In and Around Jmaa El Fna: Marrakech, Morocco June 2011

Around Le Place Jmaa El Fna, or Grand Square, rooftop cafes provide a safe haven for tourists. La Bohemia, Le Glacier Cafe, Le Grande Vieux and others are packed at night with onlookers who order pizza and water minerale and are spared the hassle of the professional beggars, the touts and the motor cycles and cars which catch the unwary or the unknowing in their headlights as they create their own pathways through the crowds.

The Cafe Argana was one of these havens, until a man walks up the stairs on a warm April day, places a brief case at a table, and leaves. Each day the scaffold that supports the damaged rooftop structure grows a little, things are added; today it is a kind of hessian cloth that attempts to camouflage the damage wrought by the bomb. I thought long and hard before travelling to Marrakech, and I must say the reports of the deployment of Army personnel throughout the square gave me some comfort. But I rarely see anyone in uniform here.

I understand now why my booking at Hotel Cecil kept coming back to me as one night, rather than the seven I was trying to book. Visitors generally spend only one or two nights here, then move on to other places. They visit Marrakech, the Sahara Desert, the Atlas Mountains, perhaps Casablanca, Tangiers and Fez and then go home. They tour Morocco for one to two weeks; see the souks, the mosques, the palaces and the Roman ruins, but all the time on the move. Many I meet are here for a long weekend, having flown from a cool summer in Europe to this North African swelter.

Greg and Brit are American college students involved in a Spanish language exchange program in Barcelona. They are here for three days. I meet them over a lunch of chiche kebab and fries at an outdoor cafe. They are from cold states; Oregon and Philadelphia, and are melting in the 40 plus heat. However, they have a swimming pool at their hotel, and spend their time cooling off there.

Ornella is a photographer from Rome. She is an animal lover extraordinaire, here to rescue a dog from the local pound. Her dog of 17 years has recently passed away; she emotionally shows me a photo of a medium-sized long haired dog of indeterminate breed. We communicate in my broken French and her limited English, plus the small amount of Italian I possess. Ornella is appalled at the treatment of animals here; the cart-pulling donkeys that buck and kick at the sharp sting of the driver’s whip, the street dogs that are poisoned, the starving litters of kittens that abound. She has found a small dog, and is in the process of completing the paperwork to get him back to Rome and her family of 2 dogs, 3 cats and a husband.

I can feel my fitness fading, a combination of the after effects of the flu I had in London and the heat here in Marrakech, which makes it difficult to keep up my running regime. When I can, I walk outside the Medina and run the perimeter of the city and the ancient rose-coloured terracotta walls, past unsuspecting couples sitting on park benches, holding hands and savouring rare private moments.

 It’s getting late for dinner, around 10 pm. The light has faded with the heat. My favourite chiche kebab restaurant is filled with diners, but I am treated like a regular and they greet me with a “Bonjour mon ami, comment ca va”? and a gentle handshake. Table space is limited, so chairs are rearranged and diners moved to accommodate new arrivals. I am seated at a table with a French couple on one side, and 3 young Moroccan women on the other. The French are not inclined to chat, so I strike up a conversation with the girls who have come into the Medina from the suburbs for Saturday night,  Houda, her friend and a younger sister. They are interested in Australia, and I am interested in understanding Moroccan culture from their point of view. They are fashionably dressed in jeans, close fitting tops, heels and jewellery, much the same as young women in their mid-twenties in any European city, but in a tastefully understated way, not glam or garish.

They head off home to beat their 12pm curfew, and Houda offers to show me through the Medina tomorrow night, my last for the moment in Marrakech, as I’m off to the southern coastal town of Essaouira for a week. We swap phone numbers and agree to meet Sunday night.

Nouradine has become a good friend to me since I have arrived. A native Moroccan, he has lived in France and Spain, and has a good grasp of English. He is married with children and works in hospitality. Through him I begin to get some kind of understanding of this place. It is so confronting and in your face that after my first 4 days I feel I may have made a mistake in coming here. How can I possibly stay for a month?

Surprisingly though, on the 5^th day everything begins to click into place. It’s like I a revelation; my eyes are opened and suddenly I begin to understand. I realise I have been in a kind of denial since I have landed here, trying to view this country through my sanitised western Christian-based logic.  It is a trap that travellers commonly fall into. I don’t agree with the way many things are done here, but I don’t have to. I just have to accept and embrace and go with the flow of life.

It is Sunday night. Houda arrives at the square and we walk through the crowds to eat at an open-air restaurant. We are sat opposite to each other, and down the other end of the long bench table sits a pasty-faced, lanky American. He seems a little disorientated with the heat and the surrounding hustle and bustle and noise. He asks for the bill and a swarthy man who looks like the fat comptroller spits out “fifty”.

“oh, fifty euros” he says compliantly in a nasal accent that would be recognisable anywhere in the world as New Yorkian.

The hint of a smile appears on the dark cheeks, and he nods.

He pulls out a wad of euros and is about to hand them over. The man’s eyes glitter gleefully.

“Sorry mate” I interject. “He means fifty dirhams not euros”, and I help him count out the notes and coins that amount to 10% of what he was about to fork out.

He has just arrived here today from Berlin. Bryan has gambled everything and relocated from New York to the edgy ex-German capital to live and pursue his dream of a career as a painter. He is in Marrakech for the weekend “to check it out”.

We swap stories and he leaves for the relief of an air-conditioned room.

The fat-comptroller and I laugh when he leaves.

“fifty” he says, “fifty euros”. The scoundrel  would have taken it too.

We finish dinner, and Houda leads me through the darkened alleyways of the ancient souk, which some say is the most famous of all in the Arab world. We pass stalls of spice and perfume, leather and brass. She links her arm through mine; it is not socially acceptable for a woman to walk with a man she is not connected to. Customs and appearances are everything here. I ask her about head coverings and scarves, and she says she is not compelled to cover herself, she is a modern young woman, but if she marries she will wear the habib out of respect for her husband.

Inside the souk is exotic chaos as locals crowd the lanes and alleys, and motorcycles roar through the centre of the crowds, which split and then close again behind the exhaust fumes. For the first time here, I’m not constantly harassed, as the company of Houda offers me some protection from the tenacious traders and touts.

I thank Houda, and return to Hotel Cecil. It’s late, but still hundreds crowd the square, and the smoke drifts from charcoal sausage grills in the light breeze. Tomorrow I leave at 8am for the 4 hour journey to the coastal town of Essaouira, my home for the next week.