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Published: December 6th 2006
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Gabriela’s flown down from Porto for the week. She’s been meaning to visit Morocco for years, long put off by reports of woman travelers getting harassed, groped and - in at least one dubious story - whisked off into the desert, never to be heard from again. To have a friend - a pure heap of masculinity, at that - waiting for her at the airport makes no small difference on her first visit. I’m here as a physical and emotional buffer, the calming presence who steers her through the souqs, chases off the aggressive shopkeeps, and assures her that what a particular man just did was to offer a polite, respectful bow of the head - not blatantly check out her tits.
Marrakech is certainly an easier introduction into the country than a place like Fes. Even after countless warnings about just how touristy this town is, I’m oddly taken aback by just how touristy this town is. There’s none of the chaos and clamor of Fes’ medina as you wander through the city’s souqs. The shops are carefully arranged: the sandals in bright rows along the walls, the teapots aligned like neat little sentries. The alleys
are as broad and inviting as the Champs Elysees. You don’t get a sense of impending, dizzying danger - a fear that, at any given moment, you might turn down a dark, twisting alley, losing yourself in the bowels of the medina. Packs of teenaged girls - giggling, unchaperoned, wearing skimpy little shirts - flit about Djemaa el-Fna like it’s an attraction at Epcot Center. Seniors blink dimly in the rug shops, fingering the bulges of bills in their fanny packs, stroking the wares like a housecat curled up in their laps.
Not that this town is without its appeal. You don’t get the same manic degree of harassment that you find in Fes - the dexterous efforts of touts who interpret the word “no” the way Santa Anna interpreted the first shot fired from the Alamo. After all, the sheer volume of tourists ensures that, for every thrifty soul like me, tugging at the end of a scarf with profound apathy, there are dozens who came to Marrakech with shopping on their mind. You see them wandering around with something approaching lust in their eyes, imagining how every last lamp and throw pillow might look in the
sitting room. Later on they sit sated at the sidewalk cafés, the bundles at their feet tightly wrapped and eager to find a new home.
It’s easy to see the direction this town’s heading in. With plummeting air fares in Europe spilling over into Morocco, there’s been a sharp spike in tourist traffic in recent years. Cheap-flight carriers like EasyJet have already opened up budget routes out of London; in the next few years, flights from around Europe will be making their way to Marrakech - often, for as little as €1. In the same way that London lads or Bavarian bachelorettes can whisk themselves to Barcelona or Prague for a weekend of debauchery, hordes of rug-hungry Europeans will be able to come to Marrakech for just a few days of gluttonous shopping. A cab driver explains to us that 35 new hotels will be opening in the next year, gesturing out his window to where cranes loom, concrete pours, and men in broad-brimmed hats stamp shovels into the earth with their heels.
With trans-Atlantic flights still bordering on absurd, though, Americans are in short supply. The touts around the famous food stalls of Djemaa el-Fna
pepper their talk with British slang (“It’s the dog’s bollocks, man!”), and most peg me for a Londoner before a New Yorker. When we meet a young guy outside the hotel, he gives a big thumbs-up at the magic words “New York.” Years ago his father worked for a bank in Washington, DC, and he spent most of his spare time traveling around the country. “Brooklyn, Times Square, Manhattan,” he says, ticking them off on his fingers. “Santa Monica, Las Vegas, Florida.” He hopes to make it back some day, and he’s grateful to hear the kind words I have for his country. “Big welcome,” he says, clasping my shoulder. There are two guys in cheap bomber jackets standing behind him, and it’s clear from their bright, bashful grins that they don’t have a clue what we’re talking about.
Their friend is eager to show off. “I speak good American slang,” he says. For a second he grows shy: he’s uncomfortable saying certain things in front of Gabriela. I try to reassure him, explaining that Gabriela’s displayed, at times, the mouth of a Portuguese fisherman. The muscles in his face work as he tries to process this new
information. Unconvinced, he pulls me to the side.
“Who’s the daddy?” he asks, making a slight movement with his hips. I correct him: “Who’s
your daddy?” He nods with great solemnity. Then he gestures toward Gabriela with his eyebrows. “There is junk in the trunk,” he says suggestively, his hands holding an imaginary pair of hips. He pats the air where the hypothetical junk might be found. Then he begins pantomiming the other parts of the body he enjoys, showing - it must be said - a fine appreciation of the female form.
Gabriela’s looking slightly impatient in the doorway. The gears are turning in my friend’s head, apparently piecing together a number of plausible scenarios. There’s a slight play of light across his forehead. He flashes a mischievous wink. “You are going to hit the shit,” he says. I squeeze his forearm gently. “No, no,” I say, pausing for emphasis, “I’m going to hit
that shit.” The subtle difference appears lost on him, and I’m oddly dismayed. While I don’t suffer at all to clear up the misunderstanding about my relationship with Gabriela, it pains me greatly to think this lesson in syntax should fail so miserably. And as our friend bids us “See you later, alligator!” and disappears into the medina, I reflect sadly on just how much work remains to bridge the gravest cultural gaps.
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