In Chefchaouen after some new adventures on the way here. Spent last night in the city of Sale, basically a suburb of Rabat that is separated from the capital city by a wide, tidal river. There is actually a campsite there, which is rather strange given that one can quite clearly see the downtown skyline from it. But the decision to camp here turned out to be a good one, with the exception of a minor incident in the beginning of the evening. After arriving at the campsite, I walked towards the very small stretch of sand that is Sale's beach to get a bite to eat. As I debate between the options- chicken or kefta (I opt for the latter)- a youngish, clean-shaven Moroccan man looking like he's nearing 30 approaches me. Now having lived in Morocco for almost a half-year at this point, I've developed a rather acute sixth sense for people in this country. There are the friendly, inquisitive type who simply want to practice their English and genuinely welcome me to their country, and then there are those who hide behind the veneer of whole-heartedly welcoming me to their country while concurrently scheming to rip me off for all I am worth. Even with the first glance out of the corner of my eye, I could tell right away that this guy was in the latter category. Here is the dialogue that followed...

 

drunk man: hello, how are you? (this kind of forwardness in Morocco often means that ulterior motives are involved- but for now I decide to roll with it anyways. No real reason to be rude just yet).

 

me: (sighing ever so slightly but not noticeably so) Everything is well. And you?

 

drunk man: My father owns this cafe. (that was about all I understood from our entire 7 or 8-minute dialogue. What followed was mostly garbled speech as far as I could tell but he was at least coherent enough at times

for me to know that he's a sketchy bastard).

 

me: oh...okay...

 

drunk man: I am drunk and have been drinking all day.

 

me: (having already gotten a whiff of his odorous breath and seeing him stagger slightly) Yes, I know.

 

drunk man: (proceeding to interrupt me as I order my 20-dirham sandwich) It costs 30 dirham.

 

drunk man: sit with me in the cafe. (I am getting rather fed up at this point but, perhaps because of the beautiful sunset over the ocean underway at that very moment and my subsequent good mood, somewhat half-heartedly accept his offer)

 

me: okay.

 

drunk man: buy me a sandwich.

 

me: (now the sun has just set and I'm angry) speaking in audible Arabic to make my point clear I will not buy you a sandwich. And tell me, why did you tell me that the sandwich would cost 30 dirham. Even 20 dirham was too much.

 

drunk man: 10 dirhams would have been for the fries as well.

 

me: fries are never more than 5 dirham in Morocco no matter where you go. (I get up, offer up a firm ma'a salaama, and turn to quickly walk away as a bewildered waiter approaches and probably wondered what the heck was going on)

 

Unfortunately, interactions like this are not uncommon for me in Morocco. To be fair, however, neither are the positive interactions I have on most days. But unfortunately, the lasting impressions of the latter are often stronger. This country continues to amaze me everyday. Sometimes in good ways, sometimes not. But there's certainly never a dull moment to be had.