Fés, Morocco

Let me establish this from the beginning just so there’s no confusion: I do not like Morocco. Is it harsh and unnecessary to generalize about an entire country based on four days in one city? Yes. It’s like if someone didn’t like San Francisco and then decided that they don’t like America. But that person would just be crazy because who doesn’t like San Francisco? Anyway, sometimes you just have to give yourself permission to be harsh and unnecessary, and I'm certainly not going to sugarcoat my feelings about Morocco. Now, I say this at the beginning because there might be a few moments when I say something nice about Morocco and I don’t want you to be confused: I don’t like it. 

Before I dive in to the top three things that I hate about Morocco, I just need to explain one very interesting phenomenon: the Moroccans (or at least those who live in Fés) are very touchy-feely people. Never between men and women, but within their own sex. When I first arrived in Fés, I saw two men outside of a market with one casually sitting on top of the other. Mind you, it is 90° outside and the last thing you want is extra body heat. This caught my attention, but I didn't think much of it until I saw nearly all the men touching each-other: holding hands, arm around the shoulder, grabbing a forearm... for a second I almost fell in love with Fés. I thought I had stumbled upon the West Hollywood of Morocco. Sadly, it's not. They just happen to be very physically affectionate people. 

After a momentary glimmer of loving Fés, it all went down the shitter:
Firstly, today I was almost hit by a donkey. Normally, I would think that's hilarious. If not fatal, getting hit by a donkey in NYC, Chicago, or Los Angeles would be hilarious. But a donkey collision in Fés, Morocco is just not funny, probably because it's actually a very real possibility. Three different people were yelling some variation of "watch out!" in various languages but none of them were English or Spanish and people tend to yell a lot in the Fés medina, so I really didn't think anything was happening. Then I looked up and there was a donkey coming right for my face

 colorful taxi in the medina

When I first arrived in the medina, I noticed a ridiculous number of packmules being tugged around by their masters. One young Moroccan man pointed, "The taxis of the medina," and proceeded to laugh. DEADLY TAXIS. But then again, all taxis in Fés are pretty deadly...no real rules of traffic. There aren't even seat-belts. I know it sounds silly to make a big deal out of seat-belts, but I've seen one too many episodes of Grey's Anatomy not to wear a seatbelt, especially when travelling through a sea of cars seemingly unrestricted by typical traffic laws, such as driving within your own lane.

Alright so my first problem with Fés was the possibility of a fatal donkey accident. Another (very frequent) problem was the “marriage” question. Now, for the women out there, we all have encountered certain situations or cultures where the "marriage" question is a huge focal point. For some of you, this may even be Grandma's house or your parents' friends, or a recent trip to Italy, but Morocco enforces the marriage question more than I've ever experienced in my life. Everywhere I went, if I talked to someone for more than 45 seconds, they asked me if I was married. The correct answer was obviously “yes” because God forbid you say no.

One particular conversation comes to mind that sums up the majority of my interactions with men throughout my time there (and now that I think about it, I had zero interactions with Moroccan women). One young guy claiming to be a student began to follow and guide me at the same time (much like Oskaar had done in Tanger). He started pointing in different directions and asking me questions and as much as I insisted on being left alone, we were suddenly walking down the street together. Not two minutes later we began talking about my imaginary American husband. 

“So your husband let you travel by yourself to Morocco?” he asked.

CALM DOWN, Lexi, calm down, “Yes, my husband is a revolutionary thinker.”  

Later that night, a man working at my hostel ("Funky Fés Hostel...indeed...very funky) took me to get some food at one of their Riads (nicer, homey hotels). This man, while not a nomad like my other Spanish-speaking Moroccan frenemy, spoke better Spanish than English so our conversation took place nearly entirely in Spanish. At this point I had spoken more Spanish in Morocco than in Spain. He too promptly asked me if I was married. 

“Yes, I’m married.” 

“Ahh to an American?”

“Yes to an American. Everyone seems to ask that question here. Why?”

“In Morocco we have 4 wives, so we are always looking.”

 Well dinner just got awkward.

After much talk of my imaginary, progressive-thinking, American husband, I was ready to go back to Spain. But, of course, why make it easy? When in a foreign country where you don’t speak either of the official languages, everything is haggled, and women are always accompanied by men, one should always get off at the wrong train stop. 

Views of the sometimes not-too-lovely countryside
on the train from Fés to Tanger

I got off at the wrong stop in Tanger (the port town with connections to Spain). After verbally abusing myself for few seconds, I realized I had only gotten off one stop early and would easily be able to hop a cab to the port. BUT, this was a very small train station and I really had to use the bathroom. So I walked into bathroom and quickly discovered that it was a hole in the ground. Literally a hole with markings for where to place your feet to assume the sorority squat. When in Morocco...And, of course, this was no free squatting room. 75 cents to pee in a hole. 

My last interaction in Morocco — while incredibly frustrating — in some ways could not have been more perfect. My hostel for the night was based in Algeciras on the southern coast of Spain and so I figured I’d take the ferry from Tanger to Algeciras. Little did I know that there are TWO ports in Tanger...the “new” port and the “old” port. I arrived at the “old” port 10 minutes before the ferry was to leave. In an attempt to quickly buy a ticket, a young man informed me that the boats to Algeciras were 40 km away. Well, damn. Another man rushed up and launched into helping me and verbally assaulting me at the same time (a talent I found common to nearly all of the Moroccan men who insisted on helping me in one way or another throughout my time there):

Fés, "Tanneries"
 UNESCO World Heritage site

“Why the f*$k you take a bus 40km to New port just to catch ferry?! Take one to Tarifa and then bus 15km to Algeciras” (now, normally, I like to do a bit of paraphrasing, but this is actually verbatim his opening line).

“Oh I can take a bus when I get to Tarifa?”

“Yes, come, give me passport.”

So I booked a ticket to Tarifa and as I was leaving, he pointed to the Yankees hat attached to the side of my bag (re: my sister’s hat. Sorry, sis). 

“That little boy over there likes your hat.”

“Oh ya? Yankees fan?”

“Why don’t you give it to him? For souvenir?”

“Hell no he can’t have my hat!” (I figured he started with the cursing, so I was probably in the clear on this one). Mind you, this “boy” he was referring to was probably in his late 20s. 

Then, as I began to walk off, he said, “hey, how about a little tip for me??” — for his service-minded attitude. So I handed him the change in my bag, which was probably the equivalent of $1.00 and he threw a hissy fit. Walk away, Peacock, walk away.

So I sprinted (the hiking backpack version of a sprint) to the ferry. If I had to stay in Morocco for three more hours, I was pretty sure I was going to end up in a Moroccan prison, and I would probably have to tip someone as they arrested me. I made it on the boat...last person admitted. Right near the entrance was a bar. GOD BLESS SPAIN. Now, here comes complaint #3 about Morocco: you can't find a beer ANYWHERE. I am told that there is alcohol in Fés, but it is kept hidden because it is technically not allowed in the medina. So, if you want to get a beer you have to pay way to much money and take your chances on some random man’s roof. Not really a great idea. So I had been beer-less for a solid four days in a blazing hot country full of stressful hagglers and hustlers. If I didn’t love Spain before, I’m a huge fan now.