In Praise of Anonymity
Marrakech, but it could be any city in Morocco. Or just about anywhere in the touristed world, given minor changes to the script.
The man waves to me from where he’s trying to start his moped as I walk past on the sidewalk. I return the wave vaguely, turn back to looking straight ahead. At least he hasn’t actually stepped in front of me to block my path.
He does yell something though. I can’t quite catch it. It’s probably the wrong language for me anyway. Gives me an excuse to ignore him, keep walking.
I stop a minute later to peruse a newsstand. They have English-language magazines and newspapers here, a day or two old. I pick up yesterday’s Financial Times and begin reading the front page article. Suddenly he’s beside me on the sidewalk, off his moped, ready with the standard opener. Damn.
Français?
Non, I say.
Where are you from?
Je suis du Canada, I tell him because I have to.
Quebec?
Non. Canada Anglais. Toronto.
There are very few variations to this conversation, and I know them all because I have it ten or twenty times every day. It’s kind of impressive, actually. They have a canned response for every possible country of origin. I return to starting at the newspaper, wait for the next part.
I have a shop, he says in French. Of course. If I’d had my pack on he would have offered me a hotel instead.
A spice shop, in the medina.
Non merci, I say.
Do you want hash? Good quality. He leans in a little closer to say this.
My damn dreadlocks again.
Non merci, with a patience I do not feel.
Can you come to see my shop? Just to look. It’s not far. I take you with my moto.
I look him straight in the eye and say, non merci.
Ok, he says, and walks back to his bike.
I decide not to buy the Times and start off down the street again. At the next intersection he rides past slowly, turns and yells: do you want to ride with me?
They just don’t give up.
I don’t blame them. Tourists are money, and simple insistence does work, on anyone who’s still trying to foster international goodwill by showing how polite they can be. I can only imagine what it must be like to travel as a woman here. At least no one wants to fuck me.
