Marrakech and more

As Paul Bowles once remarked, the Djemma el-Fna is what separates Marrakech from all other Moroccan cities. Dominating the heart of the medina, almost in the shadow of the Koutoubia mosque's minaret, a constantly evolving show plays out every day. Orange juice sellers line the square, calling out to passersby. Snake charmers wail on their nasal horns as men dressed in white beat drums and dance nearby, holding out their hats for tips. In the evenings, food stalls are set up, selling brochettes, tagines, and couscous. One corner offers sheep's head soup. Another offers escargots.

My first night in Marrakech, I was enchanted by the display as I stood amongst the smokey stalls and breathed it all in. Men cajoled me to sit down. As I waved them off, they would point to the number of their stall and ask me to remember them. I resisted until a boy pointed to his sign. "Number one," he called out. "The best!" I ordered a couscous and a Fanta. He popped the top off the bottle with a knife. It sailed in the air and I listened to it as it landed somewhere in the square.

Another night I ascended to a terrasse overlooking the square. Drinks were self-service; a cooler stood by the entrance and you were expected to buy before they would let you in. Camera-toting tourists jostled for position, photographing the scene, each holding an unopened bottle of water. I purchased my bottle and joined them, lucking into a table by the railing. I sat and caught up in my journal, watching the sun set over a group of acrobats who had garnered the largest audience that night.

I stayed in a riad just off the square, a lovely house with room surrounding two courtyards. The receptionist recognized me; it was she who took my reservation. After she checked me in she remarked that our birthdays were but a day apart. Later I asked her to help me purchase some cds and she took me to some local malls where she picked some out and shopped for other things for herself.

I told her that the riad would be a lovely place for a small wedding and she said that when I was to wed I should come back. I said that was probably in the distant future, to which she replied that I should have been married four years ago. Thirty is a good time to get married, she said.

In the evenings, after a days wandering through the souks or to the various gardens dotting the city (the Jardin Marjorelle was a favorite, though innundated by bus tourists; the bane of Morocco. The enclosed Museum of Islamic Art was also a standout; perhaps my favorite museum in Morocco.) I would return to the riad to rest. I almost didn't want to leave. At one point I mentioned to L--- that had I the money I'd love to buy a set of wooden and silver engraved doors. She said that they would cost as much to send home as to buy, and that had I the money I should buy a house in Marrakech in which to install them. I told her I didn't think I could suffer the 50 degree Celcius heat of the summers.

In the riad I met a Japanese woman who works for a wholesaler in Tokyo. They take orders from boutiques around the country and have things fabricated in Africa. Her area is Morocco. The day after meeting her I ran into her in the leather souks. She was waiting as a craftsman was finishing a shoe to her client's specifications. She was leaving the next day and there were bags of samples in his shop for her to take back. They bade me take a seat and watch. I was fascinated. Soon, another man came over from which she had requested a table. They haggled over the price, but he didn't have the materials. She said she'd contact him again next time. I could have stayed there forever, but decided to let them get back to work and took my leave.

The ride from Ouarzazate through the mountains to Marrakech was breathtaking. Narrow roads wound their way up and then down through the passes. Buses and trucks would pull to the side to let climbing traffic through. There were but seven people on the bus from Ouarzazarte, and half of them seemed to know each other. The bus stopped for apples being sold by the side of the road at one point, and soon the bus was full of the smell as they were shared amongst the passengers.

I am now in the seaside town of Essouaria, where Orson Welles shot a good portion of Othello. The ramparts are pictaresque, with blue fishing boats covering the small harbor. Nearby you can buy your fish fresh and have them grill it for you, served with a side salad and a loaf of bread. A constant wind blows across the ramparts. I'm staying in someone's house. When I decided I didn't like the hotel I booked, a boy approached me and showed me a garret room in his aunt's house. The room isn't much, but the window looks out over the Skala de la Ville towards the sea. I can see the canons resting on the fortifications pointing west, towards the setting sun and home.
Posted by eku at September 26, 2005 12:03 PM