The Souk -- Marrakech

The weekend before I left Toulon, Caroline and Jerome shared with me their experience in Marrakech. They said that people would be very persuasive when trying to convince me to buy things I didn't want. They acted out a scenario wherein Jerome played a souk shopkeeper who was trying to sell me one of Bibou's puzzles. They told me that once something is in your hands, you pretty much have to pay for it. Jerome grabbed me off the "street", brought me into his "shop", and practically placed his "goods" into my unwilling hands. All the time speaking nonstop french three inches away from my face.

Jerome and Caroline missed their callings. They should BOTH be actors. 

Caroline advised me to wait three days before visiting the souk. She thought it would be a good idea to get accustomed to the culture before I adventured into such a bustling place. But Mike was at work all day yesterday, so I decided to go for a bit of a walk by myself. After walking forty minutes down the streets and ambling through a city park, I ended up at the souk. As one does. 

The walk to the souk was just as overwhelming as the souk itself. Traffic is insane in Marrakech, and I was very happy to be able to escape into the park after forty minutes of charily zigzagging through the streets. Pedestrians get zero respect from bikes and automobiles alike. Bikers don't respect any traffic signs or lights, so even if the little green man lights up, you still have to watch out for a belligerent biker who might run you over. They also feel quite at ease on the sidewalks and in the souk, so you have to be 100 percent alert 100 percent of the time if you want to avoid ending up in a tangled mess with a motorcycle and the family of Moroccans it carried. People are constantly honking and getting indignant with each other on the roads. It's a loud, chaotic, exciting mess, but the locals seem to enjoy it. It's interesting to contrast the driving here with the driving in Ireland. In Ireland, you salute and smile as you pass. In Marrakech, you honk and shout. Each to his own, I suppose. 

The park on the way to the souk

I had been advised by my host to avoid talking to most people. He also warned me that some Moroccans would grab me and yell at me, but that it wasn't dangerous and I should just ignore it. I wasn't grabbed, but a fair amount of people yelled and honked at me in the souk and on the road. It seemed aggressive and made me feel moderately uncomfortable and anxious, but I think it's a part of life one gets used to and learns to disregard.

Upon entering the square of the souk, I saw a multitude of umbrellas covering the orange juice, produce, spice, and knick-knack shops. There were musicians sitting on rugs, playing their flutes under the scorching MARCH sun. There were men holding monkeys on chains, forcing the sad looking animals to perform tricks for the tourists avidly snapping pictures. I didn't linger long anywhere, as I was afraid that I would be approached and find out that someone had had the time to put something in my hands. I was even afraid to take pictures, as I read online that many performers and non-performers alike demand dirhams if they find themselves being photographed. This seems a bit silly though, and I think I'll take plenty of pictures when I go back to the souk with Mike.

About nearly being hit by a motorcyclist for the 15th time, a man walking in front of me told me I ought to stay more to the right. He then introduced himself, asked where I was from, and offered to show me the tannery and leather district. As I'd read that many Moroccans offer themselves as guides and then charge exorbitant fees (and get you a little lost), I tried to shrug him off. He then told me that it was, "not for money. Just for language. I walk with you and practice my English. Not for money."

So I agreed to a quick trip around the leather district of the souk, with the understanding that no money would change hands. The leather district is populated with Berbers who moved down to Marrakech from the mountains a good many years ago. The Berbers are actually the oldest race to settle in Morocco, but most of them have been assimilated into the Arabic Islamic culture and have given up their polytheist belief system. They have entire communities that seem very self-sufficient in the Old Town section of Marrakech. My self-appointed guide showed me one of the little communities, and there was a bakery, segregated showers for men and women, and separate mosques for the men, women, and children. The men worked downstairs with the leather, and the women worked upstairs with the sewing.

As we approached the tanneries, a putrid smell began to waft all over us. My guide asked, "You smell that?"

"Yes, I definitely smell that. "

"That is the pigeon shit. It is used to make the leather soft. It is the ammonia in the pigeon shit that makes the leather soft. Now the smell is not so bad. In summer, then the smell is bad. Here, hold this mint up to your nose to take away the smell."

I have never been so thankful for a sprig of peppermint.

One of the largest tanneries

Leather that has been rubbed with pigeon shit and washed in salt to take away the smell of bird feces.

It was around this time that things started getting awkward with my guide.

"I like walking with you. I walk with you not for money, but because I like to walk with you. You make my heart -- my heart happy. I look at you and I smile. You are in Marrakech. How long are you in Marrakech? Two months? You come visit me in the mountains. I rent a Riad, a traditional Berber tent. I make traditional tagine, drink wine -- yes, wine -- why not? Then I make for you a massage. Why not?"

"Well, I'm actually staying with a fellow right across from the Victor Hugo Highschool. I suppose I'd have to run it by him first."

"Where is he from?"

"He is from Casablanca, but he lives in Marrakech."

"But I am from Marrakech. I show you the traditional Marrakech and he show you the traditional Casablanca. You are smart! You can have two boyfriends -- a boyfriend in Marrakech and a boyfriend in Casablanca."

"mmm... So, why do people in a desert drink so much hot tea? Doesn't it seem a bit odd to you?"

"We drink hot tea in hot weather to keep the body cool. A Riad in the mountains -- why not? I like you, you make my heart happy. Why not be happy?"

I was able to steer conversation away from his Riad in the mountains until he led me back to the main square. He then gave me the number of his orange juice stand and bid me farewell. So I got out of that situation unscathed (except for my burning nostrils) and a good deal more informed on the ways of Berber life and leather making.

Part of the square. These poor horses are everywhere.