“Here we are, all of us: in a dream caravan. A caravan, but a dream—a dream, but a caravan. And we know which are the dreams. Therein lies the hope. -Sheik Bahaudin
Arrival
Touchdown in a foreign city. You know that complex feeling of anticipation and apprehension? I had many preconceptions of Morocco, one of them being that customs would be a nightmare and emerging into the unregulated arena outside the airport doors would be chaos and I’d be immediately exposed as a neophyte solo traveler and be set upon by unscrupulous drivers who saw me as prey. Well, that didn’t happen. The travel gods smiled upon me as I was disembarking the aircraft when I noticed the woman standing in front of me was sporting a backpack with an MTS logo hanging from it. A fellow traveler. Taunya from Seattle was as relieved as I was as we made our way through an uneventful customs area(though the agents were surly and very very serious), retrieved our luggage(mine much bigger then hers, ha) and squinted our way into the Moroccan sunshine. Trepidation arose as I scanned the crowd, not seeing a driver with the MTS insignia, when Taunya calmly tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to our man. I relaxed. I can do this. Lucky for me, a stranger just became a friend.
The Hamman
I know what you are thinking. My first day in Morocco and I’m going to describe what is basically a spa experience? My “treatment” set the tone for my trip, literally stripping away any preconceived notions I had about what I was about to embark upon. Besides, I was stoked to try something I had read about and had been described as an essential part of the Islamic way of life. After all, the hamman is one of the four basic elements in the Medina, or the ancient walled cities of Morocco, the others being the bakery, the mosque, and the fountain. A hamman is at its very basic a public bath, a vestige of past centuries when indoor plumbing was not a thing. Today, every town and most villages have a public hamman, its function both social and practical. Quarters are separated by gender and apparently the atmosphere is very different in each case. For women in the hamman, it is an animated and social affair. An opportunity for camaraderie and a relaxing of the stringent rules regarding clothing and modesty. Steam and water are the two primary sources of relaxation but there is an additional element that ups the ante for ones definition of serenity: the loufah. Scrubbing one another’s skin until raw is considered cleansing, hygienic and leaves one feeling renewed. I understand its a weekly thing.
I had arrived a day early and it was late afternoon. Taunya and I had made plans to eat a traditional Moroccan meal in the early evening. I had a few hours to kill and I decided to call on a whim and see if I could book a traditional hamman to renew myself from the long trip. Imagine my surprise when I showed up for my appointment and my attendant was male. I was momentarily taken aback. I got the memo on modesty in Morocco, my suitcase was filled with appropriate attire for a Muslim country, loose fitting pants, long sleeves. it seemed strangely ironic then to be standing in this beautiful treatment room wrapped in a terry robe when a male attendant enters and gestures for me to disrobe. I waited for him to depart. I looked around for the modesty towels. I’ve had male attendants before and discretion is usually primary. The towels might be miniscule swaths of fabric, but a modicum of privacy is usually afforded.
When I checked in, I had been given a flimsy gauzy strip of cloth, a narrow diaper attached to two strings. I had to try the thing on several times as I couldn’t decipher back to front. This is what I had on as my hamman expert brusquely guided me to the first of three marble tables. The room itself was stunning, iridescent tile covered the walls and steam billowed under the elaborate arches at the ceiling. The first stage was a black soap rub to remove all impurities, followed by the highlight, the loofah scrub. What started as a pleasant tingling became borderline painful as the top layer of my epidermis was scraped over and over. I can’t say it was relaxing, in fact my man’s manner was rough and efficient to the point that I felt like a rag doll. My attendant tapped me on the shoulder to show me the disgusting detritus of skin left on his mitt and the table around me. He was triumphant as he waved his mitt in the air. The last stage of the treatment was an orange blossom oil massage. As the intoxicating fragrance filled the air and the burning sensation in my skin subsided, I began to finally relax as the oil anointed my newborn skin. As I was left on the marble table to luxuriate in the aroma, I pondered the obvious disconnect between the world “out there” and the the one in here. I thought about how this was a tourist hotel and these treatments were likely geared towards westerners. I imagine a visit to the community baths would be a much more authentic experience. At the very least, I’d experienced the pain/pleasure of the loofah and it it was oddly comforting. Shedding the old. A useful metaphor for beginning my adventure.
The Soul of Marrakesh
Marrakesh is a Muslim city influenced by its proximity both to the towering Atlas Mountains and the vast sand dunes of the Sahara desert . Home to a population of of over 1.6 million, I immediately noticed the diversity of its people, especially within the walls of the old medina. It is a young country, 45% of its population is under 25 and that contributes to an increasingly modern viewpoint. I began to notice distinct differences in the way people dressed and behaved. The Berbers are the ancient indigenous race of Morocco who make up 60%of its population. Though a majority they struggle to maintain a traditional identity under the dominant minority Arab culture that took hold in the 7th century after the Islamic Conquest. The native Berber language had just recently been recognized as an official language of Morocco and is now being taught in schools. Moroccans are obviously proud that their version of Sunni Islam is deeply tolerant and flexible. Guides consistently point to the long standing historical respect for both Jews and Christians who have been established in Morocco for 2,000 years. Moroccans will go out of their way to tell you how Jews and Christians lived in close proximity in the medina, in fact there is a Jewish quarter in every city, though their population has been depleted since the recognition of Israel as a state in the 1940’s.
Marrakesh holds treasures that are not easily accessed, I suspect that is part of the allure. The Medina(old city), is surrounded by century old walls, overlooked by the Koutoubia Minaret, where 5 times a day, the Call to Prayer awakens all unsuspecting tourists to the haunting cadence of the Arabic chant. It’s a sound that will resonate in my memory of Morocco, for no matter where I was in the following weeks, I would be reminded of the primacy of faith in this culture. I might be walking down a city street and suddenly prayer mats would be unfurled , knees and foreheads lowered to the ground, lips moving in whispered worship. The daily machinations of holy action moved me, in the early morning hours especially. I would listen from my bedroom as the muezzin announced prayers through the mosque loudspeaker: “Come to prayer, come to security. God is great.” and imagine the rustling of thousands of robes in the medina below me, the murmurings and upraised hands and the feeling of being an outsider was intensified by the mystery of Islam. The five pillars of Islam include the daily prayer, the giving of alms, the fast of Ramadan, a pilgrimage to Mecca, and the acceptance that there is no other divinity but God. These precepts filter in to and inform every aspect of the community.
The city is dominated by the urban square, known as Jemaa el Fna, popularly translated as “the place of the dead” or “place of execution”, a strangely savage moniker for a spectacularly lively place that enchants with all manners of spectacle and performance. From 1,000 years ago, when Saharan caravans laden with salt and gold, spices and slaves would arrive to trade here to the modern day circus of snake charmers, water sellers, fortune tellers, storytellers, musicians, monkees, and acrobats, the square has been a place of gathering and entertainment.
My first glimpse of the Jemaa el Fna was in the dark of night. Initially, I was disoriented by the undulating mass of humanity packed into the square, in the dim light I could see what felt like one organic living breathing thing. As I got closer, individual heads then bodies emerged from the mob and I could see large groups standing in circles around unseen performers. Tribal music emerged from the crowd and the general din of foreign tongues rose up like a dirge. At the same time, young boys kicking soccer balls descended upon our group and began tripping us up in an attempt to pickpocket our belongings. We had to physically push them away and walk faster. As we approached, I felt an energy coming off the crowd, a separate entity that pulsated with life. I did not know where to look first and I wanted to drink it all in. Over there, a fortune teller reading a scattering of beans on the ground. Over here, a turbaned band of Gnaoua musicians holding an audience in thrall. Here, two storytellers, one Berber, one Arabic, competing for the attention of a large crowd. We wandered through the smoky haze of the food stalls where goat head soup and sizzling brochettes were being served to locals at long tables under harsh lanterns. People approached from all sides, selling wares, asking for money, appealing for attention. Eyes would catch mine and drop away. “You have a pretty smile!”, “Can I be your Toy Boy?” Comments in broken English and Arabic were tossed our way but we moved like fish in a predatory sea, swerving down one path here, making a sharp left at the snake charmers there. We never stopped, we moved and observed and I felt alive in a way I’d hadn’t in a long time. My adrenaline was pumping and I wanted to linger but a solo American woman out in the evening on this square might be harassed. It was time to go.
The Jemaa el Fna is a different place in the daytime. Still a vibrant gathering place the daylight hours are less social, more transactional. The food stalls are absent but there are large blankets strewn about with everything from utilitarian kitchen items to sweatshirts and hats. The snake charmers are out and hoping to engage a gullible tourist into holding and possibly kissing a viper. Who in their right minds would do that? I’m raising my hand here. First, I am not afraid of snakes. Second, I’m easily persuaded to do dumb things. A crowd quickly grew as I was encouraged to let the snake charmer wound his slithery reptile around my neck and hold the hissing thing up to my lips in a replica of a kiss. What I wasn’t prepared for was for him to walk away, shoving the head of the viper into my own hands while moving on to engage a new customer. Not knowing what to do, I felt the need to entertain the crowd and I began a little snake charming dance of my own, singing a little ditty and swaying as I watched my snakes forked tongue dart in and out, its eyes watching me warily. My snake charmer returned none to soon, and unwound the beast from my neck. Feeling a wee bit proud of myself and in no small measure relieved, I handed over a few dirhams for the opportunity.
Green Temples: The Gardens of Marrakesh
“If the end of the world happens while one of you is holding a palm tree that you are about to plant, do not get up before having planted it, if possible.” The Prophet Mohammed
Moroccans place a high value on the care and cultivation of plants and trees. There are places in Marrakesh that serve as sanctuaries from the heat, the noise and chaos of the street. The architecture of Morocco found in the design of the local riads is one that emphasizes hidden pleasures. Narrow streets are lined by high walls, a blank canvas of mud and hay. Doors are intricate wooden structures, adorned with ironwork and filigree. Beyond lies the mystery and the refuge. Riads(Arabic, ryad for Garden) are meant to be a haven for the senses. Traditional design consists of rooms built around a central courtyard. Windows look only into the courtyard one enters upon stepping through the door. Traditionally planted with four lemon or orange trees with a fountain in the middle, the inner panels are embellished with intricate tile work called zellij and typically, Qurannic calligraphy adorns the walls. Crumbling riads in the medinas of Marrakesh and Fes have been increasingly purchased by foreigners and renovated to serve as guest accommodations for tourists. Staying at a riad is one of the more authentic experiences you can have while visiting Morocco.The whole of the city is adorned by the living color of trees and flowers. Imagine olive, orange and cypress trees in great abundance. Ubiquitous palm trees soar towards the sky, bougainvillea and jasmine and spill over walls. Roses are a huge export business and can be found on the dustiest roads.
My first full day in Morocco included a visit to the celebrated Majorelle Gardens, designed and planted by French artists in the 1920’s and donated to the city by French designer Yves St. Laurent. Peaceful, despite the crowds, the garden showcases over 300 varieties of desert plants, mostly the spiky variety, interspersed with small ponds and fountains. The highlight is a vivid blue Moorish structure housing a Berber Museum of artifacts, the tribal jewelry alone is a feast for the eyes. It’s easy to see why these spaces are an oasis for Moroccans, a place of respite and calm. A horse and buggy ride to the Menara Gardens, built in the 12th century, led us to a completely different kind of green space. A popular place for locals to picnic and exercise, the gardens are actually an estate of irrigated olive orchards planted around a massive water tank, where giant carp await hunks of bread thrown to them by little children. It’s especially impressive in late Fall as the backdrop of the Atlas Mountains covered in snow is very picturesque.
Souk Life: The Art of Bargaining
If Jemma al Fna is the soul of Marrakesh, the souk it its beating heart. I was awed by it, the souk is where life happens. Walking the confusing jumble of narrow alleys, I felt like not much had changed in the ensuing centuries. Makers and dealers are packed in tightly, a grand display of all the traditional arts and regional crafts of Morocco, grouped together by trade. Weavers, dyers, carpenters, carpet merchants and herbalists. Most impressive were the workshops of the blacksmiths, where the cacophony of metal being bent and torched made me think I was in the flaming tombs of Dante’s sixth level of hell. Entering the souk on your on is risky business, you may never find your way out. The prevailing wisdom is to hire one of the many guides waiting at the gates to escort you through. Recently, officials have taken to painting arrows on walls to direct hapless tourists out of the maze. Either way, getting lost is part of the experience for the souk is a dizzying labyrinth of twisting alleys packed to the gills with hundreds of booths displaying a colorful array of goods. It’s an overwhelming and positively energizing trip through an exotic world of riotous color and smells. My senses were on high alert, as motorbikes whizzed by missing my toes by mere inches, I was bumped and jostled, two steps forward, one to side step, three back, I was walking like a crazy person but my eyes and ears were drinking up the scene. There was the constant hum of accented voices emerging from the dark recesses of the booths; Madame, look at this. Good deal here. Look at these magnificent slippers, this supple leather, this handsome iron-work, this exquisite tile. Mint tea, Madame? Come, I show you the loveliest rug like no other you’ve seen. Please sit down, madame, let me show you.
Bargaining with the owners of the stalls is an art. Many westerners find themselves uncomfortable with the process, either the seller is too aggressive and the transaction feels like an assault or there is concern over being too rude if you counter an offer. I’d read in guidebooks before I arrived that the bargaining dance is expected, in fact, if one does not participate, the seller is disappointed. There are specific techniques to guide the game. Knowing the value of the item you want is important. Never act like you really want an item, be nonchalant in your desire for a product. Praise the craftsmanship, the color and design but act non-committal and sad that you can’t afford it. A price will be offered and the games begin! I apprenticed myself to a dynamic and well-travelled fellow adventurer, Venezia. She was a master at the art of bargaining. I attached myself to her the first few times we entered a stall and I watched her techniques. At first, I thought her style was rude and dismissive and indeed, the sellers would recoil and act as if they’d been offended, but to my surprise, they would shake their heads and engage. She would walk away and they would chase after her, offering a new improved price. It was fascinating to watch and I could see the enjoyment(and admiration) on the sellers face after Venezia struck a hard bargain. Often, they would give her free items as she paid for her purchase, I figured it a reward for a game well-played.
I came to enjoy the bargaining dance as well. Many times, I would be taken away from my fellow travelers into another room or a quiet shadowed corner of the stall. Thats when the game would begin. I could not bring myself to be as aggressively ruthless as Venezia, but I began to enjoy the back and forth. There were times when I felt I had really scored a bargain, but others where I knew I’d been fleeced. Nevertheless, I felt initiated into a cultural tradition that was centuries old.
Marrakesh Wanderings
There is much to keep the explorer occupied in Marrakesh. Imperial Marrakesh, the era of the sultans, left some marvelous ruins and a day spent marveling at the El Bahia Palace lends insight into the lavish decor and design of the sultan’s architecture. The Moorish ceilings alone, carved, painted and gilded, are dazzling to behold. The Saadian Tombs were another worthwhile stop. The open air unidentified mosaic graves are the cemetery of the Sharfa , descendants of the Prophet. Extraordinary mausoleums surround these simple graves. Lit by the filtered rays coming in through an upper window, the interiors are jaw-dropping examples of gilded lace-like plasterwork and mosaic zellijs. It’s a fantastical feast for the eyes and heady to gaze upon. It was here that I first noticed the massive nests constructed atop ramparts and columns. I half-expected a prehistoric creature to be the creator and I wasn’t disappointed when I spied the giant wingspan of a stork coming in for a landing. Storks are considered holy animals in Morocco, the Berbers once believed the birds to be transformed humans. It is forbidden to disturb a stork or its nest, which makes sense when you see their majestic flight from their nest.
The ancient Jewish Quarter or mellah is a step back into another world. Once home to a talented community of metalsmiths, bankers, and linguists in the 15th Century, traditional specialists of jewelry , textiles and tailoring remain. An interesting visit should be made to the Jewish market, just prepare yourself as I found it to be an assault on my olfactory senses. Dozens of live chickens squawked in cages and large pens, awaiting their fate next door. Butchers and fishmongers practiced their trade, the blood and guts of freshly slaughtered things splashed everywhere, the greasy innards dripping through crevices on the floor beneath my feet. Unlike the pristine butcher shops one sees in the US, the process of getting a chicken from cage to plate was on display and while I was initially repulsed by the noise of knives slicing through bone and the pungent smell, I was a witness to a traditional way of life, untouched by centuries of change.
This is why I travel. To seek out not the new, but the old. I want to discover places where the old ways still exist, where craftsmanship is celebrated and practiced, where community still implies conversation on doorsteps and a shared history, where traditions hold fast and true. Marrakesh is a city of contradictions, it’s complexity of spirit would take a lifetime to unpack. But the mountains were calling, it was time to bid adieu to the city and set forth into the villages of the High Atlas.
Stay Tuned for My Next Installment:
Rocking the Kasbah’s