The Town Square at Night

At first being in Marrakesh, Morocco is like experiencing a voilent thunderstorm as a child: It’s fascinating, awe-inspiring, and yet terrifying. It is completely unlike any other place I have seen. Madness and chaos only begin to describe the place. The labrynth of streets are as crazy and outrageous at day as they were eerie and quiet the previous night. Within minutes of walking into the large town square, I conclude that Marrakech is like a third world Muslim version of Vegas: a complete assault of the senses. It’s got old world glitz and glam without the sex and alcohol.

A main street leading to the square

It’s loud. “Bouka! Bouka!” the cart driver cries as his donkey toting cargo squeezes through the narrow streets, threatening to run me over while they clomp along. They compete with the noisy, wheezy vespas which whip through alarmingly fast. Peddlers sell everything from pastries to funny looking shoes to underwear to spices, all of it somehow very colorful. I can’t walk anywhere without the men trying to lure me into their booths, usually using ridiculous tactics. The call me “Shakira” a few times and thickly lay on other “compliments”. It doesn’t feed my vanity because I’m sure they harrass all white girls. They try to work other angles to get me into their shops. Eating an ice cream cone, I walk by a guy and he tells me I can get a bigger ice cream cone in his shop. Another guy invites me to his restaurant and I tell him I just ate. “But you are too skinny,” he says. These guys really need to work on their sales tactics.

Get out of my way or I'll run you over!

The height of the madness lies in the town square. I hear loud African style drums and other Middle Eastern instuments, and it actually sounds really cool. The music is upbeat and happy. Not so pleasing to the ear is the obnoxiously loud city wide muslim summons to prayer that echo like fire raid sirens, five times a day. As I walk around, I smell diesel, cumin laced cooking and incense.

Vendors sell everything-olives in this case (mmmm)

Of course it’s loud visually as well. Sights overwhelm me. There are, of course, many women in burkas, but that’s only the beginning. Snake charmers and monkey owners try to lure in the tourists. Dozens of peddlers sell food, spices and freshly squeezed orange juice from carts. Muslim women sell pastries and beg me to let them mark me with henna. Men do acrobatics and wear outlandish outfits. Anything to get you snap a picture, and if you do, you better pay up. It’s like stepping into the movie Aladdin at times (never did find the magic carpet and the genie, though).

Snake Charmers in the Square

The snake charmer throws the snakes around my neck

I get ripped off a lot that first day, which contributes to my unease of the place.

The man at the grapefruit stand doesn’t give me my change back.

The little boy who sells me some yogurt and bread charges me about 4x as much as he should have. Since I am dealing with so many currencies all the time and the durham is new to me, I don’t realize this until after I have paid.

As a result of episodes like these, coupled with the men who continually are harrassing me, I quickly shift into what feels like survival mode (anything to feel safe) and subsequently throw all my manners and values out the window. I am mean to beggars because they pull at me and won’t let go, I lie (“Yes, I have a boyfriend” [and he's going to PUMMEL your ass!- sorry, inside joke]), I ignore the locals who try talking to me (if you even make eye contact they won’t leave you alone) and pretend I don’t speak English (who am I kidding?). I actually turn kind of mean, and I don’t like it. The realization dawns on me that it’s amazing how fear can make us act. Basically everyone out here is guilty until proven innocent, and it’s sad really. They must think tourists are the rudest things ever, and we kind of are. But they make us that way. It’s too bad, really.

A bird's eye view of the square (they're poor, but they obviously have the essentials covered...check out all the satellites!)

I quickly develop a love/hate relationship with this insane place. One minute I love the chaos and zaniness, and the next I am afraid. The vast amount of cobblestone streets with their high walls jut this way and that, with no rhyme nor reason. They’re like a real maze for people, a thought that would have charmed me as a child. I get lost in the labyrinth at one point. A boy offers to help me, but I have a mistrust in every local here. I finally have no choice but to accept the help of a young man. I have no idea what it will cost me, but it turns out that him being with a white girl for a bit is payment enough. I feel somewhat obligated so we have juice and coffee and I grip my purse tightly and stay in a very public place. “Why you so scared?” He asks. “Because your people keep trying to rip me off and say rude things to me,” I reply with a smile. He’s harmless but wants to go out that night. I politely decline. “Why? I don’t bite,” He says. I tell him I have a boyfriend.

The juice is delicious...until he won't give me my change

My hostel friends invite me for dinner that night and I say yes, probably too eagerly. Good old commraderie with Westerners is just what I need after a day of this sort of mayhem, and the Moroccan food is delicious and flavorful.

More of the Markets

That night I hide in my hostel. The madness is completely draining and as much as I enjoy it, I can only take so much of it.