I Was Kidnapped in Morocco
Friday, May 9th, 2008Editor’s Note: All of us at Viator are thrilled to offer a small and growing collection of Morocco tours. The inaugural things to do focus in and around Marrakech. Over the next few weeks we’ll add Fes and other destinations throughout Morocco. As they say in Morocco, As-salam ʿleykum and welcome!
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| The road to Fes from Marrakech |
Do I remember my first visit to Morocco?
Let me put it this way — do you remember the first time you were run over by a bus? Dropped from a plane without a parachute? Locked in a room with a poisonous snake?
Yeah. I remember my first trip to Morocco.
I was 20 years old. I was doing my junior year abroad studying in Ireland and somehow — forgive me, if you haven’t already — I convinced two of my closest friends to include Morocco on our “around Europe in 4 weeks” backpacking odyssey that summer.
At the time Morocco was nothing more than an idea to me. A distant concept. A combination of Indiana Jones meets the Arabian Nights. I had never visited an Arab country before, let alone a Muslim country. Neither had my two friends. It was going to be an adventure.
And in the interest of making a very long story much shorter, here’s the abridged version of what happened. (If you want to read the full version, I’m afraid you must buy a very forgettable Lonely Planet travel literature title — you have been warned.)
It is hot
Three 20-year-olds arrive in Morocco by ferry from Spain. They immediately board a train — a 14-hour train — to Fes, 4th class. If you’ve never heard of 4th class, that’s the section of the train with chickens and goats, no glass in the windows, wooden benches, and certainly no tourists.
We had completely forgot to buy water and food. We had nothing to eat or drink. Literally. And it was hot, as in 115-degrees hot.
At some point the train stopped moving completely. We sat roasting, idle, unmoving, in the Moroccan sun. My friends probably said a few unrepeatable and mean things to me, but I don’t remember. All I can remember is the heat. The hot sun. Desert.
We are kidnapped
Towards dusk, a nice man started chatting us up. He spoke fluent English. He was charming. He found a few cans of soda for us. He showed us how to write our own names in Arabic. He was our hero.
He suggests that, rather than arrive in Fes around midnight, why not jump off the train at the next stop. There’s a small town, he can give us the address of a good hotel, we can spend the night and catch the morning train to Fes, refreshed.
Of course. How sensible. We’ll do it.
A series of confusing events follows. We get off the train. There is no town. It’s desolate. A man in sunglasses directing us into the back of a waiting Mercedes. The three of us looking at each other, what do we do? Man in the sunglasses is pushing us into the car now. We are speeding off. The man from the train is nowhere to be seen. But a police car — siren blazing — all of a sudden appears behind us, chasing us. The Mercedes we’re in sets a new land-speed record and we outrun the coppers. We’re not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Are the police on our side? What side? Who’s side?
Wait — what’s going on here?????
We meet our kidnapper’s mom
After a half-hour or so in the Mercedes — did I mention it was black with auto-locking doors, I kid you not — we pulled into a small town and are dumped in front of a house. Magically, the main from the train opens a door and welcomes us with a huge smile. I can’t prove he said the words, “welcome my friends!” But I would bet my left kidney that he did.
He leads us upstairs, ignoring all of our questions, and shows us a comfortable-looking room with three beds. He tells us to drop our bags, have some tea, freshen up — and that dinner will be served shortly.
Dinner?
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| This is not me. But I’m afraid I looked as silly as this guy. |
He then introduces us to his mother, who’s busy cooking and yet greets us with a friendly ear-to-ear smile like we are old friends or long lost children. And we meet two other ‘guests’, two American girls who’ve been here for nearly a week. They’re full of compliments and great stories about the week they’ve had.
Here’s how we summed up our situation. First, it seems we had been kidnapped from a Moroccan train. Second, it’s pretty likely we were chased by Moroccan police, but got away. Third, we’ve been taken to our kidnapper’s house, which is actually more like a bed and breakfast than a torture chamber. Fourth, his mom is a great cook. The lodging rates are good. Maybe we’ll stay here a while…
We have an amazing time in Morocco
After this admittedly rough start to our trip, Morocco continues to baffle us yet we have an amazing time anyway. Things I am proud of doing: exploring the souks in Fes and making friends with Morocco’s rabid soccer fans (this was during the ‘90 World Cup). Meeting some amazing people, eating some incredible food, and having a travel experience unlike any other in my life.
Things I am less proud of doing: accidentally stealing a Moroccan’s wallet and getting punched in the face. Being told that we would “fit in” better if wore the local dress — a jellaba — and then actually following that advice.
Since that first trip, I’ve been back to Morocco a few times. Each visit has been utterly unforgettable (in the best possible way). I’ve formed a deep attachment to Morocco, to the Moroccan people, and to sights and sounds of a country like no other I’ve visited.
I’m sure it’s hard to believe that this post is intended to be a full-throated endorsement of traveling to Morocco. Yet it is!
True, Morocco is not the easiest country in the world. And sure, you must learn to cope with any number of complexities and difficulties. No matter. If you’re contemplating a trip to Morocco, just go. I guarantee you will not regret it. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to get kidnapped by the same lovely family we were kidnapped by. If so, tell them hello from Scott and his friends.

























