I almost hate Morocco already.

I almost hate Morocco already.

It’s been two weeks since we’ve been in Morocco. That’s enough time to get some idea of the country, its people, culture and other things that make up the impression in general.

I can say at once that I do not love Morocco and it is unlikely that in the near future I will have the desire to visit this country again. Nevertheless, I am grateful to this trip for the fact that my mental horizon is cracking at the seams and resists, but still trying to accommodate and this world, so different from the usual civilized picture of life.

So, one thing at a time. I will start with the cities. If you look at the sightseeing lists of Fez, Marakech, Tangier and others, you will find numerous grand mosques, grand palaces, grand madrassahs and other grandes, in fact, of this you will see nothing! At most the front door with a bunch of beggars and halpers. And these comrades will try to supplement your “positive” emotions that will send you to hell if you do not get money from you.

What can you see in cities? You can walk through markets littered with dusty junk, you can see city walls pissed and littered to the brim with garbage, filthy cats (some decent ones), stinky medina streets, and sometimes parks and museums.

Do not be fooled by the latter. Guides and all kinds of articles about advertising will assure that these so-called museums are bursting with riches. It is impossible to take pictures in these museums, because nobody will go there, having seen those “countless treasures” behind the dusty, fly-infested showcases. The maximum you can photograph in these half-museums is a garden, if there is one.

By the way, about all kinds of articles. The other day we read a promotional article about Morocco, we laughed for a long time. “We suggest climbing the hills next door and taking pictures of the indigo Chefchaouen from above. This venture has the added bonus of meeting pastoral goats and Moroccan shepherds wearing hats with colored pompoms.” Yeah, pastoral goats covered in mud from hooves to ears, galloping dashingly through the cemetery, and a shepherd – heartily inhaling a joint while sitting on a gravestone. It’s romantic. But Sheffshawen’s indigo is really impressive, though by evening it becomes harder to see because of the marijuana haze that envelops everything and everyone. Not only “pastoral goats” will come to mind after that!

About people. Hm, hm, how to put it mildly … but why, the truth is the truth! In two weeks we met only ONE!!! positive character! It was the administrator of our riad in Tetuan. But this guy apparently fights back for all the other creeps we now deal with every day. There are only examples to follow.

Today we are in Marrakech. We are walking through the market, a Spanish girl is walking towards us, apparently a tourist, she is smoking. Then an inadequate Islamic in his head local rushes up to her, snatches a cigarette, immediately stomps on it and starts shouting that it is Ramadan!

“Fuck you” is the most innocuous thing you can hear yourself say when you refuse a handout to a beggar.

You buy water, it costs 9 dirhams, you serve 50, the change is 36, ahrenet arithmetic.

You walk around the medina, you’ll just get stoned by the bastards who want to help you get out / find / buy, of course, for a fee.

The hotel has no change, you owe 25 dirhams, you’ll get your brains screwed by everyone, from the security guard to the cleaning lady. Yeah, what if you run out in the night and don’t pay!

You walk down the street, women give you those arrogant looks, like goddesses… from the garbage heap. Yeah, I came and went, and you’ll stay here for the rest of your life. Oh, my God, you miserable people!

You’re crossing the street, a car stops and a fat Arab starts to greet you. “Ohhhh, Rushsha! I have a lot of friends in Russia…” followed by a text about what a great Rrashsha/Poland/Ukraine (underline), then he offers a tour of the city, a dinner at his house, but as soon as the fat Arab finds out that you are in town for the last hour and he can’t charge you money, the smile changes to a stony expression, “Bye” and the fat Arab leaves.

If you want to see the dye house, of course, immediately there is a man who for a modest fee of 100 dirhams will show and tell you everything. Bargain for 10, you think that’s all? Noooo, at the end he will ask for 20, okay 15! Today I was attacked by one, man, and how they got to me. I say you don’t want 10, you won’t get anything, so we turn around and leave. He catches up and asks me to give him at least 10. Well, of course!

No walk is complete without seeing scenes of one Arab wanting to smash another’s face in. And this in Ramadan! Ayyyy!

If you want to try Moroccan wine, fuck it, it’s Ramadan! How about some hashish? That’s okay, Allah doesn’t mind!

A separate article on photography! You point the lens, they start waving their claws, they piss me off! Damn, you cow, maybe I don’t need you at all, but who’s to blame for you pulling out when I want to take a picture of the street! Today, tourists photographed a man doing something there, paid him 20 dirhams. I can’t get a picture from the belly.

And in all this, I honestly do not understand where do thousands of positive reviews about this “miracle” country come from? Either people know how to get high from this fucking color? …Or hashish?)

Anyway, okay, we’ll see what happens next!

PS: Don’t judge by the pictures, of course I won’t photograph piles of garbage and homeless people, believe me, it’s not the most pleasant thing to do.

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