Making Peace With Marrakech Hustlers

MARRAKECH, Morocco - The young street hustler, plying the trade for which Morocco is justly notorious, stalked his prey as the unsuspecting tourist was paying for lunch on a restaurant terrace overlooking the Djemma El-Fna, this city's exotic, chaotic central square.

"Wie geht es Ihnen?" he began, addressing me in German. "How are you?"

He apparently had not gotten a good look at my guidebook, which was in English. Moroccan hustlers have an amazing capacity for languages - especially Western ones.

My German is fair. I decided to play along.

"Gut, danke, aber ich brauche kein guide (Fine, thanks, but I don't need a guide)," I replied.

He persisted, still speaking in German as I made my way down the crowded street.

"Perhaps you won't be able to find your way. I'll walk with you."

"Thanks, but please don't follow me."

"I am a student. I just want to practice my German." A common ploy, I thought.

"Please don't follow me. I want to go alone."

I had gone to Morocco with some apprehension, knowing that scam artists, snake-oil salesmen and "guides" would be an integral part of the experience.

One of the most common scams involves a local who latches on to a tourist as a "guide," then exacts a fee for the service.

The "guide," almost invariably a young male, usually receives kickbacks from local merchants on any purchases the tourist makes.

Determined to avoid being taken in, but also determined to make contact with as many ordinary Moroccans as possible during my weeklong stay, I approached the task of dealing with hustlers with a definite strategy:

Be polite, answer questions, but make it clear that you don't need a guide and you have no money for them. Don't ignore people - hustlers might become hostile - and you might miss the chance to make contact with someone who's genuinely interested in meeting a traveler from the U.S. Above all, don't lose your cool.

That strategy served me well. I held on to my pocketbook and found mostly warm, welcoming people on my visit to the predominantly Muslim nation just a 2 1/2-hour boat ride across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain.

The con artist in Djemma (the central square), however, proved to be more persistent than most.

The encounter lasted about 10 minutes. I would stop walking, saying, "I'm not going," and he would persist. At one point I even started walking back in the direction of the restaurant. Same thing.

Finally, I broke my own cardinal rule, raising my voice for all around to hear. I recalled one of the six words I know in Arabic, Morocco's official language.

"Imshi! (Go away!)" I hollered.

In an instant, the power of public pressure did for me what my powers of persuasion could not. The hustler, afraid of what nearby merchants might do to him for badgering a money-toting tourist, disappeared into the crowd.

The image of that encounter is but one small element in my mind's painting of Morocco.

Dominating the canvas are the images of smiling people who, it seemed, went out of their way to demonstrate that Moroccan hospitality is second to none, hustlers or no.

The country, which cast off the mantle of French colonialism to gain its independence in 1956, has been a center of commerce - both legitimate and illicit - since pre-Roman days.

The northern city of Tangier, long a haven for hustlers and the hashish trade, serves as the point of entry for most Western visitors. Fortunately, the train station - with frequent departures to points south - is just a short walk from the port.

While it's advisable at least to learn to say "excuse me" (SMEH-li), "please" (meen FAD-lik) and "thank you" (shokran) in Arabic, French is widely spoken and most people know at least a little English, German and/or Spanish. Unfortunately, those who speak the best English are likely to be street hustlers.

As do many Westerners, I had apprehensions about dealing with the culture shock of visiting an Islamic nation and dismissing hustlers.

Those fears were allayed somewhat by a conversation I had with four young women from New Zealand, whom I met in Seville, Spain, just before heading to to Tangier.

"We had plenty of hassles," one said of their five-day Moroccan adventure, "but we never felt physically threatened."

Another traveler advised, "Don't go there with any preconceived notions."

That, of course, would prove difficult. However, armed with my medium-sized backpack and a desire to experience something different, I forged ahead.

Some of my more memorable encounters:

-- In the northern coastal town of Asilah, a merchant greeted me in English and persuaded me to follow him through the white, maze-like medina (old town) to show me his shop, which was filled with rugs, leather goods, linens, etc. Later, I returned and was served tea ("No hashish!") and treated as an honored guest. I purchased a belt for 15 dirhams ($1.80).

-- While walking on a quiet residential street, I was approached by a girl perhaps 13 years old. She smiled. I smiled.

"Bonjour," I said, finally. "Parlez-vous francais?"

"Un peu," she said sweetly.

"Je suis Americain," I said. She seemed surprised.

She showed me a picture of herself and a friend, both wearing pretty Western-style dresses. She glanced across the street, where a group of her friends were standing in a doorway. The one on the left, she indicated, was the other girl in the picture.

"Ah, tres beau!" I said, motioning toward the picture. The four giggled profusely.

-- On a train from the capital city of Rabat to Marrakech, a middle-aged pathologist and I discussed the relative merits of Christianity and Islam. In halting English, he explained that humility and tolerance, not fanaticism, are the marks of a true Muslim.

-- At a street fair-like gathering in Marrakech's ville nouvelle (new town), not 30 minutes after my escape from the German-speaking hustler, a young man picked me out as a foreigner and shook my hand enthusiastically.

"You are welcome in Marrakech," he said. I believe his greeting was genuine.

-- While checking into the youth hostel in Marrakech, I asked how many other travelers would be staying there that night.

"You are the first one," replied the hostel warden, who was decked out in a djellabah, the Arab-style robe worn by many Moroccan men. Another young man, a British chap, arrived later in the day, making for a cozy gathering at the 60-bed hostel.

After my first foray into Marrakech's medina, Allal, the hostel warden, entered my room and propped himself up on the bed next to mine. We talked about the world, Morocco, America, for more than an hour.

-- In Asilah, I held up my skimpy running shorts and asked my hotel proprietor if he thought the townspeople would find it acceptable if I went for a run in them.

"Just those? Oh, no," he said emphatically. My longer, pocket-line walking shorts would be OK, he added.

During my seven-mile run, several locals actually cheered me on, saying, "Doing good, my friend," "Allez, allez!" (French for "Go, go!") and even, "Eh, David!" (one of the hustlers who had introduced himself to me earlier).

One young man, standing outside the red brick medina wall, issued a friendly challenge as I ran by.

"I am Said Aouita," he said, invoking the name of Morocco's national sports hero and multi-event world-record holder in the distance events. "I am going to beat you! We will do it tomorrow - together."

Amen brother, I thought. Amen.

IF YOU GO

-- For information on traveling to Morocco, contact the Moroccan National Tourist Office, 20 East 46th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10017. Phone 1-212-557-2520.