of beach
bars requiring investigation and the possibility of some herb, I had made enquiries
to a street hustler I trusted over majoun, a traditional fudge made from the flowers and seeds of hashish.
Wednesday...