Being a Tourist in Morocco

There are people everywhere in Morocco. They have an “outdoor culture”; there is always someone around. If you take a piss on the side of the road, someone is probably watching you. If you are talking to yourself as you pedal down the road, there is probably someone listening. Even before lunchtime, dozens of people look at you as if you were an alien, too shocked to return an “o-aleikum salam.” Sheperds in Adidas gear pause their conversations as you pass; farmers in jilabas twist on their donkey-seats to stare; women in hijabs quickly avert their gaze – but only after you notice them looking at you. And that’s in the rural areas. In a place more frequented by foreigners, like a city, or the Rif mountain roads, the tourist hustle is just a part of life. You can’t take a break without an obtrusive offer of a hotel at a great price, or a flashy guy in a car trying to discover which language you speak, or a cute little kid yelling “Stop!” so he can beg for a stylo or un petit pièce, or a bold restauranteur shoving a menu in your face, or a dumb mute villager approaching you with open palms because, to him, your foreign face means money.
Mysteriously enough, though, they didn’t always go straight for the pocketbook – I got plenty of offers of free whatever-I-wanted, in exchange for… what? My Amerikani sister? Gonna try to convince me to smuggle hashish? In twenty years I’m supposed to come back to your hotel? Why is it free? I never did figure it out, but in most instances where the manipulating-vibe was strongest, I was sure these offers weren’t based on authentic friendship. I tried to extend my hand in friendship, I always do, instead of just taking free whatever – but it just felt icky. No, there’s a hustle in there somewhere; money for smiles. Bet on it.
It doesn’t matter that your clothes are dirtier than theirs; it doesn’t matter that you’re on a bike and not in a car. All that matters is that you’re not from here, and so you must have money to waste. And sure, I’ve got a little account balance – thanks to my rigorous thriftiness, creative thinking, a tiny bit of working, and the generosity of others – and it’s probably more than most Moroccans have, but that doesn’t mean I can give regalos and cadeaus to every person I come in contact with. Nope, sorry, I need this petit pièce to feed myself in Algeria. At least you have a whole house – a house! – and probably a donkey or two to boot.
The worst is when they don’t ask “Where you from?” and they don’t say hello…. With unmasked eagerness, sometimes even running to catch up, they say “Français, Spagnole? Anglais?” Just to get a foot in the door. Trying to practice Arabic can be impossible when everyone expects a European language from a face like yours. Most times they just looked confused when I ordered a kahwa b’lhlib or mention that “osafir bi darraja hew’la al alem“(I travel by bicycle around the world) – really confused, like they’re trying to figure out which language you’re speaking. Umm, we are in an Arab country, aren’t we? And it wasn’t just my pronunciation, because on rare occasions they understood right away…. Regardless, their usual reaction was to call over some other guy who spoke French, Spanish, or English, to find out what this weird tourist wants to drink: “Français, Spagnole? Anglais?” Man, how degrading! At first it was fun to shake my head each time and let them guess where I am from, especially when I speak all those languages, but after a while, their lack of subtelty just felt direspectful, like I was a piece of meat, and I actually grew to disdain being talked to. Once, the day before I took the train to meet my mother, a man was kind enough to offer to pay for a hotel room for me, and when the hotels were all full, he offered to take me home. But before I knew what was happening, he had negotiated a ride for us in a van! But rather than try to explain to this kind gentleman what a motorized vehicle boycott is, especially when I was taking the train the next day, I went with it. And as we drove those eight kilometers, I looked out the tiny screened-over window in the back of the van, and realized – they don’t see me. I’m closed off, in a car, instead of open to the world, on a bike, and it’s actually a nice reprieve! What has this world come to?!?
Even with my friends – which were easy to make, let me tell you – I often felt anxious and cornered. They want you to spend the night, they want to feed you, great. But then they want you to spend another day, and another… and they don’t make it easy to say goodbye. These wonderful people, whose generosity I respect so much, still made me feel manipulated sometimes. The worst is when they use food to lure me in – possibly my greatest weakness. “Come come, we visit my house, my family will cook good meal! No, no, don’t need to visit market – we have food for you.” Then it’s one hour, socializing… two hours, probably in front of a huge TV… the sun is inching across the sky and I feel more and more helpless and hungry. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not one to be in a hurry, especially not when free food is involved. But Morocco has shown me what “laid back” really means! At least with friends, I could trust that it wasn’t greedy or malicious, but the sticky pressure to stay made it hard to believe there isn’t an ulterior motive. Whatever the reasons, it usually chilled me out to assume they’re just hard-wired for hospitality – take it easy, Charlie. Speed kills. Sit back and force yourself to relax, enjoy the company and the meal. You’re probably learning something here, you know. And reckanize – they aren’t asking for anything – just your time.
Out among strangers, however, I couldn’t even fold a piece of origami without some random passerby asking if they can have it – before it’s even finished! Or they ask for “something from Amerika,” or they try to trade you little pieces of junk for something exotic or valuable. People want what you have; it’s very simple. Too bad I actually need nearly everything I have…. I never felt at risk of theft in Morocco, not really; everyone seems to be very upstanding. Perhaps it’s the prolific religious adherence. But they don’t consider high-pressure begging and hustling as treacherous – not in the least.
Enter the infamous Moroccan guide. Supposedly it is illegal for just anyone to show you around and expect money, without official guide status, but that’s only in theory. In practice, there is always someone asking if you need a hotel or a restaurant, always someone ready to hold your hand and point out where to walk, and god help you if you ask for directions – nearly everyone will take on the role of a guide and lead you to the place, instead of pointing it out. Which in Morocco does, of course, deserve a tip, even if they couldn’t find the place in the end, or the place is closed, or they take you to a place that doesn’t have what you asked for… even if you say right away that you aren’t going to tip! I know how to tip, at least in the US where it’s pretty clear, but even where I’m from, the tip is for a service provided – if the cabbie dops you off on the wrong end of town, or the waiter forgets your order, then in my opinion they don’t really deserve a tip. But in Morocco it only matters how much supplicating they’ve done – in the end it’s “Now, a tip for me, a little money please?” And “a little money” is not just a couple dirham – if it’s not enough, they will let you know, believe me. The only way around this is either to be rather callous and leave them empty-handed, or completely decline everyone’s assistance, every time. The only time I avoided this unpleasant decision was when I was approached out of nowhere in the main dJemaa El-Fna square in Marrakech: “You travel by bicycle?” At first I thought, “Oh jeez, this guy is gonna try to hustle me,” but then he explains that he’s from France and just got done with a month-long bike tour in southern Morocco, and he saw my loaded bike… what a relief! And he knew the area enough to help me find my mom’s guesthouse. Thanks Francois!
Then there’s the tourist price-gouging. Morocco’s economy depends on tourism and all its materialistic facets, and in the souk they can be tricky as a fox and as slippery as a snake. Trying to haggle is nearly impossible when the salesman knows you came from some rich country far away. Well, haggling might not be impossible, but actually getting a fair price in a tourist area is. I developed several helpful strategies, though. First of all, I learned enough Arabic numbers so that at a fruit stand, for instance, I can hear how much they charge the Moroccan guy ahead of me. Half the haggling battle is actually knowing how much stuff is worth in the first place – and “just wondering the price” does not exist. Also, being able to discuss purchases in Arabic, even on a basic pidgin level(“how much?” and “expensive!” and the numbers), tends to garner respect from the locals. Or maybe it just confuses them enough to be wary of trying to rip you off… who knows, maybe this bearded foreigner actually lives here. And maybe he’s muslim! Then, when the haggling is under way, of course I can start at an almost disrespectfully low counter-offer(the asking price is generally insultingly high anyway), I can say “I don’t have much money” in like six languages, including Arabic, I can explain that I travel by bicycle and don’t have a car or an airplane ticket, and of course being dirty and ragged helps convince them I’m poor… maybe. During the process it also helps if I can find a flaw or two with the item in question, even a small one, just to have something to say. It’s almost as if what is actually said isn’t as important as the number of back-and-forth counter-offers. Then, once I’ve got them down at least half way(“At least HALF Charlie, at least half,” couselled Alberto), I can say “Sorry that’s too much still” and start to walk away. For the few non-food items I actually purchased, there was probably another place to try and buy it anyway… but usually they will see I’m serious about cancelling the sale and run after me with a new “super-low” price. However, this can backfire, if I truly don’t want to buy anything – if I’ve started haggling, it’s not easy to get rid of the salesman, who will sometimes follow me down the street with the thing in his hand. And in the end, after all that, I suspect I was still ripped off pretty good for most purchases.
Once I actually tried to barter for something, a turban scarf. It did not go well. It was like me trying to hustle the hustler. He started by laughing derisively, then completely denounced my boots as “finished” (the same word they use for a cashed-out sipsi pipe) and started pointing out all the tiny dirty spots on my button-up shirt. He only offered a five dirham(like 75 cents) discount on the scarf. I kept my goods – I’d rather give them away than trade them so low – and came away having learned a little of how a Moroccan haggles from my side of the counter.

If you’re paying money for something already, they might let you take a photo of them and their shop. But otherwise, taking photographs can be a frustrating challenge – and there are a lot of interesting things to shoot. Sure a non-sentient landscape is free, and if someone is too far away to tell you “no,” they’ll just cover their face. And maybe you can get away with it in a crowd. But to take a photo of someone who isn’t your friend, who didn’t ask for the photo(friends were generally very excited about having their photo taken), even just the cows’ feet they’re selling, or the cats hanging out in front, or their signage, or anything – you have to ask for “authorization,” which is a cash business. No getting around it: if you have a camera, then you’ve obviously got some money. And nothing gives you away as a tourist faster than a camera. But actually the answer is usually “no” – there’s some kind of wide-spread photo-reluctance down here that I never quite understood. Maybe there have been too many journalists making money off of photos of exotic Morocco, maybe everyone is in on a preplanned-photo-opportunity-only conspiracy, or maybe it’s a mystical fear of soul-stealing or something, but a quintessential photo of a Moroccan, is a photo of a Moroccan covering his face with his hand.
There are lots of little rackets too, like parking, for example. Now, I’ve never paid for parking my bike, not once in my whole blessed life – that’s one of the great things about bikes: they park for free. But if there is a car parking lot nearby, then there is a parking attendant(whose job seems quite wholly unnecessary anyway). “No no no don’t put your bike there, put it over here where I can keep an eye on it.” Or not even a parking guy, but just an opportunist off the street: “There are many bad people out there, don’t trust anyone! I will keep an eye on your bike for you.” Some debatable logic there for sure…. And if I don’t do as he asks, will my bike be vandalized? How much of the populace do you figure is familiar with the operation of a quick-release wheel skewer…? But of course if I do put it under his guard, he expects a tip when I come to collect it. This isn’t violent or illegal, but it is definitely a form of extortion. The parking guys never got any money from me, on simple principle. I’ll give the bathroom dude a coin or two if he catches me(“Now why didn’t I just piss in the bushes?”), but there is no way I’m paying to park my bike!

* * *

They prey on your generosity, they prey on your pity. They play on your reluctance to offend, they play on whatever emotion they can. And they have a well-honed skill at discerning what your particular weakness is, like charlatan fortune-tellers. They can make you feel trapped, or they can make you feel like a stuck-up avaricious pig. They try every trick they can, for as long as you’ll listen to them, and they’ll manipulate you without shame, saying and doing dispicable things, things which in the United States would only be attempted by the most desperate bums. But in the end, they’re just trying to make a living, and they never actually do anything illegal. And despite the substantial pressure they can apply, you are still in control of your actions, and of your money. With a step back and an objective perspective, you can survive Morocco as a tourist, without being taken for every penny in your wallet and left crying and lost in the middle of the medina. I did (survive that is) and I am a tourist, albeit a rather strange one….

And oh yeah! It must be said that there truly are a lot of beautiful things for sale in Morocco – it’s a bazaar of wonders! But it’s easier to remain sane if you don’t go shopping.

I also have to include one nice moment to end this rather generalized, poison-penned travelogue: it was with the really small children. I was having a snack on the roadside in the mountains, when I saw a huge gaggle of schoolchildren walking down the hill toward me, on their way home I suppose. I decided I’d better get moving before they descended to where I was sitting, or I could get swamped…. Well, I was going their direction, so when I reached them, I got swamped anyway, in a thrill of raucous giggles and little kid Arabic. Once the first screams of excitement started, it spread through the group like a wave, and they started following me… up the hill, the way they had come! All of them. I wasn’t quite going slow enough for them to keep up just walking, so they actually jogged after me! I continued to glance behind me as I led this trail of kids, shouting encouragement – “YALLAH! ZUINA, YALLAH!” – which actually produced visible bursts of energy. I was having a great time; out in the Moroccan mountains, exercising the local children, hah! Eventually I reached some kind of partial summit and pulled up to a stop. Only one older kid had made it the whole way jogging – I saluted him and extended my hand, which he shook, out of breath but elated to be the “winner.” As the rest of the group straggled in, I shook each hand in turn in congratulations. They loved it and they really deserved it – running up a mountain they just came down. And for what? Hell if I know, but they didn’t beg. I wish I would’ve had enough safety pins to give out – safety pins are quite the exotic item – but then again, maybe that’s not the best gift for a little kid….