Right of Passage

Begging, as we’ve mentioned before, is pretty pervasive in Morocco. It is also very polite, with an outstretched hand accompanied by a request. The request is mumbled, as the supplicant hand clearly signals intent, and as the beggar understands his Arabic to be meaningless to the listener. Occasionally, a refusal is countered by a counter-request for a demi-dihram, and something about Allah – presumably that he will bless the giver. The language barrier eliminates remarks encountered on the streets of New York or LA like, “Spare a million bucks, Mister?” or “I’m not gonna lie to you – I want a drink.” Anyway, while the poverty is widespread, it’s not scary.

Children are the main exception to this, and we’ve found ourselves unnerved, we’re embarrassed to say, by kids as young as four. The riad where we’re staying is three short streets removed from a “major” street, and each right angle squares us deeper into a quiet residential neighborhood. Neighbors smile and greet us in French. At one intersection, groups of kids kick a small soccer ball around the dusty street, or sell candy (generally past its sell-by date). One eleven-year-old boy hollered out as we passed, “Vous etes charmants, commes the a la menthe,” and we weren’t quite sure if this was an insult as we’re both quite fond of the a la menthe.

Our efforts to be invisible – two hulking Americans with shiny Nikes – were unsuccessful, and our polite refusals to buy candy were greeted with huffy resentment. The tension grew each time we passed, and kids would occasionally tug at our arms asking for money. Returning home one afternoon (with the camera and oversized lens around my neck rather than in the camera bag), we looked even more like rich tourists than usual, and were swarmed by the kids, who aggressively grabbed at the camera. We told them “no,” and as we quickened our pace to the house, one girl and a couple little boys lay chase, pelting us with stones.



What are you meant to do in this situation? The girl was perhaps ten, the boys no more than six, but the escalation was swift, and we wondered what came after rocks. Hamoud blamed bad parenting, and told us we should hit one of the kids, whichever one was closest. Word would get around that we were tough, he reasoned, and we’d be left alone. As much as we trust Hamoud’s advice on almost all counts, it seemed pretty unlikely that we’d hit someone else’s 8-year-old and go on about our day.

Push came to quite literal shove, though, as I returned home with a box full of pastries from Patisserie des Prince for our first dinner party. When three or four boys lunged for the box trying to get at what was inside, I shoved back, sending a startled boy against the wall. The others stood there, jaws dropped, as I took the precious pastries home. Barbaric or pragmatic? We’re still not sure, but for the next three days the rapscallions leave us alone.

Scurrying home in the waning dusk yesterday, I rounded the corner to find perhaps ten of the usual suspects packed together in the middle of the street, voices raised. They saw me coming and shouted, “Monsieur, Monsier!” Fearing our détente had passed, I steeled myself to run the gauntlet, but instead of grabbing at my groceries, they thrust a piece of paper in my face.

“Le poisson d’or etait peche par the vieux.” Fingers pointed at the sentence and I found myself drawn into a debate between the most vocal girl and a wiry boy in shorts about how to reconstruct the sentence in the active rather than passive voice. A bit of end-of-year French homework, it turns out. I offered my advice, pleasing the boy and infuriating the girl, and continued down the street leaving their din in my wake.