Marrakech
Marrakech
Enter the Red City
13 Jan 2015
Marrakech – the Red City. Called so because of its buildings and ramparts of beaten clay, built long ago, during the residence of the Almohads. My footsteps lead towards one of the entrances to the medina; one of the many openings in the thick red wall surrounding the old part of the city.
Behind me, a more contemporary Marrakech; skylined against the Atlas mountain range looming in the distance.
Fatigue brought me here. Ever since I returned home from my extended stay in India, 9 months prior, I was lacking a sense of belonging. Between India’s organic disarray and Finland’s orderly confinement, I was in a limbo of wants, needs and preferences. A reacclimatization that didn’t happen; rest that didn’t come.
I needed to shake things up a bit. Shake myself up a bit for that matter.
And so, under the near-zenith sun of Morocco, I observe the people around me and admire that ochre city wall for a moment; dust off my jeans, and head into the medina. Experiences await.
Jemaa-el-Fnaa
13 Jan 2015
If entering the medina through the front door, Jemaa-el-Fnaa would be the entrance hall to what lies within. A sprawling open space surrounded by historical architecture. To the north, traditional Moroccan buildings with ornate balconies and terraces that offer a view of the bustling activity below. Behind me, to the west, the towering minaret of the Koutubia mosque.
There’s a certain rhythm to the chaos – a pulse that I feel in my chest. The hum of voices rises and falls, and the air is thick with the scent of grilled meats, sweet mint tea, and the sharp tang of citrus, with a twist of unfamiliar excitement. It’s overwhelming but in a way that makes me feel awake, more alert than I’ve felt in months.
My exploration takes me onwards; into the medina.
Medina
13 Jan 2015
The Old Medina in Marrakech is vast; narrow and winding streets connecting a maze-like network of riads, squares and souks – all surrounded by 19 km of city walls.
The alleys too narrow for cars, it’s a quite pedestrian-friendly area.
The air is still heavy with a mix of spices. In the growing distance, the melodic chant of a prayer call is heard from the Koutoubia mosque minaret, echoing off the adobe walls of the surrounding buildings.
The worn cobblestones beneath my feet feel real, grounding me, as I venture deeper into the old city.
Labyrinth
13 Jan 2015
The maze-like alleys are lined with intricately carved doors and beautiful iron window grilles. Occasionally, the streets open up into small plazas or crossroads where local vendors sell fresh produce, fragrant spices, or simple household goods.
It’s easy to get lost here. With no visual landmarks, the alleys melt together into an amorphous labyrinth of stucco and crumbling stone.
My walking isn’t aimless, though.
I’m on a quest; to find a specific mosque – the one in Ben Saleh.
Ben Saleh – a century apart
13 Jan 2015
Hugo Backmansson (1860 – 1953) was a Finnish artist, battle painter, and bona fide adventurer. Several of his intrepid journeys in the early 20th century took him to Morocco and Tunisia, and resulted in a series of artworks portraying what things looked like back there and then.
One of these is a watercolour painting I’ve been admiring since I was young. Visits to my grandmother would often involve long contemplations in front of that two-dimensional windowpane, gazing into a foreign culture in a world long gone.
The painting in question, from 1920, depicts the mosque and surrounding souk in Ben Saleh.
The same Ben Saleh I just arrived at, countless alleys later.
Almost a century apart, I’m now here; for the briefest moment retracing the steps of that adventurous battle painter. Grandmother will love to hear about this.
The leather tannery
13 Jan 2015
Taking in my surroundings, Ben Saleh retains a raw, authentic atmosphere as compared to the more polished, tourist-friendly parts of the medina. The pace of life here is slower, more deliberate, and feels as though it has changed little over the years.
A man approaches me, presents himself as Abdul; one of the medina guides. Maybe I was looking lost. I definitely didn’t look like a local. I sense I’ve been made a mark for a con yet to be realized, but Abdul tells me he gets salary from the Moroccan Tourist Office so he’s not asking for anything.
Fine, I’ll bite. Let’s do some sightseeing then.
Leather is a major export of Morocco, and I was keen to see a leather tannery. Abdul takes me there, guides me to the gate and tells me he’ll wait outside.
Visiting a leather tannery in Marrakech is a sensory-rich experience, steeped in tradition and a bit of intensity. The tannery guide provides me with a fistful of mint sprigs, meant for holding under ones nose to ward off unwelcome smells. I accept them, but won’t do the masking yet – I want to see what this is about first. The strong, pungent smell – a mix of animal hides, lime, and natural dyes – hits me as we pass through the gate. It is quite something, but still manageable so I decide to leave out the mint.
Once inside, I’m greeted with a vivid scene: large stone vats filled with colourful liquids ranging from bright reds, yellows, and oranges to more earthy tones. Workers, dressed in simple clothes, stand waist-deep in these vats, treating the hides by soaking them in mixtures of pigeon droppings, lime, and other natural ingredients.
The process seems labour-intensive and gritty, but there is something fascinating about seeing such an ancient craft in action.
After the tour, I head into the nearby shop and see what the final goods look like. They offer me a cup of tea, which I accept, knowing full well doing so is considered a signed agreement that business is about to happen.
Conned
13 Jan 2015
Some transactions later I step out of the leather shop, some fine goods in my bag but all out of cash.
Remember when Abdul, the guide, told me he won’t be asking for anything? This is the moment he steps forth and says he’d like a small fee for his services.
I’m not even mad; this is how things work around here. I do tell him he’s out of luck though, because that shop behind me just happily accepted all my cash.
An alternative solution is needed. So there, deep in the old medina of Marrakech, we figure it out: Abdul suggests he’ll hop on that scooter nearby and we’ll take a ride to one of the ATMs closer to Jemaa-el-Fnaa. Would save me a bit of walking, too.
Why the hell not, let’s go. With Abdul wrestling with the rickety two-wheeler, trying not to hit anything, I sit on the back and try not to hit anything as well; those alleys are narrow and things were moving fast as Abdul had no problem turning the throttle.
We zig and we zag our way, avoiding pedestrians and carts alike, back towards Jemaa-el-Fnaa.
At times, it feels like we’re gliding through impossibly small gaps, ducking under low-hanging wires or archways as the scooter squeezes past groups of people. Despite the seeming chaos, there’s a rhythm to the movement. The locals, both on foot and on scooters, have an intuitive understanding of the flow of traffic in these confined spaces. It’s a dance of mutual awareness, with quick, precise moves.
The ride is thrilling, blending excitement with a hint of nervousness, but it’s also a window into the vibrancy and energy of Marrakech’s ancient heart. By the time we reach an ATM, I still feel the rush of adrenaline, but it’s now coupled with a newfound appreciation for the city’s dynamic, fast-paced life.
I thank Abdul for his brief but intense services and give him an appropriate tip from my newly replenished cash reserves.
We part ways, my feet back on firm cobblestones, and head towards the center of the medina.
By the way, I don’t know who’s scooter it was – but I’m sure it wasn’t his.
Premonition
13 Jan 2015
Somewhat lost again in the maze of alleys I finally arrive at a junction with one the medina’s major arteries, and start heading towards what I presume is the nearest location of an exit gate.
On the way is another mosque, and I see people are gathering there. As I approach, a few young lads come and inform me I can’t pass there because of, uh, religious reasons. Being the helpful chaps they are, they invite me to take a detour via smaller passages. They’ll show the way.
As they head into the empty alley and gesture me to follow, I stop and take a long look at them as my common sense goes into bright red alert. I like to think people mean well by default, but this setup was telegraphing their intent without any doubt.
Nope; today is not the day I’m getting mugged.
I do a 180 and head back the way I came.
The younger of the two starts tailing me, trying to offer guiding services in hopes of getting at least something out of the situation.
I tell him the previous guy already got his share so he might as well bugger off.
He keeps tailing me at a distance while I head towards Jemaa-el-Fnaa, but disappears a few blocks later; his eyes probably set on his next prey.
Sun sets on the Red City
13 Jan 2015
Taking refuge from the intensity of the medina, I take a seat on one of the rooftop cafés surrounding Jemaa-el-Fnaa.
The sun begins to set, transforming the square below into a magical scene, filled with a unique blend of colour, movement, and atmosphere. The once-bright sky takes on hues of soft gold, orange, and pink, casting a warm glow. The towering Koutoubia Mosque, standing nearby, is beautifully silhouetted against the vibrant sky.
The energy in the square heightens as the day gives way to evening. Street performers, snake charmers, and storytellers gather small crowds, while vendors hurriedly set up their food stalls, each one filling the air with the rich aroma of grilled meats, spices, and freshly squeezed orange juice. The buzz of voices, music, and the occasional beat of drums starts to blend into a soundtrack of the evening, as both locals and tourists fill the square, eager to experience the night.
I take a sip of my mint tea and savour its sweetness. As internal calmness sets, I gather my thoughts, thinking about the purpose of this journey. It had been a long day; I was tired, but happy. This city and the atmosphere within it has certainly had an invigorating effect so far, and left me curious about what more Morocco had to offer.
As the light fades further, and lanterns and streetlights flicker on, I see the last light of day still resting on my next destination: the Atlas mountain range in the distance, far beyond the red city and the lively scene below.
Comments are closed.