Marrakech, Part 1

  

The Marrakech train station

The train ride to Marrakech is not nearly as glorious as Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young sounds. The trains here are not as new or fast as in Spain. But the tickets are cheaper and my travelling companions were choice, so although it was a long ride to Marrakech and an even longer ride back, the beautiful landscape and good conversation compensated for the horrific train bathrooms and the crowding. And Marrakech itself was shocking.

We stepped off the train and into the new part of the city, with wide, relatively clean streets and modern Mediterranean-style apartment blocks. Our friends who had arrived on an earlier train gave us directions to the hostel, and we set about asking some locals for confirmation that we were on the right street.

“Pardon, is this Hassan II street?” I asked an older woman. She replied with a blank stare and some words I couldn’t understand, so I said shukran and walked away. My guy friend had the same luck, so we decided to hope for the best and brush off the unfriendly first impression. We were indeed headed in the right direction and soon came out onto the Jmaa al-Fna, Marrakech’s main square. Which is where the shock set in.

Picture the rowdiest county fair you’ve ever been to. Imagine being the center of attention of a huge crowd. And you still won’t have the feeling of walking across Jmaa al-Fna. Everyone is trying to sell something, and they will say all of their English vocabulary to try and convince you. Harry Potter! Lady Gaga! Spice girls! Berber musicians are dressed in gaudy hats and clanging their cymbals in hopes that a tourist will snap a photograph so they can send one of their party after them with an upside down tambourine until the poor tourist gives them money. Men lead small monkeys, chained around the neck, towards visitors, placing the poor animals on the startled tourists’ heads and demanding payment. Taxi drivers gesture to their vehicles and ask if you need a ride, across from their horse-drawn carriage competitors. Although Jmaa al-Fna is a pedestrian square, motorcyclists weave through the crowds, so close you can feel the heat of their engines on the back of your legs. And every orange juice vendor tries to catch your attention and sell you the best glass of fresh juice you’ve ever had. (For once, they’re being honest – Marrakech’s orange juice can’t be beat!) 

Orange juice vendors in Jmaa al-Fna

Once we turned off into the labyrinth hiding our hostel, we were approached by children and men asking if we needed help finding our way – for just a small fee. Luckily, our friends guided us without asking for compensation and we put down our backpacks and gathered in the hostel living room for some unwinding and planning.

Eight of us were staying in the same hostel, operated by a young, fun-loving British man and occupied by a young guy from Quebec, a Spanish woman, and a backpacker from Florida in addition to our group. More people from our program were staying down the street, so we all met up and headed out to find dinner.

As dinnertime approaches, large tents pop up in the middle of Jmaa al-Fnaa lined with picnic tables and loud waiters. “Free drinks! Free tea!” they shout as we walk by, shoving their menus into our faces. In the middle of each tent is the loosely-defined kitchen, with a hefty matriarch doling out kebabs, shwarma, soup, and vegetables. We decide to try Chez Aicha 1, looking hungrily at the piles of olives, spinach, eggplant, kefta, shrimp, and cilantro in the center display. For once, being a vegetarian was advantageous, as the prices were low and the variety was boundless. The tent and long tables with plasticky covers felt just like the fair, and I almost expected the next tent over to be hawking blooming onions. I ordered four “appetizers”: a giant plate of spicy tangy olives; pan-fried green peppers just like my beloved Spanish pimientos de padron but bigger; chopped spinach cooked with olives and lemon; and eggplant so tender it almost dissolved on your tongue. The table was set with bread and harissa, so we scooped and spiced our way to a delicious dinner. Our afore-promised free mint tea finally arrived after minimal nagging, stuffed with fresh green mint leaves. 

Next to the menu of soup, tea, dates, and shubakiya, a man prepares mint tea in the tent next to ours. Note the ample mint leaves...and the giant blocks of sugar!

After dinner we met up with the Spanish woman from the hostel. Her name was Carmen, of course. We wandered around Jmaa al-Fna while I talked to her about Rajoy, Garzon, and other facets of current Spanish politics. I remind my girlfriend all the time that she’s got tough competition from Spain - the country was my first true love, and my passion shined through in my lisped, although rusty, conversation with the lady from Santander. My poor friends from the program couldn’t get a word in as I took in the glory of the true Spanish accent from the first Spanish person I’ve had a long conversation with since coming back from Spain. As we strolled under the tower of Rabat’s central mosque and through the brightly-lit Jmaa al-Fna, my senses were so over-stimulated that I didn’t even notice it was raining until we got back and my hair was wet.

(Marrakech only got better, so get excited for part two!)