Djemaa el Fna

"The beating heart of Marrakech" is a square in the old medina full of sights and sounds--drummers, snake charmers, henna painters by day; storytellers and musicians by night. Everyone is out to make a buck (welcome to Morocco), and here it is the most obvious of anywhere. Sitting in the shade of their big umbrellas, snake charmers wait for tourists to walk past before blowing a whining note on their horns to see if they will take the bite and look. If they do, they rush over to loop the snakes round their necks, demanding money for a photo. Troupes of dancing men in colorful robes and hats with tassels stamp and sway in time to drum beats, running after passing tourists who so much as glance in their direction, holding out their hat for tips. Women henna painters, heads swathed in colorful scarves and faces masked so that only their eyes show, call, "Madame! Madame!" from beneath their circle of shade. La shokran, or no thank you, is a good phrase to know here. I have learned to ward off would-be tip collectors by keeping up a purposeful pace and eyes straight forward. Otherwise I'd be hounded every ten paces.

Like many tourists, I've discovered that the rooftop terraces of the surrounding restaurants and cafes are the best spot to view the spectacle below without the constant harrasment. From there I can watch the dancers and drummers hounding the tourists, hear the drums and the horns, and watch the troupes of men that every so often start up a whole-hearted dance, and not just a five-second ploy to trap a tourist. Gowned in blue with tassled red hats, they step in time to the drums, spinning, kneeling, and popping back up. Watermen, come down from the mountains with leather skins of snowmelt, peddle glasses of cold water to the locals and photos to the tourists. They wear conical hats in bright red and green, with metal cups hung about their necks.

At the sides of the square are stalls selling fresh squeezed orange juice, only 3 dirhams for a tall glass, and others selling dried figs, dates, and nuts. The men call out to passing tourists and ladies.

The ground is full of milling people. Tourists--some women stripped down to tank tops, men in shorts--and locals. Both men and women in jellabas, the long, shapeless, dress-like garment with pointed hood. They come in all different fabrics and colors. The women's range from solid-color to fancy, brightly-colored patterns; the men's come in drab tones in light cotton or warm wool, even in suit material for the particularly dapper gentleman. Most women cover their heads with scarves. A few of those even cover their faces, revealing only their eyes, while some older ladies tie the scarves just below a pointy nose! And some of the young women are westernized, wearing tight jeans, boots to their knees, and bareheaded. It's quite the mix. And amongst all of these weave cars, bikes, horse-drawn carriages (caleches), and mopeds, each tooting a squeaky horn.

At sunset, these sounds combine with the haunting call to prayer from the high towers, or minarets, of each of the mosques. This is the sound I will miss the most of Morocco. It comes five times a day, first at dawn, when they add the admonishment, "prayer is better than sleep" to the usual call, twice during the day, then at sunset, and finally an hour after sunset. Few here seem to answer the call; many more go about their business, but passing the open doors of mosques you can still see men kneeling and bowing in prayer, their shoes abandoned in piles around the door.

By night, the square is full of men, gathered in circles around storytellers and musicians. I wish I could understand the Arabic and Berber stories, but it seems a men-only event, and I understood why after one particular guy followed me to three different circles, pressing casually against me in a way that one might at first take for an accident in a crowd. (And I wasn't even alone, but was there with another guy!)

There is a spot on the square for open-air restaurants that they set up and take down everyday. There, local Moroccans and tourists gather at tables and order food that is almost in front of them. Lamb and steak kebabs, fries, and the ubiquitous Moroccan salads of spiced cooked vegetables, served cold and oh so delicious!

Djemaa el Fna is a bit full-on, as the Aussies would say, but Marrakesh wouldn't have nearly as much magic without it. This is Morocco, in some ways at its worst, certainly at its most touristy, but also at its richest and most magical. Marrakech without its square would be like Morocco without mint tea...certainly not Morocco!

Local Hammam, A Real Moroccan Experience

Yesterday, I was scrubbed like a pot.

Seriously, I think that hand mitt scrubber was originally designed for removing caked-on grease better than Palmolive! It certainly removed my skin in rolls like little bits of rice stuck to the bottom of a pan.

A hammam is a public bath. In the days before running water, they were necessities for hygiene. Today, they are still important social places, especially for women, who spend most of their time at home. But I got the impression that, running water or no, these women still come to the hammam for their weekly bath.

Women may cover themselves in public, but among other women, they have no Western squeamishness. The four other girls and I were taken to a room where we stripped to our undies--no bras allowed!--then walked into a steamy room. It was filled with Moroccan women, some completely nude, scrubbing themselves while sitting on small stools, most just wearing underwear. There was so much flesh! More than I have ever seen, even on the beach in San Sebastian where some European women sunbathed topless.

A buxom women (I truly have never seen such a large chest!), who clearly had spent most of her time in the hammam and without the support of a bra, came and motioned for us to sit down in a corner of the room. She spoke no English, and only one of our group spoke French, but mostly we managed with gestures. She brought a large bucket of warm water, and splashed us down. Then we lathered up with some black olive soup we had been given when we entered. After steaming for about fifteen minutes, opening up the pores, we were taken to another room, told to lie on plastic mats. That's when the scrubbing began, or what they rather optimistically call a "massage."

They scrubbed everywhere: chest, arms, face, back, legs, pushing and pulling underwear--you almost wondered why they didn't just make you take that off, too! Afterwards, my skin was glowing and soft as a baby's bum.

Next they tied us in knots. Arms across chest, and PULL! Legs pressed to chest and PUSH! I didn't feel any bones cracking. I didn't feel more loosened, either. I was just glad to be in one piece at the end.

The ladies got quite a kick out of us. Our squeamishness, refusing to remove bras, grimaces of pain at the scrubbing. The lady certainly had no problem with full-body contact, bracing my hand between her breast and armpit as she scrubbed.

The other local women looked at us with interest, but they were all intent on their own ablutions. Washing hair, brushing teeth. Little girls walked around hand-in-hand, completely nude, or sat on benches as their mothers ran combs through their hair.

When we went back out to change into our clothes, the air was cold! Quickly into dry clothes and out into the cold air with wet hair. Too bad I wasn't covering my head with a scarf!

There are expensive tourist hammams with saunas, western-style massages, and quite a bit less flesh, but this local experience was something I wouldn't have missed for the world. Still, I was glad to have a group girls to share it with--and laugh about it afterward.