I rolled into the train station in Marrakech after an exhausting eight-hour train ride from Fes. I was stuck inside a glass box with a bunch of old ladies and couldn’t get out of my window seat for the duration of the trip. I made it to the hotel and collapsed in exhaustion on the bed. Of course after having a welcoming pot of Moroccan mint tea.
After snoozing for a few hours, I decided to go grab a bite to eat. A footless man in Fes had recommended that I try Café Arab, so I got one of the staff to walk me over there and I made sure that I knew my way back. These old cities twist and turn and it is easy to get lost, especially at night.
The streets were wild. Unlike Fes, there was normal vehicle traffic, mainly motorcycles, that zipped around me on either side, belching noxious exhaust fumes that settled like a think blanket at my feet. Kids ran around kicking soccer balls and chasing each other while people washed their hands and feet before shuffling into the Mosque for evening prayer. When we finally made it to the restaurant, a short ten-minute walk later, I bid the hotel escort adieu and walked in for a nice dinner.
This place was great. To me, it really represented the melting pot that is Marrakesh. There were such a variety of cultures represented. A Korean couple shared some olives. A French family joked while they passed bottles of wine. Two Spanish women stared into their phones in silence. An American man sat by himself and drank in the experience. And a beer.
Dinner was great- slow roasted beef and potatoes and a nice Moroccan salad. I finished up and started to head back toward the hotel, recounting the landmarks I had identified along the way. I made the first turn at the barbershop and headed down toward the Mosque. As I was walking I heard shouting behind me.
“You cannot go that way! You cannot go past the Mosque during prayer time!”
It was almost 11 pm and near the last prayer time for the evening. I stopped and turned around as a young man came up to me.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked him.
“I can show you another way, follow me.” He told me, gesturing with his hands down a different street.
I followed the guy for about two blocks down some twisted streets until I saw the sign for my riad. I thanked the man and started heading toward my hotel and welcoming bed.
“Wait,” I heard from behind me.
I turned around and all of a sudden there were two men upon me. One was the guy who just showed me the way and the other was someone I had not seen before. They came up and got very close to me.
“Pay me.” The guide said.
“Pay you?” I asked, “For what?”
“For showing you the way. 100 Dhiram ($10).”
They were not really asking.
“He’s got to feed his kids, help him out.” The other man said.
“Ok man, for the kids. You take care of them.” I said as I handed him the money.
“Thank you, have a safe journey home.” He said in a slightly ominous voice.
I grumpily started walking toward the riad. These freakin people always trying to hustle a westerner out of their money. I get sick of it and I just wish that…
“You cannot go that way! You cannot go past the Mosque during prayer time!” I heard from behind me.
I started to sense a pattern. And I wasn’t even close to the mosque.
A young 15-year-ish kid walked up on me and said. “I know a better way, follow me.”
Already pissed off, I told the kid, “Look, I don’t care if I am not supposed to go by the Mosque or not. I am gong to my hotel and you can scam some other tourist.”
I turned around and started walking toward the riad. This kid ran in front of me and began shouting “I will show you the way ok.”
Ignoring the kid, I just kept walking and finally reached the turn-off that went toward the hotel. I started walking down the alley until I was rushed by three kids: the first was the one who “showed me the way,” the second was a fat kid with glasses about the same age and the third was another kid on a dirt bike who kept revving the engine.
Great. I was getting robbed by the cast of “Stand By Me.”
“I showed you the way. You give me 400 Dhiram ($40).” The first kid shouted.
“I don’t think so man. I didn’t need your help. I didn’t want your help. You can piss off.” I told him.
The fat kid exploded and rushed me.
“Do you know who this is?” Fatty screamed, “This is blah-blah-aziz. You will respect him!”
Blah-Blah-aziz held up a hand and quelled fatty. He was obviously the leader of the gang of nitwits.
“Give me 400 Dhiram or else!” He shouted.
I looked over these kids. They were so young. I went full “Equalizer” on them and played out the scenario if I were to fight them. I would kick the leader in the kneecap and finish him off with a left hook. Fatty would run at me and I would crush his fat face with a hard right. The kid on the bike would run away after seeing what happened to his friends, he wasn’t really committed, he just liked to seem threatening. It would all be so easy. I was getting ready for it when a thought popped into my head.
“Robinson, you are in a foreign country where there is a lot of mistrust for Americans. If you beat up a bunch of locals, there will be a backlash in the community and will not end well for you. Life is too cheap here. Just pay the boy and let it go.” My conscience told me.
I pulled out a 200 Dhiram note and handed it to the kid.
“That’s all you get. Now piss off.” I told him.
“No. More. You give me more.”
“if you want more,” I said as I backed away, “You come over here and get some more.”
He slowly turned around and walked back toward the street. I made it down to the riad and banged on the door. There were a group of young kids playing soccer outside.
“Gimme. Gimme.” One of the kids said to me as he kicked the ball.
God help these street rats.