I took off early for Morocco. I had the hostels numbers, addresses, I had a plan, knew the schedules of ferries, how to haggle a petit taxi, read the guides and even had the Embassy locations. Well, lets go.
The sun began to set as I crossed the straight. We were heading into ominous stormclouds that covered Tangier. So no pictures. To get to Algeciras I took the bus and I enjoyed seeing Spain from the road. It is very Californian in a way, even in poverty. I felt very good seeing the Mediterranean for the first time. I was going to Africa.
I got off the ferry and get onto the free bus to the center of Tangier. On the bus a man starts talking to me, he works in Gibralter as a plumber and his English name is John (Real name Jalahl). He insists that I come, get dressed, have real Moroccan tea, and then we go eat.
So now I’m on edge between having a good time, or avoid being stabbed. John is affable, so I start thinking he’s a very skilled con man. Three new handshakes later, some phrases, talk about the English, and evidence of British pounds; We departed the bus and he swatted away all the hustlers. He told them in Arabic that I work with him in Gibralter and that they should lay off. Maybe he’s the king con-man, claiming his prize.
I started to memorize the route we took to his house. I insisted that I couldn't stay there, but must get to my hotel after tea. He agreed to take me to it after he prayed. A very religious con man. He then said that I enjoy his hospitality now, and then a year from now, I treat him to my home. Quite a long-term con man, and not in the bad side of town. Already I have a leg up on Brad Strange who followed a man, not from the ferry, but prison, to Harlem to buy weed.
The tea was great, and as he dressed me in a wool hat and jabala (he assured me that I’d look Moroccan and that many Moroccans are ginger), I started to think I’ve either found a very kind man, father of two married daughters, or I’ve found the most patient sadist on the continent. Judging from how I looked, I was leaning toward the latter.
But enough awkward sips of tea, constant crumpets, and hearing prayer over Arabic subtitled Talladega Nights, we must anon to my Hotel. They didn’t let me book online, but I found it from Lonely Planet guide book, I knew how t get to it from looking at maps. I am Jason Bourne.
Thankfully I convinced him to remove the robe. And we took a taxi, which added to the confusion. Lets get to the hotel, then some money (ah, the killing zone) and then I will treat John to some dinner.
The hotel doesn’t exist, or it’s name and the street name have both changed. The number from the guide and the internet, didn’t work. John and the driver (a friend of Johns, naturally) ferried me around asking locals about the place, the street name (that I double checked from Google (damn you 3rd world Google)). Eventually we found it “Hotel California.” Number 8 on, this new street name, where it should be, but not what was advertised. John warned me that it looked shady and I could stay at his house.
Well, that’s enough. I’ve got my bags safely tucked away in the cellar, have it locked from prying hands. Lets get money, get robbed, and buy some food.
Now here’s something that no internet guide, tourist site, Lonely Planet book, or other weighty tome in the lobby of your Sevillan hotel tells you: KeyBank will never accept an ATM withdrawal from Morocco.
Finding that out was a bit difficult, having the taxi driver leap around town in fine leather Volvo mini style, to every ATM he knows. None worked. So we found a phone. No good, as they didn’t have a country code for my calling card. Off to the internet, where they blessfully gave me access for free. Maybe it’s Johns mob connections.
I eventually called with some dirhams from the driver, already it had been an hour. The bank eventually discovers that due to high fraud rates, KeyBank does not allow transactions from ATMs. He put me on hold, and wouldn’t you know, the American bank is playing a melody of Arabian Nights.
Well, best option was to go to a bank with the card, passport, and get a cash advance, if they let you, otherwise, there is no option. Beg my way to Spain. John and the driver were exclaiming repeatedly how unfortunate it was. That I had no money. I shouldn't be ashamed, I should go out and eat with them, tomorrow we can get the money. I wouldn't have it.
So, John, the driver and I agreed to meet in the morning, to go to a bank, pay the driver handsomely for his help, buy John whatever he wanted, and pay the hotel. And then, I realized that I’m the worst person to rob. And that despite my hesitation (natural), without John I would have been dead in downtown Tangier. Still looking for a hotel.
This was written in my cell:
"So now I lay. Cut off, and I wonder….if it all works out I get my 300 American dollars (3000 or so dirhams - enough to buy five nights at a hotel, a bus ticket, and plenty of food, and the driver) do I continue on to Marrakech.
Have I been beaten?
After all, I did leave early, no one but Rachel knows. But I do have a plane ticket from Marrakech, and a REAL hotel - pricey - ie in existence.
I remember that for Watson interviews they asked if I could continue my project, when I had no place to stay, no money, no language, in the rain. Could I keep going.
Foolishly I answered yes. And I think foolishly, I say yes again tonight."
In the morning we ran from bank to bank, until by luck and pressure I found myself tucking various wads of dirhams into different nooks in my body. Proud that I could afford to hop back to Spain, or continue on. John was very pleased and I took him to breakfast. Only you can't take a Moroccan man anywhere without him running into one friend for every block you pass, or he has to make a phone call. Despite his usefulness and the fact he showed me his family, I'm still not convinced about John. I don't feel bad about it. Especially after he politely offered me to smuggle something to Spain for a friend. "So many tourists, just under your coat, and woosh woosh, 200 euro, under your jacket." Whatever it was.
He didn't understand why I'd want to go to Marrakech, when I had to stay three days in Tangier - to see everything. We could rent a car, go to a hamman, and then go out for drinks. Imagine. I thought it was more important to pay the hotel, buy my bus ticket, and then we could do something.
And we rented a car. I was gleeful to see that the owner of the rental car had a few movies stacked on his desk; Traitor, the Mummy, and the Mummy 2.
I have a few moments of pride when it comes to driving:
Descending Dead Mans Pass in pitch black during a tornado thunderstorm, trucks hydroplaning the switchbacks.
Weaving around traffic in Sao Paulo during another storm where all the streetlights and traffic lights went out
But I'm not sure I'm proud of learning stick shift in Tangier in perfect weather while a man you still think wants to borrow your organs yells at you in Arabic. But we do eventually go for a ride along the coast with his friend, to see the mansions, the hole where Hercules lived, the empty resorts, Assilah - to negotiate for half an hour for oranges from a relative and to see more relatives in the medina, and the creme de la creme; the airport. "Just to tell people you've seen it."
I did get to make that momentous phone call to America, leaving a message that 'I was fine, in Tangier with some very nice men.'
'Bill Ubell here. I'm on a pay phone. I am still blindfolded. My arms are bound. But a young boy has been kind enough to assist me. There's not much chance I'll get another opportunity to call...so I thought I would ask if....what? No.'
Brad Strange ended his night quietly mugged and left unharmed wondering where his weed was in Harlem. Mine ends with John leaving me at the bus station. Ticket in hand, and advising me not to trust anyone. Still I was wondering if you should trust someone just because they tell you not to trust anyone, but he just left. He gave me his phone number but didn't ask for mine, didn't want my address. Nothing.
So I waited for the overnight bus to Marrakech, talking to a local people watcher in Spanish. We talked about the Moors in Spain, his favorite Agatha Christie novels, and how sad he was when Lady Diana died. He insisted that Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie are huge names in Arabic literature.
I've made it to Marrakech. I'm staying at Riad Fantasia room A3 and I've paid to stay until my flight on the 9th. After sleeping, I need to get more cash.
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