It was a typical Marrakech evening.
Hot and dry, with a calamity of characters offering taxis, bananas, a horse-drawn cart or hashish, I set out across the Grand Square to the road which leads to where the gates of this walled city once stood, so that I could run outside the walls where the heat was less and the wind vainly tried to clear the air of the acrid diesel fumes which burned your lungs.
All of a sudden I found myself in the midst of a demonstration. There was some scuffling going on which was concerning until I realised it was just some overzealous organiser insisting that the banners be carried in a particular order. I pushed through quickly to the front of the mob. Men and women at the front were carrying large framed photographs of the King. These were older people, and I knew this was one of the “staged” rallies in support of the King, who had been forced to offer the people a referendum, a vote to change the constitution and have free elections. Till now, the King selected the parliament and the Prime Minister. Now he will select the Prime Minister from the winning party.
It occurs to me that at this moment in Syria there are people getting shot by their own security forces for demonstrating for political and economic change. A chill runs through me, it hasn’t happened in Morocco, yet.
Younger people are calling for greater division of Religion, Monarchy and State, but you never hear of it in the media. But I know the movement is gathering momentum and the hunger for change is palpable, you can feel it in the air, spreading across the Middle-East.
I tear a muscle in my left hip, running on the hard, uneven tiles that line the footpath outside the fortress walls, and limp back to the tranquillity of my Azahara Riyad. Ibrahim rushes to me when I enter, and asks if I can take a look at Ali, he is unwell. I walk across the marble courtyard to where Ali sits, his face grimacing in pain and his hand holding the side of his right cheek.
“Salaam, Ali. Votre visage? Qui est de la question?”
“Oh, la dent la dent”
I take his hand away and his cheek is hard and swollen and he is in a lot of pain.
I ask Ibrahim if it has happened before.
“Oui, but this time is the worst”
Ali has a tooth abscess. He needs to see a dentist who will probably just pull the tooth out. That is how they deal with these problems here.
I give him some strong paracetamol tablets with codeine for the pain, and instructions to take them 4 hourly.
It is coming to the end of my time here.
At the end of my first week in Marrakech, I would have been happy to quit and go somewhere else. But now, I feel reluctant to leave. I have made some good friends, and I almost feel a part of this place. I think and speak in French now, and have become accustomed to the pace of life here and the often crazy ways things are done. If I had any issues with what I thought Islam was before I came here, they are now gone. The Moroccans are a pious people, and basically good in their core beings, much like most people, I guess.
So now comes the scorecard for Marrakech/Essaouira as a potential home;
Environment (natural and un-natural) 5 (out of 10)
Food (ok, but not as good or as spicy as I expected, issues with freshness) 5
Social (friendliness, helpfulness, welcoming, social opportunities) 8
Security (trustworthy, physical safety) 6
Weather 6
Accommodation (quality, comfort, cost) 8
Value for Money (living costs, entertainment) 7
Visa (availability and cost) 6
Total 5/80 66%
Standard visas are valid for 3 months from entry for most British Commonwealth nation’s citizens. Longer visas can be obtained but you need to show proof of sufficient funds to support yourself.
Obviously, security is a major issue in Morocco. The bombing that occurred just weeks before I arrived was denounced by every person I spoke to. They brought the subject up, as if they felt outsiders need to know how the average Moroccan feels about the subject. I did not encounter anyone I would term as “fundamentalist”, but that does not mean they don’t exist. However, I did not encounter any situations where I was at risk, despite my sensitivities.
If I were to live here, I would divide my time between Marrakech, and a beach city, perhaps Agadir. Marrakech can have poor air quality due to the bowl-like effect the surrounding mountains give. This place has gotten under my skin, and I am reluctant to leave.
But the journey must go on, for my quest to find the best place to live.
Next stop Budapest, Hungary. Home Number 4.
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