I’m writing right now as, from my Riad’s sun-bathed roof terrace winding shouts of “Allahu Akbar” explode out from speakers across the city. I wonder if its actually someone yelling into a microphone from a mosque or a recording, becuase when they say Allahu Akbar, some of these voices hold say it like this AllaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhu-Akbar. Others say it AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!LAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!HUUAAKBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaa....LAAAAAAAHUUUUUUAAKKKKKKKKBAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!! Others say it real quick ALAHUAKBAR. And for a span of 2 minutes the voices cascade across and out from the city. It’s surreal...
I cant get over the street hustlers of fez. I feel unsafe knowing that everyone is watching me, scheming on my money. People inundate me, in particular. Something about my look. People follow me too. I just dont feel safe. I cant walk around with my trekking poles, either. That would be like a fucking magnet for everyone who isn’t yet talking to me, offering me directions, hash, company — but really just want my money. One man yelled at me because I wouldn’t relax. That pulled at my strings because I want to trust but also GTFO I’m not trusting your dumbass. One called me out on being an American and started calling me liar, liar, liar. My parents have filled me with stories of why I should not reveal I’m an American. Locals who know have advised me that it doesnt matter. I think the truth is somewhere between, leaning toward the latter. What’s true, though, is Americans have money! Many of these people don’t. Morocco is a third world country. So when folks are tailing me, and just one of them is chatting me up, attempting to guide me or even to get me to stand still, I’m irritated.
Fez has the world largest car-free living zone, in the way of its Medina. The Medina is the local marketplace, built with nonsensical, labyrinthian turns and dead-ends. There are huge squares, where snake charmers, storytellers, musicians, bird charmers (???) and regular hustlers all bustle. Donkeys walk through the streets and you have to press up against the walls to avoid their cargo. Motorcycles zoom through. It’s wild. Children kick soccer balls but stop long enough to try and guide you into restaurants.
Somehow in my life Ive actually developed some sort of a lofty place in myself where I can sit back and observe, and what I see really makes me happy. Last night I saw a thin man and his girlfriend, possibly both Americans, eating out of the hand of a faux guide who was almost certainly about to press them for more money than they were willing to give. Tourists are rife with these stories and seeing it happen is like watching a car crash, except one of the cars is predatory and if you get in the way it will attempt to crash into you. That’s what happens when you dont do your homework!! I’d sooner break out in a rendition of Arab Money by Busta Rhymes and Ron Brownz before I give one of these faux guides even an inch of rope for them to pull at. But here I am writing from a rooftop terrace, where Ive been for some hours instead of descending into the madness... Guess its time!!!
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