"I show you the gardens," Mustafa smiled and nodded to the back of his new moped. I climbed on, my backpack in one arm, my carpet in the other, my fingers grasping Mustafa's waist.
And we launched into the traffic: cars, donkey-drawn carts, bicycles, pedestrians … narrow walkways, multi-lane roads, busy squares.
Amazing! How anyone could make sense of the traffic patterns and make forward progress without incident! We did stop once – nose to nose with another motorbike, two Euro tourists smiling sheepishly on its back. No harm done. Off we zipped again.
The gardens. Weren't. There were some palms dotting a vast dirt-paved enclosed space, a few sheep, four camels taking tourists on short rides, and a seating area/snack bar.
We sipped tea in the shade and chatted. You only live once! Mustafa cried. You must do it! The camel ride, of course. I sighed. Sure, why not. I would. I did. I had my picture taken. It was uncomfortable and poor Fatima, the camel, stumbled a couple of times, nearly tossing me off onto my nose.
"You pay the man," my camel driver told me, "but you tip me too. Ok?"
Sure. Tradition, I figured. I climbed off, my nether regions numb in a bad bicycle seat sort of way. How much? 300 dirhams. A bit steep, I thought, at just over $35 for a 20 minute ride, but then it was my own fault for not asking first and haggling.
I suppose I was still feeling high after my carpet triumph. I handed the camel driver a 20 dirham note ($2.50). Clearly not the chunk of change he'd expected, I guessed on seeing his expression.
Back on the bike. One more stop. A spice/perfume shop. I'm not interested, I told Mustafa. It's interesting and educational, he insisted. I couldn't disagree, but didn't buy either.
"Come out with me tonight." The next phase in the Mustafa give-it-to-the tourist operation began.
"I can't … the tour group …" Maybe Mustafa's flattering remarks worked with some lonely females – at least in Mustafa's youth – but I wasn't going to be one of them. I was far too used to the overtures of 30ish Turks with handsome faces to now suddenly accept this sleazy, sun-aged boxing ring reject.
"No charge!" he added generously.
No comment, I thought, not as generously.
He was clearly disappointed, but whether because he missed out on my feminine charms or whether there was more financial fleecing in the picture, I wasn't sure.
"You pay me now. My time. My gasoline. You pay me."
Yeah, I saw it coming and had figured on a 200 dirham tip – basically all the cash I still had on me.
"What!? You insult me!"
OK, this is where I should now continue my tale with how I put old Mustafa in his place. Unfortunately, I was rather high-jacked at the time on the back of his bike with both arms full and not at all certain as to where I was and how far it was to the hotel.
He stopped at an ATM. He expected roughly $100 for his 'trouble.' I suppose at this point I just wanted to be free of him. I should have gotten off the bike and started walking. I didn't. I paid. He took me home.
It was not the best introduction to the Moroccan people. But that moped ride through Marrakech traffic was worth it. Every cent. I'm imagining the Disney ride I could design now! What a blast! What a great way to get up close and personal with the pulsing life of North Africa! And I did get a really nice carpet out of the deal too. And that expensive tajine – it proved to be the tastiest meal of my entire trip.
The next evening I met Abdouh, an adjutant in the Gendarmerie Royale. He didn't fleece me. He led me to the internet point I sought, paid for it, and wished me farewell when I turned down his offer for a drink. I'm invited to stay with him and his family next time I'm in town. My mother, too. And my brothers. Anytime. We are his guests. He is Moroccan, too. I met more of him than I did of Mustafa.
Thank goodness.
I'm still waiting for world peace.
Photo Credits: Plaza Djem el fnaa in Marrakech by"© Milena Moiola | Dreamstime.com and Camel by © Rene Drouyer | Dreamstime.com.
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