Transcoding footage, backing up, and stealing wifi under a blue sky overlooking the market, watching a mangy orange cat struggle from one shifting patch of shade to another. The clouds drift by, sometimes halting the sun worship of a few dozen satellite dishes. In Morocco, even shacks with tin roofs and no windows can get satellite TV.
The buildings here in Marrakech are stale pink, dusty and solidly built. Trying to make sense of them gives one vertigo, but that could just be the clamor of half a dozen chaotic horns “charming” snakes in the market below. Every so often a thunderous call to prayer (imagine a war siren blared through a megaphone) completes the fracas. I stop being able to think, and put my book down.
Stepping less than a foot from the cat, it doesn’t shake a paw. I wonder if it has gone mad. Looking over the terrace wall at a small slice of the market—a slice containing roughly half a thousand people—I see the food stalls are just setting up for the evening’s pilgrimage. Their white tarps hang off them like bleached hide peeling off a metal skeleton. I feel sick, sit down again and grab my flask.
At least the tap water here is good. The cat has moved again, now slumped in the elongating shadow of a palm frond. The prayer call has ended (proof of my mania is that this disappoints me), and soon the smells of two-dozen street meat vendors attempt to entice me to their source. But after three days hard labor and several hundred movies, I don’t fancy it. It is less of a pilgrimage than pillage, with goading merchants, snake whiners, monkey beaters, henna ninjas and wizened beggars using every trick in the book to gain your attention.
They are incessant, but part of the fun. “Excuse me, but could you tell me what this is?” “Hello, how much does it cost to fly from here to your country?” “Hey, nice glasses, where did you get them?” “Hey, my friend, my friend, you are my friend, yes?” “Excusemoi, hellomyfriend, you haveanice night?” “Do you like Morocco?” “Have you tried the olives?” “What time is it?”
Even the slightest of refusals spurns them on, as it shows they have their foot in the door. Do not even think of taking out a camera, for people will magically appear in front of the lens and then demand compensation. A camera at a circle show is even worse—the wary performers here are unafraid to stop in the middle of a song to barge through the crowd with hat in hand, soon shoved under your nose. Now, with everyone’s eyes upon you (and a thousand pound’s worth of equipment in your hand), it is hard not to give a few dirhams.
They are forceful, but their well-rehearsed looks of shock, sadness and anger are harmless enough. Only the animals here are attacked. The horses pulling carts are whipped mercilessly, the snakes kicked, the monkeys tugged by chains around their necks, and baby tortoises scramble to free themselves from their warm plastic prisons. All, that is, apart from mangy orange cats, who wander the streets with complete impunity. Perhaps they are the only reason I have yet to see a single rat in Djeema el Fna.
After an emotional day (at one point we thought we’d been kidnapped, but that is another story), Chris and I left the recovering Belle last night to wander the square. Moroccans crowd around gnawa groups working themselves into a frenzy and everyone (except us) knows the words. Although there are some gimmicky acts (one was headed by a midget in a suit), most are unassuming, with no difference in attire between those playing and those listening—the men in jeans and branded jumpers, the women more mixed, some in HIJAB, some in hip-huggers. I learned to mouth a couple of songs, but stopped the moment someone noticed (with disdain). These words were not meant for me.
The sun is beginning to wane, a breeze has come, and before long I will be back out there. For now, however, I will spend my last few ounces of sanity to finish this text, close the computer and perhaps, just for curiosity’s sake, to nudge the cat awake. No, wait, I have just seen it stir. Very cute.
