Morocco's Soul Center

The hakawati’s voice fluctuated wildly between characters, and his Jedi-esque robe fluttered as he gestured fervently.  A drummer boy accompanied the old man’s theatrics.  Encircling them on a spread of technicolor carpets a crowd of locals sat transfixed.  Though I understood not a word he spoke, I stood entranced by the storyteller as I sipped fresh-squeezed orange juice.  Eventually I floated along with the pungent smoke that pervades the Djemma el Fna, Africa’s most fantastical and intoxicating square, brimming and bustling with snake charmers, musicians, dancers, acrobats, fortune tellers, monkeys, medicine men, fire eaters, henna artists, and thousands of Moroccans clad in colorful robes called djellabas.

Beside the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains lies the ancient city of Marrakech, once a crossroads for caravans coming out of the Sahara Desert, now the exotic locale of hippy legends and travelers’ dreams.  At the heart of the cinnamon-colored city sits the Djemma el Fna, the old-city square, where life pours forth untouched by time.  Just off the square are vast, labyrinthine souqs (markets), where countless vendors vie for business, and vibrant treasures abound, including hand-woven rugs, djellabas, slippers, ceramics, metal crafts, spices, dates, olives, apothecaries and more.  At sunset the city’s walls burn pink against deep blue skies, as open-air food stalls pop up offering couscous, tajine, harira, and even camel testicles or sheep head complete with eyeballs.

Wild odors flooded my nostrils while sounds bombarded my brain.  Navigating through the throngs I passed cobras swaying to eerie-sounding horns, clang-clanging dudes wearing brightly tasseled lampshade-like hats, toothless dentists wielding pliers, and hustlers throwing large monkeys on me insisting that I buy a souvenir photo.  I slipped into a café on the outskirts of the square for a glass of sweet mint tea.  The last light of day slipped away as I gazed at the snow-capped Atlas Mountains covered in ancient Berber villages and Kasbahs.  The Koutoubia Minaret towered omnipresent over the city.  At nightfall the ever-exuberant square erupts into the most spectacular live show on earth, free for all brave seekers.  High above the action I observed the kaleidoscope of life below, swirling and pulsing in timelessness.

Earlier that day I had found myself lost in the spooky souqs, bewildered by a handsome young native.  Mysteriously he would reappear walking toward me, when only moments prior he had passed me going the other way.  Each time he gave me a flirtatious smile and winked.  I began to giggle whenever he popped up as if by magic.  The stranger then drifted past me and seductively whispered, “Hashish,” as he left me enshrouded in a veil of smoke.  A purveyor of colorful cone-shaped mounds of spices wagged his arms in protest when I raised my camera to photograph him.  I learned to snap photos on the run, and elude the hustlers and pick-pockets.  Friendly citizens assured me in English, “You are welcome in Morocco.”

The next morning I escaped the turbulence and took a caleche (horse-drawn carriage) along the city’s ruddy ramparts, past date palm groves, orange and olive groves, to mosaic-bejeweled mosques and palace ruins.  I attended a hammam (public bath) to eat fresh oranges in my bikini while a tayeba scrubbed me vigorously with a strange loofah and saboon bildi (dark-brown olive oil paste.)  The marble tiles of the steam-pipe-heated hammam reverberated with calming sounds of splashing water and women chatting in Arabic, Berber, and French.  The tayeba washed my long hair with rhasoul (lava clay.)  I shared my coconut lotion with the other women, and they were grateful for such a luxury.  An older woman approached me as I dressed, and silently decorated my face with henna.

The intensely lively city left me much in need of rest, and I had to forego my trip to the coast due to a slight bout of dysentery.  (I should have known better than to drink my Fanta after that monkey drank some!)  Centuries of traffic at the crossroads of North Africa’s trade routes give Marrakech its unique identity.  I easily lost my own not long after arriving.  Smoggy, smelly, noisy, dirty and crowded, Marrakech is also enchanting, seductive, thrilling and captivating.  This exotic desert dream lingers long after the diarrhea that inevitably plagues all its tourists.