When in Tangier, go hang out at Café Tingis in Petit Socco. The kind, desiccated waiter looks like an extra in a Bertolucci film and they make a wicked mint tea.

This was Tangier’s notorious heart when the city was North Africa’s party central. Cult writer William Burroughs dubbed it the Interzone. In the 50s Burroughs would sit in Café Central across from Café Tingis and size up young boys. He wrote The Naked Lunch in Hotel el-Muniria where we spent a night. It was dingy and the rusty radiators hadn’t been used since Moroccan independence in 1956. Our roof-top room had wind-swept views to a moody Strait of Gibraltar, and the cold wind blew straight from Spain.

Now, Petit Socco is the hub of people-smuggling, Tangier’s most profitable trade. We are soon joined by Ahmed, the ubiquitous busy-body of the medina. He pops out of a side-lane: a djinn in dark glasses and yellow cloak. Initially, Ahmed followed us around, but realising we had no money, gave up. Now he just hangs out with us.

‘This guy,’ Ahmed points to a beefy guy in a beanie sitting where Burroughs used to, ‘is big boss. If you want to go to Spain, you pay 800 euro, he gets you across. But never talk to him directly. You talk to someone else first.’

Someone like Ahmed. Beanie looks in our direction with menacing calm.
‘Excuse me, I must go.’ Ahmed consults his fake Rolex and is gone like a puff of smoke.

At the end of the day, the waiter is still there, tired and wiping tables with a rag. He brings our mint tea with a gap-toothed smile.

And suddenly, it’s time for evening prayer. The muezzins of the medina begin the call to prayer in their mosques’ microphones. Their wails crowd the darkness like sorrowful ship-horns.