Have you ever gotten food stuck in your throat? You’re not choking. You can still breathe. But the food won’t go down despite repeated swallowing.
This happened to me on the way from Madrid to Marrakech. I consumed a bunch of Lindt chocolate squares with nuts on the flight to Casablanca, and a few minutes later (on the train from Casablanca to Marrakech) I felt something in my throat.
For some reason, I convinced myself that I was having an allergic reaction to the nuts and that my throat was closing up. I’m not sure why I came to this conclusion. I’ve never had an allergic reaction to food. Yet I became sure that I was going to die on the train to Marrakech.
What made it worse was that I was dehydrated and crammed into a train cabin with seven adults.
Finally, I closed my eyes, leaned against the wall of the rocking train, and started meditating. It was the only thing I could think to do. After 20 minutes I realized that the “swelling” in my throat hadn’t gotten worse. It hadn’t gotten better, either, but I’ve heard that food allergies can kill a person in minutes. If I was still alive after 20, I must be in the clear.
Upon arrival in Marrakech, I went looking for my hostel. The piece of nut was still wedged in my throat and I had a dehydration-induced headache. But I no longer cared. I’d made it one hour across the Atlantic Ocean by plane, braved customs in Casablanca, and survived a four-hour train ride across the north African desert (despite a supposed nut allergy). I wanted to shed my dusty clothes and perform a naked jig in the crowded streets.
As per the directions on the Internet, I found Jemaa El-Fna Square and headed down a side street to the left of Cafe Angora. I navigated a maze of winding streets. After several minutes, I came to an opening where the road split, and I was not sure which direction to take (though I knew that I was less than 200 meters from my destination).
At that moment, Dum Dum materialized. He asked me where I was headed and I told him the name of my hostel. He motioned for me to follow him down one of the streets and I did, even though I knew he was going to demand money. Some 200 meters later, we arrived.
As expected, Dum Dum then besieged me for a tip and I pulled out 15 dirham, the equivalent to two dollars (or roughly the cost of one can of Coke). I rang the buzzer of my hostel and the staff showed me inside. Dum Dum walked in behind me and stood in the entryway demanding more loot. Are you kidding me? If I was back in America, a can of Coke would be more than adequate for escorting someone 200 meters. I could feel the dehydration-induced headache returning, and I was in no mood to fuck around.
I turned and faced Dum Dum. He was a weasly-looking fellow who could not have weighed more than a buck twenty. I could feel my fists clenching and I had to restrain myself from charging Dum Dum and wrapping my hands around his throat. “Thank you for the favor,” I said, icily.
Dum Dum was in a tizzy. “But, but, but, this is nothing,” he moaned.
“Thank you for the favor,” I repeated.
“No, no, no, no, take your money,” he said.
It took every ounce of energy not to resort to violence. I looked at Dum Dum and said in a firm voice, “Go buy yourself a Coke.” Then I turned back to the desk staff and handed him my passport and money.
Dum Dum tried one final tactic. “But I do not understand English,” he cried (in perfect English). I ignored him and continued to check in. Finally he understood that I really was in no mood to fuck around and he departed.
The desk staff looked apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “This happens all the time.”
Hassling is commonplace in many parts of the world. If someone gives you directions (or performs any “favor”), they want money. If someone walks into a photo you are taking, they want money. If someone sells you a souvenir they want a price that is five to ten times higher than they would charge a local. The consolation is that bartering is acceptable.
Update: Twenty-four hours after I consumed the Lindt chocolate squares, I finally managed to swallow the nut.