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Published: January 4th 2009
It had been some time since I had entered into the East. Here, everything is different. Though I knew this prior to arrival, The Medina of Marrakech was more exciting, chaotic, and stressful than anywhere I had been before. I had experienced souq culture in Dubai and Muscat, but here it seemed the pressure to buy at all times of the day would not let up. We walked from our hotel on our first evening in Morocco past the old city walls and towards the Djem Al Feena, a huge open square that acts as a stage for a bevy of street performers, buskers, story tellers, sooth sayers, musicians, snake charmers, and tarot card readers. Large crowds of Moroccan men formed circles around each act, and each time we approached one group, someone would step forward and demand we take a picture, give money, place a snake around Dennie's neck, or grab our hands and begin to apply Henna. From all sides and with a range of clever tactics we were bombarded. We had no choice, it seemed, but to escape towards the souqs.
The jaded traveller’s beliefs that behind the scenes ‘Made In China’ stickers are hastily removed from
wares prior to being thrown into the display cases, are quickly dispelled by a wrong turn down one of the souqs back alleys. Here, in every direction there are people sewing, hammering, welding, and painting. These streets are not only markets, but workshops, and sometimes homes. The realisation that everything was hand made, and that most locals were artisans put me in a rare mood to shop. The high pressure situation at first made us nervous and uncomfortable, and as the shop owners called out to us in a range of European languages, we quickly learned we could not show interest in anything on display no matter how beautiful, or we would be forced to make an offer and begin the bartering process. We began with a baby step; I would buy some socks; we had been away from home 10 days and on their third day stuck in a pair of shoes, socks take on a new and unpleasant smell. The socks began at 30 Dirhams, and I walked away with 2 pairs of socks for a mere 20 Dirhams. I had just successfully bartered. After that, my memory of the souqs began to blur. All I know is
Goats in a Tree
These Goats eat the fruit of the Argan trees. Farmers later pick through there poo to reveal the precious nuts within. This is not a lie. that when we went to pack our things to return to Spain 4 days later, we had to squeeze in a necklace, some earrings, a blanket, some precious stones, a straw basket, a toque, a t-shirt, dominoes, two paintings and a lamp.
The near incessant use of the Arabic Phrase In šāʾ Allāh (If God Wills it) is reflective of the outlooks, beliefs and actions of the people here. People seem to put a higher faith in God, and as a result things like motor cycle helmets, seat belts, safe roads, and watches become meaningless and unnecessary. Prior to leaving for a van trip to the coastal town of Essouria we were told that In šāʾ Allāh we would be there in an hour and a half. The trip to Essouria took at least 3 hours, and clearly God chose not to will our safe arrival in an hour and a half, as our van sat on the side of the road and our driver was accompanied by two police officers around the corner of a nearby shack to take care of the necessary ‘business’ required to continue on our way. Later, as we drove past villages of red
mud huts which blend seamlessly into the earth, a goat sat perched high a top the branch of an Argon tree (a close relative to the olive). The van slowed, and we passed more goats and sheep perched high in the trees, feasting on the fruit. Then we spotted a small group of shepherds helping their goats up and down from the trees. Argon oil is a delicacy in Moroccan cuisine, and is used to add flavour to salads and other local dishes. In the traditional method of extraction, shepherds let the goats and sheep climb the trees, and later sort through the poo of their herd for the precious undigested pit or nut of the argon. This is then pressed into oil. It clearly hadn't occurred to these shepherds to pick the argons from the trees and feed them directly to the goats, or better yet, to use a rock to break open the argons instead of the digestive system of the goat. For argon oil producers, tradition clearly takes precedence over efficiency.
Again and again I heard the words In šāʾ Allāh told to us by the people who controlled our fate; bus drivers, shop owners,
Djeem al feena
A square of story tellers and snake charmers, soothsayers and musicians and hotel receptionists. I even began whispering these words to myself each time I attempted to cross the road through dizzying traffic that refuses to stop or slow down for crossing pedestrians. Linear thinking is destroyed by a world where everyone is simply on a journey and opening themselves up to what might happen. Nothing seems definite; The price of a lamp or piece of jewellery in the souqs is the amount the buyer is willing to pay, the time it takes to drive through the Atlas Mountains to reach to southern city of Ouarzazate is dependant on the number of friends the bus driver has who run tourist shops along the way. Sometimes shop owners lose money from sales to patient locals willing to barter, and sometimes they make exorbitant profits from tourists like me.
Enchufe is a Spanish word which refers to the back up or powerful connections required to help all parts of life go a little smoother. It results in a lot of proverbial back scratching, and under the table favouritism. Enchufe seems required to get by in many countries, and though alive and well in Spain, it seems the Moroccans take Enchufe to another
level. Hotel receptionists choose the restaurants and Arabic baths they book for guests, not based on quality but on getting a cut from colleagues with businesses. In the street locals approach tourists, trying to bring them to the businesses of people they know, hoping to build up some Enchufe they may require on a rainy day. Though sometimes this way of thinking results in illegal activity, in general, everyone is helping everyone else out, just in case they may need a helping hand some day in the future. Those who succeed are those who connect with people and play the game.
Being a passenger inside a vehicle is almost as terrifying an experience as being a pedestrian. All highways seem to be lined with a constant stream of locals on foot, bicycle, or donkey, hauling goods between villages and towns. This is an especially perilous aspect of the narrow roads which twist and turn through the High Atlas Mountains. On the 4 hour, 197 km trek we took to Ouarzazate through sketchy mountain passes, other vehicles were narrowly missed, small children, donkeys, and the elderly were put in danger, and the van teetered near the edge of unprotected cliffs.
Vehicles have a complex code of finger movements, horn and light signals which rules over the laws of the road and common sense. Complex messages can be relayed between drivers, making the act of driving in Morocco a bit of an adrenalin sport. Drivers taunt each other, play chicken, and have drag races around already dangerous roads, oblivious to the fact that they are carrying loads of sensitive Westerners, who might not have the same faith in Allah as they.
Early on our 3rd day, we booked ourselves into the obligatory hammam (Arabic bath). Women and men are separated, and led by hand to the change rooms where the 'chef du hammam' strips the client and wraps a short sarong around their naked bodies. They throw the person into a hot shower, rub them down with soapy grease and lead them to a steam room where they are told in Arabic to wait. After a lengthy steam they are led to a massage table where they are scrubbed and scraped everywhere to remove dead skin. They are then greased up once more, massaged, soaped down, and showered. Bare bums are rubbed; penises are moved from left to right,
or right to left depending on the natural lean of the client. The ‘chef de hammam’ then removes the client’s sarong, and wraps them in a house coat, where they are left to feel clean, relaxed, refreshed and moderately violated.
As we spent more time in the muck, as passenger in vans, in the souqs, and on the streets, our senses dulled. Passing donkey carts whizzed by, missing us by inches, hands reached out to ask for money or grab Dennie’s bum, and everywhere were people engaged in their own daily grind, hauling, wheeling, dealing, baking, and creating. Already on day 3 in the Medina, the chaos had become bearable. We looked inwards, and became lost in thought as we strolled the crowded streets. The call to worship could be heard from a distant mosque; the streets hushed and people rushed to wash and prepare for prayer. In the silence, I drifted back to reality. Where were we? The constant presence of other tourists had always been there to reassure us that we couldn't be far from one of the skylines many minarets which would guide us back to the streets we knew. But for the first time, there
were no Westerners in sight. No one was asking us for money, or trying to sell us anything, and we drew stares from locals who rarely saw tourists venture this far from the main thoroughfares. Not to worry, we reassured each other. It couldn't be long before we would see a street sign or see something familiar. We walked past crowded, sewage lined streets, and into narrow abandoned alley ways. Hours past. Pains of hunger made navigation more difficult. A second call to worship lent a sense of time to our epic aimless rambling. We were still lost. Finally, we spotted a store selling handicrafts, and then another. We followed the clues, until the constant Arabic was replaced by the occasional sentence in French. Finally a few French tourists were spotted and we knew we were going in the right direction. Later in the hotel room we tried to retrace our steps on the map, and realised at various points during our adventure we had been to all four corners of the Medina. Getting lost in a city is sometimes the best way to know a place, but this was one experience, I could have gone without.
On our
final walk back to the hotel from the Medina on day four we saw a raucous mob of over 100 teenagers approaching us. Some had flags, and were leading the group in loud political chants, boys broke social and religious norms by walking arm and arm with girls, while others donned the hijab in a mockery of the countries strict gender roles. It was clear that times were changing, and that the youth of this nation of Islam were becoming increasingly attracted to the liberal morals, and modes of dress of the West. Then, we were inside the mob, and I felt someone tug violently at my backpack. I staggered backwards. Suddenly a teenage boy approached me and got very close before raising his middle finger and waving it aggressively in my face while yelling ‘Fuck You’. I felt a large rock hit my leg, and looked up to see that it had been thrown with purpose at me by another angry young man. We moved quickly, and escaped into a different crowd. The experience was a contradiction. These young people were protesting the traditional expectations placed on them by the East, and yet clearly felt an anger and aggression
towards me as a Westerner. Their actions towards me were enabled by the mob mentality, and allowed them to feel justified in expressing anger. Marakech is a place of contradictions. There are few places in the East so exposed to Western tourists, who bring with them new styles, music, films, attitudes and beliefs, causing Eastern and Western ideals to clash everywhere. Morocco depends on the influx of money that tourism brings with it, and Marrakech attracts people from all over North Africa seeking the improved quality of life that comes with tourist dollars. This influx is bringing change.
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Robyn
non-member comment
Wow...I LOVE reading your entries Kris...this one was amazing. You are not only a fabulous writer, but what you write is always meaningful and that was crazy. The photos were so impressive and beautiful. I can't get over the beauty! Thanks!