Marrakech
Dear Readers,
We hunched forward towards the blurry hotel computer screen in disbelief to see the following:
MAD RAK 14.12.08
RAK MAD 21.12.08
US$ 50.00 +TAX&FEES
This, dear readers, seemed to both of us to be nothing short of a sign directly from the travel deities. These cryptic characters represented an extraordinary (and extraordinarily cheap) chance to add some bold new spice to our Spanish journey-in-progress – specifically, a chance to fly round-trip from Madrid to Morocco for nary more than a DC cabbie would charge from Capitol Hill to Adams Morgan. Lou and I leaned back from the monitor and exchanged a silent look. Forty-eight hours later, we exited a beige “petit taxi” from the airport into the Djemaa El-Fna, the open plaza which is the beating heart of the Marrakech old city.
The Djemaa, which serves as Marrakech’s multipurpose marketplace, restaurant, and theatre, is truly a feast for the senses. Allow me to offer some examples. For the stomach, the Djemaa offers elaborately stacked piles of chewy dates and figs, roasted nuts, exotic spices, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and numerous other treats. Wait until dusk and dozens of portable food stations roll in to serve everything from fried seafood to Moroccan sausage to cow brains. For entertainment, monkeys on leashes will do back flips or jump on your head for a few coins. Live cobras wriggle freely on woven mats while their handlers play exotic melodies on their flutes. Unshaven storytellers in full length robes attract crowds with their tales (in Arabic unfortunately but engaging nonetheless). When all this activity becomes overwhelming, as it inevitably does, you can choose from any number of pleasant terraces overlooking the plaza to enjoy both a mint tea and the view of the snow-capped High Atlas peaks in the distance.
If the Djemaa is the heart of the old medina, then the mesh of streets and alleys fanning out from it in all directions serve as the veins and arteries. We stepped out of the plaza and into this maze, which felt like taking a step back in time a few centuries, if not a few millennia. You seem to enter a lost world of sultans and sabers in those narrow streets, walking past veiled women and men in hooded cloaks, past donkeys pulling wooden carts loaded with animal hides, past store shelves lined with rusted spice bins and silver-handled daggers . The occasional unsavory figure lurking under the shadow of a low stone archway looks like the type to get you the things not sold on the store shelves. The hustle and bustle of conversations, negotiations, and confrontations is then washed over as the overpowering call to prayer floods the streets from the amplified speakers of a nearby mosque, echoing off the pink plaster walls.
Then suddenly, modernity slaps you across the face. Honda scooters weave recklessly through the alley full of pedestrians, belching black smoke. Reggaeton, of all things, blares from a nearby radio. The corner stores sell Coke and Snickers with Arabic labels and the donkey carts roll past signs for internet cafés. You realize that you have not, in fact, time-warped back to some lost desert empire but are very much in the 21st century.
Young men wearing knock-off designer clothes, flashy leather jackets, and liberal applications of hair gel will then approach you in no less than half a dozen languages offering to “help”. Did we want to buy carpets? Look here. Jewelry? Antiques? “Qu’est-ce que vous cherchez? Que buscas?” Perhaps through some specialized language book written specifically for Moroccan street peddlers, hordes of these of men have learned to be supremely annoying in English, French, Spanish, Italian, and German. A simple “non, merci” was laughably ineffective.
We tried keeping our sunglasses on and ignoring them. This only encouraged them further. “You are lost, yes? Musée de Marrakech tout droit. Which hotel you are looking for? Grand plaza? Español? Donde vas?” Actually, we were lost, but instead of asking for help Lou and I walked in endless loops through the tangled spaghetti of the souk market streets, no closer to our intended destination than Columbus was to India. Much more than the pocket change they would demand if we accepted their help, it was the cost of pride that I wasn't willing to pay. We would instead shuffle to a stop, discreetly pull out the map, and whisper, “Weren’t we just here 10 minutes ago?”
Yes, Marrakech is an exhausting place for the body, the mind, and the wallet. Luckily there is some respite – the riad. A riad, essentially a Moroccan B&B, is where you escape the chaos of the street into a quiet urban oasis. A decent riad will come equipped with, at a minimum, a peaceful, sunny inner courtyard for reading and enjoying endless cups of mint tea, as well as a cozy salon for the evenings of fireside chess…and more reading…and more tea. Our riad’s salon was decorated in something of an upscale opium den style which included dim lighting and leather pouf pillows for maximum relaxing after a hard day in the streets. Some include in-house hammam steam baths and gourmet kitchens, making it hard to find reasons to ever leave.
Your correspondent and companion were quite pleased that they had planned a spontaneous trip to North Africa which, thus far, had not contained any major disasters. However, we would not be content to stay in the comfort of the riad of the even the recent familiarity of Marrakech. A new adventure, in the direction of the Algerian border, loomed large.
Atentamente,
Your correspondent
We hunched forward towards the blurry hotel computer screen in disbelief to see the following:
MAD RAK 14.12.08
RAK MAD 21.12.08
US$ 50.00 +TAX&FEES
This, dear readers, seemed to both of us to be nothing short of a sign directly from the travel deities. These cryptic characters represented an extraordinary (and extraordinarily cheap) chance to add some bold new spice to our Spanish journey-in-progress – specifically, a chance to fly round-trip from Madrid to Morocco for nary more than a DC cabbie would charge from Capitol Hill to Adams Morgan. Lou and I leaned back from the monitor and exchanged a silent look. Forty-eight hours later, we exited a beige “petit taxi” from the airport into the Djemaa El-Fna, the open plaza which is the beating heart of the Marrakech old city.
The Djemaa, which serves as Marrakech’s multipurpose marketplace, restaurant, and theatre, is truly a feast for the senses. Allow me to offer some examples. For the stomach, the Djemaa offers elaborately stacked piles of chewy dates and figs, roasted nuts, exotic spices, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and numerous other treats. Wait until dusk and dozens of portable food stations roll in to serve everything from fried seafood to Moroccan sausage to cow brains. For entertainment, monkeys on leashes will do back flips or jump on your head for a few coins. Live cobras wriggle freely on woven mats while their handlers play exotic melodies on their flutes. Unshaven storytellers in full length robes attract crowds with their tales (in Arabic unfortunately but engaging nonetheless). When all this activity becomes overwhelming, as it inevitably does, you can choose from any number of pleasant terraces overlooking the plaza to enjoy both a mint tea and the view of the snow-capped High Atlas peaks in the distance.
If the Djemaa is the heart of the old medina, then the mesh of streets and alleys fanning out from it in all directions serve as the veins and arteries. We stepped out of the plaza and into this maze, which felt like taking a step back in time a few centuries, if not a few millennia. You seem to enter a lost world of sultans and sabers in those narrow streets, walking past veiled women and men in hooded cloaks, past donkeys pulling wooden carts loaded with animal hides, past store shelves lined with rusted spice bins and silver-handled daggers . The occasional unsavory figure lurking under the shadow of a low stone archway looks like the type to get you the things not sold on the store shelves. The hustle and bustle of conversations, negotiations, and confrontations is then washed over as the overpowering call to prayer floods the streets from the amplified speakers of a nearby mosque, echoing off the pink plaster walls.
Then suddenly, modernity slaps you across the face. Honda scooters weave recklessly through the alley full of pedestrians, belching black smoke. Reggaeton, of all things, blares from a nearby radio. The corner stores sell Coke and Snickers with Arabic labels and the donkey carts roll past signs for internet cafés. You realize that you have not, in fact, time-warped back to some lost desert empire but are very much in the 21st century.
Young men wearing knock-off designer clothes, flashy leather jackets, and liberal applications of hair gel will then approach you in no less than half a dozen languages offering to “help”. Did we want to buy carpets? Look here. Jewelry? Antiques? “Qu’est-ce que vous cherchez? Que buscas?” Perhaps through some specialized language book written specifically for Moroccan street peddlers, hordes of these of men have learned to be supremely annoying in English, French, Spanish, Italian, and German. A simple “non, merci” was laughably ineffective.
We tried keeping our sunglasses on and ignoring them. This only encouraged them further. “You are lost, yes? Musée de Marrakech tout droit. Which hotel you are looking for? Grand plaza? Español? Donde vas?” Actually, we were lost, but instead of asking for help Lou and I walked in endless loops through the tangled spaghetti of the souk market streets, no closer to our intended destination than Columbus was to India. Much more than the pocket change they would demand if we accepted their help, it was the cost of pride that I wasn't willing to pay. We would instead shuffle to a stop, discreetly pull out the map, and whisper, “Weren’t we just here 10 minutes ago?”
Yes, Marrakech is an exhausting place for the body, the mind, and the wallet. Luckily there is some respite – the riad. A riad, essentially a Moroccan B&B, is where you escape the chaos of the street into a quiet urban oasis. A decent riad will come equipped with, at a minimum, a peaceful, sunny inner courtyard for reading and enjoying endless cups of mint tea, as well as a cozy salon for the evenings of fireside chess…and more reading…and more tea. Our riad’s salon was decorated in something of an upscale opium den style which included dim lighting and leather pouf pillows for maximum relaxing after a hard day in the streets. Some include in-house hammam steam baths and gourmet kitchens, making it hard to find reasons to ever leave.
Your correspondent and companion were quite pleased that they had planned a spontaneous trip to North Africa which, thus far, had not contained any major disasters. However, we would not be content to stay in the comfort of the riad of the even the recent familiarity of Marrakech. A new adventure, in the direction of the Algerian border, loomed large.
Atentamente,
Your correspondent
posted by Dan at
2:58 PM
<< Home