Wrong Roads and Water Sellers: The Ferret Does Marrakech

1. First night here and I feel I need to sing the praises of the riad (guest house) we're staying; a lift from the airport, a tour of the market and dinner that is already making the trip worthwhile. So good even Emily ate it with gusto, and she had difficulty finding food in the airport! The staff are attentive, helpful above and beyond what you would expect and they seem to genuinely care about their residents; the only way they could have done more would have been to guide us through each day as a personal guide, which obviously would be odd and impractical. Probably the best place I've stayed at amongst all my travels thus far and one I would have no qualms recommending to others, even if that front door is so small I feel like gandalf entering a hobbit hole. It's ranked 6th on tripadvisor for damn good reason.
   
   The only thing slightly disconcerting about the place is the security; no safe for valuables and no key locks to the doors (excluding the front door), just a bolt that slides across, which is fine if you happen to be inside the room but isn't exactly difficult to open if you aren't. The only consolation is the atmosphere to the place; more than a 'room renting' vibe you usually get, it's much more a 'me casa es su casa' atmosphere; told right from the start if we wanted wine or water from the fridge we could help ourselves (the former being added to our bill, the latter not) and lending a real sense of a familial 'home away from home,' which is quite frankly the only reason I didn't fret over it too much.


2. You were expecting me to write about the toilets didn't you? What, you think I have a toilet obsession? What kind of sicko do you think I am? (the toilet in the riad is no different than back home. The toilets in public are largely of the hole-in-the-ground variety). Nothing really to report, though trying to convince Emily to pee through a porcelain hole in the ground was amusing...


3. How to describe the Moroccan landscape... Have you ever played the first "Assassins Creed?" First time I saw a roof garden I instinctively thought, I could jump across that wall and hide in that if the guards were hunting me... There is definitely that rustic charm to the place, mixed in with an unhealthy dose of treachery and an incredible view of the stars at night.
   
   
4. The first time you walk around towards the main square is something of an 'oh shit' moment. The medina is a maze of narrow streets winding left and right with walls 20ft high and shops that all look identical. Locals will intentionally guide you in the wrong direction, telling you that 'the road is closed' and 'they can show us a way around' and then ask you for money for doing so, and if it's physically wide enough for a vehicle to go down it, a vehicle will go down it, and yes, donkeys count as vehicles. If you stop long enough to look at a map you're liable to have someone try to drag you into a shop, and there are no apparent road names on even the most major of roads, though even if there were the names would make them of little use; I remember a museum called 'ali ben youssef' and noticed it was nearby, except it wasn't. It turns out it was 'sidi youssef ben,' which was nothing. Armed with a map on my phone and a GPS, this would be my saving grace. Except when I wasn't on the map. Then I cursed a little.


5. Before leaving I was concerned about food, and specifically finding something Emily would eat (being both vegetarian and somewhat fussy) but by the end of day one it is in fact me with the dodgy stomach. Balls.


6. "You speak Arabic? Awesome, we speak Arabic here too. You're French? Well why didn't you say so? We're all fluent in French and speak it more often than Arabic anyway! Oh, you're English? ...Why do you speak English? Well not to matter, I'm just gonna go ahead and talk to you in French anyway." Marrakech is not the most English-friendly of places...


7. I have never drank so much tea; the flavour of the day here is 'spearmint' and is so much better than the stuff back home...


8. Tourism is undisputably this cities lifeblood, whether that's for better or for worse. Morocco operates on something of a closed economy; all international importation occurs using the other countries currency. It's not permitted to take anything more than change outside of the country with excess taken from you as you leave. All this means any money taken into the country doesn't leave it (which has the side effect of some notes looking really old, as in some of them looked like it should be in a museum somewhere like a delicate antique), anything imported processed in whatever way and sold back for profit. It becomes even more apparent with all the street sellers, restaurants, shoe shiners, acrobats, local tradesmen (snake charmers, horse and cart drivers, musicians and the like); everything is designed to attain the money of the comparatively wealthy tourists. I saw no supermarkets or 'shops' as you would expect elsewhere I've visited; nothing more than a corner shop, food stand or market stall in the medina. Everyone is competing for your attention with the cultivation of tricks ranging from a simple throwing of the horns (nice, but how is a hammam spa and massage metal?) to what has to be one of the best cockney accents I've ever heard. Haggling for a good price only works so far as they know you can afford greater than what a local could with even basic things like taxi's overcharging foreigners, and there's no way around this fact. Alcohol, for example, in marrakech is uncommon due to it being a Muslim (dry) country, but once again the reliance on tourism rears its head and serves as a perfect example. Some places will serve - if nothing else - a Moroccan wine, brewed specifically for the plethora of tourists visiting and costing much the same as it would back home (well out of the price range of even deviant minded locals). Perhaps even more impressive is that assumably, considering nobody can really taste check the wine, it actually tastes pretty darn good.


9. Following on from this are the 'water sellers,' which I am assured do indeed sell water still, though clearly this is no longer how they really make a living. Dressed - and at this point i'm going to be unapologetically non-PC - in what looks like a small mexican sombrero and flamboyant red and green silk clothes with little bells on, they dance around a bit diving in front of anyone trying to take a photo, ruining any shot you were intending to take with a photobomb and then demanding money for taking their picture. This must be the only place someone can make a living by quite literally jumping in front of camera's...


10. I know some people have said that it might be possible to get in a sneaky photo of the snake charmers but they're good at spotting this so I really wouldn't recommend it. Emily tried to take a quick snap only to have a guy wrap a snake around my neck before I got a chance to speak. Dragging me towards his spot by both ends of the now rather pissed snake, wrapping another around me as the first wiggled off, putting the pissed snake over Emily after taking her camera - her thoughts at this point apparently being along the lines of 'don't steal/break my camera' he began his work. After a brief involuntary photo session he began demanding 300 dhms (for comparison, my last meal cost less than 100), poking me in the chest and demanding I cough up. 100 ended up being what it cost me. Still ridiculous, and only paid when I realised his hissing cobra wielding friends had started to notice the arguing...


11. The main square, however, transforms itself into a whole different entity by night. Youths litter the streets for the food, music, and general atmosphere. Everything seems to become more friendly as nothing is put on for tourists; it's a meeting ground for everyone with a real festival-like atmosphere running right through the night, every night. Without computers and televisions as the west knows it, everyone seems to congregate here for this hub of activity and merriment that's a spectacle to behold.


12. Do I look like a god damn stoner? Seriously? Every night someone tried to sell me something subtly, walking along besides me not too subtly and asking 'hashish?' Every freakin' night, if not multiple times, without fail. Whether it's broad daylight or night; busy or quiet, doesn't matter. Hell, I was once offered 'opium' for crying out loud. After talking to a few other guests and even the riad owner, it seems that it really is just me that draws their attention; my record is being asked 4 or 5 times in a single day. Come to Marrakech with long hair and you will have no problems get stoned whenever you so choose.


13. For our third night we reserved a table at a highly recommended restaurant a few minutes walk from our temporary home, la Pepperanto. This was the swankiest place you could expect to find; a courtyard/reception area with a carefully constructed pool of water, through to a precisely laid candlelit table by a marble fountain. Complementary wine was delivered to us by smartly suited locals whilst we decided on what to eat - no easy feat given for some reason, most likely the style of food being served, the menu was all in Italian resulting in EVERYONE having to ask what on earth things were - and an hors d'oeuvre resembling a small cheese and onion pastie whilst we awaited our meals to arrive. A beef fillet with vegetables for me and risotto for the lady; the rich food - too rich for Emily who discovered that she can indeed be given too much cheese - wouldn't have looked out of place at a top end london restauraunt. Costing more than the rest of our expenditures here combined, it's only when you convert it back into sterling that you realise it was still less than 15 quid a head.


14. The poorer economy is perhaps best observed away from the main square; with so many locals using donkeys for what i can assume is cost purposes, the cars and bikes that often run are old, rusted, and look barely capable of operating. Vehicle repair shops are far from uncommon and people can occasionally be seen working steel for what I can only assume is for replacement parts. The difference is apparent and makes me wonder if the rest of the world couldn't actually learn more about recycling from this; masters of repair, nothing seems to get thrown when broken. Everything can be fixed, patched, or otherwise restored to a functional state. There is a stark contrast, though it's hard to emphasise the extent to which this seems true and it probably doesn't sound so from my description.


15. Taxi rides in marrakech are an adventure unto themselves. Roads that would otherwise be a healthy single lane in Europe serve as a multi functional lane for pedestrians, cars, bikes, donkeys and parking spots. The number of times we came inches away from obstacles is ridiculous, and people treat it as nothing unusual, happily standing in the middle of the street whilst our driver rev's his engine and beeps angrily. At one point, even though not a word of English was spoken, i could tell he intentionally blocked another car off vying for the same space in the road, stopped, got out, and went to talk to a shop owner just to piss the other guy off. The way they were yelling I was awaiting someones blood to be spilt.


16. The good news is we managed to successfully navigate the souks (a maze of markets selling their wares, mostly tacky carvings, cheap jewellery and leather) and I got myself my usual keyring; a habit i've picked up as a memento for each of my travels, for just 5dhms. The bad news is it cost me 200dhms to get there. Emily found her arm under attack by a henna artist whom she didn't wrench away from before she began her work, despite being told not to, and allowed to continue (in retrospect I should have dragged her away even if she had already begun). When finished she began demanding 800dhms; more ridiculous pricing, and she didn't sound happy to go down to 200...


17. I know I have a preference for getting away from the tourist trail and into the local landscape but between the souks of the Medina and Gueliz - the expat quarter 30 min walk from the main square - I vastly prefer the latter. It's so much more laid back, people don't hassle you constantly and everything is more open; you aren't constantly dodging donkeys only to be swore at by bikes travelling far too quickly and far too close for comfort. There are still markets selling much the same thing but the owners are instead seen napping in the shade, all the bars and alcohol flows in this part of town and there are still the restaurants with traditional Moroccan cuisine (and McDonalds / pizza hut if you really can't stomach it). Fuck the Medina, I want to stay here!


18. One of the things I quickly decided upon is that wanted to learn more about the Berbers; the indiginous mountain dwelling population of Morocco that the age of technology had largely left unaffected. Seemingly unaffected by war, much of their abilities lie in their fantastic craftsmanship, still using simple machinery powered by the flowing water for wheat, flour and washing; creating elaborate carpets, a range of cosmetic products from the argan seeds and it's oil, elegant clothing and immensely decorative weaponry for hunting. They still hold traditional gender roles, the women happily chatting away in their native Berber tongue - an ancient dialect with its own alphabet that survived when ancient Greek and Latin long since died away - whilst the men make the money, often through selling handcrafted goods to the tourists that pass (so yes, even halfway up a mountain someone is trying to flog you a bloody wood carving). In a nutshell, the Berber's are fashion conscious mountain dwelling metrosexuals.


19. For our final day we went for a scramble in the Ourika Valley; a beautiful walk requiring use of the hands up a rocky path around the side of a mountain, winding around to the waterfalls high above. Seven in total, though the troupe of three - we were asked to be joined by a friendly Frenchman called Laurent who we were happy to have on board - along with our guide only traversed as high as two before making our journey down. Now this is what I call a hike!


20. I leave with mixed feelings about the place; there is no doubting the rustic charm of the cobbled streets, the openness of the architecture and the beautiful backdrop of the snow-capped mountains, but it's being destroyed by excessive tourism. Their reliance on foreigners coming and paying the price for it has lead to many displaying threatening and manipulative behaviour to exploit those that come visit. It's so readily obvious that it's sickening, and made all the worse by the fact it's not isolated incidents but what seems a universal occupation, from young teens who only seem to know the phrase 'road closed, come' (the road is NEVER closed, it's obviously not closed, there's cars going down it for fucks sake) in English, to the elderly henna artists that badger you as you walk past. There are exceptions to the rule but figuring out the difference between the genuine and the exploitative is no easy thing to do, and if in doubt the tendency is to assume the latter, which again makes you feel bad for dismissing out of hand those few that are indeed just being friendly. It all ends up being something of a vicious cycle. I don't regret the visit but neither can i see myself making a return trip; certainly not to the medina at least.



21. The Aftermath: Chipping Teeth
    
    I suppose the events of the trip are about as memorable as the events immediately following. On reflection, I suspect it was the very first night that saw me chip a filling – tough meat with bone in the middle of it? Yeah, thanks – though it took a while for the fun to start. It was perhaps a couple of nights before the end of the trip, the day before we went to Ourika Valley, that it began to throb a little due to infection and it would rapidly get worse. Apparently during that trek I was irritable, largely depending on how long before I'd taken my last ibuprofen, taking care not to exceed the dosage causing a temporary period of throbbing pain. That night was spent gnawing the duvet – applying pressure it seems would still cause pain on the swollen area around the tooth, but a constant pain, which is still odd relief compared to the repetitive cycle of “now I'm here, now I'm not / just in case you were able to mentally block out the pain, I'm still infected bitch” – and failing miserably to sleep. By the following day and the return journey I was doubling up with a paracetamol to boot attempting to numb it enough to keep a straight mind. I'd already sent a message ahead to book a dental appointment for when I arrived back in the UK, but this was only the beginning.
    
    As it turns out the first available slot was on the Tuesday, giving me one last day of teething torture which saw me take a cocktail of the aforementioned paracetamol, ibuprofen, and now codeine as well thrown in for good measure, soon forgetting when I'd taken what and so ended up popping them like tic-tacs. The dental appointment proceeded to tell me what I already knew, giving me a £600 bill, and resulting in a 6g day course in amoxicillin (a penicillin-based antibiotic often used in such circumstances), usually reserved for infections deemed 'bad.' It barely made a dent, succeeding in killing the infection around the tooth allowing me to get off the painkillers, but the infection had already moved on from there to the under-side of my tongue and to the upper part of my throat and lower jaw. Swallowing became difficult and the swelling on the jaw effectively sealed my mouth shut; eating anything that doesn't fit through a straw became an almost impossible and painful challenge. Needless to say my next dental appointment was pretty short as a result.
    
    By this point all the various drugs had taken an unexpected toll on the system; common side effects of many of the pain-killers and indeed the amoxicillin include 'fucking up your bowel,' and taking them with reckless abandon translates to 'your bowel is now trying to escape from your body.' It didn't even begin as diarrhoea; it just suddenly exploded out my asshole like someone planted a bomb up there. It wasn't runny, it was liquid. It was the consistency of water, and only now can I really appreciate the meaning of 'explosive diarrhoea.' What happens when you have constipation AND diarrhoea? You push really hard and eventually, the force of the exiting bowel movement forces your ass to lift from the toilet seat. At it's worst I wasn't going to the bathroom for bowel movements but to expel blood and loose bits of my flesh that had collected in my colon. And the new course of antibiotics I'm on lists both 'constipation' and 'diarrhoea' as side effects. Fucking awesome. Oh and my boss is calling asking me to come in to work. And so I did. Ass bleeding and smiley faced for the customers. On my fucking birthday. Ass is still swollen... *grumbles*

Addendum: The Emily chronicles

Just in case some of you were wondering what sort of wonderfully romantic conversations we had on our first trip abroad together, I compiled some of the sweetest moments of the trip.

• Emily: 'Oh my god, where are we going to buy water?'


• Emily: 'I don't know why, but every time I go somewhere I see a Jewish guy travelling'
  Me: 'Emily, just because he's wearing a top hat doesn't mean he's Jewish'


• Emily: 'This tastes like mouthwash!' - on the mint tea


• Emily: 'The birds sound like ferrets mating!'


• Emily: 'I need to pee so badly, I feel like I'm gonna pass out.'
  [enter cafe]
  Emily: 'I refuse to pee'
  [back at the riad]
  Emily: 'next time, I'm just gonna pee in the cafe'


• Me: 'I love you'
  Emily: 'I love you too but shut up, I'm reading 'Heat' magazine'


• Emily: 'What is causing us to fart so much?'
  Me: 'Maybe we ate something our bodies aren't used to'
  Emily: 'What, like fruit and vegetables?'


• Emily: 'I feel bad making you carry everything. I mean I'd help you out except y'know... I don't want to.'


• Me: [throws towel over Emily]
  Emily: 'I'm invisible'
  Me: 'It's an invisibility cloak -'
  Emily: 'Except it doesn't cover my butt'
  Me: 'And all over hogwarts people wonder why there's an asshole floating the halls'


• Emily: 'Ok, that's not in English' [pointing at a blurb for a museum exhibit]
  Me: '... Yes it is'


• Emily: 'Stop being anti-social and spoon me'


• Emily: 'Does he have a French accent?'
  Me: 'Well he is French...' - Emily on Laurent


• Me: 'It's nice having an intelligent conversation from time to time'
  Emily: 'You consider me capable of intelligent conversation?'
  Me: 'Yeah, I do.'
  [pause]
  Emily: 'I'm hungeeeeee, hungee now'
  Me: 'I retract my last comment'


• We've all heard Emily snort, but have you ever heard her laugh so hard she farted, then snorted in laughter because she farted, hard enough to choke as a result of the snort? She's still going whilst I typed this, it's like one big vicious cycle. I'm beginning to get worried whether she's getting enough air...