It was just two days before leaving for Marrakech that the idea had even come to mind; an idea that was largely encouraged and developed by the cheap price of airfare between Toulouse and Marrakech. At the airport I ran into one of my Chinese colleagues, who, along with his wife, was taking the same flight. This happy coincidence allowed me to get to know them both a bit better. Zhang speaks English very well, but his wife only speaks French as she has been spending the last year in Toulouse while her husband finishes up his studies. Thus, we could not entertain a conversation of three, but between English, French and Mandarin we were all able to communicate with one another.
The night before, I had been informed that our Moroccan colleague and personal friend, Othman, had recently left for home and might still be in Marrakech. A phone call at the airport revealed that Othman was not only in Marrakech but willing to pick all three of us up at the airport. What luck! Without any planning I had acquired two traveling companions and a native guide for a trip to Marrakech that I had originally planned to do alone.
Once at the airport in Marrakech, Othman quickly found us and escorted us to the city center. Traveling to town was an adventure in and of itself. As old run down cars, motorbikes with veiled riders and cart towing donkeys whizzed by in every direction, I realized that I was embarking upon a list of firsts: this was not only my first time in Marrakech, but my first time in Morocco, my first time in a third work country, my first time within the Arab League of Nations and my first time on the African continent. Othman quickly guided us through the busy streets and brought us to our destination, a riad the Chinese couple had booked before leaving. We parked as close as we could, but the narrow corridors of old town Marrakech would have to be tackled on foot. We traveled through was seemed to be a labyrinth of tiny streets filled with merchants. The surrounding buildings and homes made from mud and clay were thousands of years old and although they seemed to be deteriorating back into the earth from which they were wrought, their simplicity remained sincere and somehow genuinely human. What was not made from clay was born of thatch, save the streets themselves which were paved with worn out stones that conjured images of travelers from long ago.
Upon finally reaching the riad, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the interior. The outer simplicity, so it seemed, was only a ruse to hide the splendor of the inner dwelling. Fine and detailed ornamentation, moldings and murals made the walls seem as delicate as lace. An interior courtyard housed a fountain and a bath. The surrounding rooms were only separated by thick Moroccan tapestries as there were no doors. I was so tempted to stay, but the price was just too high. Later, Othman drove me to a hotel in the newer part of Marrakech where he negotiated a cheap price, something I could never have done on my own as a white, occidental tourist. Simple and comfortable, I was content.
That night I went out to dinner with the Chinese at a restaurant that Othman had recommended called Le Comptoir. The ambiance was very traditional. The light was low as the large room was only lit by torches and candles. The respectful and attentive service was a pleasant surprise to all of us after having spent so much time in France. I had a traditional “tagine” which is served in the conical clay pots that are very typical of Moroccan cuisine. Although it was delicious, I am a bit spoiled as I am convinced that southern France comprises the world’s best cuisine. Suddenly, just after having finished our meal, music of the orient began to play and the male servers started clapping to the beat as Arabic dancers came down the center staircase to dance among the tables. The girls were absolutely stunning. Dressed like Jasmine from Disney’s Aladin, I was surprised by the level of sensuality that they evoked in their movements. I suppose they gave rational to the men that would keep them in veils. The Chinese seemed to take it all in stride which was a good thing.
After what was a sumptuous dinner, Othman took me out to the Teatro where he and one of his Moroccan friends were determined to show me the country’s nightlife. Suddenly, this third world country turned into LA: no Shiria law in Morocco! I suppose that Globalization cannot be avoided and yet the exotic charm and beauty of this desert people still remained. I returned to the hotel exhausted and incapable of entirely absorbing all that I had seen.
June 14
I began the day by deciding to walk to the Majorelle Garden. This garden is reputed to be an oasis of calm and cool, fresh air in the heart of the city of Marrakech. Named after its designer, Jacques Majorelle, a French painter and amateur botanist who came to sunny Marrakech in 1917 because he his tuberculosis. The garden was planted around his studio.
I traveled by foot as I believe this is the best way to get to know any city. I was impressed by the quality of the roads. They were all in great condition. Unfortunately, there were no road signs! Somebody in city planning needs to be fired. Anyhow, the predicament forced me to get quite friendly with the locals. An old French colony, the Moroccan people speak a very liberal dialect of Arabic and almost all of them speak French. Bemused by my accent, most of them mistook me for a Belgian which left me politically neutral. In walking through the streets I also felt extremely safe. It seemed that tourists were a welcomed and accepted part of life in Marrakech and why shouldn’t they be? Tourism is the foundation of their now growing economy.
Once I finally arrived at the Majorelle Garden, I found it to be better than its description. In the middle of the garden stood an old home in a traditional Moroccan style and painted in a brilliant blue that seemed to pick up on the more subtle and dusty blue of the cacti surrounding the house. The cacti themselves were many among flowering plants, palm trees and other Moroccan native species. The garden was also littered with painted fountains and waterways. A desert oasis, the Majorelle Garden was truly a refuge from the extreme heat in Marrakech.
After this I walked to La Koutoubia, Morocco’s oldest mosque. Although I could not go inside, I was walking through the neighboring gardens when a young man approached me and began explaining the history of the mosque. After what was a brief explanation, he then asked for some money. Of course I only had bills, as I had only recently exchanged money, and I ended up giving him way too much. I felt so duped. I had even read about false guides before leaving and a few of my French friends had warned me as well. I have always been one to learn the hard way.
I was off to the Bahia Palace. Merchants and beggars called out in every language hoping to catch one’s attention as he makes his way through the busy streets. The Moroccan architecture is somehow very calming in the mist of everything. The palace, itself, like the riad, can only be appreciated from the inside. Large blank surfaces of white were contrasted by the finely detailed ornamentation at the base of each wall and at the tops of each of the archways. Most were composed of tiny tiles or painted carvings. The disparity between the access of pure space and the intricate composite of colors was pleasing to the eye.
Upon leaving, I decided to take a look at the Mellah, the Jewish quarter of Marrakech. The poverty of these people was humbling and yet the sense of community that they share among one another left me in a sort of remiss regarding what is often so impersonal in western culture. Walking through the tiny aisles between their earthen homes, I could not help but wonder what occupies their time. I felt like a phantom walking through the streets. Even in my funny white skin, I was hardly noticed. My curiosity then led me to happen upon an ancient Jewish cemetery. After handing out a small gift, the Jewish guard let me through the gates.
A lone fly seemed to announce the theme of desolation. The cemetery was completely composed of concrete with narrow walkways running through the cylindrical markers. The markers were not in lines either, but appeared like dominoes strewn out on a game table. Everything had been bleached white by the penetrating sun. A wild pack of dogs kept their distance while making it clear that my presence was must unwelcome. Upon talking with the guard, I discovered that this is the only Jewish cemetery in Marrakech and that, apparently, Hilary Clinton had come for a visit as she is of Jewish decent.
After this, I picked up another “self proclaimed guide”. They are hard to shake! This one, however, turned out to be better than the first. He took me to the Berber market where the natural toiletry and cosmetic products were explained to me. He then led me to a tapestry house where Muslim women were weaving the beautiful oriental tapestries that are so renowned around the world. Lastly, he bought me to the only remaining synagogue in Marrakech, where David, the blind guardian, gave me a tour for another small gift. When it was all said and done I was more than happy to tip my host for what proved to be a great little tour.
As I headed back to the hotel I ran into the Complexe Artisonal. So impressed by the craftsmanship, I decided that I would be back to pick up souvenirs.
June 15
The day began by walking through the Souks marketplace. These merchants are the famous craftsman and snake charmers of Marrakech. There community completely thrives on the tourists that travel through this place. Everything is about negotiating and I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I was a lot better that I had thought; albeit it is much easier when it is no great sacrifice to walk away from the transaction. I then made my way north to the Marrakech Museum; the Qoubba, ruins of an ancient palace; and the Madersa, which is essentially a Koranic school. Of the three, the school was the most impressive. Built like one of their palaces, a large and beautifully tiled bathing pool lie in the center. In a traditional style, the pool sat adjacent to a large room for prayer and the other three surrounding walls composed the student dormitories. I kept walking through the maze of tiny rooms trying to imagine what life must have been like for the students there.
Upon exiting, another small guide proposed or rather imposed himself, but by this time I had gotten better about refusing the service. Given the level of aggressively, one has to harden his heart.
Heading south toward Jamaa El Fna, the great meeting place of Marrakech, I was moved by the calls for prayer. These desperate cries which emanate from the ancient mosque vibrate through the entire city. As there are very few clocks in the city, the calls seem to also serve the more practical service of keeping time.
After picking up a couple of souvenirs, I decided to make the long journey to the supposedly lush Menara Gardens. However, I was a bit disappointed. I suppose that I have seen too many beautiful gardens in France and England. It seems that mine and the Moroccan definition of “lush” are less than equivalent. Nevertheless, there exists a peaceful veranda over the large exterior bath where I was able to catch some shade while watching the local kids play in the water, a refuge from the dry heat. Upon making my way home, I realized that I had learned to use the great mosque, the tallest structure in Marrakech to orient my path. I imagine that the locals must do the same, as they still do not have any street signs! I slept hard that night.
June 16
The day got off to a rough start as I walked twenty minutes in the blazing sun in order to reach the Aguedil Gardens which were ultimately closed. I did, however, get to take a peak through the walls, but much like the Manera Gardens I was unimpressed. In walking back, I was tracing the exterior walls of Marrakech as the ancient city still retains is protecting wall which resemble the sort of sand castles I build during the summers I spent on the beach as a child. Conversely, unlike the walls I had built, these were lined with rose gardens which made for a refreshing sight in the intensity of the desert heat. The new Marrakech has been build around this aged city.
Walking in Marrakech is all about finding the shade and I was on the shade like white on rice. I finally made my way to the Bab Agnaou, which is reputed to be the most beautiful entrance through the city wall. Beautiful, indeed, its ancient stones seemed to tell the story of ancient visitors who once came to Marrakech. Sitting on top of the archway were nesting storks. How they manage to survive in the desolate climate, I do not know.
By this time it was one o’clock and everything in the city was closed. I was obliged to eat in order to pass the time. At one of the local café I ran into a few tourists traveling from Suisse. A bit of friendly conversation helped the time to pass quickly.
I was off to the ruins of the Badii Palace, the Saadian Tombs and, finally, the Dar Si-Said Museum. At the Badii Palace I was impressed by how much freedom was given to the tourists. I was free to roam in and out of its underground caves that would be a liability suit waiting to happen in the United States. Needless to say nothing is roped off or protected by glass. Still, it was at the Museum that I had my biggest surprise when the curator got a cell phone call to remind him to pray; and that is exactly what he did. In the middle of the museum he began to worship prostrate against the ground. After all, it was time to pray! I tried to continue the visit as quietly as possible.
The major sites in Marrakech accomplished, I resigned myself to a café that I had come to like and then lopped off to bed.
June 17
After having caught a bit of flu the night before I spent the afternoon in bed. That evening I went out to a nearby park and made friends with some of the locals. After some friendly conversation, I left them to watch the desert sunset from outside the city; absolutely beautiful. A striking crescent moon accompanied by the Northern Star illuminated my path back to the hotel on my last night in Marrakech.
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