Holy Africa

Walking off the ferry from Tarifa and arriving in Tangier, I suddenly realized I've never been to a developing country. I also realized that I speak neither Arabic nor French. And that I'm travelling with an overly-stuffed hiker's backpack that screams "American." Anddddd that I am a distinctly non-Moroccan, 21-year-old female travelling by myself. Nice.

After this ill-timed discovery, I decided that I would act confident, self-assured, and much more like a professional/badass/nomadic traveller, so I walked directly to the medina in Tangier pretending I had been there a dozen times before. After a half mile walk propelled by a false sense of brimming self-confidence, I ran into a man named Oscar (Oskaar??) who had this strange gift of leading me and following me at the same time.

Oskaar was very chatty -- "Welcome. Where are you from? Thank you for coming to Morocco. Ahhh California! Mick Jagger lived here in the medina." His casual switch from California to Mick fascinated me. I believe at some point he also referred to me as "European" so I think Oskaar might have been a little geographically-challenged, but my sleep-deprived, slightly nervous self determined that those who do not know where they are going make the best tour guides. That's some WILDLY advanced philosophy right there if you didn't follow.

On what was now an apparently "guided" tour of the medina, Oskaar continually stopped at any building with a date on it, to re-emphasize the ancient quality of his town. After the third or fourth stop at yet another very old doorway, I turned to ask Oskaar:
"Yo, Oskaar!" (Heavily paraphrasing), "how much you chargin' me for this tour right now."
With a smile, "I just do it to keep the people happy."
WOW....this is gonna cost me a pretty penny, I can already tell. American SUCKER written all over my REI backpack. 

Now I just surrender and hope that the very favorable exchange rate balances out some of my stupidity.  But then, Oskaar makes a sharp turn into some clothing shop:

"OH HELL NO, OSKAAR" (Again, heavily paraphrasing,) "I'm not buying so much as a ribbon."

"Oh no. No, not to buy! This man live with the Saharan nomads. He teach you."  

"Well that makes sense. Okay." 

And, just like that, I was suckered. 

So this travelling nomad (Who knew there was such a thing as Moroccan nomads...? Not this girl.) was super friendly. "Welcome to Morocco, welcome to Morocco. You from California! Speak Spanish?" I am absolutely not paraphrasing on this one, his direct thought process was California --> Spanish. 

From then on, the conversation continued in Spanish. This brought up another fun fact about Morocco. Apparently areas of the Western Sahara speak Spanish as their primary language because they were a province of Spain from the late '50s to the mid-'70s. Missed that little historical detail throughout the course of my many Spanish and African history classes.

Somehow, after a cup of tea, casual Spanish/Moroccan chats, and some sort of prayer, the only way I felt comfortable leaving without being assaulted was by buying something, or rather, "participating," as my Spanish-Moroccan frenemy liked to call it. So I picked out what I thought was the cheapest item: a scarf.

Here begins my crash course in haggling. I asked the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad how much the scarf costs: "240 dirham" (24 euro or 30-ish dollars). Mind you, my budget for the whole trip in Morocco (including all my transportation) is 1,000 dirham. Trying to figure out how I could get out of buying this damn scarf, I figured the "I'm-going-to-offer-such-a-low-price-that-you're-offended-and-kick-me-out" strategy was my best bet. So I offered 50 dirham. He was not at all offended, which told me it was probably worth 30. In the end I ended buying it for 90 dirham, looking at it more as the price of my ticket out of there more than anything else. There goes 10% of my budget on a scarf probably made in China for a trip that will average 80°F.

As I left the shop, Oskaar insisted on walking me to the taxis. At this point, I'm not too pleased with Oskaar. He had led me astray in his guarantee that I "no have to buy"....so I'm just barely putting up with him because he's leaving me no other option. So we get to the bottom of the medina and I grab a taxi (establishing the price to the train station up front —quick learner!), and kinda-sorta rudely (he totally deserved it) shove my change into Oskaar's hand as I hop inside. Much to my surprise, Oskaar hops in with me and starts throwing a hissy fit over the 75 cents I had given him. After a small argument, I hand him $5 dollars and he leaves. Welcome to Morocco. 

Let's recount my mistakes for a second:
1) Meeting Oskaar.
2) Allowing Oskaar to follow/lead me.
3) Walking into the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad's store with Oskaar.
4) Drinking tea and chatting in the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad's store.
5) Asking the Spanish-speaking Moroccan nomad how much something cost.
6) Buying anything at all.
7) Leaving with Oskaar.
8) Handing Oskaar 75 cents.
9) Handing Oskaar $5.

In store for tomorrow:
Apparently Fez has ~9,000 streets so I'm giving myself the entire day to get lost and wander back to my hostel. I've heard the "tanneries" are amazing...whatever that means. All I know is that camel heads hang in meat shops and I want pictures.