Globe Jotter

November 2009

I’d never hitchhiked before in my life; I’d always been too scared. The idea appealed to me, but I don’t trust people in the U.S. Too many ghost stories.

But Christian and I were stuck. We were at the mouth of Toudra Gorge in the south of Morocco. The blue petite-taxis that normally swarmed city streets hadn’t made it to this little part of the middle of nowhere. So we set down our heavy backpacks, stuck out our hands and flagged down a passing car. Just like that.

And so we learned the meaning of a Moroccan promise.

Ahmed was nice, he was talkative, he was open. Within moments of us sitting in his car he had invited us to join him on his journey from Ouarzazate to Agadir, where we could stay with him in his apartment. 

You might think this is unusual. But after living in the country of overbearing hospitality for three months, Christian and I were neither surprised nor alarmed that a man we had just met was inviting us to stay with his family. We were American; we were oddities; we were amusing and polite and interesting. We had money.

So we went to Ouarzazate, a city of film studios and kasbahs made of sand. Then we spent 9 hours on a bus to Agadir. A touristy, but sophisticated and peaceful beach city.

It was in Agadir we were stood up. After days of traveling with Ahmed—of him telling us about his place, his work, his excitement to house us—he had to stop by his office real quick. So Christian and I grabbed dinner and waited. He was late. We called. He told us he’d be there soon. He was late. We called. He told us he’d be there in a minute. He was late. We didn’t call. We finally understood. 

Once a Moroccan has said yes, he cannot say no.