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!