Another Voice
The bliss of a little bit of Africa that has been part of Spain since 1497
Next morning we walked down into town for coffee and fresh orange juice by the marina — under refurbishment with regional development funds from the European Union. It was Sunday, the bells were calling the townspeople to Mass, and everyone was reading the same newspaper, Melilla Hoy — ‘Melilla Today’. The news was that the territory is to keep its preferred status for EU grants. Other news: 45 kilograms of hashish had been found in a Belgian tourist’s car, crossing to Malaga; and 60 refugees from Algeria were still on hunger strike. There was a page-long obituary of a Spanish military hero of the pacification of Morocco, and a bullfighting section.
The place has changed greatly since my last visit during Franco’s final years. Then it had felt like a garrison, with soldiers everywhere, Arabs begging and all but a couple of streets dirty and fly-blown. Now Melilla has come up in the world. Spain has not lost interest in her African remnant. At the cost of 23 million euros the airport runway is being extended, old buildings are being restored and new ones built, and a co-operative relationship with Morocco (whose claim to both Spanish enclaves remains alive) allows citizens of Melilla and residents of the surrounding Moroccan province of Nador to move fairly freely across the frontier. The enclave is VAT-free and the authorities are conspicuously eager to encourage tourism. You can bring or hire a car or 4x4 here and drive down into the Moroccan Atlas, or to the oasis town of Figuig. There are big empty beaches along the coast, and underwater fishing off it. In the nearby hills are Barbary apes, and the Sahara is only a day’s journey away. The sun shone and canaries sang up in the old fort as we followed a series of great cannons, aimed outwards, around its perimeter. In the heart of the fort is a sweet and rather classy little museum with wonderful ancient maps. ‘Many visitors?’ I asked the friendly but underemployed young warden. ‘Pocito,’ she smiled. At an information kiosk in the town I admired a poster of Melilla. Pleased, the man in charge invited me to take as many as I liked.
I wanted to travel on into the African continent, but we had to go back. An afternoon flight on a twin-prop aircraft took us back over the Mediterranean and the Sierra Nevada to Granada. The flights were cheap and quick: we could have gone as far as Barcelona or Madrid. Looking down upon the little enclave as our plane climbed, I saw that the runway was right by the frontier fence. How long will Melilla be Spanish? Indignant Brits often make the comparison with Gibraltar, but really the similarity is more with Calais before Queen Mary lost the town. Few Spaniards would be so theatrical as to say that if their African crumb were to go they would die with the word ‘Melilla’ written on their hearts, but the possession does inspire some pride and affection. After this last visit, I share it.
On two adjacent seats behind us in the plane sat two passengers, one Spanish and one Arab. Their dress was the same; their skin-colour was the same; their hair was black and their eyes brown. Two faces, broadly similar yet strangely different: side by side and a world apart.
Matthew Parris is a political columnist of the Times.
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