Seduced by Morocco!

I can see why the French wanted to occupy Morocco in 1912. And I can also see the remains of that occupation. While the official seizure is over, the French (and others) still dominate. French is spoken as frequently as Arabic. And while officially France may not be in charge any longer, it still has a majority interest in most of the banks and other institutions. It’s not an easy relationship. Of the over 500 riads in Marrakesh’s Medina (the old section of Arab cities), only five or six are owned by Moroccans. That doesn’t mean only French people own the others, but it illustrates how powerless in certain ways some native Moroccans are.

Still, Moroccans have established their own culture as well. To them, the present is what is important. Not the future. The present and the past. In many ways, it’s a backward-looking culture, medieval in many of its current practices. Donkey carts mix with people riding motorbikes and bicycles in the Medina. Allah rules these lives: if something good happens, Allah destined it. The same is true for ill-fortune.

Even though it’s been years since our visit to that country, I keep chewing on the words Marrakesh, Fes, Rabat, the three imperial cities that we visited, extracting the last drop of foreignness from them, trying to discover in the words themselves why Morocco lingers on my tongue like a fantastic meal—or a good book. From the moment we landed at the Marrakesh airport, I knew we had arrived somewhere strange. Not strange as in outlandish but as in weird and wonderful.

The airport had a small town feel to it, there being no gates. We descended from the steps of the plane to Moroccan soil and approached the main building on foot. Inside passport control, blue tile that trimmed granite pillars (blue is associated with Berbers, indigenous peoples of North Africa) made the room seem almost charming. The main entrance had a soaring white ceiling in geometric patterns. Arabic and French on signs reminded us that English didn’t reign here. Nor did the usual Western driving courtesies. Most intersections didn’t have signal lights and would probably be ignored anyway. Drivers also disregarded pedestrians, who didn’t have the right of way. Pedestrians plunged into the chaos of cars, motorbikes, and bicycles that crammed the streets, leaving their fate to Allah.

We experienced this firsthand when the driver from our riad, a handsome young man who spoke decent English, drove us to one of the many (19 in all) gates that access the Medina. Cars couldn’t enter, so a porter met us. He took our two suitcases, and my husband Michael and I followed him into a dusty, pot-holed cobblestone street, crowded on each side with fruit, meat, and vegetable stands; bakeries; and clothing stalls. We dodged people on motorbikes and bicycles and donkey carts, trying not to stare at the shop owners and their customers, who were gawking at us. Scrawny stray cats darted between people’s feet and into holes in the walls. Most stores were open to the street, so workers were on full view, stretching leather or hammering metal or building furniture.

This constant cacophony in the street contrasted sharply with our riad (Riad Kniza) and the-inward turning quality of the houses. They don’t usually have windows overlooking the street (except for peepholes so residents can see who is at the door), the interiors containing courtyards and gardens and even terraces that overlook the city.

When we arrived at our riad, we were ushered in to one of several lovely public spaces on the ground floor, graced with an array of antiques. A sweet young man poured us glasses of hot mint tea and served Moroccan pastries (not too sweet). He did all of this with grace and style. The whole check in process had a ceremonial feel to it. Hannan, the woman who greeted us, moved very slowly, in a measured way, and the Riad itself felt serene and quiet. Arab music played in the background.

While we were enjoying our tea, the same young man took our bags to our room and turned on all the lights as well as the air conditioner. We felt like guests in someone’s private home rather than tourists. The riad was 100 times better than I’d expected. It’s a 5-star place with 3-star fees. Our suite was sumptuous and beautiful. It had a huge living room, a large separate area with a massive king-size bed. A large (two basin) marble bathroom. The décor was Arab/Moroccan and exquisite: carved reliefs circled the top trim in the room and the cupola above our bed. We overlooked the courtyard, but it was quiet there. The whole place was quiet

On our first night, we walked to the central square in the Medina and were blown away by sights, sounds, smells, and colors. Locals and visitors strolled on the sidewalks, most headed for the main square (Jamaâ El Fna). It was unlike anything we’d ever seen. Food stalls and vendors vied with acrobats and storytellers. Anyone who had a shtick to peddle showed up. It was amazing the number of people who gathered there each night to talk, look, and just interact at the end of each day. The square was huge, and it attracts throngs of locals and visitors.

The old town has roots in medieval times, so we felt part of many historical layers there. Young men are still apprenticing to learn basic crafts and to work with materials that have been lost in America to mass manufacturing and the machine: metal, leather, yarn (incredible to see how they die it non-chemically), etc. The Souqs are a feast for the eyes, a motley assembly of goods that are gorgeous to behold.

We would have been happy to stay in Marrakesh our whole time in Morocco, but Fes and Rabat called to us, perhaps the subject of another blog post.