Morocco For Tourists

A Brazilian guy and an English/New Zealander gal met in Russia while teaching English. They got married and are spending a year traveling the world as part of their honeymoon, which is documented on this blog. I met them while they were in Meknes.

They have now moved on to Egypt, but here is longish quote giving their final reflections on Morocco. I found it particularly insightful in its comparison of tourist publicity and tourist reality:

When I think of Morocco, I think of; raw energy, magnificence, reserved people, natural, loud noisy music, spicy cumin, the heat, dust, unexpected patches of green, sand, decorations, huge bunches of mint, toothless old men and women, relaxed stunningly rugged coastlines, huge, splendid Atlas and Rif Mountain Ranges, the desert, camels, long bus rides, fresh baked bread and honey for breakfast, incredible beauty, Kif in the Rif, sad donkeys, beggars, dirt, the sun, women in head-scarves, men in djellabas, old bicycles, haggling, and all of it very last minute.

Morocco is nothing like how I expected it to be and I've been wanting to come for a very long time, ever since seeing it on 'Wish you were here' an old holiday programme providing precious escapism from the humdrum of school/home life.

Everyone is in your face from the moment you leave the house/airport/bus/shop. They work so hard on getting you in their shops or on making a sale it's a strange feeling that as soon as you've capitulated and take a look, they lose all interest in you and don't care about charming you (if they ever did) just as long as you buy something (for at least three times the price it's worth), apparently it's all in the chase. In Marrakesh I watched a woman selling handmade raffia bags to a tourist she had hassled to make a sale. As soon as she had the money in her hot little hands she was away like a shot and the man had to chase after her to get his change back, which she was reluctant to give and practically threw at him while still shuffling off at high speed to find someone else to sell to.

We've made very few real friends from the locals despite them being so friendly. Mind you nine times out of ten the friendliness is just a prelude to an invitation to part with our hard earned money, whether it is after (minimal) services rendered as an unwanted guide, or to a shop if someone shows you the way somewhere 'for free, as a friend' and invites you back to their home! While we were in Fez a young student took us to a small terrace which was public but you'd never have found the way there, he and Djalma talked about different things while I stood further away feeling uneasy about this free service, after all we don't know the guy and it's is truly rare that one will want to help another (especially that other who perceived to have more) without harbouring any ulterior motive. So I was quite relieved that when he invited us back to his family home for some real Berber tea and it was actually a family run factory where his half sister gave us a very soft sell. She showed us photos of their family, all doing camel tours (which surprise! They also offered as well as carpets and cushion covers) and spoke to us about what they all did.

The real down side is that when, on the rare occasion, we do meet someone who is genuine, honest and helpful, I am so sceptical that they are as they seem that I end up missing out on opportunities and feel rude and mean spirited when their lack of agenda becomes apparent.

Returning Home

After a week and a half Christmas vacation in the United States, I am now back home in Morocco. My welcome has been both comforting and a bit startling.

Shortly after arriving in Meknes I ran into a security guard from work on the streets and his greeting was even more enthusiastic than the usual elaborate Moroccan greeting, including large grins and excessive touching of my arm and shoulder (excessive from an American point of view, that is). I received similar treatment from many coworkers when I stopped by work yesterday.

The strangest part of my welcome, though, has been the kisses I have been receiving from older men. Now, after extensive time in Latin America, Spain, and France, I am well accustomed to the "bises" that I am expected to exchange with females, but males only rarely exchange them, and I personally have always stuck with the Germanic handshake in my encounters with men.

I was passing the electronics store near my house on the way to work and the middle-aged, partially toothless, and stubbled security guard greeted me warmly. He stopped what he was doing and approached. I held out my hand to shake his. He took it, shook it, and then pulled me in towards him. As his face neared, I quickly realized this wasn't a hug. He intended to exchange the bises. Trying not to flinch, I accommodated his unusual greeting. Then I quickly pulled away and said goodbye with a forced smile.

I just thought it was an anomaly, some over excited security guard. But then later in the day, when I saw my concierge for the first time since returning, his warm, grinning greeting morphed into an up front and personal experience with his stubbled cheeks.

So, apparently I've learned a new Moroccan cultural practice. It seems that when Moroccan men have not seen each other for an extended period of time (I guess two weeks counts?), they kiss each other on the cheeks. Good to know. I'm contemplating whether I ever want to leave Morocco again...

My flight returned a few days ago, but I did some traveling before returning to Meknes. The cheapest return flight I found from the United States took me through Dublin on Aer Lingus and then to Agadir, a beach resort town a few hours south of Casablanca. I had looked forward to a nice vacation checking out some tourist hot spots on my way back to Meknes.

After arriving, I remembered why I do not particularly like tourist hot spots.

Agadir is a beautiful beach town, but its beauty is marred a bit by the touristy atmosphere. Every 100 meters or so, a Moroccan would approach me, profile me, and say hello in every language I could possibly speak (German, French, and English/American seemed to be the only nationalities I fit). I would try to ignore them or give them one word answers. But they would persist. Since each one seemed to think himself my best friend, he seemed offended that I didn't want to stop and gullibly fall into his hustler's spell.

Some were more direct. Rather than playing the pretend friend game, some just get straight to the point: "Hello. You want hashish, shit, marijuana...?" The /I/ sound in 'shit' is particularly hard for some Moroccans. So it often comes across as 'sheet', but some manage to also pronounce it as 'shut' or 'shoot'. I would have made a joke at their expense, but such a response would have been counter-productive to my escape strategy.

After a day in Agadir, I headed to the strangely Europeanized city of Marrakesh. The hustlers were exactly the same. After a couple of days, I quickly grew tired of the whole experience, living out of a suitcase, being a tourist. So I decided to head back to Meknes a little early.

After a six and a half hour train ride, I arrived back in familiar Meknes, and I began the short walk home. Halfway between the train station and my house, I heard a voice calling to me, "Hey! You! Friend...stop. How are you?"

I rued to myself, "I can't escape being a tourist no matter where I go." I tried to walk a little faster as I ignored the voice. As usual, that didn't deter this persistent Moroccan. He ran and caught up to me.

I turned to recognize a familiar face.

"Hey. You remember me?"
"Yeah."
"We had coffee a couple of times. You're going to buy a rug from my friend, right?"
It was true. We had had coffee a couple of times in my first few weeks in Meknes. He and his friend had been very friendly, and they had always wanted me to come with them to buy a carpet, which I had always declined.

He asked how Christmas had been in America and how my family had been. He asked if I wanted to get coffee or maybe go check out his friends' carpets. I said I was tired after the long journey and wanted to go home.

We shook hands and parted on the corner by my house.

It is with a little disappointment that I recognize that everywhere I go in Morocco, I will always be a foreigner.

But there's still something strangely comforting about being hustled by a familiar voice.