by David Yeadon
A couple of hours later you begin to see this place for what it really is and has been for almost eight hundred years—a magnificent daily melting pot of Moroccan cultures, a teeming urban oasis for the Berber tribespeople from the mountains, the nomads from the Sahara, the Bedouins, the Tuareg, the diminutive Chleuh and black-skinned traders from Senegal and Mauritania.
They flock in by the hundreds, turning this amorphous space into an amphitheater of activity: wily merchants from Fes and Casablanca spreading their silver bracelets and necklaces on worn shards of carpet; loquacious medicine men extolling the virtues of syrupy potions in brown glass vials, promising potency and “power of the limbs” to the gathering crowds; turbaned counselors offering advice for the lovelorn; astrologers with elaborate charts; jugglers; men with monkeys; men with snakes swirling out of baskets and around their necks to rasping tunes played on tin flutes; men who pull scorpions from their mouths; a pyramid of acrobats in scarlet tights featuring a tiny tot of a boy who bends in the most unusual places; a holy man, shadowy and aloof under his umbrella; veiled and cloaked women selling hard-boiled eggs served with a pungent dipping sauce, and the exotic bell-ringing, trinket-adorned water vendors offering refreshments of questionable quality from brass cups dangling from their bright red costumes. I was captivated by the beauty of blue-robed Berber dancing girls adorned in silver and jewels, their teeth and eyes flashing in the bright morning sun.
The crowd increases with the heat. Outsiders like me retire to the sidelines at regular intervals to sip sweet mint tea in the shady cafés. By 10:00 A.M. the orange sellers are out in force, squeezing those wonderfully aromatic Moroccan fruits for the juice addicts. A young man who has been offering his services as guide for the last hour nudges my arm and laughs at the old men gathered at the stalls, drinking the juice devotedly as if it were the very nectar of life.
“They can’t drink alcohol. It is forbidden,” the young man explains. “So they get drunk on oranges!” And they do seem a little tipsy as they wobble away, tripping over their long striped djellabas (thick, hooded kaftans). Does the juice ferment in the heat? Does Allah know about this?
Over on the south side of the Djemaa are the storytellers surrounded by circles of enthralled listeners—a hundred or more in each circle, silent and still as the raconteur swirls, leaps, crouches, shouts, whispers, weeps, and wails in a mesmerizing one-man theater, acting out every nuance of some ancient drama that they all know by heart and yet hear fresh again every time.
Then comes the rich aroma of cinnamon from the trays of sweet cakes carried by artful youngsters, almost Dickensian with their sly eyes and “pick-a-pocket-or-two” demeanor. Everyone eats them—even the black-shrouded figure of an aged scribe pauses in the middle of a letter he is composing for a distraught veiled woman and licks his sticky fingers, one by one. Next to him a magic-man sells predictions on little pieces of folded paper while a young apprentice snake charmer milks the venom from a squirming black cobra and dodges the lightning strikes of a second, which rears (four feet of flared anger) from a battered cardboard box. Even the shoeshine boys, who’ve seen this kind of thing every day for years, watch with awe and nod knowingly as the boy snatches the cobra in midstrike and bundles it back into the box.
And the smells! By midday the whole place shimmers with the aromas of the mini—spice mountains displayed by merchants on the edge of the square and the broiling lamb mechoui from open-air kitchens set up by Berber cooks who left their high mountain villages before dawn to spend the day here sweating, swatting flies, and serving up some of the tastiest meat in the world.
Less pleasant are the smells from the leather tanneries hidden way back in the murky depths of the medina where scores of half-naked laborers toil in mud-walled vats pounding, stretching, and drying the ragged skins in a hellhole of noxiousness.
My guide (he has now proclaimed himself my “friend-for-life”) suggests a change of scene—a stroll through the bazaar “just to see what’s there” and swearing that spending my money is the last thing on his mind. “It’s much cooler there, not so noisy. And if you don’t like, we come back. No problem, okay?”
So I prepare myself for battle, girding my loins with guile. We enter the shadowy labyrinths of the souks, a place of endless twists and turns and suffocating cul-de-sacs ending against impenetrable wooden doors big enough for elephants to pass through; a place of secretive dealings and sideways glances from eyes lurking under the hoods of muttony djellabas; a place from which you wonder if you’ll ever emerge.
The din is unbelievable, particularly in the souks of the blacksmiths, wood carvers, leather embossers, silversmiths, copper pounders, and rice-pot cleaners. Donkeys bearing enormous loads are driven through the milling throngs by irascible boys barking out the watch-your-back cries of “balek-balek!” We seek relief in the quieter souks of the rug weavers, the wool dyers, and the makers of those lovely pointed slippers known as ba-booshe.
There is no middle ground. I leave my guide behind in the souks and abruptly enter even more mazelike alleys bound by high mud walls with the beetle figures of widow-women, cloaked entirely in black and scurrying in the shadows, on errands of apparent life-or-death import. I know that behind the high walls are gracious courtyards with little gardens and splashing fountains and all the intense domesticity of Moroccan family life, but I see nothing of this. The ancient wooden doors are sealed tight. There are no windows. There is no apparent logic to the endless meanderings, laid out centuries ago to baffle enemies. The outsider is alienated, threatened, and very quickly lost. You try to return to the comforting din of the markets but every way you twist only seems to lead you deeper into the endless maze. A hand touches your arm and body and heart leap together. “Sir, you should not be here. Not good place at all, sir. Come with me.”
You’ll clutch at any straw and follow any stranger who shows the semblance of a smile, hoping that a few words of thanks will be gratitude enough when you regain your bearings.
Except you never do.
Your newfound guide knows your confusion and leads you ever deeper into the mysteries, asking endless questions about your ancestry, your education, your vacation plans, and your current level of affluence. He claims to know everything—the places for the finest carpets, the cheapest turquoise, the best silver bracelets, the softest leather, and you go along with it because you have no choice.
Finally as you turn the last corner and reenter the market throng you are reminded by your wily guide that he has saved you from the terrible perils of the dark alleys and that his only purpose in life now is to ensure your safety, your happiness, and your pecuniary well-being. (Another friend-for-life.)
And so begin the real rituals of the souk—the time-honored tradition of bargaining for objects you’re not really sure you want but can’t resist, because the longer you spend talking the cheaper they get. Who can refuse an ornate silver-handled Berber knife in a bejewelled scabbard that starts at $100 and ends at the giveaway price of $12? Of course you know it’s not genuine silver and you know the blue and red stones cannot possibly be real turquoise and amber for that price, but where else can you have so much fun, with complimentary mint tea and sweet cake snacks too? Here in the comforting hustle and bustle of the souk time can be forgotten and the slow subtle rhythms of Islamic life can be enjoyed from your seat on a camel saddle, burnishing your bargaining skills with patience, eloquence, and endurance.
How dull and unimaginative seem the sterile price tags, cash registers, and retail regimentation back home. Here the ritualized process of negotiation becomes a little lesson of life you’ll remember forever. You learn to resist without insult, to reject without rancor, to reconsider with grace and benevolence. You offer wonderfully esoteric arguments to justify your offered price, supported by anecdotes, clever analogies, and stimulating similes. You permit the process to encompass a discussion of the weather, world politics, the sweetness of Moroccan oranges, the excellence of the tea, and the honeyed richness of
the little pastries that are brought specially for you by the young son of the merchant. You imply interest in other objects, digress for a while, then return to the price of the original item. You flirt, you cajole; he praises, he sighs (he may even weep a little if the item is more than a mere trinket). You hold hands, you toast, you laugh at the pathetic antics of other foreigners who appear too impatient or too embarrassed to bargain; you share little secrets with shrugs, you exchange little wisdoms with your eyes.
In short, it becomes a wonderful exercise in mental shadow-boxing, where every twist and turn only seeks to bind the two of you together in mutual admiration and anticipation of the outcome. A voice in your head, becoming smaller and smaller, tries to remind you that you already bought two of these knives somewhere else yesterday and that Customs may confiscate them all anyhow, but it’s too late. You’re in too deep. The bond is too strong. The game is already won by the merchant, who bows again, proclaims your negotiating prowess to an assemblage of admiring onlookers, pours you another glass of sweet mint tea, and explains how his love for you is such that he is almost willing to give you the invaluable knife just to maintain your newfound friendship. The result is inevitable, the memory indelible!
The sun is setting. Shards of brilliant scarlet flash on the rough mud walls. It’s time to return to the Djemaa to find fresh diversions in that vast space, full of hype and hullabaloo.
Night comes and crowds cluster around even more bizarre antics than those offered during the day. Five little boys with powdered faces, dressed in effeminate costumes, dance strangely sensual dances in the glow of a dozen kerosene lamps. The men in the crowd stand silently, mesmerized by the delicacy of their movements; the women refuse to watch. There are unusual smells in the air—scents of an illicit nature. Perfumed young girls parade together, unveiled, yet untouchable. Young men stroll hand-in-hand (a familiar custom between male friends) watching the girls’ flouncings or collect in conspiratorial huddles on the cafés terraces. Two men box each other in a carefully orchestrated warm-up as a crowd builds and wagers are exchanged; a group gathers to watch as an old man in a huge turban seems to keep a tray with two glasses on it, suspended by itself in midair….
My head is spinning with the oddness of it all. Over at the top end of the Djemaa, lines of instant kitchens complete with tables and chairs have appeared, as if by magic. Here you have a choice of a dozen aromatic tagines (slow-cooked stews featuring an array of vegetables with chicken, beef, or lamb and olives galore) poured over golden pyramids of couscous, followed by deliciously crisp fried fish, lamb and kofte kebabs served with large ovals of sweetish bread, superb little b’stila pies (a rich mix of chopped pigeon breast, more usually chicken, and eggs wrapped in layers of wafer-thin pastry sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon).
It’s hard to leave the Djemaa. I’m foot weary and mind weary, but I don’t want to go. I’ve run the range of my emotions in a single day—delight, revulsion, intrigue, rejection, love, distaste, understanding, and utter confusion. An old Berber tribesman told me, “The Djemaa is the world and the world is Djemaa,” and you begin to believe it if you allow yourself to become part of this unique place.
But it’s time to move on to fresh adventures. The Sahara is calling again, so early the following morning I leave Marrakech behind and head due south into the foothills of the High Atlas. Serpentine curlings take me deeper into the green gorges terraced with tiny fields. Berber villages huddle on hilltops, tight-knit and earth-colored. Groups of women in bright costumes are washing clothes in the mountain streams. The Roman geographer, Pliny the Elder (not known for his exuberant hyperbole) was awed by the grandeur of “these most fabulous mountains in all of Africa.”
My little Renault 4 seems to drive itself, switchbacking higher and higher toward the Tizi N’Tichka pass (7,415 feet). The villages become kasbahs, fortresslike and bounded by crenellated walls and towers. I am entering the wild domain of the “Lords of Atlas,” fierce Berber chieftains who once ruled these lofty realms and repelled all invaders well into this century. It still feels like a land apart, a place where traditions die hard and the old ways are very much in place among the snow-clad peaks. Part of me wants to stop, to abandon the car and take off with a backpack into the remote valleys. But I keep on moving.
Ahmed accosted me at a roadside cafés. He asked for a lift to his family village over the pass (everyone seems to hitchhike in Morocco) and presented me a section of Atlas geode as a goodwill gesture. He spoke passable English and made a lively companion as we zigzagged down the southern slopes of the mountains, passing tiny brown boys holding ferocious-looking lizards by horny tails and rickety roadside stands selling chunks of sparkling Atlas quartzite.
The pause at Ahmed’s house was welcome. The simple setting in which he and his family lived seemed a reflection of the land itself—powerful, even majestic, in its lack of superfluous detail. Outside the mountains soared abruptly from shadowy canyons; a plateau ended in sudden eroded bluffs and beyond that, blue haze and nothing else. Inside, the walls were the same color as the earth, built of earth. There were few trimmings beyond the layered carpets on which we sat, cushions, and the ornate tray used for the tea; no pictures, no tables, chairs, sofas, TV sets, china cabinets—none of the usual paraphernalia with which we fill our Western homes. Ahmed told me that when the family was ready to sleep they rolled out thin camel-hair mattresses and covered them with wool rugs they had woven themselves. When they ate they shared a large communal dish and served themselves with their fingers; when they wanted distraction they talked together or sang or asked the old man of the family (a rambunctious character with a face as crinkled as old parchment and a mischievous glint in his eye) to tell them the long ancient tales they knew so well yet heard fresh every time.
“Bismallah.”
For a moment there is total silence.
Inside the mud house we pause and whisper the ritual grace before mint tea is served from a battered tin teapot with a conical lid. The room is black; my eyes are still blinded by the brilliance of the desert outside. Then comes the splatter of tea in small glasses, the aroma of steeped mint, the sheepy smell of babouche slippers and djellabas, the purr of a tabby cat close by, and the soft chatter of the women outside the room in the high-walled courtyard.
This is the way to do it, I told myself.
I could—maybe should—have stayed. But I was impatient for the Sahara. I wanted to see and sense the infinities—the thrill of a space that sweeps for two thousand miles deep into the heart of Africa. I had hoped Morocco would let me experience Africa, but Africa is too big, too grand a scale, for the mind to encompass all at once. Like trying to think of the universe.
After the pass the descent is rapid and the scene change sudden. There is little green now, no terraced hillsides. The mountains are baked brittle in the hot sun; shattered ridges rise from purple shadow canyons; buzzards circle seeking infrequent flickers of life among the rocks. Villages are rare and look hard, pounded-down places, scratching an existence from little patches of earth among the soaring scarps. I see few people except one young boy ploughing a hardscrabble piece of ground with two mules.
Gradually the mountains ease themselves into vast sandy plains. A hot wind is blowing, the Saharan sergi, and my eyes sting. I pass twisted argan trees with barks like reptile skins; high in their branches goats nibble the tiny leaves. I pause at the picture-book hilltop kasbah of Tifoultout, once a stately palace of El Glaoui, Pasha of Marrakech, and now an impressive pile of towering adobe walls and labyrinthine alleys skittering down to a dry riverbed, bronzed in a setting sun and wrapped in wispy silences. A couple of dogs barking and nothing else.
After Agdz, a hectic hilltop town with a main square full of Moroccan carpets and “antique” Berber jewelry, I slipped down into the linear oases of the Draa Valley. All around were dry shattered crags and buttes, but alongside the meandering river was a veritable jungle of date palms and almond and orange orchards set on green carpets of whea
t. The Drawa are different from the mountain Berber tribes; many are black, descendents of slaves brought north generations ago by Saharan nomads. The men have shaved heads bound by white turbans. The women shroud themselves in black dresses and shawls trimmed with thin strips of brightly colored ribbon and silver trinkets. The veil is an imperative here; this is no “cool” Casablanca scene with tight T-shirts and jeans. Here the women fold up like bats if they suspect the presence of an outsider (they have an almost telepathic sensitivity and hate being photographed).
The villages or ksour are straight out of the Arabian Nights—high square towers and turreted mud walls, slits for windows, six-inch-thick slabs of wood for doors—a sturdy massing of Cubist forms softened by feathery palm tops. The women gather around the communal well, always chattering; the men discuss affairs of state in the dust by the main gate; children scamper everywhere.
Inside their high ochre walls are the same labyrinthine alleys and shadowy passages as in Marrakech. I had learned my lesson and keep close to the main gates.
An old man, wrinkled as an oyster shell, sits by the outer wall selling oranges.
“Salaam alaikum.” (“Peace be with you.”) I’m learning the language slowly.
“Alaikum as salaam,” (“On you be peace”) he replies.
I ask the price and he raises one finger, so I give him a single dirham (about ten cents), expecting one orange. Instead he carefully selects fifteen of the finest fruits I’ve ever seen and places them gently in my arms.
“Shoukran,” I thank him sincerely and give him another dirham.