The Big Square is This Way, Marrakesh, Morocco (Feb 2008)

We are going to get lost. I planned it that way, on purpose, because ‘getting lost in the souks’ is both recommended as the best way to experience them, and also seems to be inevitable, so we may as well give ourselves permission to not know where the hell we are and try to enjoy it. Arrival in Marrakesh has gone sort of smoothly, we got off the train from Casablanca and only had to argue with two cab drivers before we were able to bargain the rate down to something vaguely acceptable, and we only wandered down four or five blind alleys before we located our riad. Climbing the steps through messy construction to our room was a minor detail, the joys of travel, we are going out to get lost.

And so it begins, we start from the Djama el Fnaa, The Big Square. This is described as “the beating heart of Marrakesh,” and first observations indicate that the beating heart of Marrakesh is pumping tourists into the city at an alarming rate. We were nervously prepared to cover our heads and wear loose clothing from neck to ankle, but even the process of getting to our hotel revealed hordes of European women in tank tops and shorts. It’s not like a veil is going to make us look local anyway, it will just make us looks like uncomfortable Americans with scarves on our heads so we skip it.

My map says that from the Big Square we follow the narrow alley from the north end, bear left and that will lead us into the old market district. There are warrens of interlaced souks, or markets, within the walls of the old city, each souk with a different specialty such as carpets, or leather, or slippers, or musical instruments or metalwork, all spilling over into alleys narrow and full of pedestrians, donkeys pulling carts and the occasional motorbike roaring through and scattering foot traffic left and right. So far the ‘specialty’ on these first few blocks seems to be ‘tourist crap,’ we are hoping to find something a little more authentic as we wend our way deeper.

There is a slight widening here, a courtyard with a crooked tree, and we pause for a moment as I turn around surveying all the different offshoots leading asymmetrically deeper into the old city. A young man passes us, stops and says, “Are you looking for the Big Square?” and points back the way we came, “No, we are going to the souks,” he nods and points at the third alley from the left and continues past us. Third alley from the left it is, picking our way over ancient paving stones covered with a patina of dust, and a turn or two later we are in the market for real.

It is an eruption of color and smells, I can walk down the middle of the alley with both hands outstretched and touch souvenirs and handicrafts with the tips of both fingers, except if I did I’d be mown down by one of those scooters within seconds. Welded metal lanterns piled upon each other in varying sizes, insets of stained glass, elaborately decorated daggers in tooled leather sheaths, ducking under rugs hung from the eaves of these shacks, looking and touching and moving without stopping because even without stopping the shopkeepers are leaning out of their booths, “you like? Is very nice! Come look in my store, best prices in Morocco!” I might want to look at some of these things but the pressure is so intense I don’t want to stop, if we are being swarmed while in motion it is only going to be exponentially worse if the target stops moving and becomes a sitting duck.

Debi wants to check out spices, so we stop in the first spice stall we see. They are gracious, bringing us many samples of different spices and teas to taste and smell, I don’t want to buy anything on the first day here but Debi does, we pack up a couple of small sacks and begin to move on. The vendor asks us what we’d like to see, offers to take us to his friend’s carpet shop, no thank you, do we need a guide, no we don’t thank you, thank you, thank you, we are leaving now, thank you.

Another turn and a duck down an alley completely roofed in tin and the motorbikes still roar through this arcade, these are the soap makers and we don’t stop, there is a special price just for us but we don’t stop, emerging out into another courtyard and thoroughly lost now, stop to shake our heads and squint in the sun looking at the different capillaries leading from here deeper in, the beating heart of Marrakesh pushing us ever deeper into the old city, and a young man sees us standing there and says, “Are you looking for the Big Square?” No, we are not, we are looking for the carpet souk, he points to the second alley from the right and continues on, and we dive back into the second alley on the right and continue getting more and more lost.

Emerging into another arcade after we’ve passed some of the metalworkers, bright sparks showering from their handheld welders and other tools, and rich carpets are piled and hung everywhere in layers, a dizzying profusion of hues and patterns and styles and the carpet souk is supposed to be the most aggressive, this is where we will be subjected to the hardest sell. The mosque bells are ringing though, it is prayer time, so we arrive in the souk just in time to see all the merchants abandon their stalls, thirty pairs of shoes are lined up unevenly across the central space and they are all on canted prayer mats bowing east, east to Mecca, Mecca is more important than trying to sell us a rug. I step back, I am not sure what to do, I have never seen anything like this, is it inappropriate to walk across the courtyard while they are praying? Is it disrespectful to sneak glances at their wares in the brief moment that I will be able to do so before they start telling me how very fine this rug is, and that they have a special price just for me?

We sneak unobtrusively down yet another pathway as the call to prayer subsides into silence, now past mountains of glazed ceramic tajines and elaborate woodwork and turn blindly to the right and we have been down this alley before, the shopkeepers recognize us and this time their calls are different, “What are you looking for, girls?” They are laughing a little but I think mostly they are laughing with us, we are equally bemused by the degree of lostness we have achieved, I give them my Patented Rueful Lost Tourist half-smile and keep moving, eyes still shielded behind mirrored aviators. This looks familiar, and this, and the afternoon is bleeding away and we are tired, it is time to try and get un-lost.

I backtrack, or try to, everything looks the same because every stall seems to have the same things for sale so it has been difficult to landmark but this little courtyard with the crooked tree looks familiar, yes I think we are headed in the right direction and then a young man passes us as we stand there contemplating the different alleys leading off from here, lady or the tiger or something else there are more than two doors to choose from, “Are you looking for the Big Square, it’s that way” not even stopping as he points, for the first time today the answer is yes, we are looking for the Big Square, we are ready to circulate back to the heart to be cleansed and pumped out again, he has continued on and we are about to follow his directions when he loops back, says, “You see that man? That is my friend, he is going there, you can just follow him.”

We are wary, as we should be, but nobody has lied to us yet today in fact they have all been very helpfully approaching us in English and pointing us in the right direction, and that alley looks like the right alley so we follow his friend. Turn and bear right and down another alley and yes, this looks right. We walk alongside our new friend for a bit, he asks us where we are from, he says “welcome to Morocco.” Then he pulls ahead again, we drop back but he is making sure we follow him with each turn, making sure he doesn’t lose the American girls headed to the Big Square.

We’ve been walking for a while now, we’re tired and our feet are sore but we must be close and yes, this is all looking familiar as we seed back into wider and wider alleys almost becoming streets but not quite, not here within the walls of the old city. We must be close, I think this is the road we came in on and he turns again. I’m not sure about this, I think we’re close, I think this is it, but he waves urgently and what do I know, we wandered for a long time probably in circles but maybe not and we have to be getting close, the sun is slanting further down as we heave ourselves up cobblestone alley after cloistered arcade after dirt track. I am seeing fewer tourists and they are all heading in the other direction, this does not bode well.

We walk, and walk, and walk. Our friend is still ahead of us, gesturing urgently, and we follow, what else are we going to do, there was a brief moment there when I thought I knew where we were but that was several turns ago. To my left a wall opens up onto a deep pit.

Wait one stinking minute.

I step over to the gap and look in. Our guide circles back to us, I look at the activity inside and then turn accusingly to him: “This is the tannery!” “Oh yes, you want to see, all the tourists come here I will show you.”

I do not want to see the tanneries. I particularly do not want to see the tanneries right now as the sun is going down and we are tired and hungry and have been lost for hours and are trying to find our way back to the Big Square, because it’s not like I studied my map closely before we set out but I looked at it enough to remember that the tanneries are as far away from the Big Square as you can get and still be in the old city.

There are no other tourists around, it’s just us and vendors smirking from both sides of the street, they had this figured out as soon as they saw us here and we are just catching on. We had been warned about this, about people trying to make themselves our guide, leading us astray and then demanding money, I should have known better but I guess we got suckered by all those good directions earlier and I do not want to see the tannery, I want to go back to the goddamned Big Square and I tell our false friend this in no uncertain terms. He tries to convince me but wilts under the heat of my righteous anger, just point us in the right direction and I will figure it out. His shoulders slump, he will take us back, his gambit has failed.

He leads us up yet another path, not back the way we came, and it is even more deserted here there are no shops at all. He’s ahead of us again, about a block, and at a fork in the road he starts to head up the one on the left, glances back at us and suddenly switches directions and takes off at a full run up the other path.

We are well and truly screwed here.

Debi and I consult. We have got to get out of the old city, if we could at least get out of here we could grab a cab but there are no cabs within the walls. We have also got to get out of this part of town before the sun goes down. We start by backtracking and all these vendors have seen us moments before, trudging behind our guide and they call out to us but it’s not friendly anymore if it ever was, they are jeering at the naïve lost tourists who are at their mercy. This looks familiar, this looks right, maybe, this courtyard with a bent tree, but it all looks familiar and we are no closer to getting out of here. We hear music.

Down another alley to the left and there is a street procession in the alley, a group of percussionists and costumed men dancing behind them. “Let’s follow them! They must be going -somewhere-!” We fall in behind the parade. I am hoping against hope they will end up in the Big Square, that is where these performing troupes and processions seem to end up. We are following them deeper and deeper into narrow alleyways and the dirt is more prevalent here and there are no shops, we are in the poor part of the old city and the only tourists in sight, we may be getting deeper into trouble rather than out of it but options are pretty limited and we don’t have a lot longer until full nightfall and we have got to be out of here by the time that happens.

Suddenly there is a crashing finale, a final atonal wailing accompanying the crashing brass, and the crowd disperses almost instantly as people rabbit down alleys, absorbed into the secret nooks and crannies that perforate this city.

Fuck.

But wait! I see something ahead, I step forward, speeding up, are we really that lucky, yes, yes, yes, yes! There is a gate here, we are at the walls of the old city, no idea which side but at least we can get the hell out of here. We nearly run through, suddenly thrust back into the more modern city with paved roads and cars and traffic, a kid offers to be our guide and I just scream at him wordlessly, I am no longer trying to be an ambassador for my country, representing Americans as respectful yet savvy. We walk in circles for a couple of blocks, I am peering around trying to find the spire of the big mosque, if I can see that I’ll have some idea where we are and therefore some idea of how to get back to where we need to be. Nothing, but there’s a Western Union office there, someone there must speak English and as a representative of a international company will hopefully not try to scam us. We cross the street, the office is closed. As we walk around the corner I glance down and narrowly avoid stepping in something that is shining slickly at me up from the pavement.

A closer look reveals a disturbingly anonymous pile of entrails, flies glutting themselves on this found feast.

“TAXI!!”

We dive into the cab headfirst, slamming the door behind us. The driver turns and looks at us. “Are you looking for the Big Square?”