Another Voice
The bliss of a little bit of Africa that has been part of Spain since 1497
Sunday church bells ringing out towards a Muslim land, halal food on a European ferry, African sun on Spanish soil: such are the contradictions in this contradiction of a place, Melilla. I have just returned from the three-square-mile enclave. Along with a peninsular town called Ceuta further along the coast, Melilla is Europe’s last possession in Africa, and feels like it: a sort of defiant limbo. Against the backdrop of dry African mountains sits a small harbour dominated by a big fortress on a rock and encircled by the sprawl of a town which seems amiably confused about who or where it is. The little territory (a Roman colony in the first century, a Spanish possession since 1497) is easy to get to, welcoming, clean, ordered, safe — and distinctly odd.
We sailed in at nightfall. A foot-passenger’s ticket on the eight-hour crossing from Malaga had cost less than £20, the ship had been almost empty and the solid, subsidised service reminded me of journeys between the Scottish islands with Caledonian MacBrayne. We shared the decks, bar and lounges with a visiting football team, a few officers returning for duty, a family or two and a couple of nuns. By 7 p.m. a headland loomed towards us, high, black and wild. Round the headland we could see the glow of a pool of orange light, and bright harbour lights around a sea wall.
It seemed strange to walk down the gangplank on to a new continent without customs or immigration. This might be Africa but we had not left Spain. Waving from the dockside was a little knot of friends and family come to meet our fellow passengers. Soon they were taken away into the night.
We were the only tourists, and alone. The ancient stone walls of the 500-year-old fort rose above us. We passed an elegant, tree-lined square dominated by fine Spanish-colonial public buildings, much of the architecture in the Art Deco or Modernist style. One shop window displayed fashionable ladies’ clothing. All was silent and dark. Stars shone above. We might, I felt, be on a satellite of our planet, some kind of moon. Over the Internet we had reserved a room in the territory’s best hotel: a parador, part of Spain’s once nationalised chain of fine hotels. ‘It’s on the hill, apparently,’ said my companion, so we walked up the hill. Nowhere in Melilla is more than about a mile away, and all around is the Moroccan fence. The parador was superb: cool, tasteful rooms gave out on to balconies overlooking the town, and after a lavish meal served by slightly anxious waiters we retired to sleep, to the distant barking of dogs and the angry buzz of an occasional scooter — French windows open on to the chilly African night. Winter gives Melilla a short but blessed respite from the intense heat of the rest of the year.
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