Tourist Troubles

 A bab (gate) in the mellah at Fez.

            We safely arrived in Rabat yesterday, but before I regale you with tales of the modern capital, I want to let you in on the secret tourist police.

            Being a tourist in Morocco can be difficult. And although I’d like to convince myself that since I’m here for three whole months and living with a family that I’m not a tourist, it’s also true that I will never blend in. Sometimes the boundaries are obvious. Most cafés, especially in Fez, are male-only, so it’s easy to tell that those are off-limits. It’s frustrating when the young men on our program talk about the really cheap and delicious tea there, or the feeling of camaraderie of being in a café filled with smoke and soccer fans glued to the television watching a game. At the same time, though, I got to help my host mother in Fez shell peas; hopefully here I’ll eventually be allowed to help cook.

            Sometimes, though, it’s hard to know what is allowed and what isn’t. Will I get sick if I eat some almond brittle bought on the street? Can I take a picture of the snazzy-looking guards outside the Hassan tower? Is that policeman blowing his whistle at me because I’m not supposed to go down that street, or is he motioning to the motorcycle whizzing by? Not to mention all the trials of a host family.

            But as far as one aspect goes, I know that the Moroccan law enforcement officers are out there to actively protect me. Meet the undercover tourist police, whose targets are supposed “guides” who trap tourists into paying a fee for a tour of wherever without any credentials whatsoever.

            False guides are a huge problem in Fez, and many tourist-frequented cities. When we visited the old Jewish quarter in Fez, the mellah, we didn’t end up seeing any of the synagogues because of the constant pestering. Walking down the main street of the mellah, which is lined with boot and carpet and fruit sellers, shady men constantly approach and say, “Synagogue?” Or, “The synagogue is that way,” pointing a greasy finger down a narrow street. The first category is easy to repel: ignoring them or a sharp “La!” (No!) is sufficient. The second type, though, are tricky. Their seemingly innocent offer of advice is actually an invitation to hire them to show you the synagogue. If you follow their pointing finger they follow you, demanding money for their service. The only way to avoid these characters is to keep walking, no matter how much you want to turn down the street they showed you.

            Although we had no idea where we were going, we made wrong turns with confidence and followed our streets all the way to whatever end they had to offer. We didn’t want to subject ourselves to a second round of guide offers by doubling back. 

A main street in the mellah, decorated with Moroccan flags since the king was in town - his palace is also located in Fez al-Jdid, the neighborhood that includes the mellah. In the foreground is a "petit taxi". We tried to get back to Fez al-Bali by foot, but somehow ended up back in the mellah...so my roommate and I shared a taxi with an elderly woman back to Batha, the square by which we lived. Total cost when the ride was divided by three (the maximum number of passengers): 2 dh each, or 25 cents. If only the taxis in Chicago were that cheap!

 

            Unfortunately, there were no plainclothes cops around to check the guides’ harassment. Harassment, it seems in Morocco, is treated differently than in the U.S. Guides are only persecuted once someone hires them; but aggressively talking to tourists (or cat-calling women) is acceptable, since it is only words.

            While they weren’t there when we needed them, the tourist police are indeed there. One day last week my roommate and I were walking home with our host brother. A man approached him and asked him something in Arabic. Our host brother pulled out an attestation that certified that we were visiting students staying with his family. The school passed them out to us on the first day, instructing our families to carry them if we went anywhere together. Luckily, the attestation satisfied the policeman, and we continued on our way.

            Here in Rabat, I have yet to be the recipient of any over-eager tour proposals. The street harassment seems to be better in general, and I’ve even passed cafés with women patrons as well. The streets are wider and mostly cleaner (probably due to the significantly smaller number of donkeys). It’s also possible to walk from our center in the modern area of the city to the old medina with its winding streets and souks to the ocean and to the half-finished Hassan mosque tower, Rabat’s main landmark, in just a couple hours. I learned from experience – we competed in a scavenger hunt today, with points assigned for completing tasks like photographing our team of 4 waiting for the tram, taking a picture with a baby, bonus points for each pharmacy and cat photo, and a brochure from a gym. We walked for three hours and, although we lost by a mere 10 points, we gained a wonderful knowledge of the city. It seems like a great place to call home for the next two months: modern but also medieval, offering the benefits of both. Although not everything is as modern as I’d like it to be…

            Our host family’s house here is a gorgeous traditional riad, with a lovely courtyard and a separate wing for my new roommate and me. We have our bedroom, a sitting room with a dresser, and our own bathroom, equipped with a faucet, a bucket, and a squat toilet. (For those of you at home who have been fortunate enough to have been spared the experience of encountering squat toilets, I’ll leave detailed descriptions to the internet.) These are the norm in Morocco, although in my last house I was spoiled with a Western-style toilet. Although it’s only our second night here, I can assure you we’re already getting used to our new arrangement.