Marrakech, Morocco: Four days of culture shock and unexpected marriage proposals
If it’s possible for a single cab ride to embody all that is culture shock, then I’ve certainly stepped into the right taxi. It’s still fairly early in the morning, but heat waves are already radiating off the highway, and there’s a strange yellowish haze hanging low in the air. The taxi is hurtling along at breakneck speeds, veering sharply around oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding crushing entire packs of people riding battered motorcycles that look like they’re straight out of the 1970s, and nearly sideswiping several rickety wooden carts pulled by donkeys. Behind me is the relative familiarity of the airport; ahead of me lies the city of Marrakech and all the exotic uncertainties that it holds. I clutch involuntarily at my seat belt before remembering that I’m not actually wearing one – in fact, all the seat belts appear to have been yanked violently out of the car. And the rest of the taxi, a tiny beige hatchback from another decade, is not exactly in pristine condition either. I can see the road rushing along through a few holes in the vibrating, rusted-out floor, stuffing is spilling out of the threadbare seats, and exhaust fumes seem to be seeping steadily in. This deathtrap taxi ride is costing me one hundred and fifty Dirhams, a slightly haggled-over sum that seemed utterly meaningless as I peeled off a number of worn bills covered in Arabic writing from a sizeable wad of newly-exchanged currency. And as the taxi whizzes by a group of camels (yes, camels) standing nonchalantly by the side of the road, I’m struck with one crystal clear realization: I am definitely not in Europe anymore.
Tacking an African excursion onto the end of my European adventure wasn’t exactly as random of a travel decision as people tend to think it was. They would ask me which cities I was visiting; my reply of “Paris, the Cinque Terre, Florence, and… Marrakech” would inevitably raise a few eyebrows. There would be some concern over whether it was wise for a girl to travel there on her own, some comments about the apparently inevitable travellers’ sicknesses I would be facing if I so much as touched the water, and a healthy degree of bewilderment over why I would pick an impoverished North African city as the final destination of my trip as opposed to, say, some other more conventional and more upscale destination. But I’ve always been quite fascinated with Moroccan culture – by the markets, the food, the traditional tile patterns and lanterns, and by the mysterious photos of the labyrinth-like streets in the ancient city centres. To put it simply, Marrakech just seemed like the kind of city I would enjoy exploring, which was reason enough to add it to my “must see” list. And when I discovered a ludicrously inexpensive EasyJet flight out of Tuscany and, subsequently, a decidedly luxurious-looking traditional riad* tucked into the heart of Marrakech’s Medina, well, let’s just say that the booking confirmations dropped into my email inbox before I had a chance to talk myself out of anything.
The taxi deposits me at the edge of a very busy street, then speeds off in a cloud of dust. I am instantly almost run down by a motorcycle; a few seconds later I jump to the side to make room for a mule laden down with massive bags of animal skins. I have no clue where I am, whether I’m actually anywhere near my riad, or how I go about getting there. I can’t see a single street sign anywhere, and I can hear only Arabic and French swirling around me. From the looks I’m getting, I quickly conclude that I look fairly – no, make that very – out of place. I tentatively hand a wizened old shopkeeper a scrap of paper with the riad’s address scrawled on it; rather than pointing me in the right direction he shoots me a snaggletoothed, decidedly calculating grin, grabs my suitcase, and trots off down a long, narrow street. At one point we pause while another man passes us with a cart containing one very recently slaughtered sheep and three live chickens. The shopkeeper stops in front of a glossy black door, drops my suitcase, then promptly demands twenty Dirham before melting back into the crowd.
The riad, thankfully, is a little oasis of calm in the middle of all the chaos that is Marrakech. I’m ushered into a perfectly luxurious courtyard straight out of Arabian Nights, full of palm trees and plush furniture in rich colours, and almost instantly a pot of traditional mint tea and a plate of pastries is offered to me. My room is tucked behind two massive, intricately patterned wooden doors that open out to a balcony overlooking the courtyard, and it’s decorated in richly pattered traditional fabrics and ornate tiles. Another plate of pastries is waiting for me on the bedside table. I devour it instantly. If the pastries are any indication, Morocco and I are going to get along quite well. And if the pastries aren’t enough to win me over, the rooftop terrace certainly is. It’s shaded by leafy palm trees and a gauzy tent, overlooks the walls of an ancient palace, and is strewn with little groupings of tables, chairs, and temptingly plush chaise lounges.
I step outside of the riad armed with my camera, one woefully under-detailed map that depicts the entire Medina as a series of unnamed squiggles, and a significant amount of nervous energy. Almost instantly, despite draping myself in a fairly baggy and certainly conservative cardigan, I can feel people staring at me; eyes are burning into me from every direction. Within two minutes, no fewer than five men have stopped and asked if they could be my guide for the day. One offers to whisk me away on the back of his motorcycle. I am immediately very aware of my hair, or, more precisely, of the fact that my hair is long and very much uncovered while nearly all the women around me have their hair hidden away beneath brightly coloured scarves. I feel disoriented, almost dizzy, from the sensory overload surrounding me. The colours are brighter, the sounds are more foreign, and the smells are sharper than anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s beautiful and exotic, but it’s also terrifying. I am completely outside of my comfort zone, and part of me wants to panic, to run back to the riad and spend the next few days holed up inside, while the other part of me is ecstatic about the sights I’m about to see, the food I’m going to eat, and the people I’ll encounter.
The next few days pass in a colourful blur. I spend the mornings roaming through the streets of the Medina, exploring the maze-like souks where everything from traditional cookware to flattened snake skins are being sold, taking stealthy photographs of little old ladies and elaborate carpets, and sampling as much street food as possible while accepting that every bite is a form of food poisoning Russian roulette. Nearly every shopkeeper is intent on bringing me into his store – I slurp countless cups of intensely sweet mint tea while making small talk in rudimentary French and then trying to escape without purchasing anything; if all the shopkeepers had their way, I would end up leaving the country with several handcrafted rugs, at least fifty silver tea trays, a lifetime supply of saffron, and… well, a husband. Or twenty. Apparently it’s not all that usual for a woman to travel on her own in Morocco, and apparently the shopkeepers can see right through my seemingly brilliant lie that my own husband is actually just on his way to join me right now – because inevitably, awkwardly, a marriage proposal comes up in the middle of the conversation. One man offers, quite generously, to give me a set of hand-crafted tea glasses for free if I would just become his wife (no thanks, I’ll stick to bargaining), while another insists that he has “many questions” for me before abruptly popping the question (um, next question please?) in the middle of a shop selling traditional leather slippers.
Partially because dodging incessant marriage proposals, bargaining, and avoiding stray motorcycles can get exhausting, and partially because the afternoon African sun can be truly brutal, I spend my afternoons back at the riad, sprawled out on the rooftop terrace with my computer (work is more fun when there’s a palm tree overhead) and a perpetually refilled pot of mint tea within reach at all times. In total contrast with my chaotic mornings in the streets of the Medina, these afternoons are long and languid, bordering on all-out decadent. The sun sets much later here than in Europe, it’s deliciously warm, and passing time is marked only by the eerie-sounding call to prayer broadcast from the surrounding mosques several times per day. My days here are an example of stark contrasts; Morocco is a country of contrasts.
Oddly, four days in Morocco does more to improve my French than an entire month in Paris. Almost nobody here speaks more than a few words of English, and my Arabic is obviously non-existent. If I want to communicate, the linguistic middle ground is French, Morocco’s second official language. And I do want to communicate – I find myself oddly interested in learning about the traditional process of crafting those gorgeous and ubiquitous tea trays, in gathering recipes and cooking tips every time I devour another insanely good tagine, and in hearing the shopkeepers’ stories of growing up in the desert. One man pulls out a worn photo album, pours me a steaming mug of tea, and gestures to a bench covered with leopard skins while he weaves a story about life in the Atlas mountains. Another shows me how to grind my own spices with a mortar and pestle; I leave his shop with a small bag full of exotic-smelling twigs and dried leaves guaranteed to lend authenticity to any Moroccan dish I decide to cook up back home.
The whole time, I’m taking more photos than ever before. Every scene begs to be captured, every moment makes me feel as though I’ve been dropped into one of National Geographic’s glossy photo spreads. I learn to quickly point the camera at a scene, snap a picture, and then melt back into the crowd before anyone can spot me and start demanding payment for the photo. I also quickly learn to avoid taking any photos of the snake charmers or the men with monkeys who gather in Marrakech’s bustling Jemma El Fna square – and I learn this only after a poisonous water snake is forcibly draped around my neck (cost: two hundred dirhams), and, minutes later, I am chased by a crazed-looking monkey and its grinning owner (cost: my sanity). But most importantly, I learn how much I enjoy feeling uneasy and out of my element while throwing myself head first into another culture. Four days in Morocco is barely enough to scratch the surface of such a vibrant and exotic place, and as soon as I step onto the plane that will whisk me back to Western civilization, I am completely sure of one thing: I will definitely be back.
* So, this post comes complete with a little vocabulary lesson. Not sure what a Riad is? It’s a traditional Moroccan house (or, in this case, a guest house) with an interior courtyard and rooms that open off of the courtyard. And a Medina? Just a fancy name for the ancient, walled-off city centre filled with twisting, narrow streets too small for cars to fit down.
Leave a Comment...