Tangier...

We headed to Chaouen’s bus stop to take the bus into Tangier, stopping back in Tetouan on the way. The lady I sat next to on the bus, I could tell form her phone, spoke French. I eventually made some comment about the countryside and we got to talking. She was a little hard to get answers out of at first, but she warmed up to the idea of talking after a little bit. We talked about how the internet trends are similar between the US and Morocco, as I recognized a lot of the same things from her Instagram feed and mine, just with the only difference being that one was in Arabic. I also had one other question for her, as I was finally comfortable talking with someone, and she gave me a good answer. I had noticed that when the call to prayer comes on, a minority of people actually stop what they’re doing to go to a mosque and pray. I was wondering if people just aren’t observing, or if they prey alone in their heads. She said that she believes many will pray individually, but on Fridays, it’s expected that you go in for the prayer. I tried to get an answer of her about what she thinks or has heard about the US, emphasizing that I didn’t mind what she said or answered, but she was either too polite, or genuinely had no opinion.

When we got to Tangier, we walked through the medina again to our hostel. The taxi ride from the station got us a good look at the city, admittedly after dark. What we saw were large European boulevards, European brands, and a waterfront. This wasn’t Africa anymore, this is merely an extension of Andalusia. Tangier’s medina is high on a hill, and there’s a corniche that runs along the water. There’s a series of ramps that lead you from the corniche to the medina, so we stopped in the square in between the corniche and the medina, before going up to find our hostel.

We made a mistake on the way to the hostel, listening to the advice of someone who claimed to work at our hostel telling us that the road there is closed and we have to take a different route. We turned around and heeded his advice, while he took us the exact way we were walking for about ten more seconds. His words were “don’t worry, be happy! With me, you don’t pay anything, I just work at the hostel.” Again, that “don’t worry, be happy” set off alarm bells for us, but at that point, it was too late.

The inside of the hostel was something out of Seville. All tiled, many floors with little area on each, all surrounding a center patio. We made conversation with the check-in guy at the hostel, telling him that we’ve been in Seville and that it reminds us of it. He was very genuine, spoke great English, and we could trust him certainly. He recommended that we eat at this restaurant, Chez Hassan, so we headed out to have dinner there. As soon as we walked out, our friend swooped in and took us to another restaurant. He’s presumably getting paid to take us there. They sat us upstairs, in another Andalusian-looking room, and the host told us the deal. There were no menus, but there was a “menu,” which is the Spanish term for a group of plates that all come together that you can order. It involved tagine, couscous, and salad for 150 dirhams per person. That was way more than we were willing to pay, seeing that nearly every meal in Morocco has cost nearly that much, if not less, for all three of us combined. So we walked out and went over to Chez Hassan. This place was busy, and they had a kebab grill that got my mouth watering. They were sitting people with strangers to conserve room, and we ended up getting sat at a table with a couple who were French and Brazilian. They were mad, first, that they were moved, and also that they were sat with a bunch of kids, but once they learned that I had spent significant time in Paris, we were able to break the ice and talk about some things that at least I could relate to the couple with. The food was good. Not as delectable as I was hoping, nor as I had smelled, but I am very glad we went. The ambiance was nice, and I enjoyed talking with these people, at least.

The next morning, we got a late start and wandered through the streets behind the medina to find this breakfast place on the coast. The sea breeze and mint tea were refreshing, and the food was just what we had expected from our other traditional Moroccan breakfasts at riads and hostels. We continued to wander around the medina, but at that point, we got a little bored, seeing that that’s pretty much all we had done for the past two days.

We decided it was time to hit the beach, so we ended up at what was essentially Tangier municipal beach. And this experience was AWFUL. First, when we got there, it was so packed that you couldn’t even see the water if you were in the back row of umbrellas. So we sat far back in the sand, and when we looked around, there were just people rolling in the sand, people being creepy, and stray dogs everywhere. And remember, we had all of our belongings with us since we weren’t planning on going back to the hostel afterwards. A stray dog found his way to us, and he was actually quite cute and laid down in the middle of us three. He looked very at ease with us around. But as people got close to us, he ran up to them, totally unprovoked, and started jumping at them and biting them. At this point, we were terrified of the new friend we had just made, but the more we thought about it, the more we realized we had accidentally acquired a guard dog. I think dogs aren’t treated very well in Morocco, and we had seen some dog abuse the night before at Chez Hassan that broke our western hearts. So I think when the dog found some people who treated him kindly, who found him cute, and who’d let him sit there without picking him up by his neck. Hanging only by his skin, and throwing him across the beach (what we had actually seen been done to another dog), he wanted to protect us and himself. For that, we were nervous that he’d attack us when we left, seeing as he lost his only safety. We could see others at the beach looking at us with wide eyes, pitying us for acquiring such a volatile friend, but we were cautiously optimistic that he genuinely wanted to protect us.

Either way, we were stuck between a rock and a hard place. We wanted to leave, since we felt unsafe at the beach, unwilling to leave any of our possessions with just one person, thinking that it would be too easy for a group to come up and steal everything. On the other hand, we couldn’t leave, since our guard dog may attack us upon losing our protection. He wandered into the shade for a second, at which point we ran out. He followed us slowly off the beach, before turning around, thankfully, and going back to the beach. Poor guy, it broke my heart to see him have to turn around.

We took a taxi over to the Caves of Hercules, a cave where you can see the ocean, and then we headed to a different beach. And let me say, this beach was night and day when compared with the other one. This beach was almost entirely locals, enjoying, playing soccer or badminton, swimming, drinking tea, sunbathing, and talking. No stray dogs, and we felt completely safe. If we didn’t have all of our belongings with us, passport, wallet, clothes, etc., we would have actually felt comfortable leaving some things on the beach while we all went into the water. But we didn’t want to take that chance, so we went in in pairs. One thing I noticed about the Moroccan beach was the complete gap in modesty expected on either side of the Strait of Gibraltar. In Spain, it’s acceptable to go in nearly naked, whereas women in Morocco swim in literal burqas sometimes, and with hijabs and long clothing other times. Otherwise, the beach felt totally normal, and we had a great time. I have to say, the feeling of being able to let your guard down and just live life normally is one of the best feelings that one can have, and I’ve been taking it for granted my whole life up until having been in Morocco.

We walked along the coast to find a restaurant for dinner before our flight, eating at a place that had a wonderful view of the ocean on an Andalusian style patio. When we got there, the guy, who spoke perfect English, told us that they don’t accept credit card. That’s totally normal, but we were starting to run out of dirhams and were worried we wouldn’t make it to the airport. He let us pay in Euros actually, and was very, very accommodating with making sure that our food came out ASAP and, of course, for taking the Euros in the first place. When he brought us food, he asked if we wanted any drinks, to which we responded that we literally can’t afford any drinks. We only had 100 dirhams left, and he said a taxi to the airport would cost anywhere between 100 and 150. So we were cutting it close anyways. Well as we were eating, he came up with a tray of mint tea for us, telling us that it’s on the house and that we shouldn’t have to have a meal without a drink. So, so nice of him. And though mint tea in Morocco is as common as Coke in the US, and he likely lost little to no money serving it to us, we appreciated that he, out of the goodness of his heart, wanted us to be happy.

Our third piece of good news was with the taxi who took us to the airport. He was charging us 150 which we, well, didn’t have. So we bargained it down for him to take us for 100, and though when he dropped us off, he asked for an extra 20, we were able to tell him that we literally didn’t have it and were sorry. He left us without any harassing, and we were on our way. Well, the road up to the airport was packed, and we were nervous that the hour and change we had given ourselves may not be enough. We were further made nervous when we walked up to the building and saw a mob thousands of people waiting outside the departures door. But we were able to sneak our way past, and when we entered the airport, we realized that the building was actually empty. We were very confused, and we were at the gate within minutes. In fact, we could have cut it way closer. Tangier Ibn Batutta airport has, in fact, only three gates. So what was all the ruckus outside? We learned that the charter flight coming back from Mecca for the Hajj was arriving any minute, and that those were the eager family members, awaiting the return of their loved ones after their transformative pilgrimage. We thought it was so cool, and were so excited to have accidentally stumbled into such a momentous event.

So reflections. Oh my Allah. First of all, Morocco is a great place if you are looking for a country full of excitement, keeping you on your toes at every minute. There’s never a boring turn, there’s never a boring person to talk to, and even the experience of talking with fellow travelers and expats is fun, as you share tips and commiserate with each other. But in other ways, I see it as a very sad place. A place where the money from tourists and foreigners is so needed, a place where a dollar from a tourist is so valuable, that they will do anything for it. They will lie, deceive, plead, whine, harass, yell, and argue. Anything to make a quick buck. I had heard wonderful tales from friends and internet travel journalists about the wonderful hospitality of the Middle East, and I’m disappointed that this was the first experience I got. I’m worried it will taint my perception of other people in the region for the first few trips I take, but I’m sure after a while, I’ll start to get experience and tell who’s genuine about inviting me into their house for a tea, and who just wants a few bucks. Morocco is not a destination for an unexperienced traveler, and I’m glad I did it in two short bursts rather than a full week, but I am so glad I was able to see the country in its fullest. These experiences, these lessons, and these stories I will take with me on my future travels, both as advice, and as fond memories to compare things with in the future.

Shukran, Morocco, for all you have given, and taken from me.