We never did see a knife. We didn’t have to, the point was
moot. As Ali had already helpfully pointed out, he knew where we were staying,
and he could easily come back at his leisure.
Brad and I had made an error in
calculation, or maybe more accurately, and error in translation. We were young,
bold, and at this point feeling rather foolish (and by foolish I mean knee
quakingly afraid). After two and a half months on the road, we had felt that we
were now seasoned enough as travellers to be able to take on any environment,
any scenario. This was an error in belief that could now be proving to be
costly. Tangiers, as we were discovering, was not a city to allow such errors
to go unrequited.
The initial problem lay with
language. I am not referring to our lack of French, or Arabic, both of which
would have served us well in the African nation of Morocco, but rather with the
relative ambiguity of English; specifically in the way it was used, the phrases
that were employed in our trusted guide book.
The text in question had proven to
be a valuable tool for the two of us, providing us with useful intelligence
time and time again; from where to eat to where to be wary of swindlers or
aggressive junkies. Brad and I had conquered several such European centres with
little difficulty, taking in the sights and dodging the riff raff with relative
ease. And so, when the guide book used the same toned down language that had
described the dangers of Amsterdam to describe this North African port, we
scoffed at their implications. We had already seen some dodgy spots, and had
excelled in our survival. Surely the non-governmental guides were not a serious
threat, not like the smack hungry junkies of the Netherlands.
The very plan to visit Africa was a
spur of the moment, seat of our pants sort of decision. We had been in Spain,
and were well ahead of our loose schedule. With a week in hand, Brad and I
dreamed, quite romantically, of Sirocco winds and the towering dunes of
Merzouga at the Gates of the Sahara. A day later, and the two of us were
crossing between the Pillars of Heracles, travelling from Iberia to the
northern most reach of the Dark Continent on a ferry laden with people and
merchandise.
Clearing customs was a breeze. It
was 2003, and the tourism industry was proving to be a fickle bitch all across
the Arab world in the wake of 9/11. An elderly, stately looking man in loose
white clothing approached us, and asked if we required his services. He was an
official government guide, paid by the tourist board of Morocco. He knew the
city intimately, and was adept at keeping the grifters at bay, he assured us
most heartily. The issue, for two budget travellers like ourselves, was his
price tag, which ran upwards of thirty odd euros. Not a lot of money, to be
sure, but it was more than either of us wished to spend on a service we did not
really think we needed. After all, had we not done this before, time and time
again, in city after city? We felt we could handle ourselves.
The refined statesman eyed us dubiously,
no doubt wondering if we would be nothing more than a news headline on the
morrow, but our answer was firm, and we stepped through the gates of the port,
past the machine gunned guards and into Africa proper, unfettered and
confident. Not ten yards into this exotic new world a lean shadow detached
itself from the wall and strode over to us. The man smiled easily, showing us a
mouthful of crooked or missing teeth. Speaking remarkably good English, this
summer toothed rogue assured us that he was eager to assist us in any way that
he could. We declined the offer of help, and strode on into the Medina of the
city, in search of our hotel.
Our smiling shadow, who named
himself Ali, followed doggedly, and talked quickly to us. He knew the hotel we
were looking for, he would take us there; it was his pleasure and duty as both
a Moroccan and a Muslim to assist us and shower us with hospitality. The
closed, twisting, tightly confined and massively confusing jumble of buildings
became a veritable rabbit’s warren of streets and souks. We were soon lost and
disorientated, moving in circles, and feeling uneasy. Ali, who had been
following gamely, took the lead and had us at the door of the hotel we had been
seeking in moments. We thanked the man profusely for his aid. Again, he flashed
his missing teeth, and told us we owed him fifty euros. We hesitated.
Brad, who was carrying our combined
monies from the past five days, had a healthy wad of colourful European bills
in his trouser pocket. In the other, he had fifteen euros for quick usage. He
did not want to reach into either. Ali, sensing this reluctance, grew stony,
the ever present grin disappearing in a thunderous scowl. “I know where you
stay. I can come back with knife later,” he informed us coldly. Several other
native Moroccans strode on by, but none of them paid us or our predicament any
mind; why would they care if some silly Euro-trash prats had their pockets
lightened? I looked over to Brad helplessly, my eyes saying loudly “Do not let
him know about the wad of cash, or he will take it all.” Brad, not being an
idiot, reached into the other pocket and withdrew the fifteen euros, telling
Ali this was all we had on us.
Ali grumbled, but he took the money.
It would not do to take this hold-up too far, and he did not seem displeased
with his haul. The friendly, disarming smile had returned. We were dazed, and
sought the shelter of the hotel as soon as we were able. So shocked were we
that we failed to notice the stunningly beautiful foyer, with its tile worked
fountain and blossoming palm fronds. We made for our room post-haste.
We now knew just how far from our
own culture and homes we were. It would seem that the descriptor “unpleasant”
in a guide book has markedly different meanings depending on the nature of the
development in the city in question, or so it now seemed to us at the time,
freshly robbed as we were. When we at last re-emerged into the sunlit souk, we
feared that Ali would spring out upon us at any time, but we did not see him
again until much later, and then only by chance.
Things that had had the potential to
wow us hours before now seemed seedy and unwholesome. The marketplace in the
Medina teemed with life and commerce, but we ignored it, despite many
impassioned “My friends, for you, good price, special price.” Faces set, we
stormed past the stalls, determined not to give any other swindler an inch or a
potential intro. Food vendors filled the air with the smells of roasting meat,
but all I could now see were the gutters full of intestines, melon rinds and
other assorted offal. The romance of North Africa had faded, and all I could
see were the negatives.
That night, the Medina teemed with
life. Music, laughter and good cheer filled the air. Brad and I listened from
our room, too intimidated to face the revelry of the crowd. To this day, I rue
that fear, as we lost the chance to experience something foreign to us, and
wonderful.
We never did see Merzouga, nor the
Gates of the Sahara. We did see Ali, leaning on the wall of the port, waiting
for a mark, as we made to board a ship that would take us back to Spain and a
civilization we knew far better than this dusty, desperate outpost, this last
stop on the refugee trail to Europe. We were slinking away, our tails tucked
between our legs like a pair of cuffed curs. We had simply not been ready for
the wonders and dangers of the Medina, so closed, so alive, so foreign, and so
poor.
Years removed, I do not begrudge Ali
his pay, nor the Medina its exotic lifeblood. They were as they should have been,
raw, impoverished, and smiling. It is not lost on me that a man risked losing
his hand to take fifteen euros from a pair of strangers. Desperation has no,
and needs no better definition than that. Brad and I had simply been too fresh
faced and naïve to be able to face a city as unfettered as Tangiers. I long for
the opportunity to have another crack at this ragged gem, ready this time to
take Ali’s smiling whack on the chin, and smile back myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment