Madness in Marrakech

(From April 3-7)—I've not been in Marrakech a mere three hours and already the city has made an aggressive assault on my senses. I am tempted to retreat back into the tranquil confines of the riad, where we're holed up for our stay here. The riad is a beautifully restored old home that's been turned into a sort of B&B. There are tons of them all over Marrakech, many situated in the heart of the medina, the medieval walled city-within-a-city still in existence in many Moroccan towns. The riads boast traditional Marrakshi decor, beautiful rooftop terraces, friendly staff, home-cooked breakfasts, and best of all, serve as needed respites from the hectic world just outside their walls.

Words don't do justice to this place, which struggles to find its way in the 21st century amid an increasing onslaught of tourists while clinging to an incredibly ancient past. I'm spit out of our riad into the cramped dusty lanes of the souks, or traditional Arab marketplaces. As we stroll down the tiny alleys, the wrinkled elderly wrapped in traditional garb avoid frantic denim-clad teenagers zooming by on decrepit mopeds. Small children beg for handouts or try to sell you Kleenex packets for a few dirham; veiled women shop for vegetables, newly-skinned bloody sheep heads, and live chickens; hip 20-somethings hawk tagines, lamps, carpets, and tassles (what do they do with all those tassles?); middle-aged devout men hail the daily calls of the muzzein and head for the mosques to pray...and the scene repeats itself at every turn we take.

Upon arrival Tuesday, April 3, from Scotland (quite a lesson in contrasts, believe me), the taxi strike forced us to negotiate with two random locals combing the airport parking lot in search of suckers. It was hot, dusty, and dry, and red clay stretched on for miles. The two men advised us of the strike. With my guard up, I asked in French if this was a joke. They responded in French with a chuckle, "Do you see any taxis here?" I took a quick glance around and had to admit that yes, c'etait vrai, there were cleary no taxis in sight. There was hardly any sign of life for that matter. Most people had already left the airport, grabbing the local bus or packing into a horse carriage for the 15-minute ride into town. Luckily my French helped us sort out the mess, and after haggling the price down, we made our way with two Kiwis and a Londoner into an unsuspecting minivan for the ride into town.

What ensued afterwards was a good hour of frustration and confusion. Seems we'd booked a riad with Expedia but they work with an intermediary agency in Marrakech that manages most riad bookings in town. To make a very long story short (which for me is almost impossible), our driver got lost, insisted there was no such place called Riad Passions (which is what Expedia had confirmed), called the riad agency, and then out of nowhere amid six lanes of traffic, a young Moroccan guy jumped into the van and demanded our names. I thought it was a scam similar to those we'd encountered in Vietnam, where a taxi driver in cahoots with a local travel agency would suddenly stop to let a random guy into the cab, who would then try to force unwanted hotels upon you. I started to protest but looked down at the sheet of paper in the guy's hands, and to my amazement, saw David's name on the list. But the riad next to his name was different from what Expedia had confirmed. After several minutes of arguing in broken French (me) and Moroccan Arabic (them), we got dumped off at the riad agency to sort it out. An hour later, the boss had managed to explain to us in broken English and too-fast French that Expedia books a certain class of riad (e.g., three-star, or Passions) but the agency chooses the exact establishment. Hence the confusion, not to mention the price markup from Expedia (which we learned about too late after the fact).

Alors, we now had the riad confirmed but how to get there? The agency said goodbye and tried to send us on our way, but I complained and said we had no way of getting to the riad, let alone finding the place on our own. Besides, we shouldn't have to pay again for a ride since we'd already paid the van driver. The agency boss countered by telling me we should have stayed in the van and gone to the riad the young guy had indicated in the first place. We had to laugh at the absurdity of it and also could see her point. With the taxis on strike, we really had no options and hoofing it would have been out of the question; people get lost in the medina for days and never find their way out. :-) Thankfully, a young guy who worked as an agency driver took pity upon us and offered us a free ride in his private car. We gladly accepted and what ensued was a scene I'll never forget.

The ride through the new part of town was nothing too out of the ordinary (remember, we'd traveled through central Java and Bangkok not so long ago), but suddenly we turned down a dusty street and how Saad, our new friend, managed to manouever his vehicle through the narrow lanes of the medina I'll never quite understand. It was like trying to shove a giant square peg into a very tiny round hole. After winding through a maze of butchers, local shops, vegetable markets, and hundreds of Muslims, we arrived at a dark narrow lane with a big wooden door at the end. "Au pied d'ici," he advised. "On foot from here," I told David. I was certainly skeptical but quickly my doubts changed to awe as we stepped inside the riad and the caretaker shut the door. Absolute stillness, marble floors, stone walls, and mint tea and cookies waiting for us. The rooms were nicely decorated but there was no escaping the stench emanating from the bathroom; hundreds of years of old plumbing still remained, and you had to laugh at the opulence coupled with the stink.

In retrospect, not much happened in Marrakech, which in some ways is a blessing, although also somewhat of a letdown. We spent a lot of time in the riad agency trying to find a new place to stay for our last two nights, as our first riad was full, and a good chunk of time in the Internet cafe planning our next moves from there. Our friend Saad picked us up and drove us to the new riad, which was humorous as we soon realized we weren't that far from the first one, but again, never would have found the new one on our own. We ate in the huge Place Jemaa El Fna's cheap food stalls brimming with skewered meat, salads, yummy bread, gingerbread cake, and the spiciest tea I've ever tasted (touristy but fun nonetheless). We treated ourselves to yummy Italian gelato every afternoon. We sat in the rose garden surrounding the famous Koutoubia mosque and took a break from the madness. We watched snake charmers woo cobras and young children pose for photos with monkeys on leashes. We fended off aggressive street performers demanding money from Westerners; one hit me quite hard with a brass platter and I yelled back defiantly in my best French. We chuckled at what we dubbed "Fishing for Fanta," a makeshift carnival game fashioned out of long poles with plastic rings tied at the end and numerous bottles of soda pop lined up in a giant circle. Seems many a young Moroccan gets excited at the idea of futily trying to wrap the ring around the neck of a bottle to win a free liter of soda. In the U.S. you'd at least get a goldfish or a tacky stuffed animal prize. To each his own I guess. We didn't see any winners and we didn't waste our money on the game.

It's not easy for a woman to travel in Morocco, even with a man. David takes my arm or holds my hand but I still get leers from the male population. It's quite off-putting, but sadly I'm used to it now. On our last night in town, I asked a local shopkeeper if Muslim women were allowed to enter the mosques. What followed was an amazing conversation about religion and a delightful glimpse into traditional Islamic life and beliefs. The man was so devout he wouldn't shake my hand; hard-core Islamics can't touch women they don't know too well. We talked with him for almost 45 minutes, and his English was quite good. We felt blessed to have made the connection, as we found most Marraksis to be unfriendly and disinterested. We see very few Americans here and shared with this man the sad fact that many people in our country fear the Islamic culture and know little, if anything, about it. He enlightened us about his community and we were grateful for the opportunity to broaden our horizons. It was one of those special moments that reinforced what this trip is all about. In retrospect, it made our time in Marrakech worth the effort.