Morocco and Southern Spain have been united in spirit since the Roman Empire, and the evidence of their shared ancestry is still very evident in the architecture, food, and culture of Andalucía. Visiting Morocco helps you to appreciate that rich interwoven history even more. For a little practical information on how to do it, please see the Morocco page. There are many places to begin in Morocco, but for this journey I will start with the ancient capital of the medieval empire, Marrakech.
Finding your way through the souks (markets) and streets of the ancient city is an experience that is both fleeting and eternal. Each moment is unlike any other in this ever-changing collection of humanity; yet it is also just the same as it has been for perhaps a thousand years in this very place. Here I will try to capture a few moments and the way they flow through you and around you in the Marrakech Medina:
We step out of the Riad, tucked between the shared red walls of the Medina and into our impossibly narrow street. Getting around takes practice, but after a few tries we are confident with how to get between our little guesthouse and the major attractions- turn left, then right, another right, then left again, then right at the archway, then left past the Mosque, but don't take the passage on the right even when a (seemingly) helpful youth tells you it's closed on the left... ten or twelve more directions like that and we arrive in the souks near the famous Jemma El Fna Plaza.
All along our route there are a thousand little moments to be part of, if we take the risk of pulling our attention away from the endless hazards in our path. Women cluster around a door, a few with babies strapped to their backs, waiting for children gripping their small blackboards to burst noisily out of school for lunch. Inside a closet-sized workspace, a man sits amidst an unbelievable pile of old shoes that are magically holding tight to the walls all the way up to the low ceiling as he repairs a sole. Next to him, a cart where a woman fries fish and men pull up child-sized stools to sit and snack. In other places, younger men crowd around stalls where ground meat is sautéed and squished into big rolls, or where skewers of chicken and lamb are served with bowls of beans, into which they dip their bread. The smells of cooking meats and yeast are occasionally interrupted with touches of mint, from a vendor sitting on the ground with piles of the leaves on sheets, or rose and cumin wafting up from the spice vendors’ barrels.
Now we have to glance at the street ahead of us, where a man throws water on the cobble stones in front of his shop, just as a shout from behind warns of the approaching donkey cart. A motorcycle weaves around him, taking advantage of the pedestrians pressed against the walls. A peek in another doorway, in this one men are counting receipts, or are they playing cards? Not enough time to figure it out before I have to step around a group of delighted toddlers as they receive soft-serve ice cream cones and a pair of women who have stopped suddenly to check the price on some shoes. Just around the corner a lingerie salesman is mobbed by a group of hijab-clad women who can’t resist his prices. They dig through a huge box of underwear and bras, pulling and stretching them before handing over a few coins for their prize.
Now, we are just near the plaza, entering the Berber Souks. "It's closed", says a voice, trying to redirect us. "hello, excuse me! yes?", words that you instinctually respond to, but eye contact will doom you to the eager attention of a would-be guide seeking an opportunity. It is impossible to take in all of the displays of jewelry, shoes, cloth, purses, lanterns, paintings, oils, scarves, and spices that are offered a hundred times in each shop’s display. Vibrant colors and glints of light on metal constantly tug my eye, until I notice all that is hanging overhead—bundles of dyed yarns, gourds, alligator and snake skins…Pressing on, a little boy rounds us with quick steps, carrying a silver tray with glasses, a teapot, and sprigs of mint blooming out of a cup. He turns quickly between two shops to deliver—
Oops, I tripped on a mat covering a drain in the middle of the street. All the vendors watch for a moment to see if this will slow me down. Moving on, cautiously.
It’s late afternoon now, and another call to prayer echoes through the streets from multiple competing muezzin, each with their unique expression through the loudspeakers. A nut and dry fruit seller has gone to pray, simply covering his stock with a sheet until he returns. The man walking in front of us whistles a little song which is echoed back to him—I look up and see tiny birdcages hanging on the wall where pastel parakeets reply to his tune. A cool breeze is welcome as we step out of the narrow souk and into the inevitable plaza. The snake charmers are playing their eerie recorders, men with rust colored macaques on leashes chase tourists, endless stalls with fresh orange juice and grilled meats have popped up in the dusk to tempt us. A group of musicians plays traditional desert tunes while men in velour robes try to put their hats on passersby and solicit some coins for the song. Someone whispers in his ear, “hashish?”, while I am busy fending off the women pushing their henna tattoo services on me. We circle and circle again, taking it in until our senses are satiated.
After a long evening, we find our way back past the “Barça” graffiti of loyal football fans and around a few puddles into our familiar neighborhood. Our Riad is so peaceful and still compared to the churning humanity we swam through today, alhamduillah. We welcome the rest to prepare for whatever the next moment brings in Marrakech.
Finding your way through the souks (markets) and streets of the ancient city is an experience that is both fleeting and eternal. Each moment is unlike any other in this ever-changing collection of humanity; yet it is also just the same as it has been for perhaps a thousand years in this very place. Here I will try to capture a few moments and the way they flow through you and around you in the Marrakech Medina:
We step out of the Riad, tucked between the shared red walls of the Medina and into our impossibly narrow street. Getting around takes practice, but after a few tries we are confident with how to get between our little guesthouse and the major attractions- turn left, then right, another right, then left again, then right at the archway, then left past the Mosque, but don't take the passage on the right even when a (seemingly) helpful youth tells you it's closed on the left... ten or twelve more directions like that and we arrive in the souks near the famous Jemma El Fna Plaza.
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| A laden donkey cart attempts to pass through the souk lane. |
Now we have to glance at the street ahead of us, where a man throws water on the cobble stones in front of his shop, just as a shout from behind warns of the approaching donkey cart. A motorcycle weaves around him, taking advantage of the pedestrians pressed against the walls. A peek in another doorway, in this one men are counting receipts, or are they playing cards? Not enough time to figure it out before I have to step around a group of delighted toddlers as they receive soft-serve ice cream cones and a pair of women who have stopped suddenly to check the price on some shoes. Just around the corner a lingerie salesman is mobbed by a group of hijab-clad women who can’t resist his prices. They dig through a huge box of underwear and bras, pulling and stretching them before handing over a few coins for their prize.
Now, we are just near the plaza, entering the Berber Souks. "It's closed", says a voice, trying to redirect us. "hello, excuse me! yes?", words that you instinctually respond to, but eye contact will doom you to the eager attention of a would-be guide seeking an opportunity. It is impossible to take in all of the displays of jewelry, shoes, cloth, purses, lanterns, paintings, oils, scarves, and spices that are offered a hundred times in each shop’s display. Vibrant colors and glints of light on metal constantly tug my eye, until I notice all that is hanging overhead—bundles of dyed yarns, gourds, alligator and snake skins…Pressing on, a little boy rounds us with quick steps, carrying a silver tray with glasses, a teapot, and sprigs of mint blooming out of a cup. He turns quickly between two shops to deliver—
Oops, I tripped on a mat covering a drain in the middle of the street. All the vendors watch for a moment to see if this will slow me down. Moving on, cautiously.
It’s late afternoon now, and another call to prayer echoes through the streets from multiple competing muezzin, each with their unique expression through the loudspeakers. A nut and dry fruit seller has gone to pray, simply covering his stock with a sheet until he returns. The man walking in front of us whistles a little song which is echoed back to him—I look up and see tiny birdcages hanging on the wall where pastel parakeets reply to his tune. A cool breeze is welcome as we step out of the narrow souk and into the inevitable plaza. The snake charmers are playing their eerie recorders, men with rust colored macaques on leashes chase tourists, endless stalls with fresh orange juice and grilled meats have popped up in the dusk to tempt us. A group of musicians plays traditional desert tunes while men in velour robes try to put their hats on passersby and solicit some coins for the song. Someone whispers in his ear, “hashish?”, while I am busy fending off the women pushing their henna tattoo services on me. We circle and circle again, taking it in until our senses are satiated.
After a long evening, we find our way back past the “Barça” graffiti of loyal football fans and around a few puddles into our familiar neighborhood. Our Riad is so peaceful and still compared to the churning humanity we swam through today, alhamduillah. We welcome the rest to prepare for whatever the next moment brings in Marrakech.
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