My grandpa used to tell me the most absurd stories. He would sit for hours on end recounting his adventures of youth and telling tales I almost never fully believed. I think most of us have a grandparent, or even parent, who meets this description. There really is just no logical way all of their stories in their entirety could be true.
Yesterday, I went to Morocco. For those of you who are even more geographically challenged than I, yes, that is in Africa. My yesterday is filled with stories that I know I will tell my grandchildren one day, and there is a very good chance that they won’t ever fully believe me.
Actually, the real story begins even before our arrival in Tangier. The real story begins at approximately 6:46 am with the words, “I forgot my passport.” In my experience, those kinds of phrases are almost always followed up with a very clever, “Just kidding.” But not this one. This one was followed up with Sam (the planner and organizer of our three-amigo trip) throwing his backpack to the floor and sprinting straight out the door. Did I mention our bus was to leave at 7:00 am?
As Tyler (the 2nd of the three-amigo trip) and I sat at the bus stop staring at the clock, we were 100% sure Sam would never make it back. One way to the front step of his house is about a 15 minute walk, and he only had 14 minutes to not only go both ways, but to also run inside and find his passport. “Oh well, we can still take the 11 o’clock bus?”
Then, a miracle happened that goes by the name of, “Sam is a beast.” With quite literally seconds to spare, he came running through the door, and the three of us (after I screamed a little bit) made a dash for the bus. We bought our tickets on the bus as it was pulling away. I honestly still do not understand how Sam could have possibly made that run in the time that he did. Before yesterday, I would’ve said it was impossible.
After the passport incident, I should have been prepared for anything that was thrown our way. But that, of course, would have just made things too easy.
The bus took us to Tarifa, where we were to find the ferry to take us to Tangier. Fortunately, we managed to do that with no real problems. And as it turns out, a “ferry” is more like a cruise ship slash airplane combo. Imagine the outsides of a cruise ship and the insides of an airplane. Boom. Spanish ferry.
Once the ferry arrived in Tangier, we all moved to the bottom of the boat where a huge levered door very slowly and dramatically, with lots of beeping and clanking, lowered onto African soil. As soon as it hit the ground, an entire mob of men ran onto the ship, yelling and grabbing people’s arms, trying to be their guide or just straight out hustle them. And when I say, “ran,” I am not just choosing a general term to describe some kind of movement. I quite literally mean that they ran onto that boat. Both Sam and I actually have it on film; however, they both cut off after we realize the immediate danger our cameras were suddenly in.
We lasted about 10 seconds before someone decided to make us his innocent, American prey. The conversations went something like this:
Guide: Let me take you through the city.
Sam: We don’t want a guide.
Guide: I’m not a guide; I’m just a hustler.
Me: Clearly, you don’t know what that word means.
I’m not going to lie. By the time we reached the city, I was scared. [Sidebar: If your name is Karen or Tom Losinger, either skip over this or just know that I am okay and I’m not going back to Africa, so esta bien.] As if our light skin and American clothes didn’t give us away enough already, my blonde hair was practically begging the Muslims to hustle us. I am not exaggerating when I say we turned every head we walked by.
Sam, Tyler, and I had previously decided to explore the city by ourselves and to not waste money on a hoax guide. But as the three of us stood in the middle of this entirely new world, we all reached the same conclusion: get a guide, or very possibly get killed.
There was no dispute over who we wanted to be our guide. It was a man whose name sounded something like “Hazeez” (I’ll call him Zeezy) and spoke perfect English, which was entirely necessary since the only two acceptable languages there are French and Arabic (neither of which we know anything about). Zeezy had foreseen that we would change our minds about getting a guide and told us that he would wait for us to come back and get him. I guess he had encountered college kids before, because that is exactly what we did.
I think I am just going to preface these next few parts by saying that Zeezy was a gift from God. I didn’t trust him at first, but as we all later agreed, the three of us most definitely would have been robbed or harmed one way or another during that trip if it had not been for his protection and guidance. Even still, at the time, I was in constant prayer that the next ally we were led down wasn’t going to be our last. I realize how dramatic that sounds, but if you had seen the surroundings we were in, you would know how serious I actually am.
Remember the movie “Taken” with Liam Neeson? I used to like that movie. That is, I liked that movie up until yesterday when the possibilities of that actually happening to me skyrocketed to pretty good odds. The only difference between me and the girl in the beginning of that movie is that my dad (I love you Dad) is not Liam Neeson, and I could very well die at the hands of a old, fat, Muslim man. Zeezy didn’t help calm those fears. In fact, he increased them by telling Tyler and Sam, and I quote, “Stay close together, you don’t want to lose her. If we do [lose her], she will end up in someone’s harem tonight.” Oh, is that all?
Anyways, Zeezy ended up taking us to all the places we had been planning to see on our own, plus some. We saw a snake charmer, went to Kasbah, shopped in the markets, ate at a Moroccan restaurant, and…rode camels! Okay, we didn’t really so much as ride them as much as we walked in circles on them, but even still, it was pretty memorable.
Other than another incident of forgetting to get our passports stamped and sprinting through customs to make our ferry back to Spain, I can’t think of any more real issues to report.
All in all, I could not be more pleased with myself for going on this adventure. It was terrifying, but I also thoroughly enjoyed myself. You know the saying, “There’s a fine line between love and hate.” Well, there very well may also be a fine line between being scared for your life and having the time of your life.
I can also say that never before have I felt such, in the words of Sam, “a strong allegiance to Spain.” Until yesterday, I have felt like the outsider that I am in this world. But when our ferry docked back onto the shores of this beautiful land, I felt like I was home. More still, as I walked through the streets of a very different world in Tangier, I was also so proud to be an American. Call me cheesy, but America truly is “The Great,” and I love it dearly.
PS. Stay tuned for more details of Spain and Africa in a little expose I like to call: La Policia.
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