"Where are you from?" and the Art of Scamming in Marrakesh

So, it’s time to finally talk about the camel in the room. I mentioned in the last post that Arabic hospitality would be a double-edged sword. Matt and I were walking in the direction of the leather tanneries, and around this area, there were dozens of people telling us what direction the “big square” is in. We laughed, saying how we’d been a hundred times already, and that who’d even need guidance there, since seemingly if you wander enough, you’ll come across it. But when we heard someone, let’s call him Person 0, pointing us in the direction of the leather tanneries, we took notice. He said we’re lucky—that today is the last day of the Berber leather tanning festival, and that we should visit now if we were planning on it. So we walk in the direction that Person 0 points for a few minutes, before a new guy, Person 1, tells us the same thing. He says that the tanneries are “ahead, to the right, ahead, you know what? I’ll just come with you” and takes us about half-way there. We talked with him for a little bit, about this supposed Berber tanning festival. This should have been red flag number one. I could not get a straight answer out of him as to what the “Berber tanning festival” was about. I just figured he didn’t understand, however, from reading articles online later, seems like every day is the last day of the Berber tanning festival…

Person 1 asked me if I spoke Arabic, since he knew I could speak at least English and French. Red flag number two. I answered no, but that I will be learning soon. When he dropped us off at the intersection, he called out to a friend, in Arabic. What I thought he said, in the moment, was “hey, will you take these guys to the tanneries?” and what he probably said was “we got one!” He said that this guy, Person 2, was someone who worked by the tanneries and will take us the rest of the way. He was quite talkative, and dropped us off at the front of a leather tannery, after telling us, in a decently racist way, how much better the Berber tanners were than the Arab tanners. Frankly, I don’t know what to believe at this point anymore, though, so I won’t go into detail, but he claims that Berbers use no machines while the Arabs use chemical dyes and machines. So we arrived at the tannery, finally, only to be greeted by Person 3, as Person 2 goes, presumably, to the shop that we were told he works at. Person 3 gives us sprigs of mint at the front, since the tannery reeked of, among other things, sheep skin and manure used in the process. As we walk in, there’s a large sign. I wish I got a picture of it, but it said something along the lines of “a visit to this tannery is free. All Berbers that work for the leather industry only sell the leather, not the process.”

It calmed me to see that, as I was starting to have my suspicions raised at this point. Person 3 took us around the tannery, which was, I must admit, very cool. Again, we had set off in this direction to see this, we just didn’t expect to be taken to it in such a friendly and easy way! He described more of the process to us, showing us the different vats where the process was carried out, the guy scraping the skin and hair off the hide with a big scraper tool, and we even got a view from above. And when Matt and I were above, we were whispering about whether we should tip these guys or not. All of this was done, however, in a bit of a rush. Red flag number, well, I’ve stopped counting by now. He took us out and brought us to a leather store. Person 4 was in the store, eager to show us around, and we considered buying things, but frankly, there was nothing in there I wanted. It was probably all expensive anyways. When we walked out, both of us tried just to walk quickly away, paying no attention to anyone else. Just to get ourselves out of the situation. Well, Person 3 practically runs ahead and gets in front of us, so that we knew he was outside the store waiting for us when we were done. He brings us to one more store which wasn’t even trying to sell us anything. It was just dyes and teas, and we were in there for maybe 15 seconds. And when we leave, Matt and my hearts both just sank. Because there was Person 2. Standing right outside, waiting for us. Persons 2 and 3 stand in a circle with us, telling us that now is the time we need to tip them, as the money goes to the Berber tanning association or some bullshit like that. 200 dirhams is customary. Ok? We try to get out of it, walking in god-knows-what direction, but they clearly know the city much better than we do. And the last thing we wanted to do was get lost all the while having no way to get rid of these people who are just after our wallets. So I caved eventually and gave him a 200, at which point he said 200 for Matt too. That is where I broke. I reached into my wallet and gave him a 50 for Matt and he complained, but we walked away.

Person 3 never came back, but Person 2 was following us through the back streets of Marrakesh. Again, we had no concept of where we were in the city, and we were unknowingly walking in the opposite direction of where more people were. He kept on begging us for money, saying “thank you, thank you.” “Now is the time to give me money, thank you!” when we offered to give him the few coins we had, he said that coins are nothing. Well, you know what? He did nothing! He took us from one place to another three minutes away, which we would have gotten to had we just wandered ourselves anyways. I genuinely didn’t realize that I had more cash in my wallet, and I convinced him that the coins were the only things we had, along with a 20 that I could find. So after all of that, we were each scammed out of somewhere between 12 and 15 bucks. Honestly, for a first day, I don’t think that’s too awful. I’m sure there’s been worse. But it wasn’t necessarily the money that bothered us. After all, we have a job, and the prices in Marrakesh being so cheap means that we saved more than 15 bucks versus what we would have spent on a regular weekend back in Seville. What we were more annoyed about was the betrayal. We received a service we never asked for, and were then charged for it. Of course, we would have tipped the guide a few dirhams at the end for his time, but ~300 was too much. Much, much more than either of us were willing to pay.

This happened at around noon, and that night, up on the balcony, we both admitted to having been thinking about it all day long. That simply that act of betrayal of trust—that basic human need, that thing that keeps a functioning society intact—was enough to sick with us for hours. We debriefed the incident, going through step by step what happened, and pinpointing the times at which we went wrong. And what we realized was that it was one question when we erred: “where are you from.” Person 1 asked us that, and from that moment on, we had unknowingly signed ourselves up for a twenty-minute guided tour of Marrakesh’s leather tanneries, complete with half-truths and deceptive lies. But “where are you from” adds a level of familiarity to it. A sense of introduction, that this guy isn’t here to provide us with the service of us touring us through the tanneries, but rather, just because he’s a friendly guy looking to help a tourist out.

And yes, mom, I did put myself in danger. I know it was stupid, and I am lucky I didn’t lose much money, nor get myself harmed, kidnapped, or brought to a prison. It is a lesson that I have learned and take with me in the future. Of course, when I describe it like this, it sounds like a scam from the onset. But in the moment, everything just happened so fast, everything just seemed ok. But we’re not the only ones to fall for it. Throughout our time, we saw several groups get swept up in the same guided tours that we did—a walk through the endless souks to the square, a tour to the Badii palace, a tour to the tanneries. It’s easy to get caught in, but unfortunately, once you’re in, they’re real good at making sure you don’t leave.

As I mentioned in the last post, in Marrakesh, it’s hustle or be hustled. And kids learn this from a very young age. We went to go visit the Jewish quarter, and the synagogue there was closed since it was afternoon on Shabbat. There was a small kid outside, who relayed to me that it was closed since it’s Shabbat. I thanked him, and he asked me if I’d buy a cigarette from him because he told me. He had to be no older than 5, standing there all alone in a random alley in Marrakesh with a tray of cigarettes in his hand. I dismissed him, telling him that I don’t smoke, but that moment stuck with me. From then on, I became aware of the huge number of local children, and I mean those no older than 7 or 8, selling things. By 10, they’re already ready to attract buyers in the souks. The back streets are just their training grounds. I just find it so crushing to know that these kids will only be able to be salesmen in souks. That their future is already set for them. And that if I come back to Marrakesh in twenty years, that same kid who tried to sell me cigarettes may be the same one graciously offering to show me how to get to the tannery. It’s not these people’s fault that they’re scamming, that they’re abusing your emotions, that they’re constantly in your face and trying to form a connection with you so that you eat at their restaurant or so that you can’t leave their unwanted guided tour. And it all starts from that question: “Where are you from?”

Where are you from? Where are you from? Marrakesh’s secret weapon. Any visitor to Marrakesh will tell you just how powerful this unassuming phrase is. And what’s so, so disappointing is that it spoils it for other people who genuinely care. Really, Marrakesh is a prime example of “one bad apple spoils the whole bunch.” Our tour guide through the Atlas mountains, Ghafur,—who was genuinely a good guy, who never asked for money, who was just excited to show us his country and has this job just because he couldn’t stand having a desk job—asked us this question. And Matt and I gave each other a slight look. Was this a sign that he’d be asking us for an egregious tip at the end? Was this a sign that he wouldn’t drive us back to Marrakesh unless we bribed him? We said assumed, correctly, no, and responded with America. But at other times, while walking through the sea of food stalls in Jemaa el-Fnaa, we’d go with the first guess that someone would give us. “Where are you from? Bangladesh?” The guy asked Matt. He nodded, and the guy celebrated. When it was my turn, I gave him a chance to make a few guesses, guessing the UK, Netherlands, and France, before finally deciding to tell him that I’m German. The guy at our hotel, who’d served us tea, who talked with us about our first night up on the balcony, he asked us where were we from. Would he ask us for another couple hundred dirhams once we leave, you know, for all the tea he provided for us and for cleaning the room for the next person? No. Not at all. But it’s sad that the thought went through our heads. That the ill-intentioned people in the center of the city have spoiled such a simple phrase. A phrase that enables conversation and builds rapport. A phrase that at the core of one’s identity.