Surviving in Morocco is Easy!

 

            It was early in the Parisian morning, and I was waiting for a cab to take me to the airport.  After solo backpacking through small European towns, I was headed to a land of camels, deserts, snake charmers, leather and Berber rugs.

            Au revoir francais, fromage, et baguettes.

            And Salam to Fez, Morocco, my new home!

            As I climbed into the cab, I double-checked my notes.  I had my passport, my boarding pass, and my notes about how to get from the airport to my riad, or my Moroccan hotel.  The flight went smoothly, and as we got off the plane, the man next to me offered to help me get a cab.  I told him no thanks.  There was someone waiting for me from my riad. As I walked from the plane to the airport, we separated. Morocco was warm and beautiful, and I was relaxed, happy, and confident.

            I walked through the people waiting to greet the arrivals, looking for someone holding a whiteboard with my name on it.  Slowly, the others filtered out of the airport, and before I knew it, I was the one unclaimed arrival.  My stomach flipped with panic, but I didn’t cry.  Crying was for the Geneva airport, when I arrived alone, tired, and hungry three weeks ago.

            I recalled lessons that I had learned arriving in other new cities.  I stopped at the information desk, where the ladies giggled at my broken Arabic.  I asked a security guard where to find a phone.  I found myself talking in French to Yousif, at the riad.  “I don’t know who you are,” he kept telling me.  I asked if I had the wrong number, and if this was Riad Medina, but this was indeed my riad.  I had never felt so lost.

            Or so brave. I told myself that I couldn’t stay at the airport for the next four months.  I couldn’t even sleep there that night.

            I marched out of the airport.

            Those who saw me might say that I dragged my backpack and stumbled blindly into the street until I noticed the sign pointing me in the direction of taxis.  I remembered reading in tour books that in Fez, there were red cars labeled “Petit Taxi.”  Unfortunately, there were none of these saviors in sight.  As I was trying to come up with a new plan, a group of men surrounded me, claiming to be taxi drivers.  They found someone who could speak English, and I gave him my handwritten directions and phone number to Riad Medina.  He called Yousif and motioned for me to follow.  And then, I did the scariest thing that I had ever done.  When I was expecting to climb into one of the little red cars, he led me to a white car.  And we got in.

            I don’t know why I got into this unmarked car.  The man was obviously trying to gain my trust, and like a kidnapper offering a child a puppy, he told me stories of his American friends.  I listened nervously as we approached the city and those red taxis whizzed past us.  I hadn’t lost all trust in this man yet, but an escape plan began to form in my mind: maybe I would roll out at a red light and find a nice woman to help me.

            He pulled over eventually at what seemed to be a door to the walled city. A man came over and apologized for not being at the airport when I showed him my hotel confirmation. I paid for the cab, and Yousif and I went off into the old city.

            Looking back, I might have just been sold into slavery.

            He led me through the winding streets, and we stopped at a small, dirty door. I was expecting the worst and prepared to fight.

            But a smiling, Moroccan woman greeted us.  The other hotel guests were sipping tea near the pool, as promised on Trip Advisor.  As I chatted with Yousif, his wife, and a French couple, I thanked my good luck that I had run into good people, that the white cars are actually “Grand Taxis,” and that I was still alive.

            Today, back home in America, I am proud of the bravery that I mustered up on that wonderful day.  I dream about going back to Fez and getting lost in the old city, and relying on the goodwill and friendliness of the people to find my way home. That day in Fez proved two things to me: first, there are more good people in the world than bad.  And second, I am a brave person for taking a risk and trusting the world in which I live. I dream about returning to Fez, where I learned just how brave I am.

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