Venturing into Morocco: a Warning Received During Prayer

  by Pringle Franklin

In merely two weeks, we’d be hitting the sandy ground in North Africa for our spring break. My brain was grappling with vexing questions: did the locals expect visiting women to wear a hijab, or head veil? Why did friends advise us to hire a chauffeur rather than simply rent a car and drive? Would road signs be written only in Arabic or would there be duplicate directions in French? How could one obtain Moroccan dirham in advance when the King forbids the currency from leaving the country? So much to understand.

Of course I was also worrying about safety. Among the French, Morocco is generally considered secure. To a lesser degree, so was Tunisia, until terrorists shot and killed 22 visitors at a popular museum in Tunis last month.

Perhaps the whole thing was a crazy idea; I had never thought about visiting Morocco (except at Disney’s Epcot), and now I had purchased four plane tickets to this strange North African land. How did this happen?

The germ seed for the adventure was planted when a French family with a luxurious villa in Morocco invited us to stay there. They wanted to swap abodes and spend a week at our home in Charleston. We’ve enjoyed more than 30 successful house swaps via a website called Home Exchange. I am a curious person who loves to travel to new places, so I was intrigued.

From Charleston, it takes about 15 hours and three planes to reach Morocco. Yet from Paris, Morocco is a 3-hour direct plane ride away. With a very attractive and free place to stay, how could we say no? As long the climate was safe, there would never be a better time to go.

I discussed it with our French hosts, who recently moved back to France after living in El Jadida on the Atlantic Coast for seven years. They assured me that Morocco welcomes foreigners and protects its local Christian and Jewish communities. Morocco was once a quasi colony of France; tens of thousands of the French still live in Marrakech while others flock there for a cheap holiday.

His majesty Mohammed VI maintains tight security and is pro-western; giant posters of a smiling Mohammed VI, wearing an expensive black business suit, grace the walls of virtually every shop in the land. The king knows that his Moroccan economy thirsts for the continual supply of liquid cash from European tourists.

After weighing all the factors, Sam and I decided to go. The trendy villa had a garden with citrus trees, a small pool, and a housekeeper who would shop and cook for us. We planned to roll into the villa toward the end of our journey. We’d start by wandering around Morocco and seeing some of the general highlights.

But Morocco is a large country with distinctive regions. What were the top highlights we should cover? I tried reading several guidebooks, but it was too much information to absorb. I found myself simply gazing at the exotic pictures of tiled courtyards and crowded market places teaming with dark-skinned men in robes. Everything felt so confusing. I didn’t have a concept of the geography, the road systems, the customs, or the history. Nothing factual was sticking to my brain.

Just Relax

My husband was pressuring me to create a detailed dossier of plans for each day. We take turns organizing trips, and this one was mine. I sought advice from Paul, one of my American friends in Paris, who recently spent a magical long-weekend there with his wife and young son. Paul said he hadn’t stressed by over-planning; he had booked into one of the all-inclusive resorts in Marrakech. In a throw back to Colonial days, Marrakech is set up to please.

You can go and stay in a cushy hotel, do the spa thing, do the pool thing, eat your fill at the enormous buffets. The weather is sunny, the Casablanca-brewed beer is tasty, the overall price is cheap, and the locals are eager to accommodate — you can see the attraction.

Paul’s hotel  had a romantic rooftop bar where one could see the twinkling lights of the city. Not a bad gig; we could begin that way. But after a few days of 5-star cocooning, I knew I would want to explore, to get my feet dusty in the souk, to bite off a spicy piece of Morocco and slowly chew it. We would start by exploring Marrakech.

“Get a guide to protect you when you go into the Medina,” kept coming up as a general rule of thumb from friends. What’s the Medina, you might ask? And why would one need protection? Until recently, I wasn’t sure and now, the unforgettable smells and images of that place have been burned into my memory.

What’s the Medina? 

Picture massive adobe walls where mysterious key-hole shaped doorways lead to narrow passages that wind confusingly through the ancient city. Although the camels and donkeys are kept out of the Medina, the aroma of dried animal dung blows in from time to time. Stray cats slink around everywhere; a skinny black one was munching the bones of a fish carcass, picking the head clean. In an open doorway, a butterscotch mama used her mouth to drag her kitten by the scruff of its neck; apparently she was carrying him off to bed while the tiny thing mewed loudly in protest. In every corner, animals, insects, rodents or people hovered, watching us from the shadows as we passed.

I felt off balance; there was no obvious order to the flow. Men in coarse, zip-up robes with pointed hoods wandered around, their brown, wrinkled feet stuffed inside humble leather slippers covered with a veneer of dust. Street vendors cried out and beckoned, hoping to sell crystalized apricots, figs, or dates while swarming bees crawled all over the sugared fruit.

Perhaps you’d rather try a skewer from one of the many  smoking grills — are they cooking chicken? Beef? Or camel? They certainly aren’t hawking pork in this Muslim country, but as a tourist, that’s about all you can be sure of. “Don’t eat the hamburgers,” several of our guides warned us, shooting us dire looks. By the end of our trip, we discovered that when the locals want ground beef, they choose their cut of beef from a trusted Halal butcher and watch him grind it. Otherwise, who knows?

Besides cumin-spiced, sugar-laden food, the biggest attraction in the Medina is the byzantine souk — endlessly repetitive shops with too many hustlers waving you over to inspect the same crafts — colorful pottery, glittery jewelry, hand-carved wooden boxes, hide and leather goods, including the ubiquitous slippers which smell like they’ve been tanned with camel urine — all hanging from hooks or ropes in tiny stalls. This is an over-stimulating melee where a smattering of swaying cobras and dozens of performing monkeys are part of the chaotic mix.

Without a guide, it is open season on the foreign tourists and their stash of cash; everyone will try to lure you into some place or situation — come to my uncle’s carpet shop, good prices — that will magically line their pockets with thousands of your dirhams (100 dirhams is about 10 dollars).

“Kangaroo?” one jewelry vendor called out at me as I walked by. “Australia?” I shook my head and kept moving. Don’t make eye contact or you’ll encourage their advances. Even if you want to buy a leather satchel or a Berber carpet, you need someone knowledgable to take you to a reputable dealer. Ignorance makes tourists an easy target for a scam. Before our trip, I had a realistic sense of our vulnerability; If only I had someone there on the ground to help me. But who?

Figure Out Our Itinerary!

We would need a trustworthy driver and guide. But I had no inkling how to go about vetting them from afar.

“Your hotel will arrange all of that for you when you get there,” a recent traveler had told me. But Sam doesn’t enjoy flying by the seat of his pants. Whether choosing a restaurant or purchasing a new cell phone, Sam tends to over analyze. I honestly felt like my husband expected me to obtain a PHD in Moroccan Studies in order to plan this trip.

Luckily, an Australian friend living in Paris had shared a nifty website with me, i-escape, where he had booked a night in a funky guest house in the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains. Based on Pat’s recommendation, I decided to sign up for two nights at Douar Samra (the name means brown village in Berber). We would travel 90 minutes to get there by car after Marrakech. Going rustic would probably be appealing after a few days in the rabbit warren of the Medina.

But I still needed a guide for the big city. I poked around the i-escape website and found a recommendation. I-escape worked with only one tour company, a veteran outfitter at arranging mountain treks, camel rides through the Sahara, or guided tours of the cities.

Bingo!

Immediately I sent a message to the featured tour company; within hours, I had received a promising reply in flawless English. The outfitter would be delighted to assist us. Their representative, Rachid, asked if I would mind giving him my personal email so that we could communicate more easily. Looking back, I realize this should have raised some level of concern, but it did not because I trusted the i-escape endorsement.

Once he had my email, Rachid quoted me a price of $800 for a full day’s tour of Marrakech; they would take four of us to a dozen of the top tourist sites — the royal tombs, the palaces, the gardens, the Madrasa, the Medina — and even throw in lunch. Naturally, my husband objected to that hefty price. When I asked via email for a family discount, Rachid quickly replied that he would reduce our price to $560. (This was my introduction to Moroccan bartering; never pay the asking price.)

I hoped the large discount would mollify my husband. It was still expensive but I figured that must be the going rate. Rachid said he would meet us in the lobby of our Marrakech hotel at 8 p.m. the night before our tour; that way, he could answer any questions and collect the 560 euros or 5,600 dirhams. Expecting cash in advance struck me as a bit grabby, but I didn’t dwell on it. Time was running out, and I was busy.

As a bonus, we were starting the trip with three days in Venice, Italy, and I was arranging final details, packing, cleaning the house, etc., before we left. I couldn’t spend every waking minute obsessing over the minutia of Morocco.

A Dark Cloud Appears

It happened the day before we flew to Morocco. While in Venice, I received a confusing email from what appeared to be Rachid’s tour company: why I had never replied to their email about proposed tours? That was odd. I wrote back and told them about our plans with Rachid. A half hour later, they replied: no one named Rachid worked for them. But instead of offering any clarity, they pressed the point: would I like to buy one of their tours?

I looked back at Rachid’s email and now noticed hat his tour company had a different name from the one listed on the i-escape website. Why had two competing groups responded? Had someone hacked into the emails and answered on behalf of a false company? Feeling shaky, I sent a message to i-escape and asked for clarification: which of these companies had they actually recommended?

Someone named Ben replied on behalf  of i-escape. Ben said Rachid’s company was in fact their preferred vendor. That made me feel better. Then I thought: if someone has hacked the system, how do I know if Ben is even who he says he is? Suddenly, I was not so trusting. Rachid had set things up so that I was vulnerable to fraud. I dashed off an email and told him I would prefer to pay at the start of the tour rather than the night prior. Amazingly, Rachid answered within about 3 minutes. No problem, he said. He would meet us at the start of the tour to collect the money and introduce us to the guide.

Well, that was easy. I wanted to feel better, but I didn’t. It was still bothering me that two different companies had answered my email. Somewhere, something was wrong.

It was a sunny spring day; we were wandering the back streets and canals of Venice, and I was handling these nerve-wracking communications on my phone. I sent a hasty email back to Ben and mentioned Rachid’s arrangement of paying in cash, in advance. Was that typical?

In a few hours, Ben wrote back and said no, that was not the i-escape policy. All tours were to be booked via their web-site, with a deposit paid on a credit card. The remainder could be paid at the time of service. However, if you are communicating with a vendor outside of our system, we have no way of knowing what may be occurring, he wrote.

Apparently Rachid had intentionally led me away from the i-escape umbrella. Sam and I discussed it: Rachid was cutting out the middle man to make more money. Now that we weren’t paying in advance, there was little danger of our tour being a scam; I pushed any doubt to the back of my mind. In some way, I felt obligated. I don’t like canceling things at the last minute. And it wasn’t as if I had time to plan other arrangements. We were watching a gondola glide past in the canal while eating gelato; mine was two scoops: pistachio and strawberry, and I intended to enjoy every last lick.

Up Before the Birds

The next morning, we had to take the 4:15 a.m. airport shuttle from our hotel because the next one would cut things too close. Normally, I spend time in the morning devoted to prayer, but it was just too darn early to manage. We arrived at the Marco Polo airport about three hours before our flight, feeling groggy and grumpy.

At the airport, the signs were in Italian and English. One overhead sign said arrivals, toilets, and prayer room. Prayer room? They have a room for people who wish to pray? Perhaps I did not have to miss my habitual meeting with God.

This morning time with God is not a duty but a pleasure. When I sit down and open my heart to him, I feel like a thirsty man who has just tasted a glass of water; I feel like a tired man who has just removed a heavy backpack; I feel like a homesick traveler who has just found himself wrapped in his mother or father’s adoring embrace. I crave this connection to my Creator. Often, it is the best time of my day. And, the equilibrium and perspective that I gain will invariably help me cope with whatever arises in the day ahead. In other words, I become less cranky and more patient.

Lead the Way!

I followed the sign toward the prayer room, but I could not find it. I walked back and forth along the corridor, searching every doorway and peeking down every turn. No luck! Like a hound with his nose to the ground, obsessively tracking a rabbit, I was not keen on giving up. That prayer room was here somewhere.

I retraced my steps to the overhead sign in the main departures hall and stood there studying it, trying to decipher which direction it was indicating. Just then, a tall man in a janitorial uniform came through a back doorway and was heading toward me. I waved to get his attention and then tried saying the Italian words as written on the sign: “Stanza di preghiera?”

He looked puzzled, shook his head, and replied in his native tongue that he did not speak English. Obviously, even though I was saying the correct words, I was pronouncing them poorly. My improvised Italian sounded so Anglo that this man could not even recognize it as his own language. I glanced at the sign, pointed, and repeated again, trying to give it more Mediterranean gusto: “Stanza di preghiera?”

The light of comprehension spread across his tanned face, and he smiled. He pointed upstairs and mentioned the number tre (three). He took a few steps forward and gestured toward an elevator around the corner. I thanked him and happily scuttled away. No wonder I could not find it. The prayer room wasn’t even on this level. How was a person supposed to figure that out? When at last I reached the third floor, it was almost too quiet. The hallway was full of administrative offices which were vacant at 5 a.m. I felt like a trespasser until I saw another sign pointing toward an open door: “Stanza di preghiera.”

I peeked inside the room. A large Oriental carpet with red and blue tones led toward a lectern holding a hefty Bible — in Italian. However, there was also a lectionary nearby, and it was in English. I picked up the book and took a seat. I sat there, looking at a modernized crucifix featuring an impressionistic but anguished Jesus. A red light in the shape of a flame represented the Holy Spirit. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create this dedicated space for communion with God.

The room was completely private. I began reading the day’s designated verses from Acts 10: “Do not call unclean what God has called clean,” God told Peter in a vision while Peter was sitting on a rooftop in prayer in Joppa. While Peter was pondering the vision, two gentile men showed up unexpectedly at the house and asked Peter to come with them to visit Cornelius, a complete stranger. Peter connected the men’s request to his vision; bravely, he obeyed God. That day, Peter first took the gospel beyond the traditional limits of the Jewish people.

While I did not realize it at the time, this passage would return to me in a surprising twist in Morocco. At the moment, I closed my eyes and began to pray. There is a rhythm to prayer, and it starts with praising God and acknowledging his greatness. Next, my mind turns to the business at hand, depending on the day. I began to ponder the passage about Peter. I was struck by the insight that Cornelius had shared his conversion with his entire household, and yet I had neglected to maintain a daily devotional time with our family.

We always mean to, but things get in the way, and after awhile, we forget, and when we do remember, the children resist. Now I was confessing to God that in absent-mindedly abandoning this habit, I had been withholding spiritual food from my family.

Someone Warned Me

I was intently focused on the idea of renewing our family Bible readings when someone from the spirit world interrupted me. Usually when I receive a nudge from God, I sense, that is the Holy Spirit.

This time, the personality felt different — sent by God, but not God. The envoy got straight to the point. It wasn’t so much that I heard him; he sent knowledge my way. And unlike when someone is speaking to me in French, I could easily understand every word.

I must face facts, he said: I had been given enough information to see that something was fishy about Rachid. I must do the logical thing and cancel.

Who was this messenger? Something about his conversational style reminded me of my father, who died in 2000. I am not claiming it was my father, but it sounded like his logical and sagacious way of speaking. Instinctively, I trusted the helpful presence. But, curious soul that I am, I wanted him to explain more about what was actually going on behind the scenes with Rachid.

No. That was not being offered. Instead, I understood that I had all the information that I needed. At some point when dealing with the supernatural, we are always required to take a leap of faith.

Yet I was resistant. Even though my gut confirmed the advice, I felt myself shrinking back from canceling. Why?

I searched my feelings and realized that I felt obligated to uphold my agreement. It’s part of my upbringing to feel guilty if I have to cancel something at the last minute. Yes, and yet, if I was completely  honest with myself, there was more…..what else was I feeling?

Fear! I was afraid of creating a potentially unpleasant confrontation. The spiritual being must have read my thoughts. I felt him say that I was not morally obligated to honor an agreement with someone shady. How true! I thought, almost laughing at my own myopia.  No one would blame me for escaping the talons of a thief. As for any nasty confrontation, I just couldn’t worry about that. When God directs, my job is to obey, not to overthink.

I understood what I needed to do. I prayed to God and said that I would cancel, in spite of my apprehensions. All I asked was that God would give me the right words to say. There, I was resolved.

Another Interruption

The next thing I knew, Sam was standing in the doorway of the prayer room, agitated with me for staying up there for so long. He lectured me about being selfish and not paying attention to the clock. It was time to go. (We still had more than an hour before the flight, but he was anxious to pass through security.)

There was no point in resisting; I simply got up and followed Sam through the door and back downstairs to the departure hall. Normally if Sam is bristling, the feeling is contagious. However, in this moment, I felt surrounded by a deep sense of peace. I understood that I had been blessed by the protective and loving presence of my Heavenly Father.  I understood that I would have been left open to some unknown danger had I not taken time to sit and clear my mind and pray.

After we passed through security to the gate, we had about 45 minutes before boarding. I pulled out my phone and picked up a signal. Now, do it now. Typing with ease and fluidity, I told Rachid that I had communicated about our payment arrangement with the i-escape team. They said it was irregular to pay in cash, in full, outside of their system. Therefore, I was releasing him and his company from any obligation to me.

Relief washed over me.

God had indeed given me the right words to say. How would Rachid respond? Perhaps he would defend his position and try to convince me to remain on his tour. Maybe he’d demand payment anyway. He had the name of our hotel; would he show up there and cause trouble? I checked my phone messages. In the past, Rachid had responded to my emails with rapidity. This time, he never even replied.

In the end, we wound up at our Marrakech hotel without any plans for tours or drivers. This was exactly what Sam had wished to avoid. And yet, Cherif, the very trustworthy and talented concierge at our Kenzi Manara Palace Hotel, was ready to assist. With ease, Cherif set us up with a car, driver, and guide for seeing the highlights of Marrakech. Except, it only cost $80 instead of $560. In fact, if my eyes had not been opened, Rachid’s group would have charged us 7-times the standard rate.

Naturally I was humbled and grateful for our narrow escape from being fleeced. Amazingly, there was still more to come, another major blessing from having listened to the inner guidance.

Part Two: Conversations with Abduhl