Derek was feeling poorly so he became obsessed with orange juice, which constituted his breakfast (he passed on the bread when he saw a bird sitting on it). I had a ridiculously cheap "crepe" with honey made on a flat, well-oiled stovetop just down the road. Then we navigated through the very complex souks, dependent on Derek's Eagle Scout sense of direction, to the Ali Ben Youssef Medersa (Koranic school). We soon realized the guidebook's advice about getting there early was not a loose suggestion - the place was jammed with tourists.
The 14th century school had taught 2,000 students over the years that it was active as an educational institution, with the students living in the small chambers surrounding the central courtyard. Some rooms were quite nice, and others were tight and oddly shapped, as students got nicer rooms each subsequent year in the 3-year program. The tiny cells each had a window, but nothing else. The incredible tile work, Islamic calligraphy and Palm motifs were created in the Andalusion style when Sultan Abdullah el-Ghallib rebuilt it in the 16th century. Derek and I enjoyed taking pictures of one another from the windows in the upper chambers across the courtyard.
Right outside the Medersa is the mosque by the same name (which we cannot enter due to our not being followers of Islam), and is the oldest in Marrakesh. On our way to the nearby museum, we spotted the oldest monument in the city (and the only intact example of Almoravid architecture in all of Morocco, according to Fodor's), the Qoubba Almoravid. It's a 12th century "masterpiece of mechanical waterworks" that was used to clean one's self up before prayer, and contained systems of showers and toilets. It was closed, so we couldn't walk around inside.
We visited the Museé de Marrakesh to enjoy the central atrium (the exhibitions were not enticing and did not contain English translations) and incredible architecture. There is no lack of attention paid to any of the ceilings, and beautiful tiles cover every wall. We found a passageway that led to a dark, undeveloped corridor that we got a kick out of.
We made our way back to the Djemma el-Fna at the center of the marketplace where henna artists, snake charmers and bush dentists (who extract teeth, yes, teeth piled on the ground in front of them - we didn't feel we should take a picture of it since we were not sure until later what was going on) were out in full force. We bought a pretty tile for our collection from a souk....each country we're visiting on this trip heavily uses painted tiles in their decorations, so we're collecting one to represent each country and framing it as our souvenir. We shopped for a pashmina or two, a tea pot, tiny beaded shoes (for Derek's mom, who wants to frame them - really clever idea), earrings, and ras el hanout, a Moroccan spice mix that contains a dizzying number of spices and literally translates to "the head of the shop" because it contains traces of, some say, 35 spices).
Then, fate showed itself in a big way...We had missed seeing the sunset and had forgotten to eat, being so caught up in the Berber ways of haggling, and decided to wander through the food stalls. It was dark, and we were immediately hit once again with the calls of each food vendor, coaxing us to have their food. My reply that I had already eaten seemed to work most of the time, but not on one vendor, who told me that my boyfriend was too skinny and clearly hadn't eaten enough. Clever guy.
Derek told him that he was my husband (easy to confuse since I don't wear my wedding ring when I travel), and heard his name called out from the #6 stall. There's no one here who would know his name. The only people we know are hours away in Casablanca. But they weren't. They were sitting at the #6 stall and had recognized Derek's voice - none other than Fatima and Larbi!
There is no more unlikely a scenario than the one that we found ourselves in. We should have eaten hours earlier, and usually avoided the food stalls because it was crowded and loud, and we're not as familiar with what to order, and pricing, etc. They are avid soccer fans, and had learned that there was going to be a big game between Marrakech and Casablanca (who they support), and had taken a train down last-minute, without even knowing if tickets were available, to support their team. Exhausted after the game, they were going to retire to their hotel room, but the market beckoned from the cab, and, knowing they wouldn't be able to motivate themselves to go out later, stopped the cab and found a good food stall amongst the hundred or so available, and amongst throngs of people. It's high season here, before the weather gets too warm, so people are out in droves. We should never have seen them again this trip, but here we were, hugging them and sitting down once again to enjoy a meal.
After dinner, they showed us the babbouch stalls where we managed to chew up a snail each, pulled from its shell with a toothpick. They are cooked in a very savory, distinct broth, so much so that we could identify the stalls throughout our travels by their smell before they ever came into view. Then, they showed us gatherings of musicians in the marketplace who played Gnaua music, an African-Moroccan fusion with drums and singing. Then, we parted ways, sure that our assumptions at not seeing them again in Morocco were not very accurate, as fate has a way of upending assumptions like ours.
No comments:
Post a Comment