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Published: November 9th 2007
It’s a fragile thing, my relationship with Marrakech. Classic love-hate.
I am here for the third time in less than a month, this time with my mother and sister in our last few days together before my mother returns to the states. The first time I was here was over two weeks ago. My sister and Elizabeth and I arrived from Fez, and in 24 hours I was sure I was thoroughly charmed, if not quite fully in love. After the three of us left the city for a few days in the mountains we returned, and that first feeling of enchantment was no longer there. On that second visit to the city we had one day and we wandered the souks. We were with a friend from Sacramento who happened to be visiting Marrakech, and the four of us girls seemed to have picked the wrong time to be in the market. It was late afternoon; the vendors were waking up from their siestas and seemed to be feeling particularly predatory. We were followed by leering men, offered herds of camels for dowry, and subjected to a great range of indecent proposals. At one point, as I looked at
a beautiful vintage Berber dress that was completely out of my price range, the vendor told me I could have it for free if I would spend the night with him. So much for my first impressions of Marrakech: playful but not arrogant, covetous but not greedy.
I have a talent, however, for straining to see the best in people, places, and things. I give my heart away easily, and I invest a fair amount of energy in preserving my dedication to the things I have given it to. I will easily forgive the obvious flaws in favor of a positive rendition of the things in my life, so I was quick to let Marrakech sweep me off my feet again. (This condition isn’t always such a problem. Life as an optimist can be rather pleasant. Only sometimes does it get me in trouble, and I am learning—slowly—to be more scrutinizing.)
That night we slept on the roof of a hotel; the hotel was cheap, but the stay on the roof was cheaper. So after watching the sun set behind the Kouttoubia Mosque we laid out our cots and curled up in our blankets. We discussed the stars
Loading bread into the oven
Our family in Fes happens to have the time and resources to bake their own bread in their own bread room (which also doubles as the laundry room). Many families, however, rely on local bakeries to bake their daily khubs. Bakeries produce their own loaves of bread, but families can also drop off their own batches of dough, which the bakery will then feed into their deep ovens and bake for a small fee. and planets and the romanticness of it all and eventually fell asleep, waking up only when the first call to prayer sounded at dawn.
With these experiences in place I still loved Marrakech when I arrived yesterday for my third visit. It was, in fact, only yesterday that I finally posted my “first impressions” of the city, and while in retrospect they seemed a bit overly-romantic, I didn’t reject them as total fantasy. Now, however, I am feeling duped—as if Marrakech wooed me with it’s good side, and waited until I was vulnerable to let its true character show. Obviously I am feeling bitter. Relationships (even with cities that I hardly know) are complicated things.
Today started out fine. My sister had booked a cooking class for the three of us, so our morning began by trolling the vegetable market with Gemma, our Dutch cooking instructor, and the two Austrian women who were also taking the class. We bought bunches of coriander, vegetables and couscous, and set off to Gemma’s house, where we turned out an amazing meal of salads, vegetarian pastries, sweet couscous and cookies.
Things turned sour, however, when we emerged back into the Djemma
Awkward moment
One of the dough boys at the bakery was creepy and definitely copped a feel as he handed Lib the dough. He insisted on taking this photo and literally snatched the camera away with doughy fingers to have his friend take it. It was only mildly uncomfortable. el-Fna. MC and I were in search of an ATM when we were besieged by two girls offering henna tattoos. We declined and told them we were looking for an ATM, so they walked us across the square and pointed us in the right direction; before they left, however, they attacked. This was clearly their MO; their timing was perfect as each of them grabbed one of our arms and forcibly planted big ugly swirly flowers on our hands. We tried to explain that we didn’t want them, but clearly what we should have done was pushed them away and run in the opposite direction. Instead we walked off to the ATM, trying to pull our check cards out of our wallets without smearing the wet green goop everywhere. When we turned around after getting cash there they were, demanding money for the tattoos. A big fight ensued in which we explained that we didn’t want the stupid things in the first place, but they clearly could have cared less. They had gone from being friendly peers (they claimed to be sisters, aged 18 and 22, and we felt like we had bonded with them about our similarities; they even
had Berber freckles) to con artists. I just wanted to get rid of them, though, so I pulled out a 100 dh bill and asked them if they had change, thinking there was no way they would even consider charging that much for the botch jobs on our hands. One of the girls said yes, snatched the 100 dh note out of my hand and then they both ran off.
Obviously my feelings for Marrakech were wavering, and I was reaching a point where I could willingly admit that it was a tourist trap with little in the way of charm. But several hours later, after showering and lying in the quiet of our riad room and generally feeling refreshed and up to the challenge again, we emerged back onto the square. I had a moment, like I often do when I’m traveling (whether it’s on another continent or just up in the mountains outside of home) where I catch a view of something that makes me smile; something that makes me appreciate the character of the place I am in and the opportunity to inhabit that place at that very instant. It was those blinding white lights from
Precious children who may or may not now be soulless
MC took about ten versions of this picture until an adult figure of some sort (perhaps the children's mother?) noticed that MC was steadily sucking away the souls of the children with her camera (as many Moroccans believe that cameras do). She then sat squarely in front of the children and stared at us. the food stalls and the steam that rose from them: the way they lit up the activity in the square and the way that I came upon the scene, emerging from the medina alley ways to see all this energy and movement in front of me.
We drank incredible tangerine-orange juice (at stall number 42, which we will remember for future reference) and bought almonds and dried figs. Things would have been fine, and my satisfaction (if not my fascination) with the city fully restored, if it weren’t for the ugly man in the white collared shirt who touched my butt.
What is this place? Where am I that men think they can not just say whatever they want to me (simply because I am a foreign girl walking in their general vicinity) but can also just violate my physical space because its dark and we are only women? Why is Marrakech so damned aggressive?
In that moment when his hand was on my butt and he shoved his face into mine, everything that I hated about Marrakech and that I hated about traveling flooded into me. I hated the chauvinism—the readiness to take advantage of women
just because it’s easy. I hated that my experience in Morocco would be completely different if I was traveling with a man (or even a boy). I hated that I didn’t know enough Arabic to walk back over there and give him a piece of my mind, and I hated that even if I did that, I would be standing in a crowd of ten men who had watched and let it happen, and who could give two shits if I had something to say to them.
And most of all I hated that in that brief moment I remembered all the things that used to terrify me about living in India: my fear of public spaces, where it was easier for someone to grab me or rub against me and be gone before I could even see his face; the habit that I developed of looking over my shoulder and keeping my hands behind my back to protect my butt from being grabbed; the extreme paranoia that overcame me every time I was in a dark walkway (like the one in Banaras where a man on a motorcycle slowed down to touch me because I was alone and
Stunner shades
Lib is a bit of a softy and cries like a baby every time an onion is cut in her general vicinity. As the head of the cous-cous effort she was assigned to chop no less than five onions. Protective eyewear was applied, but copious tears were shed regardless. it was dark, or like this one in the medina, where not a single woman’s face was to be seen at only nine o’clock at night).
I guess this is (one of the reasons) why I travel. To experience vulnerability and grow thicker skin because of it. To know that I can love Marrakchi orange juice and see beauty in the light of the Djemma el-Fna, but that I should be guarded; that I can expect to be taken advantage of in some form or another; and that even when I am pissed off and on the verge of tears and want to punch some guy I don’t even know in the face, I still love every second that I am in these places, experiencing difference and learning from it.
Of course I can say this now, because I am tucked in under a pile of blankets in my room in a riad with a courtyard and a charming terrace. No one is trying to take my money or touch my butt, so I am happy to be here. But tomorrow is another story, and who knows how I will feel about my relationship with Marrakech. I may
walk through an archway in the medina and let my guard crumble in a cloud of cedar smoke from the incense cart. Or I may look out at the snake charmers and pavement herbalists and see nothing but fraud. Most likely I will wake up, willing to forgive and let Marrakech back into my heart; wanting nothing but to walk to the square and drink a glass of three dirham orange juice, ready for the day, come what may.
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