The Value Of The Swindle
Tangier, Morocco
Disembarking the ferry from Algeciras, I observed that Tangier looked every bit like the set of Casablanca. There were colonial buildings left by the French, an ancient walled medina, and art deco cafes, any of which could have passed for Rick’s Café American if you subtracted sixty years, replaced the jallabah’s with tuxedos, replaced the mint tea with gin and dropped in a few tycoons, asylum seekers, and artists. Somewhere Humphrey was on his nineteenth champagne cocktail while Sam was playing it again.
I, however, was trying not to appear too pleased with the film set atmosphere. No, I had on my Jack Bauer from 24 face. I looked streetwise and serious. The two S’s said it all: pshahhh, I had been to Tangier more times than I could remember. I knew the town like the back of my hand. My hostel was right off Avenue D’Espagne. I even knew the owner, ummm, Mohammad. We were friends from way back. I stayed in Paul Bowles’ old room. I could chat away in Arabic for hours. Morocco was my backyard. Salaam, dude. Insha’allah, sister.
Place de L’Istiqlal, FezI was getting thirsty in the afternoon heat and was exhausted speaking French all morning. I also decided I wanted to explore by myself for awhile, and perhaps Yassah and I would meet up later. Extending my hand, I said thanks for the conversation, but I was going to have a tea. He eagerly grabbed me. “Excellent, Zacaria! We have tea now.”
In the salon du the Al Jazeera was on in two corners. Emphatic imams were gesticulating, and crowds were burning Humvees. Noticing my unease, Yassah said, “You have Fox News, we have Al Jazeera. Neither tell you the truth. Everyone in this room knows Al Jazeera only tells the Arabs what they wish to hear.” I didn’t realize Moroccans were so discerning of the media. I surveyed the patrons puffing on kif pipes. No one seemed that discerning of anything at the moment, but who was I to judge? Our conversation meandered from the war to movies to the weather and back again.
Yassah smoothly brought out a pipe from his puffy shirt and began to load it with kif. Dirt cheap marijuana in a country that turns a blind eye to its public use would be any pothead’s dream. Though I was not much of a smoker, I reminded myself this wasn’t “drug use” as we Americans deemed anything censured by the FDA. This was a gesture of hospitality thousands of years old. Yassah passed me the pipe and laughed, “Welcome to Morocco, my friend.”
Five teas and three pipes of kif later I really wanted to leave. Although I was thoroughly impressed with Yassah’s knowledge of American history – Lincoln, he was my favorite! – I was feeling that annoying uselessness you feel from being stoned in the middle of the day. Al Jazeera was switching between footage of marauding American soldiers and a hostage pleading for his life. I sipped the sugary dregs of my tea in a bizarre atmosphere of hospitality and terrorism.
I announced that I was leaving.
“So soon! Well, I must discuss business with Ahmed. You will become lost. I will show the way!”
So we returned to the hostel where I expected Yassah and Ahmed to jabber on about “business,” but Yassah said hello to Ahmed and followed me to my bunk.
“Here is my email, Zacaria. So good to meet you my friend.”
Taking the scrap of paper, I said, “Thank you, Ya—-”
“And, Zacaria, you must give me the 400 Dirham [about 45 USD] you owe me for the kif,” he hissed with a face turned suddenly stern.
“What kif? What are you talking about? I didn’t buy any kif from you.”
“Then what’s that in your pocket?”
Sure enough, out of my pocket, like a nickel I had misplaced behind my ear, I drew a small wad of kif wrapped in tissue paper. I placed the bag on the nearest table and said, “this isn’t mine. I told you I’m not buying any kif!”
Yassah exploded in a barrage of Arabic and French explaining how he had been at my service all day and how I owed him for it now. He was sweating and shaking his index finger wildly in my face.
“No way, Yassah. I asked you point blank if you were a guide. You said no,” then, lamely, “we were having a cultural exchange!”
This seemed to confuse him. We both turned to Ahmed and yelled our respective stories in unison. Ahmed looked on shirtless, smoking. He gave me an unequivocal expression. Hey, man, you got yourself into it; you get yourself out of it.
“The 400 Dirham you owe me!” Yassah roared.
It struck me Yassah was not so much dangerous as he was annoying. He was a good swindler, but he was a magnificent actor. He achieved what he needed to at this point by being loud and looking menacing. But something told me there wasn’t a lot behind all the histrionics. I fished 50 Dirham from my pocket and passed it to Yassah. He took it snorting angrily then looked very pleased. Without making eye contact with anyone, he turned for the door.
Ahmed’s complicity made perfect sense as well: Yassah worked the port all day, preying on easy looking backpackers who needed a hostel. He took them straight to the auberge with whatever ploy worked. All the hostels are full but one! Everywhere they will rob you except at a place I know. Come! Ahmed got customers, and Yassah got a 5 Dirham tip. Sometimes Yassah could then hustle travelers at the hostel. If no one looked promising or overwhelmingly naive (i.e., me), he returned to the port and waited for the next ferry.
Some weeks later, sick from the water south of Fez, I wondered if Yassah and I could have met in a different world. What would our encounter have been if we met in some hard to imagine future without all the post-9/11-Arab-Western mess? We would be two strangers, one Moroccan, one American, both intellectual folks discussing our lives without ulterior motives. In this fantasy we would be ourselves.
But it seems we are moving away from this fantasy. This is an increasingly messy world, and where travelers and locals mingle haphazardly on the global backpacking circuit genuine understanding between them is often a hot commodity. In a place like Tangier a sanguine conversation between an American and an Arab is going the way of the dodo.
My encounter was pretty tame compared to other incidents; the money swindled was virtually nothing by American standards and no one got hurt. Still I was tempted to react with a good measure of spite after seeing my diplomatic intentions and Morocco’s legendary reputation for hospitality so completely manipulated. Yet I dismissed the urge to presume I had entered a nation of swindlers, for it seemed to me there would be few better ways to discredit the globetrotting community then if we forgot one of our unifying beliefs. Nothing but trust should stand between a foreigner and a local.
