What Not to Do in Morocco, Part I

“Offers of a tour of the town, however, you may want to avoid. To do so, it is a golden rule to look as if you know where you are going. Never admit to this being your first visit to Morocco. If you feel confident enough, say that you have visited the town before….In addition, never allow yourself to be bullied into going with someone with whom you don’t feel at ease – there is no shortage of candidates.” Rough Guide Morocco

One of the first things I said to Billel, an employee at my hostel in Chefchaouen, was that it was my first time to visit Morocco and that I don’t speak French or Arabic. Billel served me and my friends Sarah and Joyce mint tea and coffee every morning. He promised in broken Spanish that his good friend was a hiking guide to the Oshran waterfalls a couple hours outside of town. Everybody in this town has a friend of a friend who has exactly what you, the culture-thirsty tourist, craves. But upon arrival to this country, I didn’t realize that. We accepted his offer and soon understood why we were led out the hidden backdoor of the hostel instead of the front.

Mint tea and fresh-squeezed orange juice, compliments of Billel

Chefchaouen, or simply Chaouen, is nestled in the heart of the Kif region, a sweep of lush mountains ripe with marijuana plants. Even though the possession and sale of marijuana is illegal in Morocco, it appears as though everybody smokes it. It was obvious after the first five minutes driving with said tour guide and Billel that said tour guide was not sober.

For the sake of wordiness, I’m going to call said tour guide “Bob.” Bob couldn’t speak English or Spanish. He never introduced himself, nor said anything, for that matter, and left all the communication up to Billel and his broken Spanish. Bob’s car was a baby blue Cold War Mercedes, suspiciously identical to every taxi in Chaouen, sans the “taxi” sign. Before taking off, Billel instructed our American friend Nick to get out of the front seat and ride in the other car. He explained that if the police saw a blonde haired foreigner riding in the front seat of the car, they could get in trouble for posing as tour guides. “Ahh,” I thought to myself, “Do I forfeit this waterfall hike? It’s now or never!” Everyone in my group was asking the same question. But for one reason or another, we complied and took off with Bob, Billel and their fake taxi entourage.

I say “entourage” because Bob and Billel brought along a few friends. The whole group consisted of two cars and one motorcycle, six tourists and five or six twenty-something-year-old “guides” from Chaouen. Once we passed a few police cars and made it to the edge of town, Bob sped up. Me, Joyce and Sarah were alone with two Moroccan men whom we didn’t know, practically in the middle of nowhere. Bob and his friend in the other car played outrageous drag racing games that included lane-switching and dodging oncoming traffic. Meanwhile, his badly scratched American and Arabic hip hop CDs, turned up at maximum volume, sliced like knives through the car. We were driving among green rolling hills dotted with sheep, shepherds, and Berber women picking red flowers to use in dye – a landscape that would have aroused peace and calm in any other circumstance. The racing and music gave us a very legitimate reason to be scared for our lives. The three of us expressed our fears quite differently. Joyce’s face lit up when a Beyonce song came on. She sang a few words and said, “This makes me feel better.” Then, rather than falling silent or complaining, she made jokes to convince herself she was OK. Sarah’s worries, on the other hand, rolled off her tongue. Everything she said, Joyce and I were already thinking. Despite futile attempts to tell Billel tell Bob to slow down and quit driving like a maniac, I was mostly silent. I felt three things on this car ride: the most scared I’ve ever been since riding a bike down the Death Road in Bolivia, guilty for organizing the trip with a bunch of frauds, and really, really stupid.

About every 20 minutes, Bob pulled off the side of the road for one reason or another. The first time was for gas and small talk with friends. The second or third time was because his friend’s motorcycle was acting funny, and because they had to transfer a small black duffle bag from the motorcycle to our car. “Please let it be lunch, please let it be mint tea and sandwiches,” I thought. Joyce and Sarah were sure it was drugs.

View out the windshield. Its deceivingly peaceful.

After this transaction, the three vehicles were separated. Nick was long-gone. There were no other cars in sight, just Bob’s old school Mercedes zipping along the side of a cliff in the Kif (Marijuana) region. At this point, the girls and I weren’t sure whether or not we were going to the waterfalls. I thought about The Daughters of Juarez, a true story about young Mexican women getting kidnapped and killed (among many other brutal things) in the desert. I thought about Natalie Holloway. I pictured our faces on Fox News and CNN with that annoying message bar blinking at the bottom: MISSING IN NORTHERN MOROCCO!

Then Bob curved around a cliff and slowed down. We could see a crowded parking lot up ahead. We were at the base of the hike, and we made it without a scratch. Nick’s car was there waiting.

We piled out of the car. The solid earth felt good beneath my tennis shoes. Bob stayed behind, but everyone else walked into the gorge. Sighs of relief turned into laughter which turned into “That was really stupid, why are we still with these guys?” But like children, we followed the Moroccans. We probably wouldn’t have had the gate to the main trail been unlocked. They knew the alternate route, and we were ready to finally see some falling water.

Relieved to be out of the car

The gorge was cool and damp, quite the opposite of the desert and camels that most people associate with Morocco. Pitched tents and picnic blankets were sprawled out along the riverbanks. It was our first time to see Muslim women camping out in their headscarves and djellabas, which looked more practical than my t-shirt and knee-length pants, given the dropping temperatures. Then, all of a sudden, Billel and his buddies started shouting across the river to their friends at one of the campsites. Since none of us understood Arabic, their shouts sounded more like excited dogs barking back and forth. Something was bubbling, and we were dying to know what. But in hindsight, Billel was probably just explaining why he was tagging along a bunch of foreigners and boasting about all the dirham he was about to pocket. His friends crossed the river and walked with us. After walking for about 20 minutes, I think Sarah, Joyce, Nick and I realized that all these “guides” really wanted was to get paid for socializing and smoking hash in the mountains. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.

One of many families camping in the gorge
My ¨guides¨ were yelling at the people on the other side

The “dudes” took us an hour into the dense forest and past one gushing waterfall before admitting they had miscalculated the time it would take to get to the big one. At this point, nobody was too surprised. They stopped to smoke and laid out a big blanket by the river. Then they unzipped the black bag – it was lunch! We were relieved. Then they served us mint tea without asking for any money. No one was too upset about not seeing the waterfall. Actually, we were quite pleased with our peaceful destination. We made jokes and gulped down sweet mint tea while Billel and co. got high and ate. Everyone was happy. Finally doing something we paid for

After finding out what was in the mysterious black bag
One of the dudes

Descending the mountain, my friends and I agreed that we weren’t getting back in the car with Bob if he was stoned, and that if there was a real taxi in the parking lot, we’d hire it. In my most assertive Spanish, I approached Billel about Bob when we got back to the car.
“Has Bob been smoking? Is he high? We are NOT going back with y’all if he’s been smoking and is going to drive like he did on the way here.” Billel looked worried but tried to assure me he was completely sober and he’d tell him to be more careful. The problem was, we didn’t really have another option besides walking, which would have taken all night or more. And even if there had been taxis in the parking lot, we couldn’t afford it. So we drove off with Bob and Billel, again. After five minutes, Bob stopped the car. “Why are we stopping?” We asked Billel. “Bob wants to smoke.” Billel wouldn’t let him drive, though, and made him trade places with one of his other friends who supposedly hadn’t been smoking. He turned out to be a better driver, thank goodness.

The sun was setting, Berber women were walking down the highway with heavy bushels of flowers on their backs, and for once we enjoyed looking out the window. This was the longest we had driven without stopping. And then right when we realized that, we stopped. This time, Billel had to say hi to his friends in a convenience store and buy some things. When you hire a fake guide, you can’t expect them to stop when you say stop and go when you say go. After 20 minutes at this roadside stop, Billel slipped back into the car with a big paper bag. “Would you like some beer?” he said, grinning. This was the first alcohol we’d seen in Morocco. The country’s perfume and makeup doesn’t even contain alcohol. After contemplating, I decided I better drink up because we’re still not back to Chaouen. Then, as if we hadn’t been appalled enough for one day, Billel asked me a question: “Is it OK if my friend drinks while driving?” I at least made one good decision on this eventful Saturday by saying “NO!” "Taking the edge off"

We made it back to Chaouen and counted our blessings. Thank you, dirty hostel with chipping paint and no flushing toilet. Thank you light blue buildings, thank you cell phone service, thank you clean clothes, thank you hot food, thank you cobblestones beneath our feet! It felt good to know that Billel hadn’t asked for anymore money than we originally agreed, and that his friend’s didn’t get us killed. Oh, thank you Billel, for not being ALL bad! Thank you heartbeat, thank you lungs. It was good to be alive and well. Except I needed a bath.