An Otter in Paris: Part Deux

Following Lyon and the celebrations of the New Year, Marseille greeted me, the lowly Otter, with its typical electric lime-green facades around the train station, Gare de Marseille Saint-Charles. The color, along with other vibrant pastels, can be found all around Marseille due to its North/West African population. Marseille is on the southeast coast of France, so it is one of the most common destinations for African immigrants, especially from Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya. That means that Marseille has recently experienced a slight bump in immigration population, due to the uprisings of the Arab Spring.

Walking through little Algeria is a kick in itself. Bazaars scattered with boxes of powders with enough colors to fulfill a psychedelic Telletubbie’s trip. The shops are filled with beautifully crafted wares from diverse regions of Africa, with special attention paid to the colors on each plate, cup, lamp, etc., to indicate its origin.

The soaps from Marseille are as famous as its diversity. Traditionally made with the salt water from the Mediterranean, Marseille has long been a hub for the soap-making industry in France. It is said that if one takes a genuine bar of Savon de Marseille and leaves it between his/her bed sheets, the bed will never get cold. Regardless, the shops full of stacked shower perfumes are immense.

But not all of Marseille is so lavish and innocent. The film The French Connection details the story of the illicit narcotic trade in the 70s from Europe to America. And in fact, I went to the doorstep of where the French police tracked down the film’s real-life antagonist, Alain Charnier, in a building in the old Greek quarter, Le Panier. They had cornered him there after an exhaustive manhunt only to stake the place out for 48 hours before realizing that he had escaped through the city’s ancient underground tunnels.

The city has maintained its tough reputation, in large part due to its value as a port city. The mafia linked to the town has traditionally been from Corsica and its presence can still be seen on the streets, even by a passing Otter in town for five days.

At about midnight on Jan. 4, I was returning from a party at the house of an Irish acquaintance to my place in the La Plaine district. Upon parking, my driver (the Irishman) alerted me to the scene unfolding directly in front of us. He said that in Marseille there are many undercover police officers that prowl the streets, many times simply spending the evenings in bars and clubs. They try to gather information at the street-level of the criminal undertakings in the city. He also told me that they are largely un-policed themselves and he had seen and heard about their abuses of power.

As he filled me in on all of this, a brute man in regular civilian clothes—jeans, a jacket, and a warm undershirt—was standing in front of the hood of our car looking across the street. There, four men and one woman dressed in similar street apparel were questioning a young man who appeared to be in his late teens. We watched as they dominated the sidewalk, paying no attention to anybody such as the traffic behind them or even passers-by. Then I noticed that there were no passers-by.

At that moment one of the officers shoved his hand into the young man’s neck, choking and forcing him up and into the doorway in front of which they had stopped him. He held the position for a few minutes when my friend alerted me that it was probably time to go inside. I followed the advice, unsure as to what would happen to me were I to attempt to interrogate the police or even try to film them. I was told this was unadvisable and I heeded the advice.

Upon walking away from the scene I could hear the young man’s wails, though I couldn’t understand the words. An awful feeling, I was reminded of the luxuries of living where I live, not usually having to take stands between police corruption and my own safety.

It was time to get out of Marseilles, so I bought a one-way trip to Paris via Dijon. Tune in next time.