WALKING ON THIN ICE

Thinking a lot lately about the beggars. It’s too easy for visitors to dismiss them as ’something that happens in countries like this’, to just see them as part of the scenery, to romanticize their position as cogs in the karmic wheel.

When a woman begs here, it seems typically stylistically different from a man’s manner. There are scores of old women, who hood their eyes under their scarves, hold their hands out, shaking. Although in Essaouira they often meet my eye and smile.

There are young women with children. It’s distressing. One women coaxed a toddler to hold out her hand. The toddler laughed, bat her beautiful eyelashes and dark eyes at me. It is not my desire to put a coin in a child’s hand; it feels exploitative. But I have yet to train my automatic response to give the coin to the mother instead.

When I give someone money, I try to look them in the eye, say hello and let them know this is a gift from one human to another.

There are the young teens who loiter around the gates of the city. They ask for pocket money. “Please, Madame, I need money to eat.” Meanwhile, they have a decent haircut and new clothes and are obviously well fed.

Then there are the aggressive men. There’re a quantity who roam the streets, sometimes following us as we purchase produce for our meals.

In Marrakech, I favored a man who had deformed legs. He sprawled his legs to exhibit them for sympathy. Smith said he was faking it, but I don’t think so. Smith said, “He’s shameless. Displaying himself to get money.” But I thought about this and said, “Well, if he didn’t display himself, maybe he wouldn’t get enough money to survive. No one would know he wasn’t able-bodied. So he’s compelled to display himself.”

One week it was really really hot, and he sat out in the 90F or higher heat under the blazing sun without any obvious food or water or shade. I packed up some food and water for him. Smith wouldn’t let me bring it.

* * *

Yesterday we walked around before the beggars came on to the streets. Now it is apparent to us that most are professional, or are at the minimum not homeless. They are not on the streets until 7 a.m.

The blind man who sits at the gate Bab Marrakech: we saw him install himself into his slot. A man brought him there, and then he ran his wheelchair backwards against the wall. It was as though he was showing up for a job.

* * *

We are ever out of change. I try to keep a handful of dirhams in my right pocket, and it is never enough. It is depleted in just one brief trip in our neighborhood.

Smith feels that they are exploiting us, but I think it would be a sad occupation for someone to have to depend on others’ whims for a living. How awful it is that the most sympathy I feel is when I see the needy in degrading postures. They often sit against a filthy wall, on a filthy sidewalk. There is the smell of human and cat urine and the frequent human coprolite and spent food. I wonder if they try to appear more submissive to elicite more sympathy.

* * *

And there is our guide, who extorts a last hundred dirhams from us the day we leave Marrakech. We call him “Hamid” in the blog to protect his privacy.

We did not ask Hamid to help us; we gave him a goodbye the day before. Yet he waits outside our building until we leave, and then he tries to take our bags to the taxi. Smith grabs them back. “No, no, Hamid, I can carry. I can carry. We must carry our own bags.”

So he walks with us to the taxi. He says to me, “I have no food today.” I know this is a lie. He’s built an addition to his house with the money we’ve given him, and I also gave him all our food before we left, a substantial quantity.

I cannot call him a liar. I cannot refuse someone even when I know they are lying. He also knows I know he is lying. “We can give you 100 dirhams,” I say.

He seems disappointed with the amount, yet a Moroccan can live a good life on 2000 dirhams a month. He’s made 3000 dirhams or more from us already. Marrakech has been our most expensive city, and it is because of him.

We’re here for six more weeks. We cannot afford to meet another person like Hamid. He was getting so greedy. He constantly tried various ideas on us, even suggesting that we take a carriage around the city with him. We are loathe to do this. We only see white people in the carriages, and it seems so privileged.

He took us to a hammam one day. I wanted to go with his wife, and he could go with Smith. I offered to pay for massages for the four of us, a gesture of friendship and solidarity. But instead, he had his twenty-something son accompany Smith. Fortunately, the son only helped orient Smith in the hammam, and didn’t give him a massage. Smith is uncomfortable having someone he knows massage him. It was uncomfortable enough for him with the help he did get.

Exiting the hammam, Hamid paid his son 30 dirhams of our money for massaging Smith, though Smith did not receive this effort.

Another day, Smith mentioned that he has arthritis, that he aches all over. So Hamid very aggressively tried to convince Smith to buy a massage. He grabbed Smith’s leg, rubbed the skin. Smith said “No” adamantly enough for Hamid to get the message.