from Marrakech: how to do a souk

There was once organization and order to this madness. Vendors were grouped according to their wares. The metal souks (the term refers to the passageways with the stores) were together, the dyers of wool and fabrics were in another area, the tanners and leather goods sellers were elsewhere. Even the slipper vendors were off in their own corner.

Now, the boundaries are fluid. You can pick up slippers just about anywhere in Marrakech. And leather good. And silver tea pots.

And yet, there are groupings. And there roughly drawn maps telling you where to find what. And they’re almost worthless because inevitably you’re going to get lost. Or, I’m going to get lost. It’s my specialty.

This day we were to probe the souks. And I was to come to a decision about canary yellow slippers. (It’s the color of choice here.)

This is a challenge, especially if you’re not otherwise in the buying mode and you carry a camera. Here’s what can happen:

If you make eye contact, you’re going to get pestered to come inside a stall. Just to look. And it will be impossible to leave.

If you pick up your camera menacingly, as if to take a photo, you’re going to be told not to take a photo.

If you approach, say a pair of canary yellow slippers to admire them, you will be hassled to buy them.

If you approach a vendor and offer them a coin to take a picture, they will say yes and take the coin. Or, they will say ok to the photo and thank you for asking and assure you that you can do it for free. And then you will take your photos and leave. Or you will take your photos and then be hassled to buy. In any case, the vendor will not be in the photo. He will always hide his face. Respecting modesty is important, but it's a balance. Morocco would be a faceless canvas if you always ask permission.

If you get too close to a vendor, just to save your life or the life of your child (the motor scooters are a constant stream of trouble; that the vendors don’t all die from lung disease alone from exposure to the pollution, has to be a testament to their strong genes and perhaps all that mint tea that they are constantly drinking), you’ll fall into the arms, so to speak, of a vendor.

If you take a photo surreptitiously, if you’re quick, your photo will be awful. If you take care, you will inevitably be seen by someone and most likely be told something in Arabic. It will sound angry. Maybe it’s praise for your ingenuity, but I doubt it.


So souks are a challenge. The best way to handle an exploration is to wear dark sunglasses, walk straight ahead, pretend you are not interested in anything, accept direction from no one when you get lost (because all directions cost a coin and they inevitably lead to someone’s store), look like you hate your camera, respond to no one who wishes you a good day and leave.

Of course, I did none of the above. What you see below is a compellation of mistakes outlined above. But, in the end, we did begin to get a sense for the vibrant, hectic, hugely fascinating and endlessly colorful souk life.


The dyers and weavers and cloth sellers:


















The tanners and leather goods sellers:











Books and photos of old Morocco:










Women selling, women buying:










Rare quiet moments:









Less quiet: plunging into chaos:





Less quiet: celebrating the boy's third year (note canary yellow slippers):










Afterwards, we collapse on the roof of the riad. You want perfect respite, just a step from the center of the Medina? An artsy place with the most ingeniously renovated spaces? You cannot do better than the Riad El Fenn.



entrance


Except for the occasional French children who play “un, deux, trios, soleil!” and of course, the bird song, the chirpy, boisterous birdsong, it is absolutely calm on the roof. The sun is strong in the Moroccon way (warm in its rays, cool in its shadow), the air is crisp and by evening, we are made whole again.






There is then the matter of dinner. Our riad hosts tell us – try Le Foundouk. It’s on the other side of the Medina. Take a taxi.

Ah yes. The taxi is another challenge here, but remember, I had recovered on the roof of the riad among all those flowers and chirping birds. I am ready.

You see, it goes like this: You hail a cab. That’s the easy part. The cab is usually heading in the wrong direction and you have to cross and dodge traffic to get to it, but assume you did and you are inside safely and you communicate where you are going and the driver understands. Meaning, he knows that you are about to blow $100 or more on dinner for two and he wants to share in that wealth that you have displayed by announcing where you are heading; explanations that you are a state employee with a flat salary don’t work, mainly because he doesn’t believe you are from America.

No one here ever guesses we are American. No surprise there, I’ve not seen Americans in Morocco. No, truly -- not a single one. British – hugely so. They're so pale, they stand out. French – quite a few. But not many from the States. At least not now. So rare is our kind, that one souk seller asked me where I was from and I dodged the question and concentrated on the item I was admiring in his stall (what a mistake, I know) and when he heard me speak to my daughter he said – well, you are not from an English speaking country because I can hear that your English is not very good.

Back to the cab. We are inside, the destination is revealed and the haggling begins. It should cost you pennies to get there. It will not. Why? Oh come on! Where’s your bargaining power? You are in the cab and squawking – that’s too much, that’s too much, and he’s outlining all the special circumstances – it’s far, it’s evening, that’s life, etc. So you finally settle for the equivalent of $7 instead of the $2 you should be paying and you’re happy that it’s not more.

I have to say that the very best cab ride ever in Morocco (apart from the one in Casablanca, where the driver admitted to having a meter – all other cabbies hide it and pretend it doesn’t exist, and this one ran it and the tab was a dollar) was on the way back from dinner this evening. The driver was a Medina man, and he decided to go through the heart of the old city. It was an unbelievable ride! Crowds are out and about, children are playing, scooters are darting, cyclists are zipping along and he plows through at some ungodly speed, honking them all to the side and we killed no one! In the middle of the ride, he put on Moroccan music and swayed to its rhythm and we were flying through the narrow streets with all those people and he was so happy and we were happy with him and it was all quite surreal.

But let me not neglect the dinner in between the cab rides. We are dropped off in the middle of a crowded square. I can go no further -- he tells us in French. You take the second street, and continue for a little bit and then you will notice and alley…

I am about to change my mind about eating out. There is no hope that we will find anything in this chaos of alleys and people and scooters. But, magically, a man in a long brown robe and a red hat appears. The cab driver tells us – go with him. Ah. We’ve done this before. We follow. It’s the “men in long robes and red hats” relay. The robed leader takes us to another man in a brown robe and red hat. They chat for a minute, we wait, then he waves us on and leaves. The second man takes us down a dark alley.





We follow. We know there will be a massive door and that a secret knock will cause it to swing open and inside there will be magic.

We dine on the roof. The wind has kicked up a bit, but the cool breeze only makes you savor the richness of the meats and vegetables, sizzling in your clay pot. Moroccan rosé wine works beautifully with most everything placed us.





The stars are out. Moroccan magic has settled in. Or maybe it’s that I really like rooftops.

from Marrakech: on your toes and looking beyond

You have to pay attention. You can’t neglect anything – not cars, not mules, not cycles, not closing hours, not the source of directions deliberately leading you to someone’s shop, not open doors that look like they should lead you to the Sultan tombs, but in fact lead you to the mosque, the forbidden mosque where non-Muslims may not go.

Non! Non! Non! The little boys outside shout at me as I push the great big door further. Mosquée, mosquée!. I understand and yet I don’t understand. Where am I?

An older man comes up. This is a mosque, he tells me in clear and definitive French. What are you looking for? The tombs… Ah. Walk there, around the corner. But first, come visit my spice store. Artisanal.

They all know to throw in that word, that magic word, that word that makes foreigners rush to open wallets and fork over vast sums of money.


We set out this morning to visit the Sultan palace. We neglected to consider that it may be closed at lunch time. Palace closed. Come see Jewish synagogue with me. No, that was yesterday’s plan. Besides, there are a million guides in Marrakech. Faux guides, they’re called. For a coin, they will show you anything.


We pass the time in a government supported artisanal (yes, artisanal) craft store. It’s huge and it has everything, but especially furniture. Beautiful large mirrors, chairs, armoires, inlaid tables, massive birds and animals made of stone, silver, wood. And carpets. No no, no carpets, no blankets.





That was last year. This year, think small. A small vase. A very small bowl. I’m looking for Lilliputian items. Small is good.


And finally, it is time for the tombs, the palace – all are open. Sultans from the 16th century. Living in splendor, dying in splendor.













Except the splendid living did not last. Ostentatious display of wealth breeds jealousy and leads to war. The palace was ransacked and pilfered shortly after it was completed. And this is what remains, a place for storks to nest:










But really, Marrakech is more about people and their simpler spaces, rather than monuments. I have already noted though, that it’s hard to take photos. Vendors can be bought with a coin or captured with a telephoto. Sometimes. But street scenes are a challenge. Crowds are rarely a good place to take interesting pictures. They move fast and there is always clutter in your frame. And still, the color in the clothing, the tight adherence to a spectrum of traditions – it pulls me like a magnet.

From the crowds, I got this much (yes, they're hooves; no, I do not know if he's buying or selling):









But if you can strip away the crowds, take away the scooters, the cars and donkeys, in other words, wipe out the everyday madness of this very typical street scene:





…you arrive at the tones that, to me, are the splendid Marrakech. The one that Churchill called the most beautiful spot in the world:















Oftentimes this city is impossibly polluted by the old vehicles that plow through the streets and sidewalks (yes, sidewalks). And sometimes, it is a place of smoky grilled foods. The square in the evening offers that: the smoke rises from a hundred (or so) stalls as a sort of invitation to eat, to be part of the open kitchen.










Spices. No one can argue that Morocco is spice cetral. Les épices, come in, authentic!





Sometimes Marrakech is all roses and orange blossoms. The soaps, the oils are full of these and passing a store will put you right there, in an intensely fragrant garden.


Roses are everywhere in the riad. Petals in a fountain, small bouquets and large in public and private spaces.





And they are on tables in restaurants. Petals scattered over tablecloths. Rich burgundy, creamy pink. Marrakech colors.





We eat dinner by a pool of water. Candles add enough light for eating, but aren’t good enough for photography, so I (mostly) ignore the camera and concentrate on the food. And there is a lot of food. Plates of savory vegetables fill the table before the meal begins. And as on nights before, the flavors are intense. Eggplant, pumpkin, cucumber, chickpeas, nuts, olives, beets. Spiced, mashed, pickled, puffed, pureed.

I order a sea food couscous for a main course. After, we are given two bowls of couscous, side by side, to compare – the Berber dark grains from the Atlas Mountains and the traditional light grains. Both smothered with vegetables – the Berber with cabbage, the traditional with carrots, squashes and potatoes. And for dessert, I choose couscous with honey and yogurt and melon.





The walk back to the riad takes us to the square, where the eating and enticing (eat here, come watch, come listen, buy a Henna tattoo, have your tooth pulled!) is winding down.

Our retreat through the back allies is already a quiet one. No scooters, no people.





We round corners and see cats move from one discarded piece of food to another. And now we are by the great big riad door. We ring the bell and someone scurries to let us in. We are inside. The door shuts behind us. The day is done.

from Marrakech: darting and swaying

Throw back the shutters, see the sun playing with puffy clouds.

Eat a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and yogurt and set out.

You need stamina. Not so much for the long walks, but to move with haste to avoid the scooters. One honk, that’s all the warning you get. I push us out of harm’s way, right into the waiting vendors who seize the moment and beg you to buy. German? French? Fish and chips? (The latter must be a short cut for British.) Best price!





At first, the endless market, snaking in all directions, far far grander in size than the market of Istanbul, seemed nothing more than a blur of rich color. Yes, there are the Moroccan slippers and leather goods and silver platters. The cloths, the spices, the old tea pots. Now, though, I’m seeing favorites. Not just slippers, but lemon slippers with pointed toes. I focus on those. I don’t buy them, but I like to pick them out each time I pass a slipper store. Look! There is another, even nicer version of my lemon slippers!

We are strolling and admiring and avoiding scooters and saying endless no’s to the hopeful sellers and this continues for a long long time, except this time we have a destination. Not many historically significant buildings are open to non-Muslims here. Not the mosques, or places of religious meaning. But one is and it is a gem: the Mendersa Ben Youssef. An old building (16th century), with all the detail and curved entryways and tile work we have come to associate with Moorish and North African art and architecture.





It was once a religious school and there are cells where scholars worked and it all gives you pause about the demands of scholarship in the past.

The Mendersa was nearly empty, or at least very quiet and in Marrakech I have come to expect this: chaos outside and tranquility within.





Did I say chaos? In wandering back, we stumbled on a food market, where buyers were picking out the best mint leaves and melons and potatoes. I’m sort of a student of fresh air food markets. I visit quite a number of them and I like most of them and I have never found two that were alike. This one had goods spread on low crates and on the ground and so buyers stooped low to pick what they wanted.









And what stands out? One child so beautifully curved over the arch of his mother’s back as she reached for food.





And just at the edge of the market, the clay pots that I have come to appreciate at each dinner in Morocco.





Rest. We need a riad moment on the roof. Chaos followed by rest followed by more chaos. So goes the pattern of each day.

Our riad hosts bring us cheeses and salads and refreshing beverages and afterwards, invite us to sample an apple cake and mint tea, the drink of choice in Morocco.





That’s good enough. The sky is still a mix of clouds and sun, the afternoon melts seamlessly into early evening. We set out again. We are looking for the Jewish neighborhood and we never find it. The chaos of the alleys and shops is nothing compared to the chaos out on the streets and at one point I tell my daughter that I cannot endanger her life anymore, so we head back. This was the nontourist Marrakech, where children dart between speeding vehicles and old men and women sell small quantities of insignificant things to no one. It is an achingly poor Marrakech. Robust and crowded, but straining.

It’s not many times that I turn back and give in, but this time, it was inevitable. We did pass the crumbling walls of the palace where indeed, as described in literature on the city, storks nest and look at the world from their strategic vantage points and assess it all.





And now it is evening and in the vast Medina square, cooks and vendors are just beginning to set up their nocturnal operations. Food stalls crop up and smoke rises as cooks dish out grilled meats from animals whose heads are positioned there for you to admire.









At the side, snake charmers play their flutes and story tellers tell their tales and I haven’t many coins again so I keep the camera at bay. Most of the time.





And now it is night. Monday night. Many restaurants close today, but our riad hosts suggest one which will welcome us, just down the alley. I accept the reservation but am curious about this place and since it is nearby, I suggest that we take a peek. Maybe study the menu some?

We can’t find it. Alley boys are eager to help. Anything for a coin and I am willing to part with my last one but I know they wont find it either because it is one of those Marrakech things – it is secret.

We ask at the riad hosts how to get to the mystery place and they tell us to go out on the end of the alley and look for a man with a yellow robe and red hat. He will lead us to it.

And sure enough, there is a man and he is dressed just so and he escorts us this way and that until we come to a wooden door.

Suddenly, we are inside a room with many candles and the tables are low again and the cushions are in abundance and we notice that the building has no roof, or at least has only half a roof so that it is half courtyard too. At the side, a musician sings the continuous song of Morocco, swaying to the moan and warble of his own voice, while somewhere in the dim light a beautiful woman, leans against the wall and thinks her own remote thoughts. A mystical scene of deep rich colors, a canvas, a sensual moment of music and spices.





Our own server tells us that the cook cooks what he pleases and what’s fresh that day and we should come to expect a wonderful meal. Dishes come, one after another and we don’t know whether there will be another or how many are still in the making. Vegetable plates and tajine pots of chicken and lamb and more aromatic vegetables and spiced stewed peaches at the end.





The candles burn down and I am in danger of drifting off to the music of the Moroccan singer and so we lift ourselves from the soft cushions and our yellow cloaked man leads us back to the riad where the wooden door is opened for us and shut behind us and I tumble into the huge bed and drift off.