Marakesh, Morocco – A Puente Possibility Just Two Hours Away

Market in Morocco

Our plane arrives Thursday evening at 7 pm. We meet Simón in the airport reception hall. Square-shouldered, brown and baboushed, he sweeps away our luggage with a coral smile. A wrinkled man hops to open our Mercedes. Crinkled leather cupps us in the back seats as we ride, plate-eyed, towards the medina, or old center, of Marakesh. With the outskirts far behind and now deep in the center, an Arabian Bladerunner flickers before us. We stop in the thick charcoal smoke of sizzling keftas. Copper lamps. Hobblers. A donkey with blinders. Everything is eyes in the night. With our Samsonite roller-suitcases we click through the medieval streets towards our riad – old town houses turned into small hotels.

Proud of the building he helped look after, Simon shows us the hightlights of the riad. The entrance leads to an open center courtyard with water falling down the terra tiles into water plants. Candlelight flickers in its wall ripples. Our room is purple with black and white photos of Marakesh characters. Simón takes us to the roof terrace, and then to a nook above it made of rattan. Here, looking out to the Koutoubia minaret and the steam of the food stalls of the Djema el Fna, names and places that were still unknown to us, Marakesh idled before us. We drink sugar mint tea and crescent almond sugar cookies. Back downstairs, Simon’s large smiling eyes sink into the shadow of the closing front door and we are out in the night.

Thursday night:

Our slow unsure steps call out to local boys waiting for a profit. Charming and talkative, two “offer” to lead us to our destination, Le Tanjia restaurant (+212 0 24383836, reservations recommended). The medina labyrinth is overwhelming at first. You will get lost. At the restaurant the boys whisper to the doorman in Arabic something like, “We brought them for you.” Noting our name, and then our reservation, they are shooed. Not giving up, the boys expect something for their guidance. Disappointed by their false charm but not wholly surprised, we give them a few dirham.

Le Tanjia is famous for its rich, soupy and sweet tajines – perhaps the most typical Moroccan dish. Tajine, like the Spanish cazuela, is where the food is cooked. The bottom is like the cazuela, and the top is a cone of the same material. The traditional ones are lamb with dates or chicken with raisins and rich fermented lemon sauce, cooked over fiery coals for at least 45 minutes. The wait is worth it.

Friday:

Simón serves the breakfast that Nora cooks up. We order coffee and regret it. Mint tea from here on out. Crepes with a honeycomb face, almond cookies, jam, and honey. We expect to wolf it down but stop short on sugar overload.

Today we visit the famous Majorelle gardens, owned by Algerian-born designer Yves Saint-Laurent. The foliage is impressive but rather homogeneous on species, even though varieties are abundant. A few quick macro shots and we’re back on the street, on our way to the new part of town – Gueliz.

Very different from the medina, Gueliz is mostly modern buildings, and the vibe on the street here is also new. It’s not so rare in Gueliz to see women in tight jeans and shoulder-bearing tops. Similarly, it is rare to find men in Gueliz who gape at these women, whereas in the medina this kind of dress for women usually attracts unwanted attention. You’ll also notice men and women talking closely to each other in Gueliz, occasionally touching or playfully hitting each other. In this sense, Gueliz and the medina seem conceptually much farther away from one another than their physical distance – only a kilometre or so – might suggest.

After lunch, our muscles gave way to a siesta, and we were back in bed soon after.

Recharged for the evening, and after another complimentary dose of tea and cookies, we walked towards the night magic of Djeema el Fna, Africa’s busiest square. Steam and light from the hundreds of food stalls rise above the roofs in town, and the square becomes a night beacon that can be seen from kilometres away. Try the spicy sausages at the corner stall on the right as you enter coming from the medina. Also try the fried fish with tomato, bread, olives, and seasoned eggplant. Put up your swoon shield though, as all 200 or so stalls will be expecting you.

Saturday:

We make our way back to Djeema el Fna. For lunch, near the square, we have cous-cous and a pigeon pastilla. The cous-cous is boring at this square-side place, but the pastilla – a pastry like dough based pie with a rich pigeon meat filling and topped with powdered sugar – is outstanding. We vow to order more of these elsewhere.

After some exploring my wife comes down with what would be a 12 hour flu. Back at the hotel she’s between bed and bathroom while we wait it out.

By 8 pm I’m hungry but my wife can’t bare to smell food. I don’t want to go out, so I ask Nora if she can make something for me. I speak neither French nor Arabic, and she doesn’t speak English or Spanish. Sign language ensues, taking me much longer to make myself clear than I’d imagined.

My antics were worth it. Nora picks through the fridge while I wait in the open patio. Expecting little more than the Moroccan equivalent of peanut butter and jelly, my first course is fresh cherry tomatoes, halved, dusted with rock salt, pepper and fresh cut parsley, mingling around with chunks of tuna. Next comes a tajine of lamb livers in a mild curry sauce. I annihilate it, shamefully, before the bread even reaches the table. I wash it all down with a cask of mint tea. This is my favourite meal of the trip.

Sunday:

My wife is feeling well enough to shop. We stroll through the souks, or markets, and watch storefronts repeat. Nonetheless, there are a few that stand out. We buy a few large pieces of woven fabric, some lamps and spices. Bargaining is a must. Prices at first offer are often 3 times (or sometimes 10 times) what the merchant will finally settle for. Think what the item is worth to you, then humbly name your price. Occasionally, if you’re good at assessing what an item should and does cost, merchants will feign anger or frustration. This is all part of the theatre, and you should not feel bad about offering what they tell you is “too little.” Move on and find the same item somewhere else.

Stuffing our clothes and purchases into our suitcases that evening, we said goodbye to everyone at our riad. Simón helped us back through the medina’s labyrinth, even though we already knew the way. A brown Mercedes, pushing 30 years, waited for us. We said goodbye to Simón as we got in, his eyes, teeth, and square silhouette sinking with a single handed wave back into the night through the rear window.

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