Morocco
I am sitting in a Moroccan café in Tangiers, sipping coffee that startles my taste buds and makes my eyes bulge.
It’s a little café and bakery with an upstairs seating area.
The tables are filled with families, sharing food, laughing, with the restless children coming and going from the table.
A few stop and look up at me, curious about the lone white foreigner in their midst, but are quickly called back by their parents.
The parents don’t want their children to disturb me, but I don’t mind.
I feel at peace in this space, reflecting on what it means to be a white male traveler in this city.
Yesterday, I was accosted three times by men demanding money.
Along the beach, a man just walked up to me, put his arm around my shoulders and demanded money.
Unsure if he was armed, I shoved him away, asked him not to touch me, but when he started toward me again demanding money, I prepared to fight, after which he backed off.
In early afternoon, stepping out of a little convenience store, a young man followed me all the way down the street demanding money.
After simply saying no a few times, I found it difficult to bear the harassment afterward, and eventually just stepped into a shop to get away from it.
I suspect many people just give in to this annoying behaviour, which is probably why he does it.
Later, while sitting on a rock, nibbling on some food in a park filled with families, another young man stepped in front of me, demanded money, waved his hand annoyingly in front of my face so that I couldn’t bring food to my mouth.
He was impossible to ignore and only backed off when I stood and threatened him.
I shouldn’t be surprised by this behaviour.
It is clear I am privileged, coming from a comparatively wealthy country.
For many people who are struggling, I am just a wallet.
But not everyone in Tangiers is like that; indeed, I have met many people who only want to talk, to practice their English, or to promote their religion, or to excitedly talk about the attractions and beauty of their city and country.
And although I expected to be aggressively sold to in the narrow markets, it simply didn’t happen.
I experienced nothing but respect inside the ancient walls of the Kasbah of Tangiers.
As I finish my meal at this family-oriented café, I realize I am out of napkins.
I catch the eye of the woman at the next table, point to the napkin holder on her table, and she hands it over, smiling and greeting me in French.
