Chapter 31 –
BOUZNIKA & “GINGER”
Gibraltar in the 1970s was an amazing
little place.
The Frontier was shut tight and we Gibraltarians
all rallied to protect our home itself from the expected difficulties of yet another siege (the 6th? 7th?) by our neighbours
to the North. Millennials have .... NPI ... no idea what it was like then, and
when we, the older generation of today talk about those times, I'm sure it sounds to them very much like when our own parents talked to us about “the War”
and “the Evacuation”. The sad thing is that most of our parents have died and
we did not have the patience to listen, not just to hear, but listen with
attention to the stories they told us.
Now it is our turn to tell our stories
to a generation super-glued to mobile phones and technology, and subconsciously
thinking that we who were born in the 40s and 50s and 60s belong to a David
Attenborough documentary on the Rock’s Stone Age.
Let me provide you with just a vignette
of that era.
Main Street businesses in Gibraltar,
as well as smaller traders in side streets survived through Morocco. "Yogi
Bear" (Blands/GB Air twin engine propeller
Vickers aeroplane) that was our affectionate name for it, the sole air
link to Africa, and our beloved Mons Calpe Ferry plied the sea ,bringing
tourists from Morocco to Gibraltar.
Later there was a hydrofoil service as well. In those days Morocco was rather an isolated country. Imports from Europe were hard to come by and expensive there. Gibraltar was an obvious and immediate market for well-to-do Moroccans. But more than that, Moroccan labour substituted the Spanish labour force. This last had been going on for a couple of centuries at least, and were withdrawn by Francisco Franco Bahamonde, Spain's vindictive Dictator. We found ourselves with hundreds of Moroccans, men, and later, women, taking on the vacated jobs. They came in their hundreds, despite the primitive Casemates barracks provided in haste for the men through lack of proper dwellings in Gibraltar. Yes, all the Art Gallery and shops, all the present chic bars and restaurants we see now there became a smelly and unavoidable home for the men.
There was a bit of a language problem at first, and despite that and the rather
miserly wages paid at that time, their situation in Morocco was far worse. These
Moroccans provided a very needed trade for Gibraltar businesses too. Moroccan
workers in Gibraltar were very canny and opened up semi-legal channels mainly
using the Mons Calpe ferry, and exported all sorts of goods from Gibraltar,
importing them into Morocco where they were all gobbled up as fast as they
could be transported.
Equally, the very enterprising Desoiza
family started a company called Gib-Maroc, importing all fruits and vegetables
fresh (and additives-free!) from Morocco. This was the open and legal trading
that kept Gibraltar alive during those difficult years. The other trade was the
exporting of mainly jeans but also all sorts of other items, and
surreptitiously imported via Tangier and the accommodating customs officers
there. This being the case Moroccan labourers in Gibraltar would buy
disproportionate numbers of items here, pack into big black plastic bags, loading
them on the Mons Calpe to sell in Morocco. This augmented their wages, already
handsome by Moroccan standards, to a lucrative amount. TEO, our family business
was one of the many businesses that took part in this international trade.
And that is how I met Ginger.
Ginger, obviously not the real name for
any self-respecting Moroccan, had a stall which was actually a shed inside the
Laguna Estate. There he sold fruit and veg to the residents much to their
delight, because apart from hard-working he was a cheeky rascal with a great
sense of humour. He came to TEO, one of several such clients, and we agreed to
work with each other. I would sell him Arena Swimwear, Swedish Clogs and of course Levi jeans which he would export to
Morocco, to Tangiers and Casablanca and even beyond. Each week he would come in
with a bundle of money, both pounds sterling and dirhams, and an order for 100
or 200 Levi's. Over time this grew both in quantity and in selection. In fact,
we were selling Arena swimwear for men at such a colossal rate that I received a call from the manufacturers
one day.
"Mr Bentata .... David?"
"Yes ... ?"
"I have looked at your account
and see that you have bought just over ....5,000 swimsuits in this past summer."
"Yes .... Is that a
problem?"
"No, no, no, David, just
that...... how does the town of 28,000 inhabitants buy 5000 swimsuits just for men and all from one brand???"
Obviously, he was very happy with it.
In fact, he was so happy that, to help sales, he sent over Olympic gold medal
winner David Wilkie, as a PR gesture. Rather a nice guy in fact, he loved
Gibraltar. Never made it to Morocco, but then, he preferred the Apes, Upper
Galleries, Catalan Bay and all that Gib had to offer then during his 2 day
stay.
Anyway, back to Ginger.
He finally convinced me to go with him
in one of his trips down to Casablanca. We packed four big plastic bags with
Levi's, boarded the Mons Calpe and off we went. The customs in Tangier employed
a system which was very simple. The Customs officer would come and say:
"You cannot import this into
Morocco!"
That was stage 1.
Stage 2 was: "Do you have a
permit and a licence and a declaration of what materials have been used?"
Obviously, no one had... so we moved
on to stage 3
"Aiwa Sahbi ...." Ginger
speaking. " we only have a few 20.. 30 jeans here ... come on ... "
It turned out that the trade was so
brisk, Customs officers had their own private tariff system. Jeans paid so much
to be allowed in (to the Customs officer of course) swimsuits paid less,
Swedish clogs had another tariff and so on. Naturally Ginger was ready with a
few notes and a carton or 3 of cigarettes and we got through.
Once on the other side we had a taxi
waiting.
Ginger lived in an amazing house previously
owned by a Spanish family which had left Morocco in something of a hurry. It had
7 bedrooms, two toilets, one big bathroom, sitting dining room and a wonderful
patio kept cool by the 4 palm trees, one on each corner. . He lived there with
his parents, 6 brothers and sisters … all supported by Ginger’s
job/work/business etc … However, there was hardly any furniture. Ginger had
managed to buy the house from the proceeds the vegetable stall in Laguna Estate
and the Levi's, Arena swimwear and Swedish clogs he traded on. What more he
traded in I did not know and I did not want to know. I met his family and his
extended family and I was made and very welcome in their home. In fact, I slept
there that night so that we could leave for Casablanca very early in the
morning.
The drive South was long, and the
roads were .... rudimentary, at best, but
the company was fun. Ahmed had a great
selection of bad jokes and Ginger would interject with his own raucous
comments.
We made Casablanca in good time and we
started visiting "my clients" and making our deliveries. What I found
disturbing was that the Levi jeans the "bakalitos" and shops were
exhibiting …… we're all fakes!
"Mundi (for such was Ginger's
real name) what's this?"
"No te preocupes, David,"("Do
not worry, David") he replied. "when Police visit the shops to check
if I have any contraband goods, the shopkeepers always show the fake Levi's
which are made here anyway. That way the real Levis, which are kept in a store
at the back, are not confiscated and they do not get fined! But, of course, the
Police also get a “present” now and then."
Casablanca was a far cry from
Tangiers. It had an air of tired of quality to it that made it stand out from
most of the other cities that I had visited in Morocco. I still regret not
having visited again. At the end of the day we made it back to Tangiers.
The rather asthmatic Merc was
struggling, and in any case, we too were tired and hungry.
"Why don't we stop at Bouznika
and we can eat there?"
Mundi thought it was a good suggestion
from the driver and, not knowing what a Bouznika was I agreed.
You must have heard the expression
"It was a one-horse town".
Bouznika was aspiring to be that in those days!
Today it is a very modern and thriving city
with a seaside resort. That evening all Bouznia was, was …. well more or less
like those early settlements in the Wild West, just a road with a few buildings
on either side ….nothing more.
"Come, David, let's go to a
restaurant while Ahmed checks out the engine" said Mundi.
The restaurant turned out to be just a
big room and a basic kitchen within it. Some rickety tables and chairs, most
already taken by other drivers and labourers, and in a corner a rather wrinkled
old man was cooking on about four of five different coal and/or gas fires. A
couple of them had pots on top with soups which were gently bubbling. The whole
place smelled wonderfully of home cooking.
"Let's buy the meat"
"Buy the meat?" I asked
Ginger.
"Yes, here they only have the
soup. We go to the butcher next door and buy our own meat and take it to the
cook in the restaurant. He cooks it whichever way you want and while we wait we
have the soup."
Made some sort of sense, I guess.
Keep thinking of a one-horse town, the
single road parting the few buildings of Bouznika through the centre, add the
word.. restaurant ... or perhaps eating house, and you can imagine what the
butcher's shop would look like. But yes, there was fresh meat there, beef, goat
as well as mutton, hanging from hooks or on the counter being chopped up according
to what each restaurant customer wanted.
I will not mention the flies, nor the
white butcher’s apron, the white of which had not been seen in the last year,
nor the bright, shiny, steel choppers and cutting knives which I am sure had
that there somewhere, under the rust and coagulated blood.
But when in Rome........
We took our meat and mutton, wrapped
in the previous week’s issue of Le Matin newspaper, to our now friendly
non-Michelin chef next door. We sat at a table the three of us, each with a
bowl of hot vegetable soup, delicious! Then, while waiting for the main course,
our friendly chef gave us another bowl; a small pipe bowl
well packed with excellent
grade hashish. Not that I wanted to partake, but it would have been rude of me
to reject such a hospitable invitation by our chef, right?
If the restaurant had not won any Michelin Forks for its cuisine, the … other
bowl …. certainly should have!
Obviously by the time the meat was
cooked, the potatoes were ready and so were our appetites. (Ever heard of the
munchies? No? … then you have not lived!)
It was an excellent meal washed down with copious amounts of sweet nana
(Moroccan green tea), certainly no alcohol.
I do not remember exactly how much we
paid, but it was very cheap.
No, no, I would not have dared get
behind the wheel after such an evening, but it was not my car, not my wheel and
in those days before safety belts were invented, we thought nothing of driving
the remainder of the way back to Tangiers, this with the radio blaring out Arabic
music which by the time we arrived I had learnt some of the words of ...I
think.
I never made that trip again.
Ginger continued to be my client as well as some others.
Two years after this he died in a car crash along that same road, he and Ahmed
too. It was a sad day for me because we had become friends and to this day, I
remember his laughter, his stories, his jokes....
Those were the days of another Gibraltar;
we shall never see again.
Now we await the new conditions that
Brexit will bring. I do not think the frontier will close but I know that those
carefree days will never return.
The 16 years of a closed frontier
Gibraltar belongs to those who grew up in that very unique era in our personal
lives and the history of our little city.
I cannot explain it, any more than I
can explain the taste of strawberries to one who has never even seen the fruit.
I cherish those years, those friends, those events of my younger days and
whenever I think of them, a smile comes to my face and perhaps a tear to my eye
remembering friends who are no longer with us.
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