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An Evening in Marrakesh
Morroco's Colorful Spectacle

Lydia Dean, Nick, Emma in Souk marketplace

T he sun is on its way down in Morocco, North Africa as we head into the square at Djemee El Fna in Marrakesh. It is comfortably cool for a summer evening, a welcome break from the brutal afternoon rays. We round the corner leading towards the square and merge into the sea of brown heads and mopeds going in every which direction. With 5 year old Nicholas on John’s shoulders and Emma, only 3, on my back I brace myself to face the whirlwind of spectacles - snake charmers, storytellers, and acrobats.

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The square is everything the guidebooks prepare you for, but there is no way to explain the ultimate foreign feeling that oozes into your pores as you attempt to make sense of it. I take out my camera needing to capture some of the madness, some of the exotic wildness all the while knowing it will be completely impossible. The magic of this famous place lies in its complex blend of sounds and smells, of a million things going on at once. I am acutely aware of the faint smell of mint from the leaves used to make tea, combined with the smell of cooking meat. We are surrounded by stalls of all sorts, cauldrons of harira (a thick lentil soup), juice-makers, and date and olive sellers, all yelling out incomprehensible things to us. Apothecaries sit on mats with their jars of potions for every ailment and veiled women crouch on wooden crates offering delicate henna designs to be drawn on the hands and feet of willing women – an ancient ritual to bring good fortune. Donkeys cart goods, old men stare, pick-pockets weave through the crowds, and the majestic red color of the city walls change hue as the hand moves around the clock.

I know as I take the picture that it is a useless attempt to grasp the moment but I take it anyway. Immediately I am descended upon by a couple of screaming Moroccan men, performers of some sort who know that they are in the image of the picture I had just taken. They are in my face demanding money-- I fumble for my purse, so carefully hidden away. Dirhams in hand the men vanish into the crowd as quickly as they had appeared.

Husband John & Nick

Once through the main square we wander down an alley into the mysterious winding streets of the medina. There is a bustle within these narrow 12th century walls as people go about their daily routine with a sense of fervor now that the sun is descending. I stop to watch a man press shirts using a huge block of iron with a giant handle; something most likely used hundreds of years ago. Women are coming in and out of the local hamman, a public steam bath where they scrub themselves and commune with one another, an age-old tradition still very much alive in Morocco. Children play in the local fountain of beautifully laid tile set flush against a wall as young boys carry big trays of uncooked bread to the baking ovens.

Thread in between the souks, workshops and bargainers are massive ancient doors studded with bronze and surrounded by intricate woodcarvings. I steal a glimpse through one as a man enters. My furtive look through the thin crack reveals a magnificent grand room, so tall it seems to have no ceiling. The walls are cool white with exquisite mosaic patterns. Men lay in rows; face down upon a red rug laid on the floor. Left utterly stunned by the beauty and peacefulness of this 3-second sight, I quicken my pace and continue to wander.

The eyes of souk owners follow my own in search of any hint or glimmer of my interest in their wares-- pottery, metalwork, rugs, leather goods, jellebahs, heaps of spices, fruits, and nuts. I know that if I raise a brow, stare too long, or commit the mortal sin of actually stopping to have a look at something, that we will be launched into a half-hour ceremony of negotiations. From his Daddy’s shoulders, Nicholas takes it upon himself to offer the – “Non Merci Monsieur” to anyone who approaches us, which is often. The people are eager to sell their goods and the tourist here is just waiting to buy.

Nick With snake charmer

I glance at my son, still so young, and wonder what is going through his mind, whether he is as shocked as I am to be completely engulfed by this strange yet extraordinary mix of Arabic, African, and Mediterranean influences. He appears completely at ease, almost unfazed yet intently focused on what is going on around him. How comforting to see him so relaxed. But how does he digest the alarming differences in all that we see here? Does he get any sense of awkward displacement, as I do, as the Muslim call to prayer is broadcasted across the city five times day? What comparisons does he draw if any between himself and the young boy in the pottery factory who spends all day on a dirt floor chipping edges off of tiny tile pieces? I remember how they had smiled at one another, big beautiful smiles -- a radiant exchange of goodness that seemed to transcend any difference between them.

Little Emma begins to moan that she is hungry, reminding us of the hour, pulling me abruptly into reality. We walk back to the square and hail a cab to a restaurant that had been highly recommended by a woman we had met in Fez. Crammed in the back of the car, the driver heads us back into the medina, into the streets that have barely room for a packed donkey. As we creep down the alleys, faces peer into the car, their worlds and ours like two ships passing in the sea. We silently acknowledge one another, our vessels similar yet guided by separate currents taking us into different waters. The taxi stops at the end of an alley in front of a nondescript concrete wall with a small wooden door. There is nothing at all indicating it is a restaurant other than two men standing next to the door dressed in long white jellebahs and plush red hats with tassels. One of them quickly approaches the taxi, opens my door, and guides me by the arm towards the entrance.

Once inside all sounds of the medina are immediately blocked out and a cool stillness surrounds us broken only by the sound of trickling water from a fountain. We are led silently up a candlelit winding stone staircase to a beautifully decorated terrace, enveloped by plants and more candles. A bar has been set up and the guests are treated to the serene setting for aperitifs as the sun sets a deep golden red. The children are immediately drawn to the musician building his stage of rug and pillows. They find a spot on the ground and eagerly anticipate the gentle sounds of the aged instruments.

Surreal is the only word that comes to my mind as the wind refreshes my skin and I take in the views across Marrakesh’s rooftops, the High Atlas Mountains in the distance and the Sahara Desert somewhere beyond. And the music begins to play….

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Lydia Dean divides her time between Mas De Gancel and living in a village house nearby during the off season. She still has ties to India where she volunteered at an orphanage some years ago - devoting revenues from their other rental houses to a girls orphange there. Drop her a line at Lydia Dean or visit her website at www.masdegancel.com

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