DAY 226

Wednesday 22 February 2012

"Don't You Know We're Ridin' . . ."

Having retired to the 24-hour rest stop cafe the previous night at 8 to do work at the computer, Charles still found himself, two coffees and two teas (three cups each pot) later still there at 6AM. A few problems had come up. We had the date wrong, by four days, of the final day of carnivale in Cadiz, Spain, which we wanted to make. So everything had to be adjusted, new research done and e-mails sent.

Jardin Majorelle

But by 6 AM he was so exhausted he got little fitful sleep by the time the family arose at 8:30. He sent them inside to blog and add photos and caught a couple more hours, but by the time we had deviled eggs by Nicole and got everything ready to roll, it was 1:30, and by the time we finally made it into Marrakech and survived the mad traffic (driving in Morocco was a different experience than in Europe!) and found a good parking place for the night, it was 4:30 PM. Our disappointment at a late arrival was soothed by Hadin, the smiling parking lot attendent, who offered us, from his little guard shack, glasses of hot tea all around, no charge.

Knowing the massive central square, the Jamaa el Fna, flipped over around 7 PM to a nighttime mode of huge food tents and music and crowds till dawn, we decided to walk to the famous Jardin Majorelle, a 90-year-old garden restored by designer Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Berge, who lived for many years on the estate adjacent to it. They also established the Islamic Art Museum of Marrakech there, a gorgeous building from the outside but we didn't pay the extra amount to go in. It was $6 each just to get into the garden, with only an hour till closing, and we all agreed that it was beautiful and tranquil but less than overwhelming, less than we expected from the crown prince of fashion.

Two women's hands with henna tattoos in Jardin Majorelle

Marrakech by day

We hiked back to our van for a pick-me-up bowl of vegetable soup, and though we were all pretty tired, as darkness fell we marched off to take on the reputedly wild Jamaa el Fna. THAT met our expectations. Not exactly like a scene from Satyricon, but close. Or maybe the Star Wars bar. After wending our way down a narrow street crammed with small shops selling... everything, we turned a corner and there it was, a huge dark open square with tent canopies off to one side and the rest dotted with crowds of people gathered around a performer or... something of interest.

As obviously not Moroccans we drew the attention of hustlers and beggars, sometimes poking or even grabbing at our sleeves, but fortunately no thieves -- we'd learned well where to keep our valuables, and had had no problems on the trip with that headache. We'd also learned the best way to be left alone; a smiling but firm, "No thanks!" then no more contact, look the other way, every additional glance was renewed hope. There and a little later in the souks Charles was hailed as "Ali Baba!" and "moustache!" (odd, for a bearded guy) and forgot to find out later whether that was standard, an insult, inside joke or what. Most of the music gatherings had a lot of drums banging away and many others had a lead banjo, a little surprising.

After hitting most of the crowds to looky-loo we headed for the souks for some serious shopping. Nicole knew exactly what kind of bag she wanted, Charles was looking for exactly the right kind of scarf (not found, at any reasonable price, but he did snag a snappy, much-needed "camel leather" belt for about 8 bucks.. Both of the belts he brought with him, originally in the last holes, were now out of holes! And Dian... Dian was in a meditative mood, searching for the shopkeeper who was not begging us to come in, but still managed to function as The Enforcer, helping us stick to our best bargaining mode and not weakening. That resulted in her snagging a great unexpected piece, a star-shaped goatskin lamp. The bargaining process took forever, many walk-aways and call-backs, but finally we paid not a dirham more than our bottom line ($8.50), and were delighted. Handmade, authentic, beautiful. The seller was also a good sport about it, with smiles all around. Charles complimented him on spending his down time watching educational shows on TV, instead of just veging, and that brought a smile too.

A man sitting outside the shop, upon Dian's request to take a
picture of the two, stole a kiss from Nicole! We can assure
you it was without consent.

Nicole's drama for her bag also dragged on forever, and she exhibited truly remarkable bargaining skills, many return visits, but the guy was unmovable and she ended just a shade above the price she wanted to pay (still, nearly half the original asking price), but the bag she got was unlike any at all the many other shops that sold them, with leather and bright yellow handwoven carpet material, and she wisely left with her heart's desire instead an extra dollar or two in her pocket. The bag was a treasure, and the place and method of purchase something she'd always remember.

Nicole and her bag the next day

The souks stretched out forever north of the square, a maze, a labyrinth, all with (it seemed) pretty much the same things, so we just stuck to one area, barely scratched in but still there were four levels and hundreds of tiny shops and we only poked around a few, phew!


We were going to sit down to a nice dinner in the square but were so tired of the assault of the hustlers that we settled for two bags of fries to go -- REALLY great, crispy fries with a dash of sea salt thrown in at the last moment, and flavored with a taste of something else, maybe cumin. Back to the van reall,y tired but delighted with our purchases, z - z - z - z.