Robyn’s Nest

Christmas in Morocco. Well, what can I say? When people ask how it was, I usually say “interesting” or “different”. It wasn’t the holiday we were expecting, put it that way. We thought we’d be sunbathing by day and partying by night. We did sunbathe, but there were no parties, no dancing and, amazingly, no hangovers - I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol while I was out there.

The reasons for this sedate holiday? Flu did play a big part in my desire for an early night but us trio of girlies needed to keep our wits about us - Moroccon men were lurking everywhere. From the minute we arrived at the airport we got stared at. We felt like a tourist attraction in our own right and the constant attention and hassle we got from sleazy and sweaty men was relentless and exhausting.

A 10 minute walk along the beach, for example, resulted in no less than 12 approaches from men, either wanting to sell us camel rides, bottles of wee (could have been perfume but I wouldn’t bet my life on it) or Moroccan kaftans for 30p, or just wanted to talk to us and look down our tops.

On teh first day we ventured out of the hotel to visit the cashpoint and five taxis stopped to offer us a lift, one of them reversing 100 metres down a main road to do so. We were just trying to cross the road!

So, after my festive experience in Agadir, Moroccan men are definitely off the menu, for the following reasons:

• Their chat up lines include shouting “fish and chips” at English girls as they walk by. I would never dream of shouting “couscous” to a Moroccan geezer - how immature!
• Their eyes bore into you where ever you go. Don’t they know it’s rude to stare?
• In England it is not a compliment to be told you’re worth 300 camels. It is in Morocco apparently.
• I’m not a fan of short men anyway, and most Moroccans are just that.
• A lot of guys could be seen wondering around wearing long gowns with pointy hoods. Say no more.
• Morocco is a very poor country but blokes, and women too for that matter, want tipping for everything. Helping someone reverse out of a tight space, taking a photo of someone’s donkey and cart and passing you a roll of toilet paper all require money to be handed over. Moroccans think English folk are loaded and expect us to throw money at them at every opportunity. Not an attractive quality.
• They get funny when you can’t understand their English. But when they say “don’t you like to be in the shit?”, they’re actually saying “don’t you like to be in the shade?” Amusing.
• They smell. Now I kinda like the whiff of a bloke who’s just worked his socks off on the volleyball court, but Moroccan guys just smell bad. All day long.
• They’ll try anything to convince you to spend time with them. Even the holiday rep tried it on. His persuasions included telling us he used to be manager of the hotel (whopping lie), he was from a very rich family, his friend was an estate agent, we were “very special people” and “he would never damage us”. Hmmm, I was almost tempted. NOT!
• They’re very childlike. When one of the hotel entertainers took a liking to my mate, he was distraught to learn she had a boyfriend back home. (She doesn’t - we thought it was safer to say she did.) He then refused to speak or make eye contact with her for the rest of the holiday. And when we chatted to some French guys at the bar one day, we were accused of having French boyfriends. Look pal, you don’t own us, we can talk to who we like.
• They’re very suspicious of journalists. I wasn’t sure they were going to let me into the country. We had to fill out cards on the plane which some serious looking dudes looked over at passport control. I was asked to write down the name of the newspaper I worked for and he was utterly confused when I said I worked for a university. You don’t have to work for a paper to be a journo you know!
• I could never date a man who drives a donkey and cart. There were a lot of them about.

Maybe I sound a bit snobbish, but Moroccan guys have made a lasting impression on me, and not a good one. They could easily have ruined our holiday because they wouldn’t leave us alone for one minute. I’m sure there are some lovely Moroccan chaps out there, I can only speak from my own personal experience. So, it’s so nice to be back home where I can walk down the street without attracting a single glance.

So, wanna hear the story about the near death coach journey, the Moroccan dentist and a man with two hedgehogs and a guinea pig in his bag? Tune in to tomorrow’s blog entry.