Life is a daring adventure,
or nothing at all, said my new husband when I asked him why I should marry him. That was enough to convince me that he was the one.
We've braved long airport queues, short fuses, high water and low spirits, and seem more bonded at the hip than on our wedding day. I tried to stomp out once into a Venetian night over some trivial nonsense but the sub zero temperature stopped me. And the fact that he had my passport when I contemplated kicking him into the Canal of the Assassins, was another reason for me to stay.
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| Marrakech airport |
This new husband of mine just gritted his teeth a few times over some major unravelling on my part. He smiled when I lost the plot, and I smiled when he insisted on using a map in Venice, which, as any tourist to this mysterious city knows, is a waste of time. We're finding a balance. We passed the half way mark of our honeymoon adventure, which coincided with our four months anniversary as we flew from Paris to Marrakesh. Life couldn't be sweeter.
And then we landed in Marrakech, Morocco. We descended the steps from our Paris plane, with a stolen a bottle of savage red wine to hide under our mattress for a meal that needed it. We left behind the calm, cool Parisienne streets and elegant cafes, and walked smack into 38 degrees of Moroccan madness. We spent a decent half hour shuffling in the "other passports" queue, which was processed by a bored, unfriendly official, and finally freed into the waiting area where our driver for Riad Khol waited. Then out into blinding sunshine, boiling heat and ... Marrakech. Palm trees. Donkeys. Lunatic motorcyclists. Dry yellow dust and prickly pears, yellow Mercedes taxis. High dusty walls of the medina. The wail of the muezzin.
Reno was silent as he looked around the muddy dwellings, robed people and four legged traffic walking slowly under the weight of a field of long grass. He had that look on his face he gets when he has to process something that is way beyond his comfort zone. Paris, this is not. Tight lips, frowned forehead. You ok? I asked. Yep, he replied. The lips tightened. You ok? I asked again. Yep, he replied again through a mouth as narrow as the eye of a needle. We bounced through darting pedestrians, over potholes and between donkey carts. We avoided mangy dogs and wagons bearing cauliflower and oranges. You ok? I asked a third time. "I'm European!" he managed with a strangled voice. "I'm not African!" I am, I knew what he meant. I was in my element, he was completely out of it.
The taxi lurched to a stop alongside a man dressed in a Djellaba who was making egg patties from his tiny blue stall on wheels, between which two tabby cats snoozed in a slice of shade. Immediately a one-eyed grubby man put his hand through the partially open window, clawing for money. Another man, passing, asked if we wanted to buy some sweet cakes from his trolley. A woman in full black robes, carrying a bunch of fresh mint, covered her face as she passed.
And then we landed in Marrakech, Morocco. We descended the steps from our Paris plane, with a stolen a bottle of savage red wine to hide under our mattress for a meal that needed it. We left behind the calm, cool Parisienne streets and elegant cafes, and walked smack into 38 degrees of Moroccan madness. We spent a decent half hour shuffling in the "other passports" queue, which was processed by a bored, unfriendly official, and finally freed into the waiting area where our driver for Riad Khol waited. Then out into blinding sunshine, boiling heat and ... Marrakech. Palm trees. Donkeys. Lunatic motorcyclists. Dry yellow dust and prickly pears, yellow Mercedes taxis. High dusty walls of the medina. The wail of the muezzin.
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| Arrived at Riad Khol |
The taxi lurched to a stop alongside a man dressed in a Djellaba who was making egg patties from his tiny blue stall on wheels, between which two tabby cats snoozed in a slice of shade. Immediately a one-eyed grubby man put his hand through the partially open window, clawing for money. Another man, passing, asked if we wanted to buy some sweet cakes from his trolley. A woman in full black robes, carrying a bunch of fresh mint, covered her face as she passed. The driver unpacked our suitcases in the road and before you could wipe a fly from your mouth, a teenage kid latched onto Reno's case and tried to carry it. Our driver shouted at the kid in Arabic, the kid fixed him with a fatwa stare and put five poxes on all his houses, including his ugly sister and bedridden mother, and tried to snatch Reno's case again. Reno - totally new to the business of touts and touting - was about to allow the kid to help, when the driver threw all the curses back at the source, and we both shouted to Reno to carry the case himself. The distance we'd covered during this altercation was about five metres from the car. The "road" to the Riad was a narrow dust pile of bricks and rubble and broken stones, filled with eleven cats, a rusty tractor, and five men laying bricks at the speed of light. The kid kept whining to help with the cases, but Reno lifted the 24kgs to elbow height and ploughed his way through the mess of sand and dust to the Riad, lips still tight as a peanut jar.
The heavy wooden door of the Riad squared open, and we fell into the cool and grace of mosaic and fountains. The kid, who had followed us, had put his foot in the huge medieval wooden door and refused to leave until we'd given him a tip for helping with the cases. The confused housekeeper tried to close it against him but her frail weight wasn't a match for his injustice. Reno leapt up and was about to give the kid a frightening rendition of Go Away, until I told him all the previous curses would turn around and come back to bite him. Instead he gave the kid 40cents which the kid looked at in disgust and almost threw on the floor, but he pocketed it and stomped off muttering.
We sipped our mint tea, checked into our cool black and white floored room, admired the copper lights and the lemon trees, and realised it was 7pm. Time to head into the souk ... first to find Faouzy, then to find the Jmaa el Fnaa, the square of evening eating. Turn right, turn left, turn right, turn left, turn left, turn right, it's so easy, said LaLie, our beautiful fluent Madagascan manager, when we asked her to how to get there. By the time we left the riad, most of the new road had been laid. We turned left, we turned right, we turned ... which one were we up to? We passed the man selling the egg cakes who greeted us as if we were his best friend, we passed a man whom we promised (mistake) we'd see - later - could take us on a tour to Ouzazoute. And we passed bikes. Or they passed us. They weaved and zigzagged and spurted and hopped and dived between pedestrians, belching carbon monoxide, churning up the dust and making more potholes. We asked several people which way into the souk and got more answers than questions.
Reno was mute. You ok? was my standard question. Yep. Reno's mouth had disappeared and his frown was deeper than the Rift Valley. You ok? Yep. But I could see him calculating if he'd still have a wife - with all it's perks - if he just kept going back to the airport and onto Paris. Just follow me, I said, trust me ... as long as you don't buy a carpet, you'll be ok. Reno is a mild mannered man with a soft temperament until .... well, until now. What followed was not directed at me, but at life in this part of the world in general. I'm European! I'm not made for this! I'm a Capricorn! Insert adjectives of any description. His mouth had vanished into the back of his head. Come, I said, follow me, (in my best carpet seller voice) ... food is near.
We followed a side entrance into the souk, where the motorbikes followed us between piles of soft yellow leather slippers, brass lanterns, trolleys of dates and sugared nuts, dusty jewellery and pottery bowls, beaten handbags with motifs of camels, lanterns, mirrors, woodwork. And bushels, oceans and truckloads of silver.
I asked a shopkeeper wearing jeans and T shirt where the Djme el Fnaa square was. Come, follow, he said through practised narrow eyes, and on the way I will show you the wool dyers. It is the festival of the wool dyers today. Only today.
The heavy wooden door of the Riad squared open, and we fell into the cool and grace of mosaic and fountains. The kid, who had followed us, had put his foot in the huge medieval wooden door and refused to leave until we'd given him a tip for helping with the cases. The confused housekeeper tried to close it against him but her frail weight wasn't a match for his injustice. Reno leapt up and was about to give the kid a frightening rendition of Go Away, until I told him all the previous curses would turn around and come back to bite him. Instead he gave the kid 40cents which the kid looked at in disgust and almost threw on the floor, but he pocketed it and stomped off muttering.We sipped our mint tea, checked into our cool black and white floored room, admired the copper lights and the lemon trees, and realised it was 7pm. Time to head into the souk ... first to find Faouzy, then to find the Jmaa el Fnaa, the square of evening eating. Turn right, turn left, turn right, turn left, turn left, turn right, it's so easy, said LaLie, our beautiful fluent Madagascan manager, when we asked her to how to get there. By the time we left the riad, most of the new road had been laid. We turned left, we turned right, we turned ... which one were we up to? We passed the man selling the egg cakes who greeted us as if we were his best friend, we passed a man whom we promised (mistake) we'd see - later - could take us on a tour to Ouzazoute. And we passed bikes. Or they passed us. They weaved and zigzagged and spurted and hopped and dived between pedestrians, belching carbon monoxide, churning up the dust and making more potholes. We asked several people which way into the souk and got more answers than questions.Reno was mute. You ok? was my standard question. Yep. Reno's mouth had disappeared and his frown was deeper than the Rift Valley. You ok? Yep. But I could see him calculating if he'd still have a wife - with all it's perks - if he just kept going back to the airport and onto Paris. Just follow me, I said, trust me ... as long as you don't buy a carpet, you'll be ok. Reno is a mild mannered man with a soft temperament until .... well, until now. What followed was not directed at me, but at life in this part of the world in general. I'm European! I'm not made for this! I'm a Capricorn! Insert adjectives of any description. His mouth had vanished into the back of his head. Come, I said, follow me, (in my best carpet seller voice) ... food is near.
We followed a side entrance into the souk, where the motorbikes followed us between piles of soft yellow leather slippers, brass lanterns, trolleys of dates and sugared nuts, dusty jewellery and pottery bowls, beaten handbags with motifs of camels, lanterns, mirrors, woodwork. And bushels, oceans and truckloads of silver. |
| Dinner at Djma el Fnaa Marrakech |
We followed him deeper into the souk, deeper into where the hanks of wet wool hung from slats of bamboo roofing, dripping onto the dark mud floor of the souk. We followed him to where his uncle was sitting cross legged in a mud square, wringing out bales of wool, stamping wet wool on a rock to pat and slap into a shape that resembled fabric. Up a rickety wood ladder to the rooftop for "views" of the souk ... satellite bowls, washing, plastic bottles, mangy dogs and lots and lots of preening cats. Back down the rickety stairs. We must go, we said, to the souk, to meet our (imaginary) friends ... we're late. An "uncle" appeared from the woodwork and before we could say "oops caught in a tourist trap" Reno had had his head bandaged in a blue Berber scarf, and I was on my way to being mummified in a very cheap synthetic Indian "silk" scarf.
The "uncle" started begging and pleading and whinging for us to buy these bits of ballast, but I managed to rescue Reno and I, and for a few dirhams into a disgruntled hand, we finally were spat out in the main square of Djma el Fnaa, place of tooth pullers, fortune telling vultures, water bearers in wooly hats, male belly dancers, boil lancers, tarot readers and henna painters, toenail cutters, and lamb chops. Plenty and plenty of lamb chops, sheesh kebabs, tangines and Moroccan salads, sold at long tables covered in butcher's paper and plastic. We ate olives, tomato and chill puree, chunky breads, crispy lamp chops, kebabs, couscous, rice, chips ... for $20. And denying ourselves the ordeal of finding our way back in the scary dark through an unknown souk, after giving a policeman a biscuit if he pointed us in the right direction, took a cab home to the front door, mainly so that I could keep Reno intact for one more day.
A long lazy breakfast on the sun-mottled terrace of Riad Khol, fresh squeezed orange juice, omelette, several breads, teas and coffees, cakes ... a consultation with our driving team and a rearrangement of our schedule, started our day. Then a quick helping hand back into the souk - Reno marginally more fortified to some aspects of Moroccan life ... and hunting and pecking in the souks to find Faouzy, who lives (owns/works/creates) in his tiny fabulous shop ... when Reno is set upon...
"I recognise you!" Shouts Faouzy, clamping his wonderful creative spirit on Reno's shoulder. "From Facebook!" He's found us! We've found him. Joy and bliss. Let the bead adventure begin! Let the silver inhabit my soul!
Faouzy stands back and watches as his stock dwindles, and his fortune increases. My fingers turn black. Reno's hair turns white. Faouzy's face lights up like a beacon. We are all happy. He puts my bundles aside, and by a miracle we find our way back to the Riad where we ate on the rooftop, a splendid meal of tanginess, soups, brads and vegetables served by the delightful women who never seem to go home. The night was hot, the cats, dogs and devout were out. Reno's lips had reappeared as he adjustied to Africa in rapidly improving good spirits.
The "uncle" started begging and pleading and whinging for us to buy these bits of ballast, but I managed to rescue Reno and I, and for a few dirhams into a disgruntled hand, we finally were spat out in the main square of Djma el Fnaa, place of tooth pullers, fortune telling vultures, water bearers in wooly hats, male belly dancers, boil lancers, tarot readers and henna painters, toenail cutters, and lamb chops. Plenty and plenty of lamb chops, sheesh kebabs, tangines and Moroccan salads, sold at long tables covered in butcher's paper and plastic. We ate olives, tomato and chill puree, chunky breads, crispy lamp chops, kebabs, couscous, rice, chips ... for $20. And denying ourselves the ordeal of finding our way back in the scary dark through an unknown souk, after giving a policeman a biscuit if he pointed us in the right direction, took a cab home to the front door, mainly so that I could keep Reno intact for one more day.
A long lazy breakfast on the sun-mottled terrace of Riad Khol, fresh squeezed orange juice, omelette, several breads, teas and coffees, cakes ... a consultation with our driving team and a rearrangement of our schedule, started our day. Then a quick helping hand back into the souk - Reno marginally more fortified to some aspects of Moroccan life ... and hunting and pecking in the souks to find Faouzy, who lives (owns/works/creates) in his tiny fabulous shop ... when Reno is set upon...
"I recognise you!" Shouts Faouzy, clamping his wonderful creative spirit on Reno's shoulder. "From Facebook!" He's found us! We've found him. Joy and bliss. Let the bead adventure begin! Let the silver inhabit my soul! Faouzy stands back and watches as his stock dwindles, and his fortune increases. My fingers turn black. Reno's hair turns white. Faouzy's face lights up like a beacon. We are all happy. He puts my bundles aside, and by a miracle we find our way back to the Riad where we ate on the rooftop, a splendid meal of tanginess, soups, brads and vegetables served by the delightful women who never seem to go home. The night was hot, the cats, dogs and devout were out. Reno's lips had reappeared as he adjustied to Africa in rapidly improving good spirits.
Life in Morocco is promising to be as sweet as the sugar in a mug of mint.
A daring adventure indeed .... and so it continues. Onto Essouria and the sea, fish, blue skies ... and great eating!!
A daring adventure indeed .... and so it continues. Onto Essouria and the sea, fish, blue skies ... and great eating!!
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| Rooftop dinner with our hosts. |
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