Marrakech

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The square is a sea of humanity. Everything you ever imagined that you didn’t want.

Every trick, every con, every salesman, every beg, every compliment you didn’t want.

We have snake charmers, henna painters, alladin dancers, monkey vendors, fortune tellers, pigeon feeders, bottle fishing, horse drawn carriages, massages, belly dancers, hammans and thats just on one corner.

Mini food stalls, which appear to only hitch their tents at night time, sell an array of street food. From snails to kebabs; waffles to couscous; pastilla to tajine. And fresh juice, any flavour you could possibly request: orange, grapefruit, apple, pineapple, watermelon. And of course olives and nuts, always olives and nuts. Decadent restaurants border the entire square offering every nationality of food that exists, although it appears Italian is the flavour of the month.

The back alleys are swamped with souks selling: tea pots, berber rugs, chinese watches, Italian shoes, Arabic scarves, gaudy homewares, leather bags, cane chairs & baskets, vibrant clothing, walls of jewellery & trinkets, colourful crockery, Moroccan everything. All bubble wrapped and in the mail to Australia.

The crowd is overwhelming, but distinguishing itself from Fes, half the people are tourists. The faces pass me by: the sun burnt Englishman, the arrogant French, the loud Americans, the staunch Germans, the outgoing Spanish, the reliable Dutch, the touting locals and the hopeless Australians.

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