My daughter visited Marrakesh in the mid 80s.
To this day she says it was one of the worst experiences of her life.
On the same trip I met an American college student who was searching for his sister. She stayed outside the American Express office a minute while her brother went inside to get cash. When he went outside she had vanished.
The Moroccan police told him, “Forget it. She’s been sold.”
Its a rough world out there. I carried a set of nunchuks in my back pocket, a dagger belt buckle, and a hunting slingshot with ball bearings on that trip. The guys with daggers on their belts in the medina eyeballed the chuks , and I laughed at them as they retreated.
It helped that I was twice their size.
was it just the stares or the dirt?