Memories of Andalucia were fresh on my mind, and the train rolled through hills of sand and cultivated rows of rocks. They were two years into a drought here. We were on a train headed towards Marrakesh. We had decided to skip Casablanca and the cities of the western coast. We watched as they passed by in the blazing sun, followed by more peculiar land. We had not had a chance to smell this place, to see it’s eyes, to be challenged by it yet, and we were learning more dirty Brazilian words than Arabic. Our new friend Andre had decided to hop the train with us, and he was teaching us an especially dirty phrase that caught the attention of a distinguished gentleman. We learned there that some Moroccans even understood Portuguese. He flashed a knowing smile, then laughed and wagged his finger. We would learn again later how adept these people were at learning languages.
In and out of sleep, and hours later into Marrakesh. We picked a hotel near the Djema el Fna market. As we found out, it was a nexus of activity in the city, for tourists and locals alike. The two were feeding off each other, for different reasons, different outcomes. But there were plenty of opportunities to watch locals go about daily life without a care about us. It was the month of Ramadan, and it was sublime how the poorest and the richest on the street would coexist, and even talk respectfully to each other. It’s customary during Ramadan to give to the needy, but there wasn’t the separation or tension I’m used to in the states. Some credit must go to religion for this coexistence, but it must have been practiced for a long time to have been perfected and played out so well.
A man on a cart pulled by a donkey owns the street, and a car swerves speedily around it. The man takes no notice, he calmly and very slowly proceeds down the dusty city street. Our vantage point from the hotel is pretty good, but the nice spot is the teahouse down the street by the market. This is our first taste of mint tea. A heavenly sweet black tea mixture with fresh mint thrown in the boiling pot. Small hot glasses with the mint in it tantalize your senses, and this could be an easy analogy to the country we are about to discover. Teenage boys make the rounds, and ask if you are interested in checking out their uncles’ rugs, if you’d could go to their home for dinner. We are wary from the stories we’ve heard, but later know that we would probably end up friends with this family and have a rug to boot.
We try not to eat in plain view, as no Muslim is allowed to eat in the daylight hours of Ramadan. After a couple meals and curious looks, we decide to try it as well out of respect.
So we head off to expl
ore the area. The streets and alleyways around the market are filled to capacity with shops of all kinds, and the bazaar behind the outdoor market is like a kaleidescope of colors. There is nothing you wouldn’t find here. As I ply the side alleys off the market, a small enclave off the street is lined with drums. Are these authentic? I see dumbeks, djembes, all sorts. The man calls out. I say I can’t fit it in my bag. He says I can ship them home. No, no thanks, I’m overwhelmed by the market and don’t know what’s going to happen, what I’ll find.
At night, the food market is assembled, and smoke rises from the hundreds of booths selling kabobs, salads, any and everything, you name it. Although the tourists demand attention, there is the feel that this would definitely not feel much different if we weren’t here. We walk, trying to get an idea of the madness, and what we want to eat. The men working the booths yell and plead in six, seven different languages. They know phrases in Japanese, German, English, wherever they think that person walking by is from. A man in a corner booth grabs our attention and we sit. He offers us some of his “cigarette”. It seems even old men in this country are smoking hash, it’s casual, and we roll right along with it. And his gesture fits the sense of giving we are starting to pick up from these people. We order a couple kabobs and laugh at his antics trying to get customers. He’s full of jokes and getting a kick out of the whole thing. We take another walk around, looking at the goat heads, couscous, desserts. We don’t know what most of it is, but it’s excellent.
Past the food stalls the snake charmers line up and tempt a wayward traveler with a reading. We see locals sitting in front of story tellers, enchanted by the tales. Groups of musicians play sounds that enchant with their strange pulsing rythyms and exotic sounds.
I had the delicious flatbread stuffed with feta cheese
