Tangier is about as comfortably polarised as a city can be. The glimmering ville nouvelle is mere steps away from the crumbling ancient medina. Faithful Muslims and bon vivants each going to their respective houses of worship. The prayer and the hash. The hijabs and the knock-off Guess jeans. The pack mules and the Range Rovers. Calls in French, answers in Arabic. A spit-shined Tangier for the king to see and the real Tangier for everyone else. It’s the knot in the tug-of-war rope between Africa’s old world sensibilities and Europe’s joie de vivre. It’s a diesel-spurting, salt-water contradiction. And it’s perfect. Everywhere you go you can feel the dissonance and if you don’t watch you’re step, you can fall in the chasm. But…