Day 2: Marrakech
April 12th, 2002
Desert snacks
The afternoon train ride rolled by in mint greens and powdery reds. The
pastoral scene of small mud buildings ringed by olive trees was populated
only by the occasional solitary shepherd. It looked biblical agrarian
perfection. It was all the more enticing from my backwards-facing,
somewhat-squished middle seat in a 6 person compartment. I’m not sure if
there is an express train between Casa and Marrakech, but this was not it.
We had to pause every 20 minutes or so, and rattled along at top speeds
reaching 40 miles an hour in between. After my morning of
power-walking through fish parts and ancient alleyways, I didn’t mind the
three and a half hours of down time. Even whirlwinds dally once in a while.
The train station in Marrakech is on the edge of the Gueliz, a modern
downtown speckled with faux terracotta four star hotels. The station was
equally modern and, though we were the exception on the train, quite used
to Western tourists. I had sudden flashbacks to the airport the night before
(could it really have just been the night before!?) as I stood in another
parking lot trying to choose my mode of locomotion. Several taxi drivers
offered their service for prices ranging from 40 – 80 dirhams, but
everything was relaxed enough that I thought I’d figure out the bus system.
Local buses are often an enigma of travel – every town seems to have it’s
own bizarre method of timetables, unmarked stops, and payment methods. The
Book had given me the magic numbers – buses number 3 and 8 ran to someplace
called Place de Foucauld which, on my map, was next to something else called
Djemaa el Fna which was near the bulk of the cheap hotels. I feared
attempting to pronounce either of these things.
Local transportation
A few large blue buses rumbled by on the street in front of the station.
Some of them stopped, some of them didn’t; some of them had numbers, some of
them didn’t. I had visions of myself getting on the number 3 heading the
wrong way and not figuring it out until I hit the Algerian border. One of
the taxi drivers took my loitering to be a bargaining strategy and followed
me around trying to explain just how reasonable his price was. I tried to
explain to him that I was sure it was but that I was a very poor student and
could not afford it. Telling him I was going to take the bus cause it was
more adventurous would have just confused the poor guy.
I finally did the crazy thing and asked someone. I felt odd approaching a
veiled woman, but I’ve found that woman with children are often very helpful
to a solo girl-traveler. She pointed across the street to where a couple of
people were obviously waiting. She took a one-dirham piece from some hidden
pocket in her shapeless black covering, pointed at it and then held up two
fingers and her thumb, looking from me to her hand to the coin to make sure
the crazy foreigner understood. I thanked her in French and English and
mentally kicked myself yet again for not springing for a ‘Teach Yourself
Arabic’ CD.
I crossed the street and was pleasantly surprised when a number 3 bus pulled
up only a few minutes later. I paid my three dirhams and found a spot in the
middle. See, I still know how to do this travel thing, I thought, and
then felt the smile fade off my face as I realized I had no idea where to
get off. Me and maps and scale have never understood each other. Outside
rushed by me unnoticed as I peered at The Book and looked hopefully at my
fellow passengers. Well, asking had worked before so I tried it again with
another motherly looking lady. “Est-ce vous conneez-vous ou est le Place
Foucauld?” I asked in my best I-failed-High-School-French. She looked at
me wide eyed, giggled, and looked away shaking her head. I tried a visual
aide and pointed at the map in my book – “Est-ce vous conneez-vous ou est
le Djemaa el Fna?” More giggles, more looking away. “Djemaa? D-jem-aa?
Dj-e-maa? Dje-ma-a?” Nothing.
After about 15 minutes – OK, maybe it was only five – I started to think I
would do better on the street, or at least get myself lost a little slower.
I was about to head off the bus when I glanced up at the driver. He was
looking at me in the rearview mirror and shaking his head. I glanced around
to make sure he meant me and backed away from the door. He nodded and help
up his hand in the international gesture of wait. I assumed he’d
seen enough backpack-laden westerners to know where I needed to go, so each
time the bus slowed down I shot a quick look his way. Finally we turned a
corner on the edge of a well manicured park. My driver pal nodded. And
suddenly everything was different.
My first glimpse of Djemaa el Fna
My first glimpse of Djemaa el Fna, and I had no idea what I was looking at.
It was like the parking lot of a movie shoot. A large paved space ringed by
low concert buildings, most painted to resemble the traditional villages I’d
seen from the train, was filled with the familiar, the foreign, and the
anachronistic. There were cars, petit and grand taxis, horse drawn
carriages, mule drawn carts, motor scooters and pedestrians of every
description. Hawkers announced their wears and produce to locals tourists,
and travelers alike – fresh squeezed orange juice, amulets of mercury and
antelope fur, water, henna, and dates – the din was complete and almost
overwhelming. It was love at first sight.
I wanted to dive in, but I had all my stuff and no place to stay – and had
to admit I was feeling a little crowd-shy since last night’s ‘welcome’. The
Book mentioned several hotels and guesthouses, one it spoke of with a few
paragraphs of praise, the Ali. I don’t usually head for the first spot in
the book because, well, everyone else does. But, this sounded so
overwhelmingly good I decided to give it a shot. It did seem to be the
center of activity the book spoke of, but it was also full.
As I walked out of the lobby and headed for my second choice, one of the
“guides” hanging there followed me out. He badgered me for a few feet and
then gave up. India has given me a very short temper for would-be guides.
I tried the second place on my list, then the third, then the fourth, then
anything. All full. It was only the edge of the high season, but my travel
plans apparently weren’t all that original. On my frustrated way out of
another full guesthouse, I managed to cross paths with my friend from the
Ali. He knew I still didn’t have a place, and offered to take me to a
“friend’s” guest house. He was insistent, I was not amused.
But, he was right, I didn’t know where to try next. He did the usual spiel
about not being a guide, not wanting money, just a friend, etc etc. As we
walked toward this supposed friend’s guesthouse I asked him what his deal
was, “So, if you’re not a guide, and I’m not going to pay you, why are you
taking me to this hotel?”
He looked at me and probably realized I wasn’t
going to go for the ‘just-a-friend’ thing. “Well, this hotel is friends with
the hotel I work at, so they will be happy if I take you there. It is very
nice new hotel” Seemed straightforward enough, so, disgruntled and
distrusting, I followed him.
We crossed the square and walked down Rue Bab Agnaou, a pleasant restaurant
and ice cream shop lined pedestrian lane and turned left then right into a
more residential street. I was just starting to worry that I was be lead
into never never land when we stopped in front of an intricately decorated
doorway under a sign declaring the ‘Fantasia Hotel’. Inside were all blue
and red tiles, pained wood, mirrors and glass, and they had a room.
I can’t think of a caption
It was small, but cute-as-Islamicly-could-be, with abstract flower designs
on the walls, a nice mirror, a large comfy bed with heavy blankets and a
wrought-iron night stand, not to mention a lovely courtyard and fountain
outside my window. It was a little more than I thought I would spend, but on
a five day solo trip, $20 a day is far from extortion.
It was still early, and my stomach was complaining that all I’d eaten since
breakfast was some bread and cookies on the train. But the bed was inviting
and the quiet sounds of the fountain and low voices chatting in Arabic a
soothing backdrop after the hustle and bustle of the day. I quieted the
voice in my head insisting that I must see Everything Right Now and reminded
myself that I had only been in the country for 24 hours, I could take things
a little easier. I just managed to get my shoes off and close the curtains
before falling asleep on top of the embroidered blankets.
