ChrisCrossesCountries

The challenge of the next four days would be to try and change this feeling of disillusion I had with Morocco. Three cities, Fez, Chefchouen, and Tangier. During my reflection on the last few days since Marrakesh I had the revelation that the Medinas were nothing but theme parks to scam tourists and backpackers. Mustafa had solidified this with the information that most if not all of the vendors who could afford to own stalls in the Medina had to have quite a bit of money, and made their fortune hustling and scamming those who came looking for adventure and authentic Moroccan culture and experiences.

The last few days going down into the desert had affected my view of the rest of Morocco. I had met local Berbers in the villages scattered around the desert and saw the poverty that they had lived in. I stood in Merzouga’s central market watching farmers haggle with butchers for how many hogtied goats they’d sell that day. I had a refined understanding of what was authentic and what was marketed as authentic in Morocco. But there was also a deep desire especially with Fez and Tangier to get to know and learn these cities. Fez is the largest city in Morocco, and Tangier had been a city that fascinated me for several years as I understood more of its role in the 20th century for artists, musicians, and writers.

Ironically, the one city in Morocco I was not going to was Casablanca. I say this is ironic because one of my favorite movies of all time is the cinematic masterpiece of the same name. But everything I had read online was that the Casablanca of today was nothing like what you see in the movie, and cities like Fez and Marrakesh were much closer to the movies than the actual city, but if Fez was anything like Marrakesh I knew I was in for a really bad time.

I had only one day in Fez and in my head I was still nervous about navigating the Medina by myself, so I had spoken with the manager about scheduling a tour with one of the guides the hotel had on retainer to take me around the city. I can also tell you in full confidence that this was the biggest waste of time, money and energy I made in the entire trip through Morocco. At least the money I had spent on traveling with Mustafa and The Dolphin I had made a connection with two people who cared about my well being and safety, making sure I had any questions answered and that I was treated fairly by the merchants wherever we went. This morning I was met with a short, gray haired Arab man who’s name has been lost to time due to my intense disdain for his existence. We will call him Scar. Scar arrived at my hotel at about noon and we began our tour of the Medina. I will give him the benefit of saying at first he was very helpful in assisting me with shipping back home a bunch of trinkets and clothes I ended up buying while I was in the desert. If you remember I had been traveling with a second bag of clothes from Marrakesh that had only grown larger since my departure and was now two massive bags filled with random stuff I had impulsively bought and regretted, but was too stubborn to throw out. So we started the morning going to a shipping company to send the clothes and trinkets back to my house in New Jersey.

However immediately after this is when the red flags started to show and alarm bells went off that this guide was not worth the money I spent on his services. We began our descent into the alleyways of the Medina and towards our first stop. We began with a walk to one of the many old mosques that stood out of the medina, and once we arrived Scar pointed to a plaque on one of the doors and told me to read it. I stared at him as he told me all my questions would be answered by the plaque. I was dumbfounded. This repeated several times as he would take me from old building to old building for about an hour. Each time my blood began to boil another degree higher. We stopped for lunch in one of the back alleys and I got myself a sandwich. I remember it was a sandwich because of how stale and inedible the bread was. While I was standing in line waiting to order, Scar told me after I had my food to take a seat, and he would be right back. About 20 minutes after I had sat down and given the other half of my inedible sandwich to a street cat, Scar turned a corner and motioned for me to get up as we would be going to see a traditional rug maker in Fez. Now I had been warned about the rug makers by many online forums and even The Dolphin and Mustafa. They were scams and overpriced carpets that merchants would try to sell, promising you that these exact same rugs would be sold for thousands of dollars in New York City. 

My intuition was telling me to not go but I also wanted to see what the big deal was about, it was a gamble. Scar brought me to the entrance of the building and opened the door for me but did not step inside with me. He gave me some explanation of “as he was my guide, he was not allowed to assist me in the purchase of products from merchants.” To be fair, Mustafa and The Dolphin had also not been present for most of my interactions with the merchants and when they were they did not assist me in haggling.

I took a sigh and continued into the building myself, and was greeted by a group of four men in a massive chamber with rugs rolled up on shelves with the building’s walls stretching up easily five or six meters. The designs of each rug were admittedly very impressive and intricate as someone ignorant as me can explain. The men took me through the shop and showed me the process of rug making with a bunch of staged, scripted scenes most likely setup several minutes before my arrival as I theorize that Scar had left me at lunch to inform these merchants of my approach. I can’t say I was that impressed. At the end of the tour one of the men who spoke the best English took me up to the rooftop for some Moroccan Mint tea and to see the city from above. I had a feeling now the sales pitch would begin and I was dead right. As soon as I sat down after my viewing of the rooftops of Fez the other three men came up from the staircase carrying dozens of different sized rugs, rolling them out on the ground for me to see in all their glory.

“My friend, which one do you want to buy!? These are all a special price just for you!”

“My friend, you offend me, you do not think these rugs are worth your money? We work very hard to make these, we will even ship them back home for you!”

“Please, let us know if any of these rugs interest you.”

After about a few minutes of me being as polite as possible and them not taking no for an answer I began to lose my patience. I explained I was traveling with no intention to go home for several months, if not years, and I didn’t even own a house. But it was apparent that these guys didn’t care or believe me. They said how these rugs were an “investment” and I could resell them in the markets of New York City for thousands of dollars at auction, just like I had been told they would claim.

I then made the decision that I would just get up and leave, because as I said the Irish Goodbye is a fantastic tool in your utility belt. I thanked the men for their time and stood up, and made my way downstairs as the four of them cried out in protest. I hadn’t given them much to work with in the bartering sense, no indication of a rug I wanted, or a price I would work with and I think the fact I hadn’t even tried to play the game with them set them off because as I got closer to the door they frantically started pulling rugs from the walls to try and show me. It was hilarious but also a little infuriating. I didn’t come to Morocco to go back and forth with scam artist merchants and be shown plaques on mosques with a short biography I could find on Wikipedia.

I opened the door leaving the desperate shouts of the men behind me and stepped outside scanning for Scar. I spotted him down the street talking to a man off to the side, in front of one of the dozens of shops with all sorts of trinkets and tourist trap merchandise hanging off the walls. As I approached he turned to meet me with a look of surprise on his face. It was clear he didn’t expect me back so soon, and the surprise soon turned back to his normal, stoic or apathetic attitude. 

The walk around Fez continued, more of the same. We’d stop at some old building and he would show me a plaque or we would stop in some shop that he knew the owner and he would speak to them in Arabic while I stood there waiting to be introduced or spoken to, only to be ignored and told we were moving on. This anger inside me finally boiled over after a very similar incident happened where Scar had said we were going to go to a clothing shop and they would show me how they use looms to create the clothes of Morocco. I really wasn’t interested, as I am not stupid and I know how clothes are made and saw it for what it was, a repeat of the rug salesmen hustle. It started and ended exactly the same as the rug merchant I entered. Scar disappeared without a word leaving me alone with the merchant as he took me through a tour of his operation.

It was nearly the same style of hospitality step-by-step, start with walking me through the shop and see all the different styles of clothes littered over the walls and treat me like the most interesting man in the world, attempt to get me to try on some shirts or jackets and then sit me down for a conversation over some mint tea and swoon me with a story of themselves and how they are just simple merchants who own a three story clothing store in the dead center of the Medina barely making making a life for themselves. I recalled my conversation with Mustafa and how only the richest merchants could own shops in the Mediana and the sob story of this poor clothing merchant fell on deaf ears by that point I had enough. I thanked him for the tea and left without a word once again. 

Outside once again stood the ever vigilant Scar, socializing with some random Moroccan and paying no attention to his surroundings as I approached with a fire in my eyes. “I want you to take me back to the hotel, this tour is over.” I demanded. Scar stepped back clearly surprised by my less than friendly tone of voice. He stood processing my demand for a few seconds before agreeing, but not before saying we would stop at the iconic leather tannery of Fez, which in his own words was so much better than the leather tannery of Marrakesh.

I refused saying if he brought me there instead of the hotel I would find my own way back. What I really wanted to say was I’d shove his head in the buckets of cow piss the tanneries use to treat the leather if he didn’t take me back right now. That’s right Scar, I know how they make things. I watched “How It’s Made” on the Discovery Channel growing up and I sometimes even remember the episodes. However as much as I wanted to threaten the man with violence for wasting my one afternoon in Fez, I bit my tongue and refused to stop at any more shops as we walked back to the hotel despite Scar’s best attempts to get me to enter a few more shops I just kept walking in the direction I assumed the hotel to be in. Just like when I was in Marrakesh earlier Fez also had no accurate layout of the Medina on Google Maps or any app I could find so I was reliant on the small shard of faith I had in Scar to actually take me back to the hotel. 

Eventually I think he realized that it was hopeless and I was noncompliant, and I began to recognize the streets we were on as we approached the hotel. Now the malicious side of my brain began to brew a way to insult and let Scar know I wasn’t happy with his “tour”. It was so passive aggressive but I knew it would get the message across, just like in the USA Morocco has a bit of a tipping culture, and just like back home if you were to ask anyone working in the service industry about tipping, they would tell you when someone leaves no tip, they are just being cheap. If someone leaves you a dollar, they are letting you know that you absolutely sucked, its essentially a giant middle finger to your face. 

We arrived at the front door to my hotel and Scar stood there like a dog expecting a treat for doing a trick and I think I might’ve seen some drool coming from his mouth as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, and I made sure that he could see all the cash I had on hand and pulled out 20 Dirham. Which was about $2 USD, that is about what you’d tip a server in a restaurant for bringing you food in Morocco, not what you’d tip a guide who spent all day bringing you around a city. A massive grin began to form across my face as I watched his brain process the interaction and the anger light up from beneath this tiny old man’s facade. Then the rage from his eyes as he didn’t even take the money from my hand.

I wish I could tell you in detail the next string of words that came out of his mouth, but the insults came so fast through his accent I could barely make sense of them. It was apparent that I had struck a nerve which was my intent. I was not afraid of this old man or his insults but the volume of his shouting did put me on the defensive for a moment. I kept up my act as best I could without getting aggressive with him, explaining that I thought he would be grateful for the tip and if he didn’t want it I would give it to someone who would accept it. He didn’t like this line of thought at all and felt he deserved a bigger tip and began throwing more and more insults at me until I finally broke my ignorant American act and called him out on his shitty behavior as my guide, and if I didn’t already pay for his service the night before he never would’ve gotten a cent out of me.

At this point I guess the shouting match was so loud the manager inside had heard me and Scar’s insults and came out to defuse the argument. I walked inside and took a seat in the lobby while Scar and the manager spoke. After a few minutes the manager came over to me and I explained the horrible guide she had set me up with was a scam and I how I felt that he did nothing to improve my knowledge of Fez and just took me to a bunch of his friend’s shops to try and get me to buy their stuff.

She stood there processing everything, and I am not sure what her feelings were, I figured she was well aware of this guide’s behavior, how couldn’t she be? But I don’t know if I was the first guest who had pushed back on his tour, or just the most recent. She nodded her head saying she understood and apologized. She said she would make it up to me and she would handle this. I left for my room, tired and done with today. As I walked up the stairs to my room I could still hear Scar, full of rage yelling at the manager. I’ll admit I was satisfied with the back and forth we had, if anything I felt I had handled it about as well as I could’ve. The man was a scam artist and hustler. Fuck him and fuck any guide like him. As a backpacker he is the exact type of guide I don’t want to have when I am genuinely trying to learn about a place and it’s people, and guides like Scar are all over Morocco. Mostly everyone I’ve met who has traveled the country has a similar story to me, a guide who didn’t care about them and only saw dollar signs from the Westerner and not a person. 

Now the whole day was more or less over. I had no interest in seeing Fez at night. My feelings on the city were the same as I had felt about Marrakesh, a mirage in the desert meant to fool travelers that there was something worth seeing here. I was looking forward to leaving Fez tomorrow but needed to do some work on figuring out how exactly I was going to get to Chefchouen tomorrow. Did I even want to see Chefchouen? My flight was booked out of Tangier so I needed to be there. Was it worth saying “Screw it” and just leaving the country tomorrow? I was feeling the fire of defeat engulf me for the first time. The 5 days I had spent with Mustafa and The Dolphin were lovely but kept me sheltered to the uglier side of Morocco. Was that what I wanted out of travel? What have I learned today? What was I still doing here in Morocco that was so important? I didn’t have any answers, just frustration. 

I made my way downstairs around dinner time and spoke with the manager and she once again apologized and had taken the liberty of scheduling a new tour for me tomorrow. I politely declined, explaining I’d be leaving in the morning for Chefchouen, and needed guidance on the best way to get there. She took the time to walk me through how to get to the bus station outside the Medina with a custom map she had made of the city. “That would’ve been helpful this morning.” Is all I could think. I thanked her, and went to find myself some food, retreated back to my room and tried to get some rest. The bus to Chefchouen would leave at 6am, and I wasn’t looking forward to the bus ride through the mountains or the rest of Morocco. I had gone from expecting a wild Indiana Jones adventure to anticipating everything to be a shallow puddle of scams, hustling and ripoffs trying to get me to spend my money. 

There was still a glimmer of hope that maybe the next two cities would prove me wrong, and that I could change my outlook on the country.