An Unfortunate Riad
Riad: Morocco's version of a B&B. It's supposed to be a small, homey hotel that usually includes breakfast.
After a week in Spain with the parents, my sister, Steph, jumped the pond to meet us over in Madrid. She caught just a dreary-eyed, jet-lagged glimpse of the capital before Mom and Dad flew back home, and Steph and I took a plane over to Marrakech, Morocco.
We were both overcome with excitement at what would be (I think) our first alone-together (at least international) trip. We both ticked off another continent to our world travel map. Africa: check! What made the destination even better was that my French would come in handy even down here in Africa. (Side note to future travelers: many people who live in highly populated areas of Morocco speak at least a little bit of French. If you don't know Arabic and English doesn't seem to get you anywhere, pull out your rusty high-school French. You might be surprised!) However, whereas I had already done some parent-less , school-less, international traveling, Steph was a jittery novice. Sadly, our hotel choice did not ease her fears.
After balking at the high demands of the taxi drivers, Steph and I decided to take the bus to our riad. The driver, who spoke little French yet seemed to understand our every move--when we started to get up before our stop, he looked at us in his rear view mirror and shook his head--told us when to get off the bus and pointed us in the right direction.
We wandered through a large, dusty square full of locals buying and selling oranges and other market goods, and into an alley, all the while pleading for some street signs. We had the address, and we knew we were close, but we couldn't find our riad. Unfortunately, two young women carring large suitcases, wandering, confused, through a desert climate in black fleeces and black yoga pants drew some attention. Pretty soon we were surrounded by young boys (maybe around 13-15?) asking us if we needed any help. We tried to ignore them, but we were lost and bogged down by bags and sweat, so we eventually threw the most basic travel advice out the window and followed them.
I very quickly became--Steph already was--panicked, as I argued with these boys in agitated French. "It's just down here" they all called, pushing us forward. I yelled back that I knew it couldn't be as I had the address in my hand and we were rapidly moving away from the single digits, which was part of our address, and into higher numbers.
My fear dissipated as they pushed open the door to our riad. They had taken us the back (and super sketchy) way, but we were there nonetheless. Steph's fear, however, was only just beginning to mount.
I'll say this once, in big, bold letters, so you can remember: THINK TWICE ABOUT GIVING YOUR MONEY UP FRONT. Consider what country you're in, what venue you're at, and how much you're prepared to risk before you flash the green.
I learned a lot of travel lessons this past year, and this was one of them. Having always remembered my parents handing over their credit cards at the beginning of a hotel stay, I really didn't think too much about paying the proprietor upon check-in. The inside of the riad was fine; it was no Ritz, but I had stayed in much worse places in China. The room, however, was, for lack of a better term, sketchy. On the ground floor with bars on the windows and doors (so that people could see in) and a toilet situation that made squatty-potties in China look like golden thrones, this feeble, fly-infested room did not look like a place we wanted to leave our valuables hanging around in (since we clearly couldn't take them out around town, either) never mind snuggle into at the end of the day. I honestly don't know whether or not I would have decided to stay there if Steph hadn't been attempting to (unsuccessfully) cloak her panicked pleas in logic. Now was the tricky part: getting our money back and getting the hell out of there.
I put on my stern face, headed into the proprietor's "office" and tried to "reason" with him in French. Stating that the room was not what we paid for--in that it lacked certain amenities, such as wifi, that were supposed to be included in the price--we were not satisfied, and we wanted our money back. The man tried to make counter offers, including giving us free Internet access at the closest Internet cafe. After a lot of discussion, I knew I had to forfeit. We ended up getting back our deposit--10% of the full payment--in cash, and we left the rest of the money behind, deciding that safety and peace of mind were more important than a small sum of cash.
It was an unfortunate situation, but I think I took a lot away from it. Had we not ended up at our next hotel (not riad), we never would have enjoyed Marrakech like we did.
After a week in Spain with the parents, my sister, Steph, jumped the pond to meet us over in Madrid. She caught just a dreary-eyed, jet-lagged glimpse of the capital before Mom and Dad flew back home, and Steph and I took a plane over to Marrakech, Morocco.
We were both overcome with excitement at what would be (I think) our first alone-together (at least international) trip. We both ticked off another continent to our world travel map. Africa: check! What made the destination even better was that my French would come in handy even down here in Africa. (Side note to future travelers: many people who live in highly populated areas of Morocco speak at least a little bit of French. If you don't know Arabic and English doesn't seem to get you anywhere, pull out your rusty high-school French. You might be surprised!) However, whereas I had already done some parent-less , school-less, international traveling, Steph was a jittery novice. Sadly, our hotel choice did not ease her fears.
After balking at the high demands of the taxi drivers, Steph and I decided to take the bus to our riad. The driver, who spoke little French yet seemed to understand our every move--when we started to get up before our stop, he looked at us in his rear view mirror and shook his head--told us when to get off the bus and pointed us in the right direction.
We wandered through a large, dusty square full of locals buying and selling oranges and other market goods, and into an alley, all the while pleading for some street signs. We had the address, and we knew we were close, but we couldn't find our riad. Unfortunately, two young women carring large suitcases, wandering, confused, through a desert climate in black fleeces and black yoga pants drew some attention. Pretty soon we were surrounded by young boys (maybe around 13-15?) asking us if we needed any help. We tried to ignore them, but we were lost and bogged down by bags and sweat, so we eventually threw the most basic travel advice out the window and followed them.
I very quickly became--Steph already was--panicked, as I argued with these boys in agitated French. "It's just down here" they all called, pushing us forward. I yelled back that I knew it couldn't be as I had the address in my hand and we were rapidly moving away from the single digits, which was part of our address, and into higher numbers.
My fear dissipated as they pushed open the door to our riad. They had taken us the back (and super sketchy) way, but we were there nonetheless. Steph's fear, however, was only just beginning to mount.
I'll say this once, in big, bold letters, so you can remember: THINK TWICE ABOUT GIVING YOUR MONEY UP FRONT. Consider what country you're in, what venue you're at, and how much you're prepared to risk before you flash the green.
I learned a lot of travel lessons this past year, and this was one of them. Having always remembered my parents handing over their credit cards at the beginning of a hotel stay, I really didn't think too much about paying the proprietor upon check-in. The inside of the riad was fine; it was no Ritz, but I had stayed in much worse places in China. The room, however, was, for lack of a better term, sketchy. On the ground floor with bars on the windows and doors (so that people could see in) and a toilet situation that made squatty-potties in China look like golden thrones, this feeble, fly-infested room did not look like a place we wanted to leave our valuables hanging around in (since we clearly couldn't take them out around town, either) never mind snuggle into at the end of the day. I honestly don't know whether or not I would have decided to stay there if Steph hadn't been attempting to (unsuccessfully) cloak her panicked pleas in logic. Now was the tricky part: getting our money back and getting the hell out of there.
I put on my stern face, headed into the proprietor's "office" and tried to "reason" with him in French. Stating that the room was not what we paid for--in that it lacked certain amenities, such as wifi, that were supposed to be included in the price--we were not satisfied, and we wanted our money back. The man tried to make counter offers, including giving us free Internet access at the closest Internet cafe. After a lot of discussion, I knew I had to forfeit. We ended up getting back our deposit--10% of the full payment--in cash, and we left the rest of the money behind, deciding that safety and peace of mind were more important than a small sum of cash.
It was an unfortunate situation, but I think I took a lot away from it. Had we not ended up at our next hotel (not riad), we never would have enjoyed Marrakech like we did.
Lesson number 1...when traveling, something WILL go wrong...the trick is to learn from it and move on. You did well. Love the way you described this particular adventure.
ReplyDeleteI can't believe it has taken me this long to read these posts! I truly was panicked! You forgot to mention that the individual at the riad "paid" off the boys with what appeared to be a white powdery substance wrapped in plastic wrap when they brought us to the door! I had a lot of fun traveling with you and hearing you recounting our stories makes it even better! I laughed so hard at this and I was a little relieved to found out that you were slightly panicked too!
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