Flying into Marrakech on Sunday was exciting. From the air arid desert contrasted with fields of green orchards as we neared the city. Like in Greece, there is only one paint colour sold here, a mixture of dusky orange, peach, apricot and terracotta all combined then applied to every wall.
We spent a day walking the Medina, the old city yesterday. Mohammed is a worker at the riad we are staying. He is a young man, cool and assured, a speaker of good English with an iphone. He, in his entrepreneurial way, organised us to go with him for a walk through the Medina, “Good for your first day,” he said, which seemed like a good idea to us having had a glimpse of some of it on the drive from the airport.
A short walk down narrow streets buzzing with 50cc motorcycles, bicycles, cars, children on the way to school in their white coats buying bread, chatting and wrestling playfully, shopkeepers beginning their daily chores, women carrying toddlers, kittens in rubbish piles, electricians up ladders working a spaghetti tin of wires. Already the streets were alive with activity. Mohammed led around a maze of streets into the Arab Souk, an area of tiny workshops where men, young, old and very old busily banged on metal, traced and cut soles for shoes, carved door frames and tried to sell us stuff. A throw away comment about rugs brought us to a rug co-operative where Mohammed introduced us to the manager. He in turn introduced us to his wares, carpets and kelims which were piled to the roof in what appeared to be a large old riad. His three assistants were well practised and like clockwork during his spiel they would carry out and unfurl carpet after kelim, large room sized down to short runners. They began to pile on top of each other on the floor and we were asked to walk on them, to feel their softness, a little like the Princess and the Pea. When the procession of rugs continued unabated, I thought I should put a stop to this before they reached the ceiling and this brought the managers note book out to begin the haggling for a purchase. Shakes of the head, scissorings of the hands and a polite refusals to haggle his 7000 dirhams for a small runner, led us again into the bustle of the narrow and crowded streets of the souk.
Mohammed, who was probably more than a little annoyed we didn’t buy to provide his handout from the Co-operative, was last seen by Tom running up a narrow lane and around a corner not to be seen again for the rest of the day.
Technology is a wonderful thing. We were lost, stranded, fair game for hovering shopkeepers when Google maps on Tom’s phone led us into the light and into the city.
Now we were on our own, we became prey to children who were willing to lead us, “To the big square.” A group of ten small boys, all chattering like school children do everywhere, walked with us. Sharon talked with them in her French, until one, whose stamina outlasted all the rest, was rewarded with a small coin, a dirham, ten cents.
I bought a leather bag after what I thought was some adept haggling but was a little concerned when the large robed keeper of the leather seemed happier than I was that the deal was done. I can’t believe it! I bought a bag and Sharon didn’t.