I'm reading a book right now about Moroccan storytelling, and I vaguely remember something about soldiers having their front teeth extracted when they joined the Moroccan army so they could be force fed if they ever got lock-jaw.
So does Christine (and they happen to match the bag she bought in Tanger too, which we've determined is the source of the cow manure smell that seems to be following us.
I contemplate leaving the tour group in Chechaouen, I don't have to be in Portugal for 3 more days and I'm flipping through my Lonely Planet to see what other towns I can visit before I have to catch a ferry back. But we finish shopping early enough to sit down for a drink and I decide it's better to catch the (already paid for!) bus ride back to Spain.
As soon as we've ordered our drinks, Christine realizes she's lost her camera. We think it's in one of the stalls we were shopping in so she runs off to see if she can find it. She remembers setting it down in one of the shops where we were trying on shoes.
When she goes back and asks the guy in the stall, he says he hasn't seen it. But he asks her if she smokes? She says "no," confused by the question, and moves onto the next shop.
Turns out, he thinks what he has is a packet of cigarettes (because its in a square case). After searching nearly every other shop in the medina, she goes back to the first stall.
By now he's opened the case and realized there's a camera inside. So this time when she asks about it, he suddenly recalls that, yes, he did come across a camera recently. He spins some tale about a little boy who stole it from her while she was shopping and sold it to him for 100 dirhams. He's willing to part with it if she can give him what he paid for it. Since she left her bag with me at the cafe, she promises to go get the money, and he hands over the camera (obviously not really knowing it's worth) and she runs back to get 10 Euros.
She comes back to the cafe and I'm ecstatic that she's got her camera back. As she quickly tries to tell me the story of what just happened, the helper to our tour guide walks by and asks what all the fuss is about.
We had one of these 'helpers' in every city we visited and they were always local men who seemed to know everyone and carry themselves with an air of being 'connected' ...in a mafia kind of way. They offer their services to 'protect' groups of tourists from thieves and pickpockets. Ours were usually charged with bringing up the rear, herding the tourists and picking up any stragglers. They aren't paid by the tour companies, but the idea is that if you make it through their city without having any of your belongings stolen, then they've done you a big favor and you owe them handsomely in return, so they make their money on fat tourists tips. It's almost as if they're saying, "look, if it weren't for me you would have had all your money stolen, so you might as well throw me a bone because I could just as easily have looked the other way while my friends robbed you blind."
Anyway, as you watch the video listen for the man yelling 'hello!?' as Christine walks away to pay the 10 Euros. You'll see her turn around at the end. That's the helper guy...
So, Christine relays the story to the helper guy as well and he tells us that's outrageous that she should have to pay that much for her own camera (which we think is hilarious, because while it sucks she has to buy her own camera back, she's about to get it for about a tenth the cost of the actual camera...and that's if it was sold second hand.) So off they go together to sort this whole thing out and this is what happens when she comes back...
So turns out, she ended up paying 10 Euros anyway, except that 5 went to the shopkeeper and 5 went to the helper. If the helper hadn't come along to 'help' us poor damsels in distress she would have paid the same amount, but he wouldn't have gotten a cut. That's Morocco for you, but 10 Euros is a bargain when you consider that she might not have gotten it back at all!
Phew!
Now that things have settled down, we decide it's time for another lesson in Danish. So far I've learned the cards (clubs, hearts, spades and diamonds), 'I (don't) speak Danish,' and 'I'd like a beer please' which is really all you need to know should you find yourself in Denmark without a translator.
We finish our drinks and laugh about the insanity that just ensued. It's the perfect ending to our weekend jaunt in Morocco.
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