The Value Of The Swindle – Tangier, Morocco

The Value Of The Swindle
Tangier, Morocco

Disembarking the ferry from Algeciras, I observed that Tangier looked every bit like the set of Casablanca. There were colonial buildings left by the French, an ancient walled medina, and art deco cafes, any of which could have passed for Rick’s Café American if you subtracted sixty years, replaced the jallabah’s with tuxedos, replaced the mint tea with gin and dropped in a few tycoons, asylum seekers, and artists. Somewhere Humphrey was on his nineteenth champagne cocktail while Sam was playing it again.

I, however, was trying not to appear too pleased with the film set atmosphere. No, I had on my Jack Bauer from 24 face. I looked streetwise and serious. The two S’s said it all: pshahhh, I had been to Tangier more times than I could remember. I knew the town like the back of my hand. My hostel was right off Avenue D’Espagne. I even knew the owner, ummm, Mohammad. We were friends from way back. I stayed in Paul Bowles’ old room. I could chat away in Arabic for hours. Morocco was my backyard. Salaam, dude. Insha’allah, sister.

Kasbah Interior, Chefchaoeun

It was all those other independent globetrotters fresh off the Transmediterranea, guidebooks in hand, who were getting scammed, who were getting their bags slashed, who were fishing around madly for that 500 Dirham that was there just a second ago. Not me. No how. No way. I knew this town’s reputation. Tangier was the capital of petty, and not so petty, crime for all of northern Morocco. But I had seen my share of thieving in the developing world. Pickpockets, impostors, swindlers: just try me.

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Truth be told, it was my first time in Morocco, I only spoke French, and I had no evasion strategy for anyone with a nice camel bone dagger asking for my ATM card. But I did have a pretty good bullshit detector. It had served me well in Latin America and Africa before, and I liked to think of it as a good mechanism for separating the con men from the good guys.

Day One:
I found the Auberge de Jeunesse on Rue El Antaki with no problem. I introduced myself to the manager, Ahmed, dropped my backpack, washed off the Jack Bauer face, and hit the streets. Heeding advice from travelers and Moroccans alike, I left the hostel with exactly 0 Dirham. My Nikon was secured in my messenger bag which I had slung around my shoulder and clipped around my waist. A map of nearby streets was memorized in my head. I explored the ville nouvelle and the medina for a few hours taking photos. I firmly but pleasantly told all the touts with their offers of hashish, prostitutes, and guides that I was all right for the moment. I even made some small talk with everyday Tanjawis. They echoed all the laments about existence in a moribund economy – We cannot get ahead! – and expressed a rapt curiosity about my American life as well.

That evening I met a German traveler, solo like myself, who had motorcycled up from Western Sahara. Over some beers he told me that in two months he had not had a single incident. Nothing? In two months? Hmm, perhaps I was overestimating crime here. I could probably relax a bit, no?

Day Two:
After some coffee amid the sidewalk diesel clouds at Café Metropole I realized again Tangier’s appeal. I was in a time warp. Scores of old cafés, relics from the days of the International Zone, lined the Boulevard Pasteur. They were the haunts of the Beats and various high rollers from the 40’s and 50’s. Their clean lines and mod interiors were mostly intact. This was South Beach without the McDonald’s on the corner. This was Las Vegas without the bumper cars in the lobby.

But further down the boulevard at Place de la France everyone was looking wistfully across the Straits. Visible in the distance was Spain, land of plenty, with employment harvesting olives, driving taxis, or sweeping floors and the distant possibility of citizenship. Tangier was the gateway to Europe for anyone without the requisite visa or passport. Over 2000 people a month packed into patera boats and left nearby beaches to cross the nine choppy miles separating a life of poverty from a life of wealth. Some made it; some washed up onshore. Those that made it were often immediately returned by Spanish authorities.

I returned to my hostel mid-morning to grab my notebook before going to the Internet café up the street. On my way out, I passed a guy in a white puffy shirt chatting with Ahmed. At the Internet place I was starting to negotiate the Arabic keypad when the puffy shirt reappeared and said to me in very friendly French that there was a better connection a few blocks away.

Djemma Fna at Night, Marrakech

Bingo. Bonjour, welcome, my friend, and the next thing I know I have nothing but the clothes on my back, if that. But, wait, the puffy shirt seemed genuine. He was just talking with the owner of the largest hostel in Tangier which was vouched for in all the guidebooks. Anyway, what could someone really do in broad daylight to a traveler with nothing on him but a notebook and 10 Dirham? We started up a street lined with bougainvillea.

“My friend, what is your name? Where are you from?”

I hesitated for a moment. Canadian? American? Canadian? American? It was arguably unpopular to be an American traveler in this day and age, and you could never predict who would consider it so. I had passed myself off as Canadian before rather well. But I hated lying about my “home”- how cold it gets in Toronto this time of year, how great ice hockey is, etc. Plus, this was my chance to be ambassadorial, to polish my country’s increasingly dubious reputation abroad.

“American! Bienvenue to my country! Everyone welcome here! English, Swedish, American, Everyone!”
“Well, thank you.”
“My name is Yassah. But not like Arafat! No, no, no!”
Yassah had a breezy, animated manner and eyes that seemed to absorb everything. The Internet was more than a few blocks away, but it was clean and empty when we got there. Yassah checked his email then stepped outside to pick his teeth. When I finished I went to pay and found I was paying for both of us. Whatever, it cost less than a dollar.

I was going to curve back to the hostel, but Yassah insisted we walk through the market. It is on the way back, and I have many friends who would love to meet you!

Although it seemed like the opposite direction, the souk was alive with activity. We were awash in a river of indigo; turquoise; fish, shit, and couscous smells; fly attacks; and beggars. Yassah seemed to know every other person who invariably greeted us with warm handshakes and smiles. What luck, I thought. I’m not in Tangier 24 hours, and I’m meeting everyone on the block.

We meandered out of the souk and past the grand mosque and the embassies. Yassah kept assuring me about the level of security in Morocco, how Americans and Europeans alike were completely safe. I asked about extremism. He said fundamentalists were a very small minority in Morocco, and most of them had fled to the mid-east to join the Iraqi resistance. He said you couldn’t talk to them anyway as an ordinary Muslim. All they tried to do was convert you. They have these on. He put up his hands to show blinders. Then he gestured with impact across the street at the American School of Tangier where, sure enough, behind ten feet of razor wire wealthy Arab and expatriate children ran carefree laps around a fountain.

When I wasn’t asking questions, Yassah just spilled on anything that would seem to be good advice to the foreign traveler. And don’t drink the water south of Fez! And don’t get out of the bus in Tetouan! And you must go to my brother’s carpet shop in the medina, just for looking! And the mountains become very high and sick you will be in the Atlas! And don’t set your foot inside any mosque! And, remember, all we have is security in Morocco, do not have fear!

Although my experience with Arab culture was minimal, Yassah’s advice sounded vaguely scripted. I was beginning to think that Yassah was telling me what he assumed I wanted to hear, showing me the sights he assumed I wanted to see, and making the jokes he assumed I would enjoy. True, I had no itinerary; the best travel was improvisational I had come to believe, but Yassah was filling in the vacuum with something that was informative but strangely inauthentic. It was not so much conversation as it was chatter.

Place de L’Istiqlal, Fez

I was getting thirsty in the afternoon heat and was exhausted speaking French all morning. I also decided I wanted to explore by myself for awhile, and perhaps Yassah and I would meet up later. Extending my hand, I said thanks for the conversation, but I was going to have a tea. He eagerly grabbed me. “Excellent, Zacaria! We have tea now.”

In the salon du the Al Jazeera was on in two corners. Emphatic imams were gesticulating, and crowds were burning Humvees. Noticing my unease, Yassah said, “You have Fox News, we have Al Jazeera. Neither tell you the truth. Everyone in this room knows Al Jazeera only tells the Arabs what they wish to hear.” I didn’t realize Moroccans were so discerning of the media. I surveyed the patrons puffing on kif pipes. No one seemed that discerning of anything at the moment, but who was I to judge? Our conversation meandered from the war to movies to the weather and back again.

Yassah smoothly brought out a pipe from his puffy shirt and began to load it with kif. Dirt cheap marijuana in a country that turns a blind eye to its public use would be any pothead’s dream. Though I was not much of a smoker, I reminded myself this wasn’t “drug use” as we Americans deemed anything censured by the FDA. This was a gesture of hospitality thousands of years old. Yassah passed me the pipe and laughed, “Welcome to Morocco, my friend.”

Five teas and three pipes of kif later I really wanted to leave. Although I was thoroughly impressed with Yassah’s knowledge of American history – Lincoln, he was my favorite! – I was feeling that annoying uselessness you feel from being stoned in the middle of the day. Al Jazeera was switching between footage of marauding American soldiers and a hostage pleading for his life. I sipped the sugary dregs of my tea in a bizarre atmosphere of hospitality and terrorism.

I announced that I was leaving.
“So soon! Well, I must discuss business with Ahmed. You will become lost. I will show the way!”
So we returned to the hostel where I expected Yassah and Ahmed to jabber on about “business,” but Yassah said hello to Ahmed and followed me to my bunk.
“Here is my email, Zacaria. So good to meet you my friend.”
Taking the scrap of paper, I said, “Thank you, Ya—-”
“And, Zacaria, you must give me the 400 Dirham [about 45 USD] you owe me for the kif,” he hissed with a face turned suddenly stern.
“What kif? What are you talking about? I didn’t buy any kif from you.”
“Then what’s that in your pocket?”
Sure enough, out of my pocket, like a nickel I had misplaced behind my ear, I drew a small wad of kif wrapped in tissue paper. I placed the bag on the nearest table and said, “this isn’t mine. I told you I’m not buying any kif!”

Yassah exploded in a barrage of Arabic and French explaining how he had been at my service all day and how I owed him for it now. He was sweating and shaking his index finger wildly in my face.

“No way, Yassah. I asked you point blank if you were a guide. You said no,” then, lamely, “we were having a cultural exchange!”

This seemed to confuse him. We both turned to Ahmed and yelled our respective stories in unison. Ahmed looked on shirtless, smoking. He gave me an unequivocal expression. Hey, man, you got yourself into it; you get yourself out of it.
“The 400 Dirham you owe me!” Yassah roared.

It struck me Yassah was not so much dangerous as he was annoying. He was a good swindler, but he was a magnificent actor. He achieved what he needed to at this point by being loud and looking menacing. But something told me there wasn’t a lot behind all the histrionics. I fished 50 Dirham from my pocket and passed it to Yassah. He took it snorting angrily then looked very pleased. Without making eye contact with anyone, he turned for the door.

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Looking back on it a few hours later it struck me that for about 5 USD I got a wealth of accurate information on Morocco that proved invaluable in the coming weeks on the road. Yassah had been friendly, polite, and incredibly informative. He had regaled me with the dos and don’ts of the local culture, bought me tea and kif, and laid the foundation for what would seem to be a friendship. He also planted drugs on me and attempted to rob me, but even this was executed with a rather routine melodrama.

Ahmed’s complicity made perfect sense as well: Yassah worked the port all day, preying on easy looking backpackers who needed a hostel. He took them straight to the auberge with whatever ploy worked. All the hostels are full but one! Everywhere they will rob you except at a place I know. Come! Ahmed got customers, and Yassah got a 5 Dirham tip. Sometimes Yassah could then hustle travelers at the hostel. If no one looked promising or overwhelmingly naive (i.e., me), he returned to the port and waited for the next ferry.

Some weeks later, sick from the water south of Fez, I wondered if Yassah and I could have met in a different world. What would our encounter have been if we met in some hard to imagine future without all the post-9/11-Arab-Western mess? We would be two strangers, one Moroccan, one American, both intellectual folks discussing our lives without ulterior motives. In this fantasy we would be ourselves.

But it seems we are moving away from this fantasy. This is an increasingly messy world, and where travelers and locals mingle haphazardly on the global backpacking circuit genuine understanding between them is often a hot commodity. In a place like Tangier a sanguine conversation between an American and an Arab is going the way of the dodo.

My encounter was pretty tame compared to other incidents; the money swindled was virtually nothing by American standards and no one got hurt. Still I was tempted to react with a good measure of spite after seeing my diplomatic intentions and Morocco’s legendary reputation for hospitality so completely manipulated. Yet I dismissed the urge to presume I had entered a nation of swindlers, for it seemed to me there would be few better ways to discredit the globetrotting community then if we forgot one of our unifying beliefs. Nothing but trust should stand between a foreigner and a local.