The problem with Morocco is the Moroccans.  There’s always one there if you need one; there’s always one there if you don’t.  They’re not subtle about it, either, following you up and down the street, offering their services as guides, translators, or whatever.  They get you what you want.  They’re good, too, speaking three or four languages complete with street slang and most current usage.  These are not children, mind you, but grown men.  You’d think they’d have something better to do, but like free-lancers everywhere, I guess they don’t.  The guy in Tangier finally offered to get out of my life, for a price.  He knew my Achilles heel, and my sliding scale of morality.  It WAS good shit; I’ll have to admit.  I DO prefer blonde sometimes.  Why these guys can’t get real businesses with real tourists with real money, I don’t know.  Morocco DOES have some incredible scenery after all, straight out of the Bible, with tourists clustered in only a few places.  I guess what they do somehow pays the bills.  Hey, work’s work.