The Marrakech Express
I landed in Morocco and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Where am I?” No time for such questions, I had a train to catch to who knows where. I grabbed some dirhams (currency) and headed to Casablanca. I had two aims. One, to find a Lonely Planet guide (since I had very little idea about Morocco and I had heard that there are a few too many shady characters walking around). Two, I wanted to find Humphrey Bogart’s bar. I found the first one, a little too late and I never did find the second item. I arrived at Casa Voyageurs (main train station) with a full backpack and a quest. You brace yourself as you leave the terminal. You know they are out there, waiting for some unsuspecting tourist to walk through the doors. Sure enough, I was their next target. They clambered, but the first one had dibs. We negotiated for a price, which in the end was not bad, but he had an agenda. He took me around town. We stopped at Hassan II mosque. It is a recent creation that was one of those monumental displays of effort and talent. It took 6,000 traditional Moroccan artisans and other assorted craftsmen to complete the mosque that combines French architecture with Islamic artwork. It also boasts the world’s highest minaret (210m). I was dazzled by the sights, but quickly grew tired of the busloads of European tourists coming and going. So, I wandered and had a “chance” encounter with some students of the Islamic school. We talked about everything from Islam to the French-Moroccan relations to Celine Dion. I shook my head and smiled. No matter where you go in the World, the one identifier of Canada is Celine Dion (and a close second is Shania Twain).
The taxi driver and I chatted about Moroccan culture things to do and he pointed out that there is always the hammam, a turkish style bathhouse. I was needing a massage for quite some time and could not find one in Liberia, so I eagerly agreed. It was not the experience I was hoping for. I take a cheap elevator to the second floor of an old run down building facing some unnamed alleyway. They handed me a towel, a razor, a bar of soap, and a mini-apron. I didn’t know exactly what I was in for. I changed and walked into the bathhouse. Steam enveloped me as I looked around for a clue as to how to proceed. There was fake marble benches and marble sinks. I went into the sauna and shaved. When I walked out there was a hairy Moroccan man being massaged by a masseuse wearing a sweat band across his forehead. The door opened, I looked up and there was my masseuse. He was a prolifically hairy, he looked Grecian and I thought I was in for a wrestling match. He motioned and spoke an unknown command Arabic. I immediately obeyed and laid on one of the marble tables. After a scrub brushing it was time for the massage. My conclusion regarding the hammam is this: the inner thigh does not requiring massaging. I walked out of there feeling violated.
I decided there was nothing interesting in Casablanca. So I wanted to catch the train to Marrakech. As I was being dropped off by the taxi man we got into an argument about payment. I was in a hurry and had no time for this. I pushed the money we had agreed upon into his hands. He wouldn’t take it. He wanted more and he knew that I was in a hurry. I stuck to my guns and threw the money on the front seat. I grabbed my backpack and ran to the main train station with only precious minutes left before the last train departed. As I crossed the parking lot the taxi driver yelled “Voleur” (thief) at me all too loudly. “Welcome to Morocco,” I told myself. I jumped on the train two minutes before it shoved off. I was on my way to Marrakech, I could hardly believe it.
Marrakech…it is a place of vibrant culture where one is bound to experience something that will expand their imagination. I walked around the main square, Djemma Al-Fina, at night and found myself intrigued by the scene that met me there. Snake charmers with their cobras and desert vipers…fortune tellers next to the women painting henna on the hands of hippy travelers…sellers inviting you from their stalls to come and feast on their freshly squeezed orange juice or sample their snails boiled with tasty spices. On the outskirts of the square are the herbalists who have spread out on a blanket ostrich eggs, feathers, ground bones, herbs and anything else to cure close to any disease. Walking back to the central area of the square you find see the bright lights and smoke from the grills blowing across the open pavilion. The vendors here are quite a piece of work (as my friend Bev would say). They cajoule, prod, and make grandiose hand gestures and statements. They are the most extroverted people I have ever seen and quite a good part of the entertainment for the night.
After dinner I stopped off at the stalls selling hot cinnamon tea. I could only handle consuming it in small sips because of the spice, but it soon became my favourite drink to ward off the cold evenings in Marrakech. After finishing my tea it was time for the entertainment portion of the evening. For centuries musicians, singers, storytellers from all around the local area would come to entertain eager audiences in the medina (old city). And for good reason. They draw you in, regardless if you understand Arabic or not. I recall one old man with a gnarly old beard who was as animated as a Grizzly Adams figure vividly retelling the story of an unmatched fight with a bear. The old man spotted me trying to take his picture. He held up a piece of cardboard over his face. He put it down and cracked some joke in Arabic. I hid behind the guy in front of me and tried again. He caught me again and pointed me out to his audience and we all laughed and he muttered something Arabic.
The musicians played with beats that I have never heard. Their syncopation was driven by a singer with an boujlouj (berber guitar), banjo or oud who would call out a line which would be repeated by the ensemble of percussionists gathered around. I wondered how different these moments were from ones experienced hundreds of years ago in this square. A little further away, down the boulevard lined with cafes serving cappacinos and restaurants serving tajines (a local dish), I saw the challenge that Morocco faces. The culture of Paris was on display in the throng of people that sauntered by. Teenage girls wearing go-go boots, tight pants, high heeled shoes strutted along the way with young Moroccan boys in tow. Just beside these young ladies were other young women wearing full head scarves and veils. There appeared to me on that night as crisp an autumn leaf that there was a clash between tradition and all things modern. Morocco, lying at the foot of Europe, has always been a meeting place of cultures, thoughts and beliefs. With all of the satellite dishes gracing the flat roofs of the folks from Marrakech how long will it take before the culture becomes extinct? Will every nation become a part of the monoculture that we find enveloping the world or will some nations, such as Morocco, find some delicate balance in maintaining values and culture that differ from the norm. The Islam / West divide is widening at a rapid rate, but in the midst of the chasm there is a large population of youth, progressives and others whose world views do not permit them to reside on either side. They look for the best of both worlds.
All these swirled around my head as I ate my spicy Tajine, a traditional stew of mutton topped with large chunks of carrots, tomatoes, onions, etc. I smiled as I thought of what tomorrow would bring. I wondered what would happen…
The taxi driver and I chatted about Moroccan culture things to do and he pointed out that there is always the hammam, a turkish style bathhouse. I was needing a massage for quite some time and could not find one in Liberia, so I eagerly agreed. It was not the experience I was hoping for. I take a cheap elevator to the second floor of an old run down building facing some unnamed alleyway. They handed me a towel, a razor, a bar of soap, and a mini-apron. I didn’t know exactly what I was in for. I changed and walked into the bathhouse. Steam enveloped me as I looked around for a clue as to how to proceed. There was fake marble benches and marble sinks. I went into the sauna and shaved. When I walked out there was a hairy Moroccan man being massaged by a masseuse wearing a sweat band across his forehead. The door opened, I looked up and there was my masseuse. He was a prolifically hairy, he looked Grecian and I thought I was in for a wrestling match. He motioned and spoke an unknown command Arabic. I immediately obeyed and laid on one of the marble tables. After a scrub brushing it was time for the massage. My conclusion regarding the hammam is this: the inner thigh does not requiring massaging. I walked out of there feeling violated.
I decided there was nothing interesting in Casablanca. So I wanted to catch the train to Marrakech. As I was being dropped off by the taxi man we got into an argument about payment. I was in a hurry and had no time for this. I pushed the money we had agreed upon into his hands. He wouldn’t take it. He wanted more and he knew that I was in a hurry. I stuck to my guns and threw the money on the front seat. I grabbed my backpack and ran to the main train station with only precious minutes left before the last train departed. As I crossed the parking lot the taxi driver yelled “Voleur” (thief) at me all too loudly. “Welcome to Morocco,” I told myself. I jumped on the train two minutes before it shoved off. I was on my way to Marrakech, I could hardly believe it.
Marrakech…it is a place of vibrant culture where one is bound to experience something that will expand their imagination. I walked around the main square, Djemma Al-Fina, at night and found myself intrigued by the scene that met me there. Snake charmers with their cobras and desert vipers…fortune tellers next to the women painting henna on the hands of hippy travelers…sellers inviting you from their stalls to come and feast on their freshly squeezed orange juice or sample their snails boiled with tasty spices. On the outskirts of the square are the herbalists who have spread out on a blanket ostrich eggs, feathers, ground bones, herbs and anything else to cure close to any disease. Walking back to the central area of the square you find see the bright lights and smoke from the grills blowing across the open pavilion. The vendors here are quite a piece of work (as my friend Bev would say). They cajoule, prod, and make grandiose hand gestures and statements. They are the most extroverted people I have ever seen and quite a good part of the entertainment for the night.
After dinner I stopped off at the stalls selling hot cinnamon tea. I could only handle consuming it in small sips because of the spice, but it soon became my favourite drink to ward off the cold evenings in Marrakech. After finishing my tea it was time for the entertainment portion of the evening. For centuries musicians, singers, storytellers from all around the local area would come to entertain eager audiences in the medina (old city). And for good reason. They draw you in, regardless if you understand Arabic or not. I recall one old man with a gnarly old beard who was as animated as a Grizzly Adams figure vividly retelling the story of an unmatched fight with a bear. The old man spotted me trying to take his picture. He held up a piece of cardboard over his face. He put it down and cracked some joke in Arabic. I hid behind the guy in front of me and tried again. He caught me again and pointed me out to his audience and we all laughed and he muttered something Arabic.
The musicians played with beats that I have never heard. Their syncopation was driven by a singer with an boujlouj (berber guitar), banjo or oud who would call out a line which would be repeated by the ensemble of percussionists gathered around. I wondered how different these moments were from ones experienced hundreds of years ago in this square. A little further away, down the boulevard lined with cafes serving cappacinos and restaurants serving tajines (a local dish), I saw the challenge that Morocco faces. The culture of Paris was on display in the throng of people that sauntered by. Teenage girls wearing go-go boots, tight pants, high heeled shoes strutted along the way with young Moroccan boys in tow. Just beside these young ladies were other young women wearing full head scarves and veils. There appeared to me on that night as crisp an autumn leaf that there was a clash between tradition and all things modern. Morocco, lying at the foot of Europe, has always been a meeting place of cultures, thoughts and beliefs. With all of the satellite dishes gracing the flat roofs of the folks from Marrakech how long will it take before the culture becomes extinct? Will every nation become a part of the monoculture that we find enveloping the world or will some nations, such as Morocco, find some delicate balance in maintaining values and culture that differ from the norm. The Islam / West divide is widening at a rapid rate, but in the midst of the chasm there is a large population of youth, progressives and others whose world views do not permit them to reside on either side. They look for the best of both worlds.
All these swirled around my head as I ate my spicy Tajine, a traditional stew of mutton topped with large chunks of carrots, tomatoes, onions, etc. I smiled as I thought of what tomorrow would bring. I wondered what would happen…
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