Marrakech, A Second Chance

After a long, refreshing slumber, Steph and I woke up with the resolve to give Morocco a second chance and approach the day with an open mind, untainted by yesterday’s impressions. We started off on a good foot and after a lovely courtyard breakfast of French bread and hard boiled eggs, courtesy of our guesthouse, we ventured once more out of the confines of Dar Limoun for the streets of Marrakesh. Our first destination was the rose gardens, which were quiet and lovely (though noticeably out of place in the North African climate), but took up only an hour, including the time it took us to walk there. We then headed back to the main square, called Djemma el-Fna, where we ducked into one of the many tourist-laden cafes to bide a couple more hours with café lattes and ice cream. Travel tip of the day: ALWAYS keep a book handy. We sat on the upper terrace, overlooking the commotion down in the square among the juice and dried fruit vendors, snake tamers, and general chaos, happy to be observers and not participants.

From there we walked across the square to the internet café and caught up on some business for another hour. Internet is probably the best deal to be found in Marrakesh, at 5-8DH/hr.

When our hour was up, it was 3:00 and time for some lunch. We sat at yet another one of the tourist-filled cafés that all share the same menu and prices: salads 20-35DH, tajines (Moroccan clay pot dish) 40-50DH, couscous 40-50DH, and pizzas 45-50DH. And one is literally EXACTLY like the next - very bizarre. It’s funny how I spend all of my time in Europe hoping to avoid tourists and feel a comforting relief to be around and even seek them out here. Go figure.

Having successfully avoided nearly any harassment today, we were feeling brave and dared to approach the outskirts of the bazaar stalls in search of the embroidered Pashminas that are all the rage in Europe. Mistake Number One. Immediately after selecting a stall, the over-eager salesman launched into his sales pitch and his crony magically appeared and launched into his “Konikukukonikakuko” in Steph’s face before turning to me with “Where you from Japan?” “Allalalalalalala,” I replied.

OK so in reality, I maintained patience and asked for a quote on the two scarves we liked best. “Good deal, 800DH (over US$110) for the two!” Now, a week before we’d left, Steph bought a dozen of the exact same scarves from a polite, respectful Brazilian vendor in Florence for 5Euro a piece. We have confirmation ladies and gentlemen, these people are out of their minds! When we disclosed this disparity to Mr. Ignorant Moroccan Sleazeball, he yelled at us to “Go home!” until we were out of earshot. Gladly.

Well that was enough interaction with the locals for the day, so we headed back to our guesthouse, stopping for some more water and dried fruit from the stores along the way. Where prices are labeled. And ersatz Japanese absent.

We got back at 5:00 and felt both proud of ourselves for somehow expending most of the day and also at a loss as to how to spend the rest of it. So we decided to walk the other direction from which we had been outside of our guesthouse. Mistake Number Two. “Konichiwa - Konichiwa” or
“Hello friend, where you from?”
“California.”
“Oh, Japan?”
Yes, exactly right. Blow me.
And “Konikeukukuakakonika” as we’re loudly speaking ENGLISH to each other.

So after discovering that the main square was just at the end of that street, when we had been taking a long, round about way, going the opposite direction from our guesthouse, we turned right back around and bee lined back before I got myself into trouble with the retorts I found escaping my internal dialogue. We are officially done. Moroccan men and their country can kiss my politically incorrect ass - and that is intolerance out of exposure, not ignorance.

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