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Morocco
By Jd Black
Morocco is a highlight of any Southern European trip. Cross a tiny strait, and suddenly you not only add Africa to your list, you add history, life, and a sensory barrage unlike anything Europe offers. Stepping into the Arab World is, for most of us provincial western duffers, visiting a world straight out of our fantasy. Particularly the new rules of Commerce, of Trade, of Barter surprise the uneducated traveler. Stereotypes, of course, have to be based in a body of truth—otherwise there would be no stereotype. Arabs are known for their hospitality (right up to the point where they turn on you.)
Abdul (the guide par excellence) had the flowing robe, the engaging smile, the endless jokes. He was a treasure. He called us his family, asked that we call him Michael Douglas, and took very good care of us. The lunch was as posh as I have ever seen—and very Moroccan—shish-ke-bab, saffron, mint. The setting had fire-dancing and drumming; the building had tiles, color, arches and mosaics. Everything was far better than the movies. And our movement was controlled. We went where directed, always carefully watched—which was fine with me. I wanted the full Arab experience. And I got it, in the spice shop, where I decided to buy something, and signed the visa receipt with the beautiful, carved, wooden pen my son had given me for Father’s Day.
And so began a truly authentic Arab experience. The proprietor saw it, and liked it. So he tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to stay behind as the students I was leading filed out. He thanked me for being the teacher that brought them to his business, and gave me a small gift for having brought them, and mentioned he liked my pen. Thank heaven I have studied a bit about culture. So he wants my pen—and being Arab—he will have it, with or without my cooperation. I will have to break the news to my son, but now I have to play the game.
“Yes,” I said. “I like it too. It was a gift from my son.” Now, will he back down, or up the ante? And so began the smiling, mutually complementary dialog that occurs with Arabs, praising family, talking about how children are a gift from God, adding to the goodie bag, thanking one for his hospitality, his business, his kindness. And all the while I realize that if I make him angry this won’t end in death, but it also will be a blot on all Americans who ever set foot in his shop. But I don’t really want to give away my son’s present, either, at least, not without asking him. Then again, what a story I can tell. So he put more and more things into the bag, until it reached a “value” of about $100—or at least that is what he would have sold the items for. (When I got home, I found that to buy the same in the USA would have been double that.) And so I left with a story and a bag of spice, wondering if customs would even let me bring it in, and he got a nice pen. Everyone was smiling. Welcome to Arabia.
JDBlack, aka Mr. Education, tour guide, outdoorsman, educator, grandpa, gardener, and bookworm.
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Contributor's Note
Experience is the best teacher.
Travel is the best experience.
The unexpected makes the best memories.
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Thank you for sharing this very interesting story, Joel.
It's great to read about the various situations one can encounter, when they travel. I'm glad it left you smiling!!
Keep up the good work.
Best wishes,
Frederick
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This intel was contributed by jdblack
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May, 2012
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