The Hafa Hunt
One of my first stops in Tangier was Café Hafa. It’s wasn’t a long walk from the Kasbah, but far enough to get lost. I felt foolish because a generational succession of writers, musicians and rock bands had found it without difficulty and I was stone-cold sober.
Help at Hand
I realised I was being stalked by a women wearing a hijab on a electric mobility scooter followed by a posse in wheelchairs. She was winning. Why I found the combination of hijab and buggy incongruous says more about
me than her, but there was a sense of deja vu.
My husband also uses a mobility scooter and if you get to meet him, give him a wide birth.
It’s red and he is exceedingly good-looking, even with the beard he insists on sporting
these days. I think he's had his scooter souped up.
In Prague he mowed down a whole covey of Japanese tourists, in Sydney, he pinned a Chinese business man
to the wall and he has caused grievous bodily harm to almost every family member. I hasten to add he is
neither xenophobic or guilty of domestic violence, just slow on the brakes.
So when the good woman hailed me, I kept a safe distance hoping to outpace her.
I need not have worried - without me saying a word, she knew exactly what I wanted. She pointed me in the
direction of Café Hafa.
Sheer Delight with Mint Tea
The café was founded in 1921 and is a Tangier icon. But the really special thing is it hasn’t just stood the test of time,
it’s just stayed there unmoved by time and fame.
Well truthfully given a few rows of terraces painted blue and white cascading down a steep hillside spotted
with gnarly wind-blown trees in a stunning position overlooking the Bay of Tangier, what is there to change?
My delight was that locals still hung out there, the chairs were cheap plastic, the terraces swept peremptorily, the
service problematic. No one had resortified it! No plaques, nothing on the menu, no Hey Jude Orange Juice or
Brown Sugar Mint Tea.
House of Joy
On the way back, I went looking for my friend. She’d gone but I and found a few wheelchairs clustered round the entrance to the gates of a beautiful house - a Cheshire Home. I walked in and gasped at the beauty of it - the sea blue beyond a profusion of flowers. It was called House of Joy. I went to Reception and left a small donation but the young lady said, not unnaturally, that I could not go further. As I left I spoke to a lovely lass who was wheelchair-bound and had lived there for thirty-three years.