Lost in Marrakesh

There’s a column in my bathroom. And it’s not a small column either. It’s like having another person in there. It makes it next to impossible to extend my arm out. It’s not the best place for a column but then it was probably there before the bathroom.

At least the water is hot and the pressure is good. This is in stark contrast to Nicktor’s bathroom, which doesn’t have a column and is twice the size of mine. However, while his pressure is good, his temperatures go from freezing cold at one end of the tap to slightly less than freezing at the hot end. Given the choices, I’m glad I ended up with the column.

Now, Nicktor is a country boy at heart but cold showers are not his ideal. In fact, he is such a country boy that he isn’t exactly at home in cities. Guildford, for instance, scares him senseless. Imagine then, his horror when we found ourselves about 4,000 light years beyond his comfort zone. He felt like the proverbial herring, thrown into a swimming pool full of sharks and being told to relax.

By the time we’d finished a very long lunch (the waiters take an eternity to serve you in Marrakech) then a leisurely stroll around the extremely quaint Maison Tiskiwin, he’d finally recovered enough to form whole sentences.

I should point out here that this post is not embellished, nor does it contain any exaggeration. It all happened, exactly as I have written. It is important to ignore any comments made to the contrary. I feel strongly about this as I always try to report things as factually as possible.

Maison Tiskiwin, for instance, could be described as an incredibly diverse and rich collection of the extraordinary art and culture of the many tribes who have lived in the Sahara over the millennia. This is clearly not the case. It is a charming little house containing the bits and pieces of junk that Bert Flint collected over his lifetime.

That’s not to say it wasn’t enjoyable. It was safe and about as risky as peeling an orange. The courtyard at the end of the tour was especially attractive.

The afternoon and evening were both delightfully uneventful as was our dinner which consisted of two flatbread concoctions that the street vendor called Moroccan pizza. They were, delicious, by the way, and highly recommended for when you’re in Marrakesh and feeling peckish but not hungry enough for a full meal.

The morning, however, was anything but uneventful as we made an unscheduled trip to the tanneries.

We did the unthinkable and allowed ourselves to be led, lamb-like, through ever narrowing lanes, twisting so many times we lost what little sense of direction we had. To be fair, this didn’t take much as we’re both as bad as one another when it comes to guessing which way the sea is.

As we travelled deeper into, what felt like Dante’s Inferno, Nicktor’s delight at seeing new things was replaced with a palpable fear that his life experiences had never prepared him for this. Following our delightful day yesterday, soaked as it was, in tourist-y safety, he was ill-prepared to face the natives at their nefarious best.

Our first mistake (the one after coming here in the first place) was getting lost and stupidly talking to a young, happy chap. We had been, innocently heading for the Marrakesh Museum but had taken a wrong turn on leaving Jemaa el Fna. This, of course, leaves even the wariest tourist, easy pickings.

So, this thoroughly pleasant young man, having said how much he loves the English and Australians, said we were very lucky, because the Berbers were in town and we should go and see them. They would be gone tomorrow, back to the mountains from whence they came, so we only had today.

He started giving us directions but then interrupted himself when, quite by chance, he spotted someone who worked at the tanneries. He yelled out to him, something we assumed translated to “I say, Maurice, dear chap. Kindly show these lovely fellows how to get to the Berbers.” What he probably said was “Hey, Maurice, here’s another couple of stupid tourists, lead them astray.”

Refusing to heed the most common advice given to all Western tourists when visiting foreign climes where politeness is confused with financial arrangements beneficial to the locals, we followed Maurice.

I should point out here that we have no idea what his name was but Maurice works for me.

Along the way, he engaged us in pleasant conversation, telling us about life as a Berber in the nearby Atlas Mountains and his job dying things the colour yellow. I asked if he only did yellow. He nodded, smiling proudly. I said that must be boring. Didn’t he sometimes feel the urge to splash out and try red for a change? He looked shocked, as if the question made no sense at all.

Eventually we reached the tanneries where Maurice handed us over to another chap who may have been the overseer (we’ll call him Frank) who, in turn, handed us a bunch of mint each. This, Frank explained was to hold against our noses because of the awful smell of the tanneries.

Frank then showed us around the big concrete pits where men slave away, day after day, bleaching (in pigeon poo), scraping, softening and dying, cloth. It didn’t smell that bad but, Frank assured us that, in the heat of summer, it was horrendous.

He very generously allowed us to take photos of the men at work and the general layout of the place. And, I should point out, there were men working there. It wasn’t a big show for any hapless tourists that may have ‘accidentally’ stumbled on the place. You have to feel sorry for anyone who has to do for living what these guys were doing.

So far, everything was hunky dory. We oo’ed and ah’ed at all the right times, little knowing that we were being slowly lured into the cavern of the beast. It was there, surrounded by pouffes disguised as dog baskets, that we met the Greatest Salesman in the World, the evil genius I’m going to call PT Barnum. PT for short.

PT loves everyone who walks into his shop. He not only loves everyone who walks into his shop he also loves their relations and families going backwards and forwards for countless generations. Saying he is affable is to paint a picture of the man that belies his skill and expertise. He is the perfect selling machine. Let’s leave it at that.

He showed us many things that we weren’t supposed to buy, stopping briefly to watch an old couple deftly weaving, then, finally, into his den. A room surrounded by and piled high with…CARPETS.

There were silk ones, woollen ones, ones made of camel hair, anything, it seemed. All of them hand made to within an inch of their lives by men and women who could only work for three hours a day because their eyes couldn’t handle the endless rows of thread passing through their fingers and over the looms.

Clearly he wanted to sell us both a silk carpet. He took great pains to show us that they didn’t burn (he had me hold it while he tried to burn it with a cigarette lighter and I felt nothing), that they were dog and cat resistant (he had his young apprentice scratch one viciously with an open pair of scissors) and that they could be machine washed (sadly he didn’t demonstrate this). He assured us that we wouldn’t be buying carpets for ourselves but for future generations who would thank us for buying such wonderful carpets. They were, he emphasised with great panache, magic carpets.

We must have looked at a million silk carpets before we managed to settle on one I liked and another that Nicktor was rather taken with. Then he told us the price. He was willing to give us a very special deal if we both purchased one. The special deal was marginally better but even so, it was ridiculously high.

Nicktor just laughed in his face, explaining his wife would kill him if he spent that much money. PT asked him how much he could afford. Nicktor typed this figure into a calculator and PT blanched in horror.

Anyway, after much haggling and pleasant exchanges of meaningless drivel, I bought a silk carpet. PT threw in a pair of slippers and we left the store into, what we thought would surely be, relative safety. But we were mistaken.

Frank was waiting for us, dashing over as we exited once more into the mortal realm and hurrying us over to the man who dealt in colours, herbs, spices and various strange concoctions that cured everything from a sore toe to decapitation. I bought some rose cream (I’m a sucker for anything that smells of rose) and a bottle of stuff he claimed was good for healing psoriasis and we left with the tiny bit of bravado we had remaining.

Heading for the completely non-sign posted exit, we were once more headed off by the ever vigilant Frank who asked for a tip for his time. Then, leaving him behind, Maurice appeared, giving us vague directions to get back and also asking for a tip. We parted with a bit more cash and headed out.

And that’s when things got decidedly worse.

Trying to retrace our steps proved, not just next to impossible but setting up home in his house and not moving for 34 years. Familiar streets and alleys quickly blurred into a series of identical souks and traffic infested hell holes. When we reached a school and thousands of children started vomiting out onto the street, things were feeling kind of desperate.

Now, I know that Mirinda is going to say “Why didn’t you use the satnav in your phone, Gary?” My answer to her is that we couldn’t stop for fear of once more being accosted and dragged off to another area of Marrakesh that specialised in wood turning or metal bashing. It wasn’t until we reached the school that I felt safe in stopping and checking my phone. When I did, it was quickly clear we were heading in the wrong direction. We turned around and started back.

I’d love to say that that was the end of it but it wasn’t. Among the dark and identical alleys, we were ‘rescued’ by a young lad who asked if we were headed for the Jemaa el Fna and that he would show us the way. Hesitantly we followed, my eyes firmly following his navigation on my phone.

He led us to where the signs begin to appear, high up, with helpful arrows directing us onward, back to civilisation…well, relative civilisation, anyway. Then, of course, he asked for money for his troubles. Nicktor tried to give him the equivalent of a halfpenny but he was not pleased. I gave him a handful of coins (probably about £1) and he was satisfied, wishing us well in our continued journey through life.

It was with great relief that we eventually strode back into the big square.

After our ordeal, we needed to stop, rest and recover with an egg burger for me and a hamburger (actually chicken) for Nicktor.

The long lunch was very, very welcome.