First Hours in Marrakech

Business travel and cosmopolitan jetsetting have made me soft.

Within one minute of stepping off the plane in Marrakech I am obviously a fish out of water. I can’t figure out where my luggage is supposed to come off, and I’m stuck in a giant herd of people wearing traditional Berber clothing. My luggage actually doesn’t take long, neither does clearing customs, or exchanging money, but once I step outside the airport I’m on a different fucking planet.

I wander the parking lot in search of a taxi stand — no such luck. There is a protest for some cause unbeknownst to me. A swarm of chanting people clog up the causeway on mass. I walk through a giant tangle of cars in the parking lot and finally stumble on a bunch of taxis — all of them dingy beige diesel Mercedes, circa 1982.

I find a taxi driver who looks my age, late 20’s-ish, and ask him if he can take me to the address I’ve written down for my riad, which is basically a Moroccan style bed & breakfast and quite common in Marrakech.

Cabbie goes over and consults with his colleagues and comes back. I ask him how much. He says 100 Dirhams (Dh). I’ve read this as the going rate so I agree.

As I’m getting into the cab his mate comes over and tells me a new price, 150Dh, because it is difficult to get to this address. I agree even though I know I’m getting the hustle. I’m tired and overwhelmed.

Before we embark Cabbie argues with his friend, Other Cabbie, in Arabic. I don’t need to speak the language to know what it’s about.

My Cabbie is upset that his friend, Other Cabbie, is trying to swindle me. Thankfully he is honest. My faith in humanity is renewed. I decide to pay him 150Dh upon arrival anyway.

If I hadn’t of spent so much time in taxis in the USA I probably would have been scared shitless, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been in a cab that advanced by passing cars over the center line. I sit back, relax, and enjoy the harrowing ride.

There don’t really appear to be rules on the road here save maybe one — “get the fuck out of the way if you’re slower than me,” but in a sort of polite “I’ll fuck you gently, it’s just business” kind of way.

I get dropped off on a dirty crowded street (more like an alley in size) next to a cart full of oranges. Shitty motorcycles straight out of the 70’s are whizzing by me in every direction. People buzzing about in the same manner. Holy shit.

“There. It’s that way”

That’s all my cabbie told me before he took off. He was nice, so I guess I trust him.

I have a flashback to the time I thought I was about to be kidnapped by the Russian mob in Philly. I quickly put that thought out of my mind.

I walk down this narrow street — dirt and disorganized stone under my feet. I watch the numbers above the doors change in a way that I don’t fully understand. All of a sudden I’ve apparently jumped a couple of blocks.

I’m confused, but keep walking with a purpose which probably doesn’t help much. I’m a spectacle. Jeans are for the most part the clear mark of a tourist in this place.

A do-good shopkeeper tries to flag me down.

“Hey!”

I keep walking.

‘The internet warned me about people like you,’ I think to myself.

“My friend. Where are you going?”

This guy is persistent. I keep walking but he saddles up next to me. Finally I give-in and tell him where I’m staying.

“Riad Clementine,” I say.

“It’s the other way. I’ll show you.”

I follow him and apprehensively engage in conversation. A couple minutes later he’s ringing the doorbell at Riad Clementine for me.

The door begins to open. He waves me off without asking for money. I’m surprised, so I give him 10dh as a sort of tip (That’s roughly about one Canadian dollar and some change). I don’t know if this is rude or not. I don’t know if it’s too little or not, but he offers his future assistance should I need it. I thank him as the door opens. I enter the riad.

What a contrast! It’s quiet, clean, and actually kind of magical in here. I’m offered a seat and a drink in the courtyard. I sit filling out my guest information surrounded by orange trees and the sounds of calming French music and a dripping water fountain.

The European couple that own the place, Antoine and Angela, are supreme hosts from the get go. Something about them is very calming. I suppose if I spent loads of time in this little oasis I would be fairly relaxed too.

One of the staff members shows me around the place which has a sitting room, dining room, small reflecting pool on the second level above the courtyard, and a rooftop terrace with sun loungers. It’s all a surprise. My room is fantastic. I feel like a king — that is until I step outside the walls of Riad Clementine.

I set out on my journey to Jemaa El Fna (said Jemma el fen-ah), the famous market square from every tourist photo I’ve seen of Marrakech. I try to follow the instructions given to me by my hosts, but I quickly screw them up.

That’s okay. I’ve been lost plenty of times before. In fact, wandering lost counts as one of my top hobbies, although this time I’m in Marrkech stumbling around The tightly wound maze of The Medina and all it’s madness — alone.

I walk with a purpose. The occasional person yelling out to me “Hey, it’s this way,” trying to get my attention so they can charge me for their guidance to some random tourist site. I politely, but assertively ignore any help exactly as I’ve been instructed by the internet.

Many have written on the “false niceties” of the people of the Medina. There are many chances to take advantage of tourists. Mostly because they are easily and obviously disoriented. It’s not unsafe, and I never felt that I would be robbed, but there are those who will take your money if you are dumb enough to give it to them.

I keep moving through the streets. It’s a little reminiscent of Tokyo’s Tsukiji fish market. It’s crowded and people move in all directions. It smells like fish, diesel, the most amazing food you’ve ever smelled, and the worst defecatory scent you can imagine.

I can’t quite figure this place out. Old people, young people, kids. It’s life, it’s death — it’s everything.

I find a major street. I must be near the Jemaa El Fna. I look for a crosswalk, but it’s buried somewhere under the traffic.

I look around and people are making their own path, so I make mine.

Crossing the street for the first time in Marrakech is possibly one of the most heart racing things I’ve ever done travelling. It’s exactly like being in the 80’s video game Frogger.

Blip…blip…blip, blip, blip, blip. I weave my way through the speeding cars trying not to become casualty to some high speed bumper love, or possibly a human shish-kebab mounted to the front of a shitty 70’s motorcycle.

Holy shit.

I get to the Jemaa El Fna. It’s crazy. Food stalls pack the square and the aromas of all that is delicious and Moroccan are in the air. The sounds of snake charmers and the bustle of people all around make up the background noise.

I avoid the food stall hustlers and hit up a coffee shop patio on the edge of the square to take in the madness.

The sun is going down — a blazing red glory in the distance. My espresso is dark and rich. I bask in the flickering green of the patio lighting surrounded by the Moroccan people.

The market is abuzz with activity.

A feral cat nibbles at something near my feet. A teenage kid wants to shine my shoes. I politely decline — despite his third world teeth and my guilty conscience. The prayer call comes over the speakers of the minarets near the square.

Everyone continues about their business. I drink my espresso. I’m happy and enjoying this place. Now I only have to find my way back.

Holy shit.

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5. Sex, Wine, and Pintxos

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 27th, 2009 at 7:00 pm and is filed under Morocco, Travel + Eating and tagged with Jemaa El Fna, Marrakech, Medina, Travel + Eating. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.