The great, legendary Atticus Finch told Scout: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”
I can’t seem to understand Marrakech because I can’t seem, for the life of me, to be able to consider its majesty from it’s own point of view. Almost it feels as if it doesn’t quite have a distinct enough point of view for me to grasp.
Granted, it’s still a city in Morocco, a country I have woken up in for the past week daily not believing my grand luck; still a culture where vibrancy is swimming into my soul alongside the waves of streaming sunlight; still a place where market vendors sell dates and figs and olives from brightly colored, high-ceilinged stalls thereby making my heart race with aesthetic excitement.
But Marrakech has been different for me than Fez. Much different.
I’m trying not to compare it with Fez, because I neither am an expert on Morocco by any means nor do these kind of places exist in anything but their own spheres of incomparable majesty. But Fez is currently my only Moroccan experience with which I could base any proceeding experience; there is a much different feel there than in Marrakech.
There are gobs upon hoards of tourists and people in Marrakech, extrapolated by the fact that our lovely little Riad is located grand smack between the Koutoubia Mosque and the Jemaa el-Fnaa market square, perhaps the most tourist-populated areas in Marrakech.
The square features multitudes of snake charmers, orange juice vendors, sunglass-sellers, and Moroccan women demanding payment for the henna that they scraped upon your hand without your blessing and with your explicit protestings that, “it’s really beautiful, but honestly I cannot pay for this, I’m not sure why you just took my hand”.
It was the most viscous experience picking our way through the square; the hoards of young men purring, “Mhmm, very nice” were suddenly replaced with hoards of young men shoving paintings and watches into our faces, hollaring, “just look!”
We would pass a stand, filled to the brim with beautiful Moroccan pieces, colorful jewelry and ornately decorated silver. Instead of being able to stop and admire the artwork and craftsmanship, we would immediately be pounced on by the seller, overwhelmed with his desire to sell to us.
I know, I can feel that there is so so much beauty in Marrakech. That it is a city of good people, and rich culture and majesty. One can see that from the breathtaking architecture of the Mosques that reign across the skies and the luxurious palm trees that line the gardens.
But I can’t help but feel a sense of…inauthenticity. As if most of it is just a show for tourists, just to get money. And because of this overpowering aura, I don’t feel as if I can jump into Marrakech’s shoes and appreciate it as it deserves to be appreciated.
Part of that is the fact that I know so very little about it’s history, and also that we’re so very frugal that we don’t want to spend our precious DH on overpriced museum entrance fees.
After a long, contemplative dinner on a beautiful rooftop terrace overlooking the bustling, carnival-like main square, Katie and I sauntered back to our magical Riad armed with some delicious patisserie and snuggled in to learn.
Learn about Muslim culture and traditions; about the belief systems in Islamic law and the rich beautiful history of Northern Africa. About all of the questions we amask throughout the day naturally, that we don’t seem hurried to find answers for.
We watched a few documentaries on Moroccan history and Islam, by no means tapping into the gorges of information available on the topics, but dipping into it enough to determine that the more you know about a place, a person, a situation….the more that you love it.
We have one more day in Marrakech before we hit the desert. Hopefully armed with some newfound Northern African lore and legend, we’ll be able to experience the grandeur of Marrakech from it’s own shoes and not the shoes that are geared towards snubbing money from tourists.
And if not…there is always the chance to retreat back to our perch on the couch cushions of the rooftop terrace of our hostel, ducking under the large canopy to escape the high 70-degree Moroccan day, reclining against pillows, sipping on water, munching on dates and basking in each other’s company. There’s always that.
Peace and Blessings,