"Did anyone else come to Morocco and leave with massive trust issues?"

A hostel-mate posed this question late one night after I had just arrived in Fes. My gut instinct was to write it off.

But I started to see where it was coming from and soon I couldn't shake the feeling either.

What was it about this country and the people that made me so uneasy?

A Quick Story

I've had some amazing interactions with Moroccans while traveling.

A few months ago, on the 1st anniversary of my friend Braylon's tragic death, I was walking down the street in Nice, France when I stopped to listen to a street performer singing See You Again by Charlie Puth.

At that moment, I missed Braylon so much. I started silently crying, letting out emotions that had been bottled up the entire day.

I'll never forget what happened next.

Two guys came up and gave me a hug. They didn't ask what was wrong. They just wanted to show sympathy.

I later found out they were from Morocco.

The Moroccans that I've met over the years have been some of the kindest, happiest people. Thus, I came to their country with super high hopes.

An Act?

When I arrived in Fes, the cultural capital of Morocco, I couldn't find my hostel in its narrow, winding streets.

Unknowingly, it was about 50 feet in front of me.

Three Moroccan guys who were on the street saw my confusion and asked, "Are you looking for Riad Verus?"

I was.

"I'll show you where it is," they said. We started down the path for about 10 seconds. Then, right in front of us, a fight broke out between 2 other people.

I could tell it was a playful fight between friends–nothing about the situation indicated otherwise. But suddenly, the guys walking me to my hostel took off running in the direction we came from.

"Run bro!" they told me, "Book another hostel!"

I was so confused. Had I just completely misread the situation?

I cautiously inched my way towards the fight, which had already abated, and passed the guys on the narrow street. They apologized to me and I reached the hostel safely, but utterly perplexed.

Was the entire thing an act? Or just a coincidence?

My trust issues were just getting started.

The Guys at 7/11

If you go to the United States, the last people you'd want to interact with for a true experience are the guys hanging out at the local 7/11.

Likewise, these "7/11 guys" are a dime a dozen in the medinas in Morocco. They're harmless but I found my time in the country defined by frustrating interactions with them.

"That way is closed," they would tell me, as I walked down a street that turned out to be very much open.

"The medina is the other way," I would hear, as I continued down my pre-planned route, making it to the medina as expected.

The worst was the "My friend" guys. Whenever someone started a sentence with "My friend..." I knew they were about to fake befriend me to later ask for money.

Only after a couple days did I learn that the way to deal with these people was to completely ignore them. My problem was that I politely declined anything they said. Apparently, being polite was their invitation to follow up and continue to harass me.

Sigh...

Fight for my Life

I'm used to haggling with street vendors for prices from my time in Southeast Asia.

I've grown to love the negotiation. It's all in good fun and the prices for things are so low that it's more entertainment than anything else.

Until I came to Morocco.

Here, each negotiation felt like a fight for my life. Vendors start you at 2-3x the "tourist price" for everything, so when you feel good and work them down to half their initial offer, you're still paying double what locals pay.

For a haircut, I solicited two different barbers, one who started me at 130 DH ($13), and another who started at 80 DH ($8). I worked the 80DH guy down to 40 DH ($4), which I was happy with, but then I saw online that locals pay 20 DH.

That was the reality of every negotiation.

The low point was when I found myself negotiating the price of a bottle of water. I couldn't believe that my life had come to a point where I had to fight for my right to drink water.

In the end, I overpaid for that too.

The final price was never the issue.

The issue was in the treatment. As if it was obvious I was foreign and that was an excuse to exploit me.

It also made every decision all about money, even if I was spending $5 or less. Because of that, I was less excited to spend on anything but essentials.

Like bottled water.

Lol.

Good Moments

Not everyone was this bad.

A guy in Tangier saw that I was actually going the wrong way and stopped to give me directions and advice on dealing with hagglers (clearly I didn't listen well enough).

A man on my train from Fes to Marrakech bought me coffee as a welcome to Morocco.

Through a mutual connection, I met two people who showed me some great hospitality for 36 hours in the Atlas Mountains.

Not to mention the countless Moroccans I've met outside of the country who I've had nothing but good interactions with.

Unfortunately, I let those small interactions, mostly in Fes and Marrakech overwrite all of that.

I feel frustrated with myself that I let that define my experience. But as I recounted these stories to a friend he told me, "That's Morocco. You either love it or you hate it."

Unfortunately, it wasn't my favorite.