MARRAKECH—SPANISH DÉJÀ VU “AGAIN”!
Ric Polansky ©
No matter where you go in this world, be it China, Alaska, or Prague all airports have a sameness that allow only a “hint of what to expect in your new destination”. A night arrival makes matters worse. A darkened taxi jaunt reveals little more. New modern hotels too have a sameness comfort factor that beguiles them from shedding too much national characteristics in fear of confounding or confronting their welcomed quests.
So, it wasn’t until splashes of golden slits of light cut through the curtains that I remembered I was somewhere else and had better have a peak. A swinging jerk of the curtains and the full African sun blinded me. When I dropped my head to shield my eyes I glimpsed nothing but palm trees of assorted varieties, Mediterranean blue swimming pools and heavy foliage of an unusual variety.
On closer inspection all the buildings were clay coloured with unique and different arch forms than homeland Spain. Naturally the dress was in the Arabic style with all women scarved and wearing trousers and outer garments. Nevertheless, in an instant I knew I was somewhere different. The way Wendy must of felt when Peter Pan whisked her off to Never Never Land.
The place is called Marrakech and it is located in one of the most exotic places on this planet—Morocco. In many ways Marrakech resembles Mojacar in the sense that no high-rises exist taller than the main minaret the Koutoubia (older sister to the Giralda in Sevilla). It is Morocco’s third largest city with 800,000 inhabitants living in rose coloured buildings. The tourists who arrive here are basically 70% French, 20% Spanish, 5% English and sundry nationalities.
Here slept the dream of Spain before Spain was born. My son Joby had warned me: “once you return from Morocco you will understand Spain better”. In a zen moment it was déjà vu “happening again!” I knew what Spain was like before she evolved into how we know her today. Flash back scenes of my earlier life darted through long forgotten or repressed caverns of grey matter. Dramatic scenes that I had already lived through forty years ago; the pot holed dusty roads, thirty years ago with the police still mounted on horseback, twenty years ago of new expansion and builders laying in light switches when they hadn’t bothered to trace in the electrical lines; ten years ago the wild array of new comers all changing their names and backgrounds creating new professions for themselves and arriving in this new frontier town with bags loaded with dreams and solid suitcases full of hope.
Morocco is an explosion of color. Every sense comes alert and the imagination runs wild like a crazed dog. The pulsating colours wake up tired eyes. Here it was—all happening again in a much more extravagant and vibrant setting. But before I could take a long enough breath the past reminisces vanished and I was jostled into reality, bumped pushed and shoved about with the other throngs of camera totting tourists.
Surrounded by tan clay walls trimmed with exquisite hand painted tiles and colours of homeland Andalusia twice over-- my vision vied with the street cacophony of whizzing motor bikes, buses, taxis and bicycle shouts. Just as your mind decided to recognize the sounds pungent uric odours wafted up from somewhere then were blown away as light jasmine fragrances from nearby shops lilted in the air. Remarkable arches not necessarily familiar to me nor preserved on just tattered historical buildings surrendered a majesty to the facades. Every plaza was full of frantic shoppers and merchants haggling in hysterical competition. Yet, all totally secure thanks to a farsighted King Mohammed VI and his prophetical vision of bringing a decent and refined European tourist (money and culture) to gently intermingle in a desert crossroads with his people. In Morocco the King is head of Islam and that keeps radicals and pests controlled (there). The exotic imagery is not just a clash of cultures occurring at a major junction between distinct and unique cultures, (the word barbarianism is derived from the Atlas Mountain Berber tribes). The entanglement allows the Jews a place too alongside new religious preferences-- as was more than a thousand years ago.
FOOD - It was the renowned chef Paul Bocuse who proclaimed to the world: “there are only 3 cuisines in the world; French, Chinese, and Moroccan.” And it appeared so. Spread before my very eyes, as if handfuls of diamonds, rubies; and emeralds scattered across a magical carpet were the delicacies of Moroccan cuisine. Silver platters and colourful ceramic dishes heaped high with assorted treats. The colors were as multifarious as the subtle and delicate flavors. I was astounded.
Only nine short miles of salty sea lay between my homeland Spain with it’s hardy stodge filling food, pots full of pork and beans or wonderful fish cazuelas brimming with flavour, but Moroccan edibles served in their distinct cone shaped tagines are unique.
There before me was the single tomato that Almeria province is famed for presented in 100 different varieties: spiced, diced, flavoured or scented, cut, cropped, stewed, or blended in more fashions than I could imagine or even dream of. True, much of this was labour intensive, something that restaurateurs today couldn’t afford, nor have the fingered man power to perform but Morocco can and does.
HISTORY - Although the Phoenicians first settled the coastas of Morocco with trading post as long ago as 1,000 BC, the place was unruly full of itinerant warrior Berbers in the north and fierce Taureg southern desert Nomads roaming freely and robbing. By 788 Morocco had been conquered by one ruling dynasty and got a name. The arabs called it Al Maghrib Al Aksa (the furthest place west—the shortened version became Morocco. It was a Moroccan Dynasty, the Almoravids flooded into Spain. But it was one young Abdallah Ibn Yasim that emerged from the south near Agadir to start the revolution and move once again into Spain. Between 1054 and 1059 his small army of puritans swept north and by 1069 they were in Fez and crossing over. By 1086 they had already established the main bastions in Cordoba, Sevilla and Granada. In the paling of their fanaticism and conversion by the sword came a golden age of art and culture throughout northern Africa, France and Spain.
DOWNTOWN - The town is divided into just two areas. The new city, where most of the hotels and up-market apartments and residences are and the old Medina with its huge and different Souks; a virtual beehive of industry thriving in nooks and crannies selling almost everything but elephants.
The heart of town is the Jemaa el Fna which is the central plaza area encircled by six different minarets where the heart of the population thrives. Everyone flocks to the Jemaa for the day light circus of fortune tellers, snake charmers, monkey men and near by shopping stalls. It is at night that the flood lit plaza camelionizes into a dinner place similar to October Fest, a high raucous atmosphere without the booze. Plenty of that flows in the hotels, bars, and clubs as the Moroccans themselves enjoy an indulgence, using the excuse of “sharing hospitality with the foreigners”.
The central attraction nearby is the Koutoubia Minaret that our guide insisted had no steps and the Iman calling people to prayers rode a horse up the narrow interior ramps (a pronouncement I still don’t believe). A visit to the nearby Souks is a must. So is a guide. They are cheap enough. Fifteen Euros for a three hour morning stroll around town but most tours are complicated with too many dates and strange names to remember.
BARTERING - It is here in the main Souk that you bear witness to the entire Moroccan culture at its best. Believe me, unless you are wearing sunglasses in the darkened area, they know before you speak what you inadvertently seek. It’s a magic act beyond comprehension. Everyone from child to adult is prepared to bargain in at least 20 different languages to lessen your load of money. Special “slam dunks” are saved for snappy gringo dressers like myself. We are quoted three times the normal price and once negotiation starts you have no where to go, no figure to arrive at but 50% of where they started which is about 500% more than what it’s worth. All those wasted Spanish years of waving my arms in the air and walking away were to no effect. When I proudly left the shop with my treasured purchases clutched firmly to my bosom I was greeted with a standing ovation and thunderous applause by all that heard the hilarious bartering. Nevertheless, it is great fun and well worth all the haggle and hassle.
SHOPPING - What to buy? Rugs, Berber Jewellery made of silver and precious stones, fine ultra soft leather (actually made from goat skin) wallets, gloves. Of course, babouches, yellow or beige backless leather slippers for men. Ceramics and pots are plentiful but almost impossible to carry on airline flights or long haul car travel. Spices are a must. Almost every known herb, spice or medicinal cure on the earth is in Morocco and some western chefs or medical doctors haven’t heard of. Remedies abound from cure alls, solutions for snake bites, love potions (ruka-ruka) andwarding off the evil eye. Areas of the Souk are in fact dedicated to particular and different trades. The offer of green sweeten mint tea is a cordiality to insist you stay and buy more. Why not, it is all fairly inexpensive.
DAY TRIPS - Trips out of Marrakech are a delight. It is a must to visit the Berber villages and drive up into the Atlas Mountains. Some of the restaurants you will have to cross an ultra thin planked suspension walking bridge slung perilously over a dangerous ravine—all for fine food. (I have never been that hungry).
Guides are always good and will steer you toward shops and eating places where they get a cut. That’s OK as proper hygiene is important even if you are paying three times what the locals would cough up. Go there, you are safer, and a 3 course meal with tea is only 12 Euros.
I would shock anthropologists by suggesting that Morocco is Spain’s mother culture, but I wouldn’t be far from the fact.
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