I had some apprehension about visiting
Morocco. This was heightened when I read
the following warning in the Lonely
Planet Guide to Morocco (2011, p 499)”
GAUCHE, GREEN & GULLIBLE
“Many Moroccans genuinely believe that Westerners,
though perhaps more sophisticated than themselves, are infinitely more naïve,
gullible and even plain stupid. Some,
including the notorious faux guides, may
operate with this in mind.
"Very early on in your encounter with these guides,
you’ll be sized up for what you’re worth.
Apart from physical indications such as your watch, shoes and clothes,
you’ll be assessed from a series of questions:
how long you’ve been in Morocco, whether you’ve visited the country
before, what your job is, whether you have a family (an indication of wealth)
etc.”
Not only did this information make me
more apprehensive but it really pissed me off.
“So these guys are going to view me as naïve, gullible, and even stupid,
eh? So, they are going to size me up for
how many Dirhams (the Moroccan currency) they can fleece me out of? Well, I’ll show
them, damnit!”
I’d been exposed to overly friendly,
aggressive carpet sellers in the tourist areas of Turkey when I worked there
ten years ago. So I read more about
Moroccan hustlers (it sounded like they were particularly bad in Tangier, my
destination at the northwestern tip of Africa) and devised a plan for dealing
with them. They were not going to stop
me from going to Tangier, they were not going to get me to blow my normally
short fuse, and they were not going to spoil my experience of Tangier’s Medina,
the old walled city within the much larger metropolitan area.
I discussed the options for getting to
Tangier with the very friendly and helpful Spanish proprietor at the small
hotel where I was staying in Algeciras near the southern tip of Spain. I could get a slow ferry at the terminal a
few blocks away from the hotel and it would take me to Tangier’s new port
located about 30km from the city. The
crossing took close to 1½ hours and then I would have to take a bus or taxi
into Tangier. The other option (more
expensive – about $70 round trip) was a high-speed jet-powered ferry which went
to the old port located about ½ mile from the Medina. The crossing took less than 45 minutes. There was a small catch: the high-speed ferry left Spain from Tarifa,
the town at Spain’s southern tip.
However, the price included bus rides between the Algeciras and Tarifa
ferry terminals. During my three-month
trip, I had normally chosen cheap options but felt it was definitely worth the
extra 20 bucks to save an hour in ferry travel time across the Straits of
Gibraltar and be delivered within walking distance of the Medina where I
planned to spend my day in Tangier.
 |
| Tarifa harbor at Spain’s southern tip |
A clean, modern Spanish bus got me to
the Tarifa ferry terminal. The ferry was
late in getting out of port but once in open water, it hauled ass, a huge white
plume of water spraying out the stern from the jet engine. The ferry even had a
Moroccan immigration counter on board where I got my passport stamped. As the boat approached Tangier’s old port, I
was relieved to see the Medina’s white walls (originally surrounding a 15th
Century Portuguese fortress) glowing in the Sunday morning sun and felt
confident that I could easily get there on foot along a wide boulevard without
getting lost.
 |
| A
huge plume of water from the ferry’s jet engine |
 |
| Moroccan
fishermen near Tangier’s old port |
After walking through customs and immigration, I
headed out the port exit toward the boulevard with the mix of mostly Moroccan
and Spanish ferry passengers. Most seemed to
have rides waiting for them or climbed into taxis. Almost no one seemed to be going on foot and
that made me a bit nervous. What dangers
did they know about that I didn’t? There
was a line of parked taxis as I neared the boulevard, and the cabbie at the
head of the queue quickly approached me.
“Oh here it comes,” I thought and immediately put my plan into action,
“Bon jour,” I said while smiling but continuing to walk at a brisk pace. “Medina, 10 Euro,” he shouted. Yeah,
right. That’s like $US13 to get
somewhere I could walk to in 10 minutes.
Sure, I could probably bargain him down a couple Euro, but then he would
try to talk me into a guided tour and, of course, there would be his uncle’s
carpet shop, etc., etc. Besides, I
needed some exercise. Thus, I replied in
a friendly but firm voice, “Merci, mais je n’ai pas besoin d’un taxi” [Thanks,
but I don’t need a taxi]” before he could get more than a few more words of
English out of his mouth. I had resolved
to speak only in French, Morocco’s second language after Arabic. I didn’t want to use English because I didn’t
want to be pegged as an American. He
followed after me on foot loudly exclaiming in English, “It’s dangerous up
there! No one will help you! You’ll get lost!” “Merci,” I replied trying to sound more
confident than I was. “Peut-être vous
avez raison [Perhaps you are right]…mais je n’ai pas besoin d’un taxi.” He seemed genuinely angry and disgusted with
my aloof confidence but gave up as I kept on walking and didn’t look back.
 |
| Top: Scenes from the Medina. Bottom: View of Tangier from the old port. |
There was a good sidewalk along the
4-lane boulevard, traffic was light, and no one bothered me as I headed in the direction
of the Medina, then turned on to an alley which I could see led up a steep hill
to an open gate in the wall surrounding the Medina. Once inside the walls, I felt somewhat relieved,
studied a sign with a map of the Medina, and headed up the narrow brick street
to the Petit Socco, the main square in the Medina, then (a few hundred feet
further) out another gate to the Grand Socco, a large square immediately west
of the Medina where I scored about $15 worth of Dirhams at an ATM. Since it was only about 10AM on a Sunday
morning, few shops were open, few people were on the street, and no one hassled
me…yet. Now that I had my bearings and a
feel for the charming old city, I headed back through the gate and started exploring
some of the alleys which were too narrow for cars and lined with
funky shops and little residences all squished together. I clicked away with my camera which I had
secured to my belt with a metal cable. (“You
want to grab my camera? You’ll have to
drag me or my pants off with the camera!”)
I successfully blew off a couple of perspective “friends” who tried to
approach me, not stopping to talk and greeting them with, “Bon jour. Je n’ai pas besoin d’un guide.” [Good
morning. I don’t need a guide. Thanks.]
I refused to answer any of their prying questions such as, “Are you
German? Canadian? French? American?” and just kept walking.
 |
| East gate leading into the Medina |
 |
Map of the Medina: This old walled quarter is less than 1/2 mile from north to south and from east to west.
|
The labyrinth of alleys was fascinating and fun to
explore, and I challenged myself to remember each twist and turn, what direction
I was going, and how to get back. It was
sort of like exploring a system of intricate canyons in Utah. Heading north, I soon reached the wall along
the north side of the Medina and went through a small opening to a platform
with an old canon. From here there was a
nice view of the Straits to the north and the Atlantic Ocean to the west. Click, click, click. It was also here that I attracted the
interest of a boy of perhaps 11 who started peppering me with advice and other
bits of conversation in very broken English.
My standard dismissals didn’t work with this kid who stuck like glue as
I headed west toward the Kasbah. I
supposed that he had learned that if he bothered tourists long enough they
would give him some coins to get rid of him or engage his services. In my opinion, it’s a bad practice to give
money to persistent kids in developing countries who then grow up viewing
Westerners as ATM machines. So I finally
turned to him and said, “Petit monsieur, je n’ai pas d’argent pour toi.” [Little
sir, I have no money for you.] That
worked, he got a slightly dejected look on his face and, thank dog, he stopped
following me.
 |
| Modern mosque in the Grand Socco |
 |
| Elegant entrance to a mosque within the Medina |
The Kasbah turned out to be a small
square in the northwest corner of the Medina.
There wasn’t much of interest there and the museum didn’t seem to be
open. This time a genuinely helpful man
approached me and explained that the museum had moved to a location back down
the alley to the east and then a block to the right. The museum admission was about 25 cents and
it certainly did not house a world-class collection. Nevertheless, it had two nice courtyards,
some cool mosaics, ancient coins, and a few other items of interest.
 |
| Courtyard in the Kasbah Museum |
 |
| The museum has this elegant Koran from the 13th or 14th Century in its small collection. |
Heading down another alley, an older “guide”
picked up my scent and started pestering me with advice and offers of
help. He, too, was initially undeterred by
my rebuffs. He persisted so I employed
the “scratched record” technique which I learned more than 30 years ago from
the est Training (Yes, I really did
take “est” but I got in for 50 bucks instead of the usual 300-400 because I was
an ordained minister – "ordained" by a friend who had started his own
church as a sort of spoof.) The “scratched
record” technique works like this. When
someone doesn’t seem to “get” what you are saying, you just keep repeating your
response much like a scratched record that keeps playing the same snippet of a
song over and over and over until you move the record player arm (probably no
one under 35 knows what in the hell I’m talking about!) So, every time this leach asked me a question
or offered unsolicited advice I would say, “No, merci” [no thanks]. Finally, he accused me of being paranoid to
which I replied with a smile, “No merci”.
He too gave up and that was the last I was really bothered by “guides” for
the rest of the day. By now they had
other fresh tourist meat to pounce on as the Medina was starting to fill up
with activity.
 |
| Residential section of the Medina |
 |
Left: I was drawn into passageways like this by my unquenchable desire to find out what lay on the other side.
Right: Commercial section of the Medina with Moroccans in traditional dress
|
It was lunch time and I was eager to find
some vegetarian couscous. I stopped at
one restaurant in the Petit Socco and asked to see the menu. “I am the menu,” replied the waiter
assertively. “What do you want?” Instantly, I knew that I would be overcharged
if I didn’t see a menu with prices so I said “Merci” and found another
restaurant which only had a large, fixed price meal that was about $US15 and
included way more food than I needed (including meat which I don’t eat anyway). Thus, I exited through the Medina’s west wall
and found a small outdoor café I’d seen earlier in the Grand Socco near the ATM
machine I’d used. The menu was posted,
the prices were reasonable, and I was served vegetarian couscous. The proprietor also served me a fresh green
salad. As I was about to stick my fork into the salad, a lesson from my Peace
Corps training kicked in. “Wait a minute, stupid. This is Morocco not Western Europe. The lettuce and tomato could have been washed
in water crawling with e-coli.”
Finishing my couscous, I called the proprietor over, told him I didn’t
want the salad but would like a bowl of the delicious-looking lentil soup
someone was eating at a neighboring table.
He came back with a bowl of vegetable broth that was the same as been on
my couscous. I then realized that the
lentil soup was apparently on the menu of the neighboring vendor. It was an old annoying technique I’d learned
in some of the crappy restaurants where I’d had to eat while working in eastern
Turkey. The waiters sometimes give you
what THEY think you should have rather than what you tell them you want (I don’t
think this is a necessarily a language communication problem). They figure you will accept what they give
you without complaining. I’ve been told
that Europeans (particularly the Brits) are less apt to complain but we
Americans tend to not put up with that shit.
So I told the proprietor firmly that I didn’t want the couscous broth; I
wanted the lentil soup. He spoke briefly
to the neighboring proprietor and came back with a bowl of lentil soup which
was, in fact, very good. I think I was
overcharged a few extra Dirhams for the soup but it wasn’t worth the argument
and my stomach was happy.
 |
Lunch: The vegetarian couscous was pretty good.
|
 |
During lunch, I watched this unfortunate SUV driver
getting a ticket from a smartly-dressed cop.
|
So far, I’ve been rather hard on the Moroccans. In fairness, I should also go after the obnoxious
Western tourists they have to put up with.
A prime example was a young European couple seated at a table next to me
during lunch. It was a warm October day
and the 20-something woman was wearing a halter top. Yes, a halter top in a Moslem country where
most of the local women I saw were dressed in long skirts and head
scarves. Was she stupid, naïve, or maybe
she just didn’t give a damn about local customs? Later I saw some Western men wearing shorts. While women wearing revealing clothing in
Muslim countries are culturally insensitive, men wearing shorts simply look ridiculous
to the local people. I speak from experience having lived and worked in three Moslem countries: Pakistan, Niger, and Turkey.
 |
| Guided tourists experiencing the Medina |
I spent my remaining Dirhams on delicious
sweets at several small shops in the Medina and walked back to the port in
mid-afternoon. I was pleased to have
nearly 100 shots on my camera from my brief North African visit. As I approached the immigration booth, I saw
one last entertaining scene which gave me a big chuckle. A persistent local vendor was trailing a
confident-looking European woman, and he was intent on selling her some article
of clothing before she reached customs.
She seemed to be enjoying herself offering the poor bloke ridiculous prices
but he persisted. I didn’t linger to see
the outcome as it looked like the ferry gate was going to close soon.
In summary, I realize that Morocco is a
relatively poor country by Western standards and some of those hustlers I snubbed
were probably trying to feed their families.
Although I personally didn’t want a guide (I find them distracting and I
enjoy the adventure of discovery on my own), a taxi (I avoid them when I can
walk somewhere safely in a half hour or less), or a carpet (I didn’t need to
lug one all the way back to Colorado), some Western tourists are potential
customers.
At the beginning of this post, I quoted
the Lonely Planet Guide’s contention
that many Moroccans believe Westerners are “…naïve, gullible and even plain
stupid.” After my visit, I concluded
that it is the Moroccans who are naïve and stupid (or at least the ones who are
most visible to tourists) because they seem unwilling or unable to understand how
to appeal to potential Western customers. Instead, they turn off any Western tourist who
has enough smarts to see through their phony attempts at friendship that would
make an American used car salesmen look like a humble Buddhist monk. Many tourists probably avoid Tangier altogether
because they’ve heard about its reputation and don’t want to put up with
constant harassment. In a way, I have to
feel a little sorry for people who seem to do such a good job of self-sabotage. On the other hand, I guess their tactics work
often enough for them to keep hustling.
Coming next: Ronda & Cordoba, Spain.
