Christmas in Morocco, Part II

Last we left off, my parents and I were getting to know Marrakech, Morocco’s most touristic town.  Between bargaining in the souqs, drinking tea on rooftop terraces, and admiring traditional Moroccan architecture, it seemed we were having a pretty good time of it.  Our best fun of all was in the infamous Djemaa el Fna, where we listened to Arab and Berber street musicians and created new catch-phrases with the food stall meat-grillers.

The Darker Side of Marrakech

Of course, it wasn’t all innocent fun in the Djemaa el Fna.  We experienced loads of buskers asking for coins before even having performed.  One man, sitting on the ground with a homemade violin, asked dad for a coin, to which he replied that he needed to hear a song first.  The man played – horribly – for twenty-seconds, and when dad gave him a dirham, he insulted him and demanded more.  The Djemaa was full of people trying to squeeze as many dirhams out of us tourists as possible.  We could barely approach a huddle of people before the buskers asked for money, even though no local person seemed to be paying to watch.  I got the feeling that it was the tourists, and not the locals, that sustained the musicians, even though it was the locals that got to witness the greatest amount of entertainment.  I guess that’s what the campsite owner had meant by Marrakech being a tourist factory.

Indeed, it wasn’t just on the Djemaa that I felt like an item going down an assembly line.  Wandering down alleys and through souqs, shop-owners announced to us, one after the other, that looking is free before conducting hard sales with my unknowing parents.  Men standing outside restaurants and hammams shoved fliers into our hands; henna-tattoo artists followed us around with photo albums of their art on offer; calèche drivers harassed us for rides; little boys tried to trick us into employing them as our guides.

Even though Marrakech’s onslaught was beginning to wear me down, I tried to keep a positive attitude about it.  I had expected this, and in many ways, the touts hadn’t been nearly as bad or as frequent as I’d envisioned.

A Tout in the Tanneries

It was only on day three, as we wandered around the souqs, that something happened to thoroughly sour my mood.  Random men, one at a time, came up to us to tell us there was a special event happening in the tanneries, the area of town where leather is made.  Without even being conscious of it, our random wandering became directed.  One man, who was headed to his nearby shop, offered to show us the way to the tanneries, and even though we initially declined his offer, his laissez-faire attitude convinced us he really was just a local trying to help out.

When we arrived at the tanneries, my parents were whisked away by another man to visit them while my vegetarian self stood outside sniffing fresh mint to stave off the horrible smell.  Even though a guided tour like this isn’t usually my style, I felt happy my parents were being shown an area of town by someone who could explain things to them.  Indeed, on this tour they learned about the various products used in the leather-making process (from bird dropping to donkey pee) and to distinguish between Arab babouches and Berber ones.

At one point, I was told that my parents were in a leather cooperative, so I had to walk past the dye vats and animal hairs strewn on the ground to get to them.  When I found them, my father was trying on a leather money pouch, and I feared I’d arrived too late to help him negotiate a fair price.  Thankfully, when the man quoted $80 for the thing, dad laughed, handed back the pouch, and we left.

Outside, however, the “tour guide” was waiting for us.  He asked for a little something for his efforts, and when dad handed him a ten dirham coin, an amount that is fair in Morocco for the twenty minutes he’d spent with them, the man demanded 100 dirham, or about $14, “for the workers.”  His tone, body language, and insulting demand made something in me snap – Marrakech had finally become too much for me to handle – and I told the guide what I thought of his demand.  Dad, feeling unsure, doubled his initial offer to the guide, which means the guide’s pressure tactics worked.

As I skulked off, I realized that this whole tannery-tour had been one big, complex tout to get us to hand over money.  We’d been funnelled, by a network of men, from the edge of the souq to the tannery, and handed off from one man to the next like a relay-race baton.  We’d been brought through the assembly line, churned up, and spat back out at the leather shop.  And I, who’s usually wise to the wily ways of tourist touts, had fallen for it.  The tannery tout should be in the guide books, it’s that good.

Years ago, a lot of Morocco had been like this tannery funnel.  All over the country, tourists were touted and harassed by locals trying to make a buck.  A few years ago, after tourism dropped off, the brigade touristique was created to crack down on this problem.  Tourism, see, is a massive piece of Morocco’s economic puzzle.  The brigade touristique, or tourist police, began to arrest locals they’d spotted merely speaking with a tourist.  The harassment problem ended quickly, tourists started coming back, and, according to Bruno, Morocco is now a much more relaxed country to visit.

I should have threatened the brigade touristique on our tannery tour guide.  His pressure tactics would have stopped immediately.

An Invitation to Couscous

Just when I was getting ready to ready to write off the people of Marrakech as only interested in our wallets, the city surprised me.  We’d just finished dining in a wonderful rooftop restaurant off the Djemaa, recommended to us by the owner of our riad.  The food had been delicious (tangia – a crock-pot stew of seasoned lamb slow-cooked in the fire of a hammam, and a Marrakech speciality – for my parents, and briouat – Moroccan samosas – for me), and we had been serenaded by two very talented classical Arab musicians (a nice contrast to most restaurants’ American radio music or live belly dancing, which isn’t even Moroccan).

After praising the musicians and cooks, the host led us to the door, encouraging us to come again, that we were no longer clients but family.  I joked that we would come back the following day to share couscous, then, which is the all-important, once-a-week dish shared by the extended family from a common bowl.

“Of course,” the host replied.  “You would be most welcome.  Come to my home tomorrow for couscous.”

My parents and I laughed him off, but as he walked us down the many sets of stairs, Ibrahim remained persistent.  His offer was typical of true Muslims, who are infinitely hospitable, generous beyond words, and whose very religion requires that they offer room and board for three days to any traveler.  The offer spurred an excellent conversation with Ibrahim about the true, peaceful nature of Islam, a conversation that continued between my parents and I the next day as we sat watching the sun set behind the Koutoubia Mosque over Djemaa el Fna and listening to the muezzins reverberate throughout the city.

Despite the intensity of Marrakech, our brief encounter with Ibrahim had afforded us one of those quiet, philosophical moments that are the very crux of why I travel: to understand that, despite palpable cultural differences, if you peel away our outer layers, you find that we’re not so dissimilar after all.  Ibrahim, like our riad, provided a true haven in the heart of Marrakech.

Christmas in Agadir

We departed Marrakech on a bus to the ultra-modern coastal city of Agadir to meet up with Bruno and spend Christmas together.  I hadn’t spent Christmas with my parents in five years, they’d never spent a Christmas outside of North America, and it was the first they’d spend with Bruno.

I personally find it difficult to recreate a traditional Christmas abroad, and I’ll admit that, in the last few years, I’ve stopped trying.  Christmas, to me, means snow and huge family dinners and fires in the fire place and Christmas music.  It essence, it’s about being with my family.  Since I have never have my family abroad with me (except for Bruno, but he doesn’t do Christmas), I’ve stopped caring about Christmas.

Christmas is, however, very important to my mom.  And I could see her initial disappointment in Agadir after Marrakech – our riad wasn’t nearly as nice, we were in a big modern city that didn’t have nearly as much personality as Marrakech, and we were far away from the beach.  By the time we were settled in and showered, it was late on Christmas Eve and all we could do was have dinner at a pizza restaurant nearby.  Thank goodness Bruno had downloaded a few of mom’s favorite children’s Christmas shows.

Christmas Day, however, turned out fabulously.  Over breakfast in the hotel, mom and dad had Bruno and I open a stocking full of little gifts they’d painstakingly flown-over from Canada.  Then they went to the nearby hammam for a two-hour couple’s hammam and massage that Bruno and I had organized as a gift to them.  During that time, I raced over to a nearby supermarket and purchased foodstuffs so that I could prepare a picnic for the four of us on the hotel’s rooftop terrace.

When mom and dad returned, looking oily and infinitely relaxed, from their hammam experience, we sat in the warm Moroccan sun and ate a huge salad, cheese, bread, boiled eggs, and a rotisserie chicken, with freshly-squeezed orange juice, strawberries, and chocolate for dessert.  Christmas music rang out from my tiny Ipod speakers.

After lunch, we headed by taxi to Agadir’s beach.  We spent the next three hours walking with our toes in the ocean, sitting on the sand, and people-watching.  We saw a lot of local women with uncovered heads, legs, and shoulders, and we even saw lots of public displays of affection, which led me to understand that Agadir is a modern town in more ways than one.

Once the sun had set over the ocean, the four of us walked along the modern corniche with an ice-cream and then headed to a nice restaurant for our Christmas dinner.  We’d spent a lovely day outside and we’d gotten to Skype with both sides of our families, so I’d say our Christmas in Morocco, both the Marrakech lead-up and the actual day itself, was a wonderful Christmas, indeed!