We arrived in Morocco almost a week ago. Imagining a place of exotic difference, we have found, in fact, many similarities to other places we have lived or visited. Of course the culture of coloured tiles and arched windows has followed us across the Straits of Gibraltar from Portugal, and we remember – from living in Malaysia – the Imam call to prayers over loud speakers five or six times a day. (Well, we remembered when that first pre-dawn call woke us suddenly and abrasively the first morning here.) There is a pleasant sense of familiarity at being back in a Muslim country, although it is some years since we even passed through Dubai.
Landing in Marrakech, we were gathered up by a local driver and taken to our cosy hotel, with its shady courtyard gardens (riyadhs) and spacious roof terraces. (Why don’t we have roof terraces in Australia? It’s the perfect place to catch an evening breeze after a hot day.) ‘Hotel Gallia’ is a calming haven from the storm of tourists and traders beyond the end of the alley, only minutes from Jemaa el-Fnaa, the main town square.
There, in that vast public space, we dodge taxis and motorbikes, donkey carts and tired, bony horses pulling carriages laden with visitors keen for an authentic experience in this vibrant city. A myriad stalls sell fruit juices or nuts, t-shirts and sneakers, breakfast, lunch, dinner and pot plants. Ladies on low stools offer henna hand tattoos or corn-row plaits. Wandering musicians add to the clamour, as traders bombard you with offers of tours, sunglasses, places to eat, Berber belts, charmed snakes, or dancing monkeys. The One & Only, head and shoulders above the mob, can turn a blind eye from his greater height, and walk on, apparently oblivious. Not so easy for me, at eye level with every determined salesman. Yet I find them happy enough to engage if I smile, and most won’t pester if greeted with a firm ‘no thank you.’ Or rather ‘non, merci,’ as French is still the official language, until next year.
As the day heats up, the open plaza is soon scorchingly hot. So, we head for the shaded alleys of the Medina. In the coolth of the early morning, these alleys are blissfully empty of anything but the odd cat. But it’s not long before these narrow, twisting lanes are swarming with motorbikes and bicycles, traders and tourists and three-wheeled trucks, and even the odd donkey. Then, you need to be on high alert and on your toes, dodging and swerving, aware of danger from both in front and behind. I decide I need a rear-vision mirror attached to my hat. And I feel like the character in the Dr Seuss book about getting to Solla Sollew. Only “by aiming my eyeballs in different directions” can I ever hope to avoid trouble coming at me from every angle.
Needing a respite from the intense levels of noise, visual mayhem and dense humanity, we retreat to our Riyadh for a little peace and quiet. At a tiled table beneath a palm tree and an umbrella of bougainvillea, we watch the puppies scamper and frolic, while lithe young cats tease Steve the tortoise, baptised thus by the One & Only. Steve stubbornly refuses to engage and retreats into his shell, although I did once have to rescue him, struggling to right himself after one determined kitten had toppled him onto his side. Dangling helplessly, he was waving an arm at me as I passed, to let me know he’d appreciate it if I could set him right side up, and then tore off, with surprising speed, to a pile of limp lettuce leaves he had been neglecting. From the safety of a shady corner behind a flowerpot, he then watched with interest as the cats dashed up the tree or played at sword fighting with paws and claws, atop an urn.
Venturing out again, we head for the Bahia Palace, through the maze of streets and lanes and alleyways. Built in the mid nineteenth century by a Grand Vizier to the Sultan, Muhammad ibn Abd al-Rahman. It was later extended by his son Ba Ahmed, also a Grand Vizier, to Sultan Abdelaziz. Ba Ahmed bought up most of the surrounding neighbourhood to include gardens, huge courtyards and smaller riyadhs and lots more rooms within the exterior walls. This ever-expanding palace housed Ba Ahmed’s servants and slaves, his private hammam (wash house) and of course his harem. The name al-Bahia means “brilliance,” and was supposedly the name of the Vizier’s favourite wife. Since his death, Ba Ahmed’s Palace has housed royalty, foreign guests, even the French Resident Minister – a slightly lesser personage than an Ambassador or Governor – when Morocco became a French Protectorate.
As seems to be common in many of the Mediterranean countries, this palace is hidden behind high walls and huge wooden gates. Entering beneath a large archway, we find a palace full of patterns and colours. Not an inch seems to have been left bare. Even in the servants quarters, the floors are tiled in simple geometric patterns like those popular on early twentieth century verandas in Australia. There is a plethora of carved stucco, zellij (elaborately patterned tiles) on walls and floors, Carrera marble, painted cedarwood ceilings and shutters, muqarnas (ornamental vaulting) stained glass, arabesques (latticed stonework), painted friezes and rooms with thirty foot ceilings. All these decorations were acquired from all over Morocco and beyond. While Islam does not allow for figurative images, there is plenty of room for a multitude of geometric patterns in a thousand different designs. It can be quite overwhelming. I find myself needing to sit quietly in a corner to observe such busy-ness at a distance. Oddly, there is virtually no furniture, but I find a step or garden bench will do.
Beyond the Grand Courtyard (50m x 30m), I discover the Grand Riyadh and one such bench, rare as hens teeth, hiding in the shadows, where I can hear the birds tweeting louder than the chattering tourists and enjoy the scent of orange blossom, or magnolias, or perhaps simply perfumes and aftershaves mingling in the warm air. Pathways between garden beds of palms, loquats, oranges, fountains and ferns are filled with tour groups. As tourists, we really are a plague upon the face of the earth, taking up air and space but contributing little but the odd entrance fee. I am constantly in the way of some eager photographer, not looking or absorbing, but simply clicking, or posing for selfies to prove they were here, checking their photos as soon as they are taken, oblivious of anyone trying to pass through. Everyone is a supermodel these days! I, too, can be many of these things, even as I watch and judge. Although I will leave the modelling to the younger, more attractive clientele.
Is it worth it, this touristic tsunami? Perhaps not for other visitors or rich residents, who get caught in the crush, but for the poor who can find a way to survive by selling shoddy, mass produced merchandise, meals and snacks, local tours, or photo opportunities with a hooded snake, I suppose it is all in a day’s work. I do find it largely depressing if I’m honest. The cross-cultural influences are diminishing the authenticity of the local experience. The traders are pushy, eager for business amongst a throng of other traders desperately selling identical products. Yesterday, two taxi drivers got in a brawl as to who would drive us home. We tried to walk away but were almost manhandled into the back of someone’s taxi. Outside the main tourist centres, prices more reasonable, people less invasive, but who could deny them a living? Especially those of us who will return to wealthier countries.
Meanwhile, I sit watching Stephen the Tortoise careering round the courtyard, apparently doing laps, presumably training for that race with the hare. And surely it must be time for lunch? I will go in search of a traditional Berber tagine perhaps, with beef and eggplant, or chicken and preserved lemon. Or maybe couscous and vegetables, with kebabs served on long, lethal looking skewers. Time to go. My mouth is watering. But I better find Steve before I go, who has dashed away on a tour of inspection…