I arrived in Marrakech on Tuesday evening. The air was chilled, the sky black and clouded over, and the tarmac of the runway glistened with rain from a recent shower. Our passports were checked no less than three times by three different officers, and we were finally allowed to leave the airport.
I took a taxi into town, to Place Jma El Fna. It’s funny. It wasn’t the messages in Arabic on the airport’s ATM machine or the bartering with the incessant taxi drivers that made me feel like I had entered Morocco. Having stepped out of the taxi and farewelled my driver, it was the smell of the urine soaked street corner that really woke me up and made me say, "I'm in Marrakech".
With this revelation now whirring in my mind, I made my way to the main square. I dodged puddles of muddy rainwater, cars and motorbikes. Dark, hooded figures and women with their faces masked by shawls walked past me. There was light and sound and smoke. People looked at me. Young boys cried excitedly, “Japon! Japon!”
I stood at the edge of the square with my backpack weighing me down and a hand drawn map held out in front of me. In the glow of the food stalls in the distance I could barely read the map, let alone decipher the directions my colleague had written for me. A middle-aged man with greying hair and sharp, dark eyes approached me. He was dressed in a charcoal coloured suit jacket and carried a black, plastic bag in his hand. He asked me a series of questions – about where I was from, where I was staying etc. I tried to shrug him off but did not succeed. I somehow got caught up in what he was saying and finally succumbed and showed him the address of the place I was staying at. He told me he knew the place and offered to take me there. I accepted his offer with a mixed sigh of relief and apprehension. We walked across the square, past the smoky food stalls and into the souks – a narrow mishmash of alleyways lined with shops and crowded with people. There were people selling all sorts of wonders – clothes, carpets, teapots, baskets and lamps, as well as spices, baked goods, fruits, vegetables and freshly slaughtered meat. The whole place was abuzz with bright colours and smells, and it felt like I was walking through a dream. It’s was just so surreal.
The tiny alleyways twisted and turned. Walking through the souks was a game of dodging people, bicycles and motorbikes. The man finally turned down a dimly lit lane, passed a dentist clinic and pointed to a brass sign on the wall: “Casa Del Sol”. I’d reached my hostel.
I thanked the man warmly and gave him a handshake. He smiled and asked for money. He told me that Euros were accepted. I’d remembered reading in the guidebook that Moroccans always ask for monetary tips – this was not like Europe where people giving directions were unselfishly friendly. I explained to him that I had neither Moroccan dirham nor Euros. I tried offering him some British coins but he wouldn’t accept them because he claimed he wouldn’t be able to exchange them. He then rang the doorbell of the hostel and as we waited for an answer, he told me I could get some money changed inside for him.
The door was answered by Mustapha. Mustapha had a friendly smile, broad shoulders and a firm handshake. He welcomed me into the riad and introduced me to Lachen, a weary looking man with greying hair. I was ushered to a comfortable cushion-lined sofa and mint tea was poured for me. “Moroccan whiskey,” murmured Lachen with a tired smile as he handed me the steaming glass.
Mustapha asked if I wanted to give the man who had guided me any money. I reluctantly said no, and Mustapha kicked him out. I felt somewhat guilty.
The riad was a beautiful building of green, orange and white tiles. The internal, central courtyard housed the dining area, with the lounge nestled in an alcove on one side. A staircase led up to the two floors of bedrooms, and a roof terrace offered views of the city’s rooftops and towering mosques.
After a preliminary discussion on Marrakech and its sights, Lachen showed me my room. I shared a room with three American architecture students. Greg was the first one to greet me and we got along straight away. He was from Texas, from a small town called Roundrock popular for their “world famous Roundrock donuts”. I’d never heard of it. He and Erin (from New York) and Steph (from California) were studying in Rome for a semester. They were in Marrakech just for a couple of days on break. We talked for a bit then I headed out to grab a late dinner.
Jma El Fna square was where the food stalls were. Despite the cool weather and recent shower, the place was truly alive. Thick, black smoke billowed out from charcoal grills and the air was filled with the delightful aromas of barbecued meats, fried eggs, grilled seafood and spiced soup. There were sausages, sheep heads and stewed snails for sale.
Diners ate at brightly lit stalls constructed of wrought iron frames and white, canvas roofs. Waiters barked at, pleaded with and wooed potential customers. Plastic covered menus were shoved in faces.
I was invited to eat at one of the stalls by an eager waiter. Like the others, he asked me if I was Japanese, then Korean, then Chinese. I finally told him that I was Australian. He then listed all the major Australian cities he knew and called out to the chef – the boss – and told him that I was Australian. “Shish kebab! Kangaroo!” shouted the chef with a grin.
I was invited to sit down at a table covered in sheets of butcher’s paper. The waiter then brought me plates of marinated olives, chilli sauce and tomato puree. I ordered a cous cous aux poulet. As I waited for my meal, the waiter talked jovially with me. I was drawn to the seemingly natural friendliness of the Moroccan people, though perhaps it was just a well mastered act. My later travels would both confirm and disprove this theory.
When my food arrived, I ate it hungrily yet savoured the taste – the vegetables were tender, the chicken well cooked and the cous-cous saturated in a flavoursome sauce. As I ate, I watched the scene around me. Old, hunchbacked women shuffled along, pleading for people to buy packets of tissues. Young boys carried trays of macaroons, trying to sell the day’s remainders. Waiters continued to lure tourists by speaking in a variety of different languages ranging from French to Japanese. The people around me argued, joked and gesticulated passionately. It was like a show.
I finished off my meal with a mint tea. I thanked the team of waiters at the stall and left the square, attempting to find my way back to the riad. It was late now and the shops had closed, and the streets were dark, empty and wet. But I managed to get back safely.
It was a good first night in Morocco.
I took a taxi into town, to Place Jma El Fna. It’s funny. It wasn’t the messages in Arabic on the airport’s ATM machine or the bartering with the incessant taxi drivers that made me feel like I had entered Morocco. Having stepped out of the taxi and farewelled my driver, it was the smell of the urine soaked street corner that really woke me up and made me say, "I'm in Marrakech".
With this revelation now whirring in my mind, I made my way to the main square. I dodged puddles of muddy rainwater, cars and motorbikes. Dark, hooded figures and women with their faces masked by shawls walked past me. There was light and sound and smoke. People looked at me. Young boys cried excitedly, “Japon! Japon!”
I stood at the edge of the square with my backpack weighing me down and a hand drawn map held out in front of me. In the glow of the food stalls in the distance I could barely read the map, let alone decipher the directions my colleague had written for me. A middle-aged man with greying hair and sharp, dark eyes approached me. He was dressed in a charcoal coloured suit jacket and carried a black, plastic bag in his hand. He asked me a series of questions – about where I was from, where I was staying etc. I tried to shrug him off but did not succeed. I somehow got caught up in what he was saying and finally succumbed and showed him the address of the place I was staying at. He told me he knew the place and offered to take me there. I accepted his offer with a mixed sigh of relief and apprehension. We walked across the square, past the smoky food stalls and into the souks – a narrow mishmash of alleyways lined with shops and crowded with people. There were people selling all sorts of wonders – clothes, carpets, teapots, baskets and lamps, as well as spices, baked goods, fruits, vegetables and freshly slaughtered meat. The whole place was abuzz with bright colours and smells, and it felt like I was walking through a dream. It’s was just so surreal.
The tiny alleyways twisted and turned. Walking through the souks was a game of dodging people, bicycles and motorbikes. The man finally turned down a dimly lit lane, passed a dentist clinic and pointed to a brass sign on the wall: “Casa Del Sol”. I’d reached my hostel.
I thanked the man warmly and gave him a handshake. He smiled and asked for money. He told me that Euros were accepted. I’d remembered reading in the guidebook that Moroccans always ask for monetary tips – this was not like Europe where people giving directions were unselfishly friendly. I explained to him that I had neither Moroccan dirham nor Euros. I tried offering him some British coins but he wouldn’t accept them because he claimed he wouldn’t be able to exchange them. He then rang the doorbell of the hostel and as we waited for an answer, he told me I could get some money changed inside for him.
The door was answered by Mustapha. Mustapha had a friendly smile, broad shoulders and a firm handshake. He welcomed me into the riad and introduced me to Lachen, a weary looking man with greying hair. I was ushered to a comfortable cushion-lined sofa and mint tea was poured for me. “Moroccan whiskey,” murmured Lachen with a tired smile as he handed me the steaming glass.
Mustapha asked if I wanted to give the man who had guided me any money. I reluctantly said no, and Mustapha kicked him out. I felt somewhat guilty.
The riad was a beautiful building of green, orange and white tiles. The internal, central courtyard housed the dining area, with the lounge nestled in an alcove on one side. A staircase led up to the two floors of bedrooms, and a roof terrace offered views of the city’s rooftops and towering mosques.
After a preliminary discussion on Marrakech and its sights, Lachen showed me my room. I shared a room with three American architecture students. Greg was the first one to greet me and we got along straight away. He was from Texas, from a small town called Roundrock popular for their “world famous Roundrock donuts”. I’d never heard of it. He and Erin (from New York) and Steph (from California) were studying in Rome for a semester. They were in Marrakech just for a couple of days on break. We talked for a bit then I headed out to grab a late dinner.
Jma El Fna square was where the food stalls were. Despite the cool weather and recent shower, the place was truly alive. Thick, black smoke billowed out from charcoal grills and the air was filled with the delightful aromas of barbecued meats, fried eggs, grilled seafood and spiced soup. There were sausages, sheep heads and stewed snails for sale.
Diners ate at brightly lit stalls constructed of wrought iron frames and white, canvas roofs. Waiters barked at, pleaded with and wooed potential customers. Plastic covered menus were shoved in faces.
I was invited to eat at one of the stalls by an eager waiter. Like the others, he asked me if I was Japanese, then Korean, then Chinese. I finally told him that I was Australian. He then listed all the major Australian cities he knew and called out to the chef – the boss – and told him that I was Australian. “Shish kebab! Kangaroo!” shouted the chef with a grin.
I was invited to sit down at a table covered in sheets of butcher’s paper. The waiter then brought me plates of marinated olives, chilli sauce and tomato puree. I ordered a cous cous aux poulet. As I waited for my meal, the waiter talked jovially with me. I was drawn to the seemingly natural friendliness of the Moroccan people, though perhaps it was just a well mastered act. My later travels would both confirm and disprove this theory.
When my food arrived, I ate it hungrily yet savoured the taste – the vegetables were tender, the chicken well cooked and the cous-cous saturated in a flavoursome sauce. As I ate, I watched the scene around me. Old, hunchbacked women shuffled along, pleading for people to buy packets of tissues. Young boys carried trays of macaroons, trying to sell the day’s remainders. Waiters continued to lure tourists by speaking in a variety of different languages ranging from French to Japanese. The people around me argued, joked and gesticulated passionately. It was like a show.
I finished off my meal with a mint tea. I thanked the team of waiters at the stall and left the square, attempting to find my way back to the riad. It was late now and the shops had closed, and the streets were dark, empty and wet. But I managed to get back safely.
It was a good first night in Morocco.
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