| Brock has this to say about the place we are in: Stepping off the plane in Marrakech, right onto the tarmack (like Nixon I was), and the first thing I see, a cat, a very skinny and very mangy looking cat. I think to myself, "Why is there a cat in an airport runway?". After the first hour I stopped asking stupid questions like that because the best answer I have found for any questions that I have here is in fact, another question, "I'm in Morocco, what did I expect?". Brendan and I arrived in Marrakech on Saturday i think, and if we can be frank (can we be frank? Thanks), we dont want to leave. At the airport on what I believe to be a saturday night Brendan and I were trying to figure out the best way to get to a hostel, no map, just a plan. Get to the center of town, which was a problem on its own because neither of us speak french and we didnt know where "town" was. Then once we get there, make our way through the endless moving and breathing labrynth that is Marrakech to a hostel that we only heard about from a group of mormons currently inhabiting our previous place of residence. Hell, right? Wrong. All you have to do is find an English speaking French guy to make friends with and he will figure it all out for you. We were just lucky enough to find one, and his name was Luka. An English teacher coming here for his first time too, and he was kind enough to let us tag along with him. He knew what stop to get off of the bus at, and he found us a hotel for five euros a head, and we were hanging out with him until he had to leave on the 26th, going to the desert i think, he said something about a "Rainbow Gathering". Now Marrakech. Its unbelievable, narrow streets filled with vendors selling everything from Luis Vuitton bags and Gucci sunglasses ("They must not know what they have! Designer eyewear for 3 euros! Get out of town! I was in Paris and I saw that same suitcase for 800 euros and this guy is selling it for 20.") to hookahs and ("No seriously, its real silver!") jewelery. The main square is packed with food vendors all selling the same unclean, yet delicious, food, orange juice stands, cookie pushers, snake charmers, men that wisper "Hash, I got good sh*t" in your ear and men that dance at you (for a price). This is the land of bartering. Everyone here, save the resteraunt buisinessmen, try to sell you their wares for some outlandish price, but in the end they can all be talked down to a fraction of that. Enter "The Crumb Snatcher". Here is some background for all of you, we tourists have an unwritten deal with the cookie pushers. We give them 1 Dirham (their monetary unit), and in exchange they give us one delicious cookie (some little coconut number). HE BROKE THE RULES! I go up to the crumb snatcher and ask for 1 cookie, he hands Brendan 1cookie and i hand him 1 money. So far so good, until he holds out his hand, a sign that this transaction is not over. I stare at him with a look of misunderstanding, and he manages to utter just two lttle words "Duex Dirham". After lots of arguing, Brendan and i managed to walk away with our eyes to the ground 6 Dirhams freed from our pockets and 3 cookies in our hands. Ashamed we walked back to our hotel room, the "penthouse suite" with a terrace outside where we can sit peacefully above all of the heckling. Paradise at last. Sorry there are no pictures, I have them on my camera but I dont have the cable I need to put them on the computer. Sorry. Brendan has this to say about the place we are in: We would have been lost without the French guy. The climate is a lot more welcome than Norway's and somehow the locals seem comfortable walking around in sweaters and jeans when it's 75 outside. About 80 percent of the people in the streets and squares want to sell you things and that ends up being quite a few people. "You want some hash?". Cobras dance to flutes, don't look at them though, eye contact is usually a contract and an empty hat will be in front of you begging for coins. I am not paying 2 Dirhams for a cookie that everyone else sells for two. Brushing your teeth with Moroccan water might not actually be considered progress as far as hygiene is concerned. No I don't want any hash. Taking a picture with a monkey isn't free either. No I don't speak any English, none at all sorry. Where do all these slippers come from and how do they convince people to actually buy hem? Quit calling me Ali Baba. What do you mean the bread costs 10 Dirhams? The bread is free everywhere else and I didn't even ask for it in the first place you just brought it out here. Yeah America, New York, Boston, all that good shit. "You won't find these anywhere for that price, give me your serious democratic price." All of these motorcyclists want to kill you. The megaphones on the towers wail for prayers and the rain chimes in at full force. Thunder has a word with both of them and the frenetic streets below are muted. "Follow me, good shit". I might just wither the rest of my days away here on the terrace, all I need is the sun and the sandwhich shop down the street, you'll never see me again. Seriously kid I am not going to give you another coin, get outta here. No toilet paper in the bathrooms. Sunglasses salesman slaps my pockets demanding that I give him all the money I have. You get used to the hecklers after about two days and their catchprashes (Hello, Yes, Hashish) hum along with the rest of the white noise. Here just take the cookie back OK? I don't want the cookie. The market labrynth is a cruel sorcerer of space and time, it's hallways limitless. Rumor has it that the final dead end right past the last desolate carpet shop, next to the shoe store at the edge of the universe is home to the last digit of Pi. I know your secret Marrakesh, Satan sold you these horrible smells. It's odd to imagine that somewhere beneath all of this people are living normal lives, growing up and going to school. "Come to my shop just to look, no buy." Never seen lightning like this before. How are you going to charge me 15 Dirhams for two slices of eggplant? I didn't want it, you gave it to me. Every guidebook says not to follow some shady fellow into tiny alleys in the middle of the night in search of a hostel but we did it anyway, they can't be all bad right? Once you put money in someone's hand you will never get it back. Why are you calling me Bob Marley again? This dancing man is going to keep jangling that metal until I walk away or give him money. At this point the days have a rhythm, a fine balance of walking around for half an hour, the returning to the terrace to nap for two hours. Rinse, lather, repeat. I love this place. "Promise you come back, no buy, just drink tea." Those cats couldn't possibly look more desperately scruffy and malnourished. I don't see one word spelled correctly on this menu. Always bring shoes no matter how nice the weather is supposed to be. That doesn't even make sense, you hand me a flyer and then you say sorry? Washed out canvas billboards turn their offers to the clouds, ready for rain. Every trinket wants your attention. "We have same price as everywhere else." Suspicious old French man wants to trade his old face, taped up, tattered 100 dollar bill for change, I bet his rates are good! And his money is probably real! You wake up on the terrace and hours days and months have no significance. What it boils down to is that we are invaders, and this is a small price to pay. This is their city and they are just trying to eat. Fine, just give me the cookie. 6 Dirhams, three cookies. Little kid should be in school. Oh Marrakesh, one of these days I'll have to say goodbye. |
Brought to you from the shittiest Internet cafe on the planet, so forgive the errors.
