Friday, July 11, 2003
When feeling sluggish, there's no better place to be. On returning to the city from the mountains, we check in at a "riad" in the medina, a traditional family house that has been turned into a guest house. It's a wonderful place. The tiny streets in the medina twist and turn, the walls are high and the children whisper and giggle as you struggle through the maze, but inside the riad there are no sounds. In the middle is a courtyard full of trees and flowers, and a small water basin strewn with heads of red roses. Three rooms surround the yard - they are fairly plain yet gorgeous, with ensuite bathrooms in typical Moroccan style and cool, clean stone floors. Upstairs are sofas and cushions for relaxation, and on the roof is chairs and tables under a baldachin. The temperature in the entire house is relievingly low and pleasant. Lying naked in crisp, white sheets is a blessing.
Fatima, who cooks and cleans, moves quietly around on rubber soles, baking bread, squeezing oranges, watering the plants.
The souks are interesting and difficult. There are endless yells to be heard and cups of tea to be drunk. After a while one gets used to it and a good time to go is during siesta, just after noon, when the sales men themselves are tired and hot and lazy. After a while it gets easier to find ones way around as well, which also saves a lot of hassle. It is full of colours and shapes. The wool dyers hang the wool to dry and it's beautiful, clear blue, red and yellow. In the metal souk there is continual hammering going on - two boys smile greatly and cock their heads: "photo?" - and strech out their hands for money. The leather souk invites with slippers and sandals and belts and a wonderful smell.
Ever day I wore some sort of sleevy top - t-shirt or tunic - but the last day I ran out and decided to wear straps. 'Cause everyone else did anyway. And it was the last day, so even though they hated me, who would care? But it seems that Moroccans' respect depend on how much clothes you wear. The less clothes the less respect. Or perhaps it's just a case of the less clothes the more you look like a tourist and tourists cannot demand any respect whatsoever in a town that depends on tips and alms.
In the souks a little boy's hand on my shoulder. "Bonjour madame", he says and runs off. "Don't you think he was just pushing you to get past," boyfriend says. But it wasn't a push, it was a touch - not unpleasant, just curious and tender.
In the evening a fabulous restaurant with a view of the heaving square Jemaa el Fna, which has snake charmers and henna painters and juice-sellers. The snakes look more dead than alive, but who knows if they'll suddenly revive and I resist temptation to both see and touch. The restaurant is decorated traditionally Moroccan, with rose petals strewn on the table cloths and all over the toilets. Lanterns light up the room and at a certain point musicians enter the room, playing traditional music, while singing and dancing. Three people at the table next to ours motion to the dancing, singing man to come to their table and when he does they tip him generously. We want to tip them too because they are very good, but feel uncomfortable waving him over with a note, like he's a dog. He dances a few feet away from us, but clearly for us and clearly for a tip, but I refuse to sit around fat and satisfied, luring him over with the promise of money, whilst he dances for me like a monkey. We tip on departure.
In the taxi, on the way to the airport, we get hustled for the last time. "It's going to be 80 dirham", the taxi-driver says, "and then, because it's your last day and you've had a nice holiday, it'll be another 20, and so 100 dirhams." -"100?!" boyfriend says. "80 and then because it's so hot and the airport is far away, 100." By then we don't care anymore and pay him his 100 dirhams; a royal sum, especially considered that the airport is inly 5-10 minutes from the city centre.
Fatima, who cooks and cleans, moves quietly around on rubber soles, baking bread, squeezing oranges, watering the plants.
The souks are interesting and difficult. There are endless yells to be heard and cups of tea to be drunk. After a while one gets used to it and a good time to go is during siesta, just after noon, when the sales men themselves are tired and hot and lazy. After a while it gets easier to find ones way around as well, which also saves a lot of hassle. It is full of colours and shapes. The wool dyers hang the wool to dry and it's beautiful, clear blue, red and yellow. In the metal souk there is continual hammering going on - two boys smile greatly and cock their heads: "photo?" - and strech out their hands for money. The leather souk invites with slippers and sandals and belts and a wonderful smell.
Ever day I wore some sort of sleevy top - t-shirt or tunic - but the last day I ran out and decided to wear straps. 'Cause everyone else did anyway. And it was the last day, so even though they hated me, who would care? But it seems that Moroccans' respect depend on how much clothes you wear. The less clothes the less respect. Or perhaps it's just a case of the less clothes the more you look like a tourist and tourists cannot demand any respect whatsoever in a town that depends on tips and alms.
In the souks a little boy's hand on my shoulder. "Bonjour madame", he says and runs off. "Don't you think he was just pushing you to get past," boyfriend says. But it wasn't a push, it was a touch - not unpleasant, just curious and tender.
In the evening a fabulous restaurant with a view of the heaving square Jemaa el Fna, which has snake charmers and henna painters and juice-sellers. The snakes look more dead than alive, but who knows if they'll suddenly revive and I resist temptation to both see and touch. The restaurant is decorated traditionally Moroccan, with rose petals strewn on the table cloths and all over the toilets. Lanterns light up the room and at a certain point musicians enter the room, playing traditional music, while singing and dancing. Three people at the table next to ours motion to the dancing, singing man to come to their table and when he does they tip him generously. We want to tip them too because they are very good, but feel uncomfortable waving him over with a note, like he's a dog. He dances a few feet away from us, but clearly for us and clearly for a tip, but I refuse to sit around fat and satisfied, luring him over with the promise of money, whilst he dances for me like a monkey. We tip on departure.
In the taxi, on the way to the airport, we get hustled for the last time. "It's going to be 80 dirham", the taxi-driver says, "and then, because it's your last day and you've had a nice holiday, it'll be another 20, and so 100 dirhams." -"100?!" boyfriend says. "80 and then because it's so hot and the airport is far away, 100." By then we don't care anymore and pay him his 100 dirhams; a royal sum, especially considered that the airport is inly 5-10 minutes from the city centre.
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