Sometimes there is no escape. At tourist centers, fake guides rope foreigners into relationships based on dependence and guilt. The local insists that he is helping the tourist out of the goodness of his heart, but really, he knows if he dedicates enough time to a tourist, he will be monetarily compensated. They abuse the Arab reputation for hospitality. They mock honest human interaction.
My mom messed up. She had promised our afternoon to the service of such an individual. The city was not a major tourist destination, but it was a historically interesting location, a gateway for caravans to cross the Sahara Desert. The town was important enough to distract lost tourists, and local capitalists had developed strategies to take advantage. A young man sat at the edge of the restaurant as we ate out lunch. He kept track of us, making sure we didn't disappear from my mom's promise. He would take us to our guide. I saw no opportunity for escape. There were no excuses. We had eight hours to kill before our night bus to Meknes, and I had no idea how else to spend the day. After our meal, we followed the young man to meet our guide.
He looked like an asshole. His face was small, and his neck wrinkled like a turtle's. His eyes were empty. His mustache was mostly grey, and I think his hair was too, but a dirty hat kept it covered. He was a little bit passed middle-age, but greeted us with energy. "Did you drive here in a car, or did you take a bus?"
"We came on camels," I was not in a cooperative mood.
"This is a good idea," he forced a laugh.
He showed us the old fortified city, boring me with worthless facts. My mom seemed interested though, so I let him go through his routine. His English sounded good, but only when reciting the facts he had listed for tourists so many times before. The old town was not beautiful, but during the tour I understood the historical significance of the edge of the Sahara. There was great wealth for those who could transport resources and luxuries across the sea of sand.
"Now, the tour is over. I invite you for tea, because you are good people and you are my guests."
I did not want to have tea with him. He was a liar. He was not inviting us for tea because he liked us. He was doing it because we were white and foreign. The idea disgusted me. Our relationship with our guide was fake. I sensed manipulation. I had been living in Morocco long enough to know the difference between getting hustled and getting invited to tea. Still, we had no where else to go and we needed shelter from the pressing heat. We agreed to drink his poison and he led us into the rug cooperative.
Shapes and colors dangled from the tall walls. I was struck with admiration. My mom was in love. She ignored the tea and began to explore this new world.
I could already feel a bubble of guilt in my chest. I grew up with capitalism and learned that nothing is free. It would be an insult to not buy anything. However, if we did make a purchase, the transaction would be tainted by my own disgust of the situation. I determined the pressure should be on my mom. She was the one that got us into this. She had money. I lay down on one of the Moroccan couches lining the waterfall of colors and I let the energy flow through me.
Our guide transformed into a salesman. He laid rugs out on the ground, describing each one. The first was a style from the anti-atlas region in southern Morocco. The next was made from both sheep and camel. The third contained a sequence of traditional symbols. Describing the rugs was his profession. I could tell he was very good at it. As much as I wanted to hate him, I enjoyed listening to his descriptions. His terrible English had a beautiful well-rehearsed rhythm to it. He would even speak to me in comprehensible Arabic, as if to kindly admit that my Arabic was better than his English. By the end of his performance the tile floor was drowned by twelve rugs.
"Which one do you like? It is not so I sell it to you. No, I just want to know your opinion. This is a cooperative so the money is not a problem. This is not like Fez or Marrakech where they lie about the quality and the prices. If you like something we find a good price. This one is a beautiful piece, yes?"
I explained again how we were not going to buy anything, and he insisted he was just curious to know which rug we liked. We picked our favorite. My mom told me she wanted to buy it for me as a birthday present, and the pressure shifted back on me. He asked for a price. I refused to give him a price, and told him we couldn't buy anything.
He sat down next to me with a pen and paper and wrote down a price: 250$. I looked at my mom, both agreeing it wasn't as expensive as we thought it would be. It was a good deal, but there was no way I could accept. Receiving an expensive gift from my mom felt wrong. Then, he scratched out the price and wrote 200$. My mom was eager to buy it for me, but I continued to refuse. I should have let my mom buy me a gift, but everything felt wrong. This was not an honest transaction. The rug would be cursed. He scratched out 200$ and wrote 160$. My stubborn attitude persisted, even though I couldn't remember why I didn't want the rug. A minute later he wrote 120$.
"I want to get you something for your house. This can make up for all the birthdays I've missed," my mom's comment made my head swim. I explained in Arabic to our salesman why I couldn't purchase the rug, even though the logic wasn't clear in my head. I revealed my emotional state and told him the rug could no longer represent something beautiful. He stopped trying to sell. For the moment, he had given up. I apologized to my mom.
For compensation, my mom offered him her hat. He accepted, returning the favor by gifting her a scarf. Clearly, he wanted to make a sale, but he did his best to hide his disappointment. I expected him to bid us farewell, but he continued to be friendly. Then, he transformed back into guide form, offering to give us a small tour around the modern city.
Did he still expect a tip from us? Would he try again to sell us merchandise? Maybe he felt bad for acting as a salesmen and was trying to make up for it. Maybe, having spent the last four hours together, we had become friends. After a short walk around the city center, he served us a humble meal of beans and bread. His brother joined and we all enjoyed an enlightened discussion about history and politics.
"Now, I will take you to the ruins. You still have two hours before your bus leaves."
Our guide, my mom, and I stood on another planet. The soil was grey and rocky. There were isolated pockets of ancient homes, mostly buried. Scattered walls continued to crumble as they had been doing for the past 1000 years. In one direction we observed the geometry of the modern city. In the other, an oasis of infinite palm trees. We rested in the shade of a building's remains, and listened to the afternoon fade.
Our guide introduced us to friends as we strolled back into town. We arrived at the bus station comfortably early. I kissed our guide farewell on both cheeks. My mom shook his hand, and we thanked him for all his help. Indeed, we had been stuck in an unknown town. He had sheltered us from the sun, fed us, shared his knowledge, and introduced us to an otherwise meaningless city. He had given his entire day to us. We appreciated his hospitality.
Before we got on the bus he gave me some business cards. "Tell your friends to visit the cooperative."
My mom messed up. She had promised our afternoon to the service of such an individual. The city was not a major tourist destination, but it was a historically interesting location, a gateway for caravans to cross the Sahara Desert. The town was important enough to distract lost tourists, and local capitalists had developed strategies to take advantage. A young man sat at the edge of the restaurant as we ate out lunch. He kept track of us, making sure we didn't disappear from my mom's promise. He would take us to our guide. I saw no opportunity for escape. There were no excuses. We had eight hours to kill before our night bus to Meknes, and I had no idea how else to spend the day. After our meal, we followed the young man to meet our guide.
He looked like an asshole. His face was small, and his neck wrinkled like a turtle's. His eyes were empty. His mustache was mostly grey, and I think his hair was too, but a dirty hat kept it covered. He was a little bit passed middle-age, but greeted us with energy. "Did you drive here in a car, or did you take a bus?"
"We came on camels," I was not in a cooperative mood.
"This is a good idea," he forced a laugh.
He showed us the old fortified city, boring me with worthless facts. My mom seemed interested though, so I let him go through his routine. His English sounded good, but only when reciting the facts he had listed for tourists so many times before. The old town was not beautiful, but during the tour I understood the historical significance of the edge of the Sahara. There was great wealth for those who could transport resources and luxuries across the sea of sand.
"Now, the tour is over. I invite you for tea, because you are good people and you are my guests."
I did not want to have tea with him. He was a liar. He was not inviting us for tea because he liked us. He was doing it because we were white and foreign. The idea disgusted me. Our relationship with our guide was fake. I sensed manipulation. I had been living in Morocco long enough to know the difference between getting hustled and getting invited to tea. Still, we had no where else to go and we needed shelter from the pressing heat. We agreed to drink his poison and he led us into the rug cooperative.
Shapes and colors dangled from the tall walls. I was struck with admiration. My mom was in love. She ignored the tea and began to explore this new world.
I could already feel a bubble of guilt in my chest. I grew up with capitalism and learned that nothing is free. It would be an insult to not buy anything. However, if we did make a purchase, the transaction would be tainted by my own disgust of the situation. I determined the pressure should be on my mom. She was the one that got us into this. She had money. I lay down on one of the Moroccan couches lining the waterfall of colors and I let the energy flow through me.
Our guide transformed into a salesman. He laid rugs out on the ground, describing each one. The first was a style from the anti-atlas region in southern Morocco. The next was made from both sheep and camel. The third contained a sequence of traditional symbols. Describing the rugs was his profession. I could tell he was very good at it. As much as I wanted to hate him, I enjoyed listening to his descriptions. His terrible English had a beautiful well-rehearsed rhythm to it. He would even speak to me in comprehensible Arabic, as if to kindly admit that my Arabic was better than his English. By the end of his performance the tile floor was drowned by twelve rugs.
"Which one do you like? It is not so I sell it to you. No, I just want to know your opinion. This is a cooperative so the money is not a problem. This is not like Fez or Marrakech where they lie about the quality and the prices. If you like something we find a good price. This one is a beautiful piece, yes?"
I explained again how we were not going to buy anything, and he insisted he was just curious to know which rug we liked. We picked our favorite. My mom told me she wanted to buy it for me as a birthday present, and the pressure shifted back on me. He asked for a price. I refused to give him a price, and told him we couldn't buy anything.
He sat down next to me with a pen and paper and wrote down a price: 250$. I looked at my mom, both agreeing it wasn't as expensive as we thought it would be. It was a good deal, but there was no way I could accept. Receiving an expensive gift from my mom felt wrong. Then, he scratched out the price and wrote 200$. My mom was eager to buy it for me, but I continued to refuse. I should have let my mom buy me a gift, but everything felt wrong. This was not an honest transaction. The rug would be cursed. He scratched out 200$ and wrote 160$. My stubborn attitude persisted, even though I couldn't remember why I didn't want the rug. A minute later he wrote 120$.
"I want to get you something for your house. This can make up for all the birthdays I've missed," my mom's comment made my head swim. I explained in Arabic to our salesman why I couldn't purchase the rug, even though the logic wasn't clear in my head. I revealed my emotional state and told him the rug could no longer represent something beautiful. He stopped trying to sell. For the moment, he had given up. I apologized to my mom.
For compensation, my mom offered him her hat. He accepted, returning the favor by gifting her a scarf. Clearly, he wanted to make a sale, but he did his best to hide his disappointment. I expected him to bid us farewell, but he continued to be friendly. Then, he transformed back into guide form, offering to give us a small tour around the modern city.
Did he still expect a tip from us? Would he try again to sell us merchandise? Maybe he felt bad for acting as a salesmen and was trying to make up for it. Maybe, having spent the last four hours together, we had become friends. After a short walk around the city center, he served us a humble meal of beans and bread. His brother joined and we all enjoyed an enlightened discussion about history and politics.
"Now, I will take you to the ruins. You still have two hours before your bus leaves."
Our guide, my mom, and I stood on another planet. The soil was grey and rocky. There were isolated pockets of ancient homes, mostly buried. Scattered walls continued to crumble as they had been doing for the past 1000 years. In one direction we observed the geometry of the modern city. In the other, an oasis of infinite palm trees. We rested in the shade of a building's remains, and listened to the afternoon fade.
Our guide introduced us to friends as we strolled back into town. We arrived at the bus station comfortably early. I kissed our guide farewell on both cheeks. My mom shook his hand, and we thanked him for all his help. Indeed, we had been stuck in an unknown town. He had sheltered us from the sun, fed us, shared his knowledge, and introduced us to an otherwise meaningless city. He had given his entire day to us. We appreciated his hospitality.
Before we got on the bus he gave me some business cards. "Tell your friends to visit the cooperative."
LA MAISON SAHARIENNE
DRIBI ALAOUI FRERES
Grande Exposition Artisanale
Cuivre - Tapis Bijoux - Cuir
Expedition pour tout Pays
BP 72 RISSANI KASR ABOUAME - RISSANI
0613722971 - 0661255663
0651041277 - 0635126945
