In the middle of Morocco in the middle of criss-crossing streets and passing strangers lies the city of Marrakech, Morocco. Marrakech is a maze of narrow streets and back alleys, elaborately decorated closed doors and open markets, old world Islam and Western influences, settled in a valley below the Rif mountains.
We arrived on a Tuesday with no place to stay, but a few names on a piece of paper. Most of the accommodations are Riads, former houses or mansions, converted into hotels. The taxi from the train station to the hotel dropped us off at a Moroccan corner (read, a street converged on by about seven other streets) next to an old man, a small push cart, and the promise that for a couple of dollars would guide us to our hotel. We put our bags in his cart and twisted our way through a series of narrow streets only to discover that the first place on our list was fully booked. We pointed to the next place on our list and the old man gave us a dumbfounded look, shaking his head no. We were not sure he read very well or at all, so we attempted to pronounce it in our best Arabic accents, “Hotel Sherazade?,” we asked. After a few minutes he grew excited and began to speak to us in Arabic, most likely reassuring us that he knew the way. We followed him for the next 30 minutes on an unofficial tour winding through a series of twists and turns that no amount of breadcrumbs could help us to find our way back from. We passed over side streets and main roads; past stands selling fresh orange juice (for less than 50 cents) and fried donuts (or something like it); between beggars, merchants, and a movie set; through the central square, the Djemaa el-Fna; and finally down a side road to the Hotel Scherazade. They have space, we pay the old man, set down our bags and sit to have breakfast on a terrace overlooking the roofs of the city around us.
In the center of all the action rests the Djemaa el-Fna Square. To the north the minaret of the Koutobia Mosque towers over the action below where five times daily the imam chants the salat above the square. The square is an open space that spills into the adjoining market to the south. The whole area is a never ending tunnel of stands and shops competing for the attention and business of passersby. Fruit, nuts (ok, also a fruit), leather belts and bags, henna tattoos, meat, seafood, incense, dyes, berber sandals, elaborate metal lamps, knit goods, scarves, rugs, and jewelry are all lined one after the other in shops stacked ten feet tall with their specialty. Shop owners call out to the passersby first in Arabic, then French, then English with shouts of “Bon Jour!” and “Hello my friend!” Local men, grown and young, walk hand in hand past tourists and salesman working against each other for the most sales at the best price.
Nearly everything is negotiable in Morocco. And nearly everything has a price. If you appear lost, the person who seems kind enough to help you, the poor visitor, without question is expecting some kind of compensation. Children will follow you, making sure to walk a few steps in front of you until you reach your destination, at which point they raise their hand hoping for some coin for their “help.” During the day light hours, snake charmers invite you to take some pictures, before wrapping one of their snakes around your neck to negotiate the price for this act, while nearby, women in traditional Muslim attire hope to entice you to look at their books of Henna so they can decorate your skin “like a tattoo.” Every afternoon, like clockwork, only men crowd the cafe’s to drink a cup of espresso while they watch the world pass by. Our hotel is a respite from the activity happening outside it. Chairs and tables are spread out along a two-tiered terrace while the sounds of the snake charmers flutes are only very faintly heard in the distance.
When we return for dinner that night, the square has undergone a complete restoration. We have walked into a scene from an Indiana Jones film. Smoke rises from the grills of a hundred food stands seated that were not in the square an hour before. A hundred food stands selling kebabs, tangine, fries, cous cous, and soups to the empty bellies of their customers. All orders are accompanied by olives, bread, and a tomato mixture. At every stand, the cooks and waiters wear white doctor cloaks, and the only difference between them is the occasional place making sheeps head, hair burnt off, face boiled, and body cooked in a soup that only the locals seem intent on devouring. Around the outside of the square, large circles of mostly Moroccan men surround drum circles led by someone playing a combination banjo and sitar.
At the end of the night we retreat to our hotel and the roof top terrace beyond the action. The smoke continues to rise in the distance where the pounding of the drums is fading. The stars have come out and we are sitting alone, amongst it all but in our own peaceful respite in this always moving Moroccan town.
- Josh, around April 18, 2007
