Day 2

Day 2 Tuesday 24/6/03

My Mickey Mouse travel alarm clock can be a useful thing, sometimes! But not this morning, Mickey did even get the chance to strut his stuff at wake up time. I had set the alarm for 7.30, but was woken first off by the sound of horses neighing at 4.30 a.m.! The noise was coming from across the road, where just outside from the hotel is a small tree lined garden park, here is where the horse and carriage drivers park up in a line to wait their turn at the head of the queue, which forms at the corner of the square. And it seems that they start to queue from very early in the morning, or at least that’s how it seemed to me, if the noise they were making was anything to go by.

Surprisingly the noise died down after about half an hour, or so, then it was replaced by the sound of the Muezzin calling the devoted to prayer, which started around 5.am. I knew there was a good reason not to go to a Muslim country, I just wished at that moment I had remembered it before I booked this trip!

The Muezzin is the mosque official who sings the call to prayer from the top of the minaret, although this is not always a live call as modern technology has allowed this call to be performed using a pre-recorded tape played through a loudspeaker system.

“Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar. Ashhadu an la ilah ila allah Ashhadu an Mohammedan rasul Allah Haya ala as sala haya ala as sala.. (God is great.. There is no god but Allah…Mohammed is his prophet..come to prayer…come to prayer)”.

Thankfully the recital from the Koran died down after a while, and this respite allowed me to drop back off to sleep, but only for another hour. I was woken again by the noise outside, which had got louder again! With the coming of daybreak and the congregation of carriage drivers now sitting around in large groups beginning to sound like a football crowd.

I lay there for another half an hour listening to the various sounds that were emerging on this bright, sunny, cloudless morning, then unable to stand it any longer got myself up and into the shower, which surprisingly was hot, something I had not been expecting!

The two towels the hotel had provided were no bigger than the average tea towel, and I was just grateful I was in the room on my own, there was no way these two towels would have dried the maximum occupancy of three people!

Here at the Hotel Ali 110 DH a night gave you a room with it’s own shower and toilet, free use of the hotels Internet facility and a breakfast, which was very basic by anyone’s standard. (Below left: My room in the Hotel Ali)

On offer this morning was some bread, cookies, eggs boiled or omelette, orange juice and some really thick syrupy crap coffee. I drank the orange juice, picked at the omelette and left the coffee for fear of caffeine overdose, although in retrospect with the lack of sleep I probably could have done with this stimulus!

Eight thirty in the morning was certainly nothing like eight thirty in the evening at Djemaa el-Fna, the square was almost empty apart from a few orange juice sellers and one snake charmer getting in some early morning practice. All of the food stalls had been packed up and taken away as though they had never been there; even the pedestrians seemed to be walking at a much slower pace than at night.

I went and got myself a glass of liquid vitamin E from a juice seller who seemed slightly surprised to be serving a tourist this early in the morning. He tried to talk to me, but my knowledge of French does not stretch any further than the very basic please, thank you, yes, no, good morning/evening e.t.c.  Then he tried a little Arabic, which I know even less of, with a vocabulary that only stretches as far as “Thank you” and “God willing!”

Bright sunshine and not a cloud in the blue sky indicated we were in for a hot day, it was already very warm and not yet anywhere as hot as it was going to get. I decided to head into the Medina proper, so to speak, by going through the souq to look for the few sights that were to be found in this area.

Entering the souq is like going through a tapered funnel, with the path starting out quite wide and then tapering into an alley, or covered walkway of about six feet wide.

While walking through these tight knit alleys it is hard not to be drawn into some kind of conversation with the various shopkeepers, who at times are almost next to you as you walk along. They are offering you the best price on everything they have to sell, from three hundred-year-old carpets made by desert nomads, to the latest electronic gadget from Japan.

If I did not know this street layout was designed solely to keep the area cool and in shade, I would swear it had been done like this just so as the shopkeepers had a captive audience at all times.

I have often said that this is the most demanding part of any trip to this kind of country. In Morocco and many other countries you constantly run the gauntlet of shopkeepers and hawkers, all of them trying to part you from your money. It can get you down, but then again you have to realise these kind of people know nothing else, as this is, and always has been, their profession and just the way they do business.

You have two choices as far as I can see. Either you grin and bare it with a good spirit and share a laugh and joke with them, or otherwise you just don't go to these places. The downside to this second option is that if you don’t go you miss out on the whole experience, and even worse still, all the good things these countries and the people have to offer.

As a lot of people who know me will testify, I am not the most tolerant person at the best of times. Yet whenever I travel I can become so relaxed about all of this kind of hassle that it makes me wonder if it is just the pressure we find ourselves living under in our normal day to day “real life” environments that get us wound up?

Whatever it is, I was just going with the flow this morning and graciously turning down all the kind offers of this, or that great deal, from the various shopkeepers I met as I roamed freely around the souq in no particular direction.

Forty five minutes or so later, and I was well and truly lost, but not in the least bit worried as I knew I would eventually find my way back to where I had started from, and to be honest this was all part of the experience as far as I was concerned.

“Bonjour, Parlez-vous France? ” inquired the little boy aged about twelve, who it seemed had magically appeared at my side from nowhere.

“Ah Non,Je Parlez anglais” I replied.

“Ok, I speek sam little Englis” he said rather nonchalantly.

“That’s great how can I help you?” I said, trying to turn the tables on this little uninvited guest.

“Maybe I can help yoo? are yoo lookin for da tannery?” he replied quick as a flash.

I had not given it a thought, but reasoned that maybe yes; I would like to see the tannery, the place where they prepare and dye the skins in the leather making process so replied “Will you show me the way?”

“Of course, yoo follo me I show yoo, we are veree near” Said my twelve-year-old, going on thirty something guide.

Morocco is famous for it’s leather goods, which to this day are still mostly produced by hand in the old fashioned way. I had read that the business still thrives today, some 7000 years on, with not that many changes from the original practices used in the process.

As we walked towards the tanneries I could see donkeys’ laden with skins winding their way through the tight little alleys from the nearby abattoir. I thought that they must be being taken there in just the same fashion as they had been doing for thousands of years, and wondered to myself just how many trips one donkey would make between the two points in the course of it’s working life?

The guidebook said the tanneries were out at the north-eastern end of the medina, in an area known as Bab Debbagh, which I quickly located on my map, so as to get my bearings for the trip back.

When we got to the tanneries the little boy asked that I wait while he sought out permission for us to enter. Within about two minutes he returned with a man who introduced himself as the “Guardian for the tannery” Basically he was the man who would be looking for the backhander to show me around the place. I was fully expecting to pay for the pleasure of looking around, so this was no surprise, or problem.

As we entered the compound the man gave me a sprig of mint to put under my nose, as the smell in these places can be somewhat overpowering. The process of preparing the skins is not that complex and involves dipping them into the mud brick constructed vats that contain such pleasant smelling things as cows urine, pigeon droppings, animal fats and innards, sulfuric acids and salts. And if that’s not bad enough, in these vat's men sometimes work up to their waists covered in this rancid concoction of fluids. Although in this day and age some do take the precaution of wearing fishermen’s waders and oilskins, but not all do!

I was therefore not in the least bit surprised to find that as I walked around I did need the mint. At times the smell was a little nauseating, it was bad, but to be honest not that bad as I had been expecting! Especially when you consider the ingredients that make up the mix.

Just a quick look around at ground level was enough, how men can work all day here is beyond me. I took a few pictures and got out while my nose was still able to take the onslaught it was having to endure from this heady concoction of fluids. I know I was finding it hard to come to terms with the smell swimming around in the various vats that stood all around me and slopped onto the ground. The smell must be something you get used to, as the men working here, some up to their waist in the vats were laughing and joking as they washed the skins with vigour.

I was making the effort also, walking very gingerly over the sodden ground, I had to, I had an open-toed pair of sandals on and didn’t fancy a dip in cow piss and pigeon shit, thank you very much!

I gave the young boy 20 DH for his services, how much he gave the self appointed Guardian I don’t know and did not intend to hang about to find out! I was soon lost again in the souq, but knew roughly where I was going by heading in a south westerly direction and using the Ali Ben Youseff Mosque as my main navigation point.

After walking a little while I found myself outside the Palais de la Bahia (The Bahia Palace), and as luck would have it just as a large tour group turned up in their luxury air-conditioned bus. They were going to be guided around the Palais, so I did what anybody would do, I just joined on the end of their line and went in for free with them.

A few of them gave me funny looks, probably thinking they did not remember seeing me on the bus.

It was not worth staying with the group as the guide was speaking to them in German or some other language like that! I was just nodding my head as though I knew what he was talking about whenever he looked my way!

The Palais constructed towards the end of the 19th century was the main residence of Si’ Ahmed Ben Musa, the grand Vizier of Sultan Moulay al-Hassan I. Built in a rather typical Muslim design of mostly white stone work, the Palais boasts a collection of courtyards around which there are the many secluded rooms used as quarters for the various wife’s and concubines of Ben Musa. There are also a few rooms for the large amount of staff he employed to wait on his every need.

The smaller gardens off the main courtyards boast some splendid orange trees surrounded by every kind of flower and fauna, all set off with a mosaic style tiled walkway around the edges, and also through the middle where you will find some small fountains made of marble. The main courtyard in the Palais is I would say roughly the size of two tennis courts and must have been a great place to entertain.

The craftsmanship that went into the building of this Palais is obvious to see with the intricate latticework all over the place, and all done in the traditional Muslim designs.

Everywhere you look your eye is taken to just how well laid out the design was, and given that this is only a small part of the original construction, one can only imagine what is must have been like in it’s heyday. The Moroccan Royal family and their servants still to this day use the parts of the palace not open to the public.

Leaving the Palais I walked towards the old part of town known as the Mellah, which is the old Jewish quarter, although it is not now inhabited by Jews in any great number as they have all mostly relocated to Israel over the years. Mellah is the term used to describe the Jewish quarter of all the medinas in Morocco, and literally translated in today’s terms means Ghetto.

This rather run down area of town now mostly inhabited by Muslims was very drab, but still had character and looked just as it must have done centuries ago. I felt that had you had been blindfolded and taken here without knowing where you were it would be easy to think you had gone back in time. The only giveaway would be the large amount of modern signs like coca cola and the satellite dishes on the roof’s of all the houses packed into the tight alleyways that make up this part of town.

I walked around the area for about half an hour, but to be honest found nothing of any real interest to keep me there for any longer. The people were all busy going about their daily chores and hardly gave me a second glance, those who did must have been wondering what it was that had attracted me to this part of town.

Thirst had got the better of me so I stopped at a small shop to buy a soft drink, which I drank as I walked slowly back towards the main square at Djemaa el-Fna where a few more people were now out, but not in any great numbers. I took the chance to have a chat to and a take couple of pictures of one of the water sellers while it was quite, had another orange juice and returned to the hotel for a rest and freshen up.

I was only planning to stay here in Marrakech for today and move off tomorrow, so really needed to get to the station to check out the train times. A quick look in the lonely Planet guidebook told me that the No: 14 bus went to the station. The way it looked in the book was that it terminated there, so this would do for me as all I had to do was sit on it until it went no further.

There were a few other buses that went past the station, but not knowing where it was, or even what it looked like; I thought it best to get the bus that terminated there just to make sure. The main bus stop was only a short distance at the end of the road opposite the Koutoubia Mosque; I at least knew this much having passed it earlier on.

Waiting at the bus stop a lot of buses came and went, but none with the number 14. I was beginning to think the bus did not exist, so when one eventually did turn up after about half an hour I was relieved.

This was the starting point for all buses so it was easy to get a seat where I sat watching all there was to see on the left-hand side in the direction of travel.

The book said it was not that far to the station, hence I was a little surprised to still find myself sat on it after 20 minutes or so, especially when we started to get a little further out towards the outskirts of town. The bus finally terminated in a rather quite looking part of town surrounded by small blocks of flats, but nothing resembling a train station?

The bus driver said something to me, but I did not understand him, although I got the gist of what he was saying, which was basically that I had to get of the bus.

Using the guidebook to find the French words for where is the station I managed to convey to the driver where I was looking for. He laughed a little, shook his head in that way that indicates you have cocked up! As soon as he could stop laughing he indicated to me the station was miles away and that I should have got off a long time ago! Hey no shit Sherlock! I had worked this out by myself by now.

He told me to stay on the bus and he would point it out to me on the way back, still shaking his head and smirking a little. The book was right, it was not that far from where I had got on, but it was a bloody long way from where I was now!

The driver called and pointed the station to me as we approached and to be honest I could see why he had laughed and shook his head. It was a bloody big place, with a large sign over the entrance and not the sort of building you could easily miss. My only defence was that I had been sitting on the wrong side of the bus when going there, and I was also hemmed in by people on my right hand side, which was where the station was. Plus I had not really been looking for it as I thought we would be terminating there anyway.

Still I had to put that down to experience and at least I was now at the station, where I was able to check the departure times of the trains to Casablanca, my intended next destination. There are not that many trains a day running on the Moroccan rail system, which is not that extensive and runs mostly along the western side of the country from Marrakech up to Tangier. The trains I wanted to catch departed at 7 & 9.45.a.m. the next morning; I chose the one at 7.a.m., as this would get me to Casablanca around 10.a.m. giving me all day to explore the city.

Leaving the station I crossed the road and boarded the first bus to come along, I guessed that it would end up back at the town square. Thankfully I was right because 10 minutes later I was back where I had originally started a couple of hours previously, opposite the Koutoubia Mosque and just a short walk from the hotel.

It was hot, very hot, well over 100 degrees and I did not have the energy, or for that matter the inclination to walk around in the heat, preferring to return to the hotel for a cooling shower and a lay down for half an hour. I got the shower, but the lay down was not going to happen with the noise outside keeping me awake.

Two of the horse carriage drivers were having an argument that got a little vociferous and warranted the intervention of another couple of drivers to keep them apart. What it was over I don’t know, but they were certainly getting very heated about it all as I sat there at the open window watching almost voyeur like from a safe distance.

Water tastes great when you are really thirsty, but does not do it for you when you fancy a drink just for the sake of a drink. I fancied a drink, but with Morocco being quite a strict Muslim country alcohol was not on the agenda, so I would have to settle for a coke, or freshly squeezed orange juice. I went for both!

Café Toubakal was the name of the restaurant situated on the south eastern corner of the square that I went to first, here I could sit and drink a cold coke and watch the world go by for a while, this time at ground level.

After topping up on my sugar levels and a little while of watching the world go by I felt ready to rejoin it, and got involved again by walking around the square to take some pictures. I also took the opportunity to indulge in another large glass of fresh orange juice (you can’t get enough vitamins).

Standing a little way back from a large crowd that had gathered to watch some acrobats I noticed the crowd spilling out due to the start of a commotion. I’m not quite sure what it was all about, but think someone had been caught picking pockets?

Whatever it was about, it soon got quite nasty and a fight broke out between two young men, with one biting a large chunk out of the others cheek, leaving him bleeding profusely! The crowd let them fight for a little while baying for more blood, before someone decided that enough was enough and broke it up happy that justice had been done. There must be something in the air today I thought, as this was the second fight I had witnessed in the space of an hour!

Not being able to get into the scene I roamed to the other side of the square and was stopped outside a shop by a man who spoke good English. He inquired if I was a professional photographer?

“What makes you think that” I asked?

“Oh, I just saw you taking some pictures and noticed that you are using a professional camera” he said, smiling broadly to display a set of teeth that had not seen a toothbrush in a long time.

It turned out this guy had been a photographer’s assistant working in Germany and New York for a few years with one of the big photographic agencies. We did not go into why he had returned to Morocco, but obviously running a shop in the souqs of Marrakech was a more lucrative proposition then lugging around the kit of a photographer snapping models and film stars in New York! He told me not to worry about anybody in the square should they ask for money to have their picture taken. “Just take the picture you want and don’t pay anybody!” he said! Um? Maybe that’s why he’s back working in the souq I thought.

That’s all very well in certain places, but here in the Djemaa el-Fna simply pointing your camera in the direction of any of the street entertainers was the green light for them to start demanding money from you for the privilege.

The only way to get your pictures was to give them a few DH, or take the pics from a distance with a long lens, which can be easier said than done in a lot of cases, especially with the amount of people walking in and out of the frame just as you are about to shoot.

I really don’t mind giving them a few DH for a picture or two, but only if I actually want the picture, not just for the sake of it, like most of them seem to think you should! A lot of these characters that perform here in the square earn a nice little amount of money just from having their pictures taken. The snake charmers and guys with the monkeys, it seemed did little or no business with the tourists, who thankfully are now getting the message about the exploitation of these animals.

It was just about 5.30 p.m. and the square was starting to fill up with the food stalls being pulled in on carts from the side streets. As they were starting to set up the performers were spreading out a little further to accommodate them. Suddenly feeling a little drained I went back to the hotel to take a rest and change my clothes before going out to eat.

I had thought the call to prayers from the local mosque was quite loud to say it was at least 500 metres away, so looking out of the hotel window I was not that surprised to see a lot of men kneeling on carpets and praying eastwards on the kerb beside the hotel. There must be a local or makeshift mosque right next to the hotel I thought, which maybe would explain some of the noise I had experienced earlier today.

I made a mental note that should I decide to stay here again when I got back from my travels, I would try to get a room at the other side of the hotel.

To be honest though I have to admire Muslims, especially the really devout ones, and most of them are. These are people who make time to pray five times every day without question, yet most of us so called Christians can’t even be bothered to attend church once a week!

For my evening meal I returned to the café Toubkal just on the edge of the square. From my earlier visit I had worked out that I could sit on the upstairs veranda and take in the scene below in relative comfort.

Surprisingly I was the only person sitting up here; everybody else was sitting at the tables laid out on the road in front of the restaurant. I ordered a nice cold coke to drink while I waited for my meal of chicken salad to be brought up to me on this pleasant little terrace that seated around twenty or so people.

I was not completely alone though, as there were a pair of ginger cats lounging around on a couple of chairs in the corner. This was no big deal, as cats seemed to be everywhere you looked in Marrakech, most of them strays that looked as though they had not eaten a good meal in their life.

I sat there for a while just taking it all in, the square was in full swing now with thousands of people gathering around the musicians, who were all sounding louder than before. They were probably trying to entice more spectators towards them and away from the other minstrels that had now joined the melee in search of donations. Hanging low above the heads of the people wandering around the square was the smoke from all the grills, on which copious amounts of lamb and chicken was sizzling away, giving the impression of the biggest barbecue you could ever imagine.

Stalls on the far side of the square looked like stars in the night sky with their bright gas lit lights twinkling, making them stand out against the dark blue-black sky behind them. Flashes of light could be seen exploding from the cameras of tourists, all of them eager to record the sights they were experiencing onto celluloid for posterity.

This scene unfolding before my eyes was what I think they call organised chaos, as everyone seemed to know what they were doing, even if it did not look this way from where I was seated as a casual observer.

My thoughts were broken when the waiter spoke to me. “Sorry, what was that” I said, suddenly snapping out of my daydream. “Would you like anything else sir?” he repeated himself patiently.

I looked down into the empty coke bottle and replied “Oh, yes please, could I have some bottled water”, “No problem Sir” he laughed, walking away and smiling to no one in particular.

No sooner had the waiter gone than the first cat got off his chair in the corner and made it’s way casually towards where I was sat, the second one was close behind.

The meal before me looked good and there was no way these cats were getting any, or at least not until I was ready to throw them the scraps. Drifting off again and back in my own thoughts as I looked out again over the square I heard the distinctive noise of a cat miaow, but it was not coming from the two ginger beasts under the table. I looked over the railing and out onto the sun canopy that overhung the restaurant downstairs. There were another couple of smaller cats trying to attract my attention having picked up on the smell of chicken.

I threw a couple of pieces of chicken skin over the balcony to these little cats, I thought they looked as though they were in greater need than the two ginger ones under the table. In fact the tom cat of the two under the table had got a little bored waiting for scraps and was amusing himself by biting into the neck the other one and shagging it senseless! Oh I see, this was one of those places that provided a live sex show as alternative entertainment!

I tried to stop the cats under the table by kicking out at them, but they were having none of it. They were at it now and nothing was going to stop them. You can keep your poxy scraps of chicken this is a lot more fun, is what they must have been thinking, if indeed cats do think like that?

Before I left the terrace an English man and two rather feminine looking Moroccan boys came up and took the table right next to me, this I thought was a little strange right away, as all the other tables were empty. The Englishman went to the bathroom, and the two boys out of the blue suddenly started asking me some rather leading questions! I paid the bill of 33DH as quickly as I could; I wanted to get out of there as it was all a little little little to surreal for me. Maybe I had been out in the sun too long today and was a little confused, because I got the definite impression these boys were coming on to me. Whatever it was, it soon made me realise it was time to leave and go back to my hotel before I ended up getting an invite to make up a foursome on their cosy little dinner date!

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