The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  Earning Marrakech: These days it’s far too easy to get to Marrakech. Budget airlines touch down at the new international terminal day and night, from across Europe and beyond. Waves of tourists emerge and, like moths to a flame, they’re lured by the mythical reputation of Jma el Fna, the heart of Marrakech, the heart of Morocco.

  Feel the fire: It’s all too easy in a way. Until quite recently you had to struggle through the desert to get here. Sweat, thirst, heat, and even delirium. But you arrived changed by the journey, ready to receive something so magical that language can hardly convey. If I had my way, you’d still have to reach Marrakech by foot, for there’s no better way to soak up its core than as a wayfarer, ripened by travel.

  Cigarette sellers: Some square-dwellers are almost invisible as they slip nimbly through the crowds. But you hear them. A fistful of coins jangling as they approach, an open packet of cigarettes, sold one at a time to anyone needing a nicotine fix.

  Medicine-man: As the afternoon light peaks in intensity, a row of healers lay out their stalls in a line on the ground in a corner of the square. Drawing a crowd, they reel off numbers and cures. Dressed in billowing indigo robes, embroidered with gold, turbans crowning their heads, they claim to heal any disorder – of body or mind.

  Their dusty old quilts are packed with wares: ostrich eggs and stork feathers, tortoise shells, dried reptiles, great lumps of sulphur, antimony and chalk. Phials filled with murky grey liquids, dried damask roses, aromatic seeds, and swathes of shocking pink silk.

  Of all those making their living here, it’s the magico-medicine men who are doing the briskest trade. Customers hurry up one by one. They spit out the name of an affliction, in no more than a whisper… a rash, an eruption of sores, a need for revenge on a neighbour, or the yearning for a son.

  The healer nods, his fingers conjuring a cure from the treasure chest of ingredients before him. His sales’ patter is unbroken as clients and onlookers stand spellbound. He wraps the mixture in a twist of paper, hands it over fast, and snatches the customer’s coins into the voluminous folds of his robe.

  A desert lizard emerges from under the same robe, head held high, a string around its waist attached to its master’s finger. It blinks, as if in approval of the transaction.

  Dentist: Nearby, in the shade of the mosque, is a dentist, sitting on a stool… in front of him a platter overflowing with human teeth. He’s got small darting eyes, a checkerboard smile, and confidence in his skill at bringing even the most severe toothache to a swift end. Whatever the condition, the treatment appears to be the same… a quick open air operation with a pair of rusted iron pliers, and a plug of grubby cotton wool to stem the flow of blood.

  Henna women: It’s true that most of those who make their living in Jma el Fna are men. But look around and you realize there are professions reserved exclusively for women. They are the sorceresses and fortune tellers. And cast an eye through the square during the quiet hours of the afternoon and you see the henna women perched on stools under parasols. As soon as they spot a pallid foreigner, they hold up their henna-filled syringe and grin.

  A catalogue of pictures is at the ready… decorated hands and feet. Squat on a stool for a minute or two, hold still as the hand grasping the syringe weaves its magic, and you’ve been initiated into the ancient sisterhood of Marrakech.

  Snake charmers: There’s no noise so alluring, so utterly hypnotic as the rhaita, the snake charmer’s flute. A cliché maybe, but a mainstay of Jma el Fna, a backbone of sound and sight that bewitches tourists and locals alike.

  Long before you reach the square, you hear its piercing tone. Riotous, fearful, yet somehow tamed, it cuts like a laser beam through the interminable din of the traffic, and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.

  Draw near, enchanted by the rawest streak of sound, and the serpents are knocked from their rest beneath a clutch of circular drums. Dazzled by the sudden blast of light, a pair of spitting cobras rear up, poised to strike. Despite the heat, the snake charmer’s wearing a thick woolen jelaba, a ragged strand of calico wrapped around his head. And around his neck a water snake, its tongue licking the afternoon heat, a desert accessory.

  Food Stalls: Just after the muezzin calls the afternoon prayer, dozens of iron carts are propelled forward from all corners of the square. Like gun carriages made ready for war, they’re positioned precisely on the east side of Jma el Fna, and unloaded. Cast iron struts and staves, pots, pans, tables, benches and stools, are knocked into place.

  These days the food stalls are fed by electricity, illuminated by bare bulbs, bathing the diners in platinum light. As soon as you draw near to the battery of stalls, the hustlers galvanize into action. They’re paid to entice anyone with a few coins going spare, to eat at their stall.

  Fingers jabbing at the hodge-podge of dishes on offer, they can recount the menu in any language you chose – there’s sheep brains and lamb on skewers, octopus, squid, and fried slabs of fish, tripe, goat’s head, snails, all of it washed down with miniature glasses of hot sweet tea.

  Denzil Washington: King of the Hustlers is a burly fresh-faced man of about thirty, who goes by the nickname ‘Denzil Washington’. Venture anywhere near his food-stall, Number 117, and he careens forward with a laminated plastic menu at the ready. Like the other hustlers, he’s skilled in working out where you’re from, long before you utter a word. This sixth sense, which must have evolved over centuries, makes the difference between survival and extinction.

  Change: Travel back and forth to a place you love and it’s the change you notice first. It hits you side on, blurring your memories. Sometimes when I visit the square, I cry out in rage at the creeping gentrification. For me, Jma el Fna should be stuck in time, unaltered ever… a Peter Pan destination.

  But the wonderful thing about the square is that change is quickly assimilated or undone. Here, nothing is set in stone. Efforts to introduce boundaries of any kind are thwarted by an ancient system far more powerful than the authorities who clamour for change.

  A few years ago the orange juice sellers were corralled into a row of mock calèche carriages. I jumped up and down in ire when I saw them for the first time. But these days I realize that they have a place, and that it’s the content which is important, rather than the container itself.

  Boxers: Another halka is forming. In the middle stands a rough-looking man with a woolly blue hat, a week’s growth of beard on his cheeks, and the end of a cigarette screwed into the corner of his mouth. He’s got a heap of third-hand boxing gloves beside him, and he’s cajoling anyone to come forward and try their luck.

  As soon as the crowd senses action, their numbers swell. More and more people are turning up, the atmosphere stoked by a hardened accomplice in a flame-red tracksuit. He’s coaxing people to throw coins down onto the ground. He’ll let the fight start when there’s enough cash in the ring. The dirhams come slowly.

  In one corner there’s a desperate looking contender, with a broken nose, ragged jelaba, and back-to-front baseball cap. In the other, a handsome teenager in a Barcelona football shirt. He’s got curly greased back hair. They raise their gloves, spar for a moment, but the fight’s short-lived. The youngster dodges a few swipes, then quickly abandons his hopes and his gloves.

  But now, a young woman steps forward, puts on the gloves. I can’t believe it. Neither can the audience.

  The secrets of Jma el Fna are only revealed to the patient, and to the observant. Turn up day after day and you’ll find the same girl stepping forward into the ring and strapping on the gloves. She’s the ring-master’s daughter and, like the other boxers, she’s in on the deal.

  Gnaoua: The roots of Jma el Fna sink deep down into the sand beneath the entertainers’ feet. The place may now be paved over but it’s a square of desert, an oasis with a sacred soul. Most of all, it’s African, the vast expanse of sky above, boiling with cumulus clouds, a reminder to anyone who doubts it.

  And of all the life-forces that pour through you in the square,
the truest and most vibrant of all is surely the Gnaoua. A brotherhood of African troubadours, dressed in brightly-coloured desert robes with cowrie-shell hats, they’re forming a semi-circle now.

  Great iron castanets, clattering like cymbals. Their rhythm gives the square its endless beating pulse, day and night. The sound is more like a cohort of warriors heading to battle, than a troupe of musicians touting for tourists’ change.

  Appeal of Jma el Fna: Pass a little time in the square, and you begin to see that it’s peopled by ordinary Moroccans. It’s not a place for the bling bling set or the nouveau riche. They steer well clear, preferring the fashionable cafés of the new town.

  Yet Jma el Fna’s great enduring appeal is that it turns no one away. It’s an ancient entertaining machine, a healer, a listener, a giver of sustenance, and a friend.

  Flautist: A flautist has entered the square and sits without fuss in the centre, playing his wooden pipe, as at ease here as a shepherd on a mountainside. Hunched in his dark blue jelaba, the crowds move around him, unsure whether to dwell or linger, the cacophonous nature of the space pulling them in different directions, looking for other circles to join.

  He plays, oblivious to the surrounding throng, his cap on the ground, upturned and coinless. He plays a tune which, to my ears, could have been played here a thousand years ago… as the camel caravans paused en route for sustenance and entertainment. A timeless witness, he plays and plays but no coins come.

  Blind Musician: It’s true that some of the entertainers rely on their hustling skills to get by. But there are players with extraordinary talent as well. As evening slips into night, an old blind musician, with a microphone strapped around his neck, twists up the volume knob on his amplifier, and begins to play. He’s not doing it for the money, but because the square is his sweetheart, his theatre, his home.

  Pin-striped Healer: The business of a specific halka tends to be clear from a distance. Glance at the faces of the audience and you see it right away, reflected like candlelight in a mirror. Most of the time entertainers keep the atmosphere jovial, because humour leads to laughter, and laughter leads to generosity.

  But some performers have a far graver message. The darkest of all on this night is a man in a black wool pinstripe suit. He has a huge beard, like a great black inverted candyfloss. He’s missing his front teeth, and his creased face is gripped with an almost maniacal expression.

  He’s ranting on about Jinn, the spirits that Muslims believe exist in a parallel world laid atop of our own. The subject is greeted with terrified looks, especially when the pin-stripe healer starts spewing numbers – the alphanumeric Abjad system, linchpin in a magician’s repertoire.

  Row of Blindmen: Jma el Fna has its own telegraphy. It knows about you long before you know about it. A row of blind men begging for alms are alerted of my presence by a woman sitting on a stool nearby.

  She calls to them, explaining that I’m recording them. They stand up and, staring directly at me with wide glassy eyes, wave their sticks. Commotion ensues and suddenly confusion and ill temper reign in a corner of the square. But the pervasive natural rhythm of el Fna soon restores order.

  Bike Boy: Fleeting moments in the dark: a boy before me is suddenly pushed down to the ground on his bicycle by an older girl. She makes sure she hurts him, and is then gone, away into the night.

  Storyteller: The storytellers (or hakawatis), draw the largest of all the crowds even if their own numbers are dwindling … when they are out, their halkas are lined with listeners, both old and young.

  Recounting tales from Alf Layla wa Layla,A Thousand and One Nights, and other favourite collections like Antar wa Abla, they tap into a communal obsession for the fantastic.

  The best storytellers are good businessmen as well. They know when to stop their tale on a cliffhanger, appealing for a few coins before they go on.

  Like so much of what takes place at Jma el Fna, the stories are understood by few foreigners, as they’re recounted in Darija, the Moroccan dialect. The tourists might take pictures of the crowd, but they don’t penetrate… or receive the ancient message being passed on.

  Order: Spend some time soaking up the atmosphere through all the senses, and patterns begin to emerge. It’s part of Jma el Fna’s own form of magic, an alchemy that transforms disorder into order.

  Fears for the Future: I used to worry that the square would one day be destroyed, built over, its revelers disbanded. But now I see how impossible that would be. As a cornerstone of life, Jma el Fna is somehow indispensible to Marrakchis, as vital to them as the air they breathe.

  Zigzag Conclusions: Standing in the ocean of people, circles forming, flourishing, and dissipating likes ripples all around, I’m reminded of my father’s words, that the best way to understand the square, and to experience it, is the zigzag way… zigzag back and forth for long enough, and you’re touched by the sorcery of the place… from the inside out.

  Pass through it long enough and it begins to pass through you.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Little Lhasa

  A CLUSTER OF TIBETAN LAMAS stand in the street, gorging themselves on juicy momo dumplings.

  In the temple behind them, many more are prostrating towards a large statue of Buddha, while still more circumvent the compound, spinning prayer wheels clockwise as they go. All around, the streets teem with stalls selling Tibetan jewellery, embroidery, music and food.

  At first glance you might be fooled into thinking you were in the back streets of Lhasa, the Tibetan capital. But this Buddhist community is far from there, in the northern Indian state of Himachal Pradesh.

  Fifty years ago, when Chinese forces streamed across the border, the Dalai Lama, Tibet’s spiritual leader, slipped over the mountains in disguise, along with his most trusted supporters. He sought sanctuary in India, where he was permitted to reside near the small hill station of Dharamsala. It’s been his home for half a decade, and has become an outpost of homeland away from Tibet. The community, known locally as ‘Little Lhasa’, is a place of pilgrimage for Buddhists the world over.

  Driving up to Dharamsala, the road zigzags sharply, twisting and turning back on itself, one precarious bend following tight on the heels of the next. Either side of the tarmac, lush vegetation looms up, the trees and creepers alive with langur monkeys, butterflies and brightly coloured birds. As my taxi ascended, reaching cloud level, the greenery all around seemed to change, the conifers replaced by fabulous jungle plants and ferns.

  I had arrived by over-night train from Delhi, which pulled into the sleepy station of Pathankot a little after breakfast. The drive up to Dharamsala took about two hours, most of it spent with my begging the driver to slow down. Wide-eyed and grinning, he spun the wheel easily through his hands, recounting the close calls that had so nearly claimed his life.

  The Dalai Lama’s community is not actually based at Dharamsala, but a little further up the hillside, at McLeod Ganj. The incongruous place name, derives from Sir Donald Friell McLeod, a nineteenth century Governor of the Punjab. Set at six thousand eight hundred feet, the hill station enjoys spectacular sweeping views over the plateau below. Once favoured by the British, it offered a cool refuge from the ferocious summer heat of New Delhi.

  As soon as you reach the outskirts of town, you see lamas strolling about, and wizened old Tibetan women, walking with canes, their legs hidden beneath striped aprons. From the first moment you arrive, the sense of tranquility hits you face on, as if the burdens of the outside world have somehow melted away. There’s irony in this, of course, because the several thousand Tibetans who make their home at McLeod Ganj do so because they’re unable to return home. Their struggle against the Chinese occupation of Tibet has been all about non-violence, after all.

  Every year, hundreds of ordinary Tibetans travel in secret over the mountains to Nepal, and across into India, on a pilgrimage to Little Lhasa. For the first time in their lives they are permitted to celebrate the life of its most famous resident, the Dalai Lama. T
his religious freedom must come as a tremendous relief, for merely speaking his name in their homeland is a crime.

  Many of the foreigners who arrive at McLeod Ganj stay for weeks, or even months, residing in the little guest houses and hostels found in the back streets and lanes. They fill the cafés on the main street, sipping green tea, chatting about Buddhism and the Dalai Lama’s teachings, or browsing the stalls for bargains. It’s not uncommon to find celebrities there as well. Richard Gere and other Hollywood A-listers are quite well known to the locals. Yet, unlike elsewhere in the world, when they come to Little Lhasa they are left alone.

  Having visited Tibet a few months earlier, I had travelled to Mcleod Ganj in the hope of seeking an audience with the Dalai Lama. Two months before setting out to India, I had corresponded with His Holiness’ office.

  I had heard that a private meeting is near impossible, a result of his packed programme and frequent travels. After all, there’s a neverending line of world dignitaries hoping to meet him.

  Fortunately for me, there had been no last minute travel plans. His Holiness’ private secretary asked me to present myself at the main monastery in McLeod Ganj, called Namgyal, the afternoon after my arrival. Following an informal chat, and being looked over, he told me to return the next morning at ten a.m.

  While waiting in the office, I was surprised how many dozens of tourists casually drop in, optimistically hoping for a spur of the moment rendezvous with the Dalai Lama. They are all politely turned away.

  Having passed through airport style security, I was taken up to a private meeting room; and, after a short wait, was ushered down a long corridor into His Holiness’ study.

  It’s always weird to see someone face to face who you know so well already – or, at least, someone you think you know. But, in this case, it was strangely comforting. Dressed in his trademark maroon robes, and wearing sturdy brown lace up shoes, the Dalai Lama shot up, and ushered me to a sofa.