After a few days in Morocco, I figured out my way around this diverse ancient country. I got my first henna from a young bride and even learned how to deal with the strong and ever-present smells. While visiting a local leather factory, my guide Ali showed me the easiest way how to survive some of the most repulsive smells. “It is so simple, habibi,” he said, and gave me a bunch of mint leaves. “You can keep these mint leaves close to your nose and you will never feel sick from the smells again,” Ali advised.

Wandering through the narrow, shabby streets of Fez, smelling my mint leaves and trying to keep my distance from the white dirty walls, I felt like time certainly stopped centuries ago in this little oriental town of Morocco. It was not only the original architecture deteriorated by time, but also the carefully covered faces of Muslim women and the long robes on men that made me feel like a character from Scheherazade's stories.

At first I found the hustling and bargaining quite entertaining. As I was getting more confident at it, one merchant shouted at me with laughter: “You bargain like a Bedouin woman!” I was not sure if it was a compliment or insult, so I decided to take it as a compliment. Although the most of the local people were quite nice and polite, I realized that I had to hire an experienced local guide in order to avoid annoying hustlers that were approaching me left and right. That’s when Ali crossed my path to show me all the secrets of this sacred city.

Hiring Ali was the best idea. Before he came to my rescue, I would sit in a taxi and argue with a smoking driver for an hour in order to get to my destination. No amount of money can persuade these drivers to take off. “The rules are clear”, the Bedouin driver said to me in broken English, “unless there are six people in the car, we don’t go.” Their rules were driving me crazy and I needed an insider to show me around. I was in need of a teacher who would give me a lesson in survival tactics. 

In general, European women stick out like a sore thumb everywhere in Morocco. Although I would always wear a long skirt and a hat to cover my hair, my tall figure and fair skin would always give me away.  In some parts of this country, the old traditions as well as the original way of life has changed little over the centuries. In the remote Sahara desert I was turned away by a Bedouin who told me to get my husband in order to bargain for a souvenir. Since I did not have a husband, he did not care to sell to me. The double standards are still a part of life in many rural parts of the country and it was not uncommon that men proposed to me in the exchange for camels. I could not prevent myself from sneaking a grin when I imagined my mom’s face when trying to accommodate the precious smelly camels in her garage.

Before my arrival in Fez, I made a quick stop in the Atlas Mountains. I was getting ready to conquer the Jebel Toubkal (the highest mountain in northern Africa, about 14,000 feet high) in a small village right under the foot of the mountain when a local merchant approached me with an offer of several dozens camels that he would deliver to my father in exchange for my hand in marriage. This deal would of course be sealed in case that I survived the climb and came back. I saddled my donkey and proudly refused his offer. I never knew how serious these crazy merchants were, but I made sure that I would not run into the same man again, and did not spend any time in the mountain village after my return from the Toubkal.

After these partly flattering and partly scary encounters with the Moroccan men, Ali became a victim of a long obnoxious interview. He undertook my torment very bravely, but only when he told me: “I will never get married; Miss, although Islam allows me to have three wives. Too much headache!” I was convinced that he was the right person to guide me around.

Every day I thought to myself, “I am pretty safe with this tall white haired man of uncertain age.” He proved to be an excellent guide with a great knowledge of Fez and his business. He was probably getting his cut from every purchase that I made at the little souvenir stores recommended by him, but on the other hand he saved me from annoying hustlers. As promised, he also thought me how to comfortably survive around here. Ali knew the history of every building; he found a silver jeweler who created a cheap custom made bracelet and ring in only one day; he took me for a private tour of a clothing factory and made my childhood dream come true. Thanks to Ali, for a tiny moment, I became the glamorous runway model that I always wanted to be. You may still find my pictures dressed in the colorful garments from cheap fabrics in the factory catalog.

After I explained my troubles with digesting the local cuisine “too fast”, he recommended the best restaurants in the old town (I still had to wipe my plate and silverware clean). Food was my biggest problem in the “off-beaten-track-Morocco”. Before they delivered my meal to me, it usually “welcomed” me at the door of the restaurant as it was still hanging outside on hooks (like whole de-feathered chickens) in the direct sun. I have to admit that not even a glassful of gin in the morning, right before I brushed my teeth with the polluted water, would help to ease my suffering from the local food. I just could not convince my digestive system that it was a time to get used to the beans, cuscus and snails.

Unfortunately, Ali also proved me wrong in my ability to judge character. While saying good-bye, he said: “You charmed me, Miss, please marry me and stay in Fez.” This man who could not remember my name and never wanted to marry told me of his plans to teach me about Fez, so I can undertake the greatest social profession - the guide in Fez. I politely refused and decided that I wanted to be alone and hustled for a while.

But men were not the only “funs” that found me attractive or vulnerable in Morocco. When discovering the hidden treasures, souks and mosque, I would be often approached by begging children. I knew from Ali that they really did not beg for themselves. “This is their job, they are usually employed by a hustler who takes all the money they get from generous tourist,” he said. I kept this in mind and although it was breaking my heart, I did not give any money to these little dirty workers.

A little beautiful girl slipped her hand into mine one hot afternoon. She smiled and said, “You are so pretty.” I immediately liked her. “She was not begging,” I thought to myself. She walked with me for a minute and I was trying to remember if I had my hand sanitizer. She smiled and gave me a little silver mirror. I felt ashamed for being so spoiled and my hand sanitizer thoughts.

I looked at the mirror trying to figure out its value. It was silver and hand made and could not cost more than a couple of dollars. I started looking for some change to give to my little dirty Moroccan friend. I was able to find only a few pennies, so I showed her what I had. She suddenly stopped smiling, grabbed the mirror and angrily walked away.

She left me standing there in shock. I could not imagine where this mean ugly child came from and what happened to my little beautiful girl that a minute ago told me that I was pretty. I was feeling confused and disappointed, but glad I did not get robbed. I sat down to gather my thoughts. Sitting there I realized that not even this incident could influence the fact that I fell in love this enchanting oriental kingdom. I wanted to call Ali, to tell him how silly I was. But I really did not want to get married nor face the dirty faces of poor children every day. Happy just to simply be here and experience it all, I walked away alone to discover more amazing treasures marked and forgotten by time and generations of people.

Vladia Jurkova

about the author:

Vladia Jurcova is a freelance travel writer, photographer and publicist.
Growing up in Communist Czechoslovakia, her travel opportunities were
limited, but she always dreamt of being a journalist and writing about
different countries, traditions and cultures from around the world. Today,
Vladia travels the world with her pen and camera and writes for different
publications; she also works as CEO/Publicity Director at her public
relations firm in the United States. In 1999, she spent several weeks in
Morocco, chasing the perfect image; she climbed the highest mountain in the
Northern Africa (Jabel Toubkal), camped with Bedouins in Sahara, searched
for the Touaregs, called the Blue People, in the Mauritania desert, and
explored the ancient souks and medinas with interesting local guides. She
holds a degree in Mass Communications from University of Charleston, West
Virginia. For more information visit www.contessavladia.com