Moroccan Survival Guide

April 6th, 2003

My visit to Morocco began with entry into the port town of Tangier after a 2.5 hour crossing of the Straight of Gibraltar from Algeciras, Spain. Trying with great effort and patience to dodge, dissuade and avoid the hustlers that set upon me in numbers, I was quickly off on a bus to Rabat, the capital city. Along the highway were picturesque views of coastline to one side, and neatly arranged agricultural plots on the other. I was impressed with the evident attention spent on these farms, and the high standard of organization were apparent in their up keeping. The national population of 30 million is made up of about half Arabs and half Berbers, occupying a land slightly bigger than California, and 98% of whom are Muslim.
In Morocco, I always found myself in a dumfounded state, somewhere betwixt awe of the beautiful surroundings and distrust or fear of the local inhabitants. The people never appeared intent on attacking me outright, but opted rather for an effective combination of their guile and my ineptitude at holding onto my money. This game, which became quite fun eventually, always began with an offering of tea and ended with me (the fool) parting ways with my coin. Getting lost in a market and bargaining for trinkets and craftworks of all sorts was a tireless pursuit that I really never could get enough of. All of you who are well versed in Thailand should not let that fact hinder your expectation of utter defeat in this case, where the Moroccans definitely have tradition and practice on their side.
As an American, I had up until this point in my travels (Morocco was country 11 out of 14 on this particular outing) insisted upon not hiding my nationality, as some other Yanks were doing in Europe. I will be the first to admit that we Americans were not the most popular of folks over in Europe during the war in Iraq, however I felt that hiding my citizenship was equivalent to being ashamed of my country. Finally, in Morocco I discovered quickly that nationalistic pride was a precursor to disaster, and discarded my convention of truth for one of caution. This custom lent itself to a great advantage in the city of Meknes, when the opening of a McDonalds set the stage for a Muslim protest of sizeable proportions.
The thunderous march was accompanied by a murderous chanting in Arabic, which periodically oscillated and boiled over into almost frantic screaming. My Canadian friend and I had to hide downstairs in the garage of a rental car agency to avoid being the target of several thousand fervent protesters, as she was the only Caucasian around for miles and was constantly being mistaken for an American. After having talked to several locals along the way, I had ascertained that most Moroccans believed that George W. Bush genuinely intended on invading Morocco and other Muslim states after he was done with Iraq. The ceiling quaked above our heads as the stomping feet of people demanded liberation from the oppressions of the West.
Betting on the efficacy of a disguise fashioned by DNA, I hoped that I could dare to sneak a peak and live to write about it. Yes, I may be a full-blooded Chinese by heritage, but I was born and raised as American as a slice of apple pie enjoyed on the 4th of July during the 7th inning stretch at Yankees baseball game. With my heart pounding in my throat I popped myself directly into the mayhem of the hysterical march. After realizing that I had not yet received a brick to the head, I decided to unleash a flurry of snapshots. There was a brief parting of the crowd and I interjected myself just in front of a banner held by mostly women and younger protesters. I saw the shifts of emotion and thought occur in slow motion as, the crowd caught sight of me. Beginning with rage on the faces of those chanting against America, their expressions then turned to perplexity as they realized an outsider was amongst them, and eventually to dismissal as they brushed off my presence as that of just another camera-happy Japanese tourist, albeit out of place – but far enough displaced from their association of America and its allies to allow me to witness the events unfolding. All that I could think to myself at the time was how strange it felt to be an American (and a patriotic one at that) in the middle of a Muslim protest in an Islamic state during the unpopular war in Iraq.
The strangeness did not end in Meknes. As I traveled on, driving nearly 800km in 5 days throughout most of northern Morocco, each ensuing occurrence was just as bizarre and sometimes more inexplicable than the last. We explored Roman ruins dating back as far as 1000 b.c. without oversight at Volubilus and Lixus, rode camels through the desert near Tetuoan, and had a few more humbling trades accompanied by tea. Wearily preparing to embark across the Strait back to Spain, we caught sight of three doe-eyed foreigners just stepping foot onto Africa from the ferry. Passing by, they naively asked us how our visit was and if we had any valuable advice to offer. Knowingly, my friend and I chimed in chorus: Beware of Tea!

Entry Filed under: Travel