crabs

Let's gloss over the touristy crust (the casbah in Tangiers is gorgeous, especially its views of the sea) and cut to the juice--let's face it, you can read about most of this stuff elsewhere. Lonely Planet, however, still won't talk about my fantastical tales of nefarious taxi drivers and dark alleys, so you’ll have to read them here.

Nacer was to spend the first part of the day with us, then report to work at five sharp. He was already yesterday evening, so we didn’t want to put him out again. As a kind, loving, most generous local, he was not familiar with our style of traveling: always the adventure, never knowing what’s around the next corner.

Being the helpless white people that we look like, Nacer helped us find a grand taxi to Asilah (a town known for the artwork on the walls within the medina) after our huge lunch—no big deal, there’s a veritable parking lot full of million-mile Mercedes’, right? Seems that this time of year people want to go to Asilah, but they don’t want to come back to Tangiers, so the taxis just don’t drive to Asilah. We sat around and waited. And waited. Nacer kept us company. We finally gave in and called over one of Nacer’s many friends, Mohammed, and hired him to drive us. We took the scenic coastal route, and would you believe it? Yes, Nacer remained with us for the journey. We drove past jaw-dropping estates of rich emissaries, bankers, and drug dealers. We peered at the Atlantic  through the eye of Hercules’ caves. We drove past an area dotted with flashing red lights atop tall towers. Nacer explained it was once a French base, but is now an American base for “espionage.” I asked him what exactly he meant—I mean, if they’re spying, should it be public? He shrugged his shoulders, said he didn’t know what they do there. I guess not.

5:30pm, and we were in Asilah. Nacer shrugged off his tardiness: it was, after all, only 4pm Moroccan standard time… He (or rather, a guy he bumped into on the street) helped us look for an apartment (it’s all the rage these days to restore flats in the picturesque medina and rent them out to rich foreigners) for the night. After looking at three, I was content, and paid our “guide” for his services. Not so fast. Mohammed had called from the car: he ran into a friend, Zuber, and Zuber offered to put us up for free in a friend’s flat. Wow. I really didn’t know what to say to this complete stranger. Moreover, he was in charge of the fish consortium, and having noticed me eyeing the sizeable live crabs at a fishmonger’s stand, offered to arrange dinner.

Alas, the flat was not complete in its renovations. Myself, I could have stayed the night, but we wanted a real toilet seat (western toilet, but no seat) and hot water (not hooked up yet). I was mortified with the prospect of refusing Zuber’s most generous offer, but they all took it in great stride, with an air of understanding. Half an hour later we had moved into the first flat I liked. Even though it was nearly 8pm and his prospects for working that night were shot, Nacer wouldn’t agree to stay the night with us; he had class early the next morning. Goodbyes went around, complete with hugs and kisses.

Zuber would drive us to dinner, but not before some shopping. Mom spotted a couple of beautiful silver Chamsot (the Hebrew word for Hand of Fatima), they were solid silver and accordingly pricey for small gifts. Shiri upgraded to a new pair of shoes. Zuber went off to get the car, and minutes later, my phone rang. It was Nacer. The cryptic conversation went something like this: “Jonie, I forgot to tell you, don’t say you’re Jewish. I didn’t mention it, but it’s just not something to bring up in Asilah. Zuber called Mohammed and he asked about your religion after he saw what you were shopping for. Don’t worry about it, he was just being curious, it’s nothing to worry about. If he asks, tell him what I told him, that you’re just Americans.”

Needless to say, the drive to the restaurant was a bit awkward and definitely longer than we had expected. The redeeming moment was when Zuber unloaded our two crabs from the back of the van. We’d be eating well. Inside, we chose a couple of fish to supplement the crustaceans, and promptly got to work. Zuber force-fed us half of the lamb he ordered (he stays away from seafood whenever possible). The crabs were great, and we enjoyed the amazingly fresh fish in spite of their being overcooked. I can’t say I was surprised when he refused payment for the crabs, a preposterous gesture.

Tonight was Shiri and Ziva’s last night in Morocco, their return flights began in Casablanca, and it was time to settle on their transportation to the airport, 4-6 hours away. No sweat: take the train or find a grand taxi as a last resort. Mo helped me out, texting me the train schedules. Never simple when you’re short on time, there was a Mushkill: the only possible train was at 6:40am. The train was vetoed in favor of savoring a bit of the morning. I asked Zuber where to go the following morning to find a grand taxi. “Why didn’t you ask sooner!? We have to take care of it right away—they need to get permission from the police to go to Casablanca.” Oops. We drove around, to the pier to find his friend, back to his house to get a phone number, then to ‘a guy’s’ house. It was late. Too late—‘the guy’ was asleep and dead to the world. So we resorted to the grand taxi stand itself, and found a driver willing to make the trip—direct, no stops (I smiled and nodded, knowing I could more easily spring the stops on him during the trip). Signed, sealed, delivered. I felt terrible—Zuber was obviously exhausted. Despite being a complete stranger and weird about Jews, he had gone above and beyond for us.

Back at the flat, we finally got the chance to shower. I stepped out to get more minutes on my phone, and finding all the nearby shops closed, was at a loss. No worries, a big guy with a club in his hand was coming my way, and he looked like he might be able to help. No, really, I’m serious. He dawned a reflective fluorescent orange vest—uniform for the guardians charged with keeping the medina crime-free. Mohammed, as he was called, walked me out of the medina to a booth selling recharges, and all the way back to my place, meanwhile trying to make polite banter in FrAraSpish. This country never ceases to amaze.