Waiting for the train in Meknes, I stood without shade expecting the train to be vaguely on time. The previous two trains that had come through while waiting were spot on, and I didn’t think my 7 hour ride to Marrakech would be any different.
Pacing back and forward, I’d managed to synchronise my pacing with a local a metre away. He must have noticed too that we’d stop at the same time, then pace back in the opposite direction, and at one stopping point he looked in my direction with a knowing grin. But the heat was to defeat him, and I found myself standing out in the sun, determined not to give in, until the train finally arrived, triumphantly announcing itself with two long blasts of the horn. This was 45 minutes after it was meant to arrive, which didn’t bode well.
I’d booked the 2nd class carriage like that last two times catching the train. I had no problem both those times, and even found that first train from Casablanca to Sale really modern and nice. Now it was time to witness the insanity of 2nd class when there were a lot of people, and oh man is it insane.
An elderly lady was waiting to board, and I motioned for her to climb on before me. This act met with shouting from people behind me, then one opportunistic teenage girl trying to follow that lady in an attempt to cut me off. Pushing her out of way, eliciting a surprised grunt from her, I climbed on and had to stop to let a family off. Attempting to let them pass, like a normal human being, a couple of old ladies were determined to get on now and blocked their way. After some words (there have been so many times I wished I could understand the language for bizarre moments like this), the old ladies shoved their way past the family, the father looking at me just shaking his head and I had to shake mine back in dumbfounded solitude.
Fighting my way back into the carriage to get a seat, I realised my mistake when the ticket clerk asked me if I wanted 1st class and I said no. I wish I could have taken that moment back and said yes, as the 1st class seats are assigned and therefore no free-for-all to find a seat. There was one legend in the carriage, who helped the older passengers score a seat and put bags in the overheard racks for those that couldn’t themselves. You’d think he worked for ONCF (the nation train company), but no, just a good spirited person.
After three stops the train became a tuna can of human suffering. People trying getting on the carriage, get told there’s no room, then the yelling begins. A tiny little old lady boarded on the third stop and I tapped her on the shoulder to give her my seat. Standing as the train rattled on, we soon stopped. And the electricity went out, as did the air conditioning.
The heat quickly became stifling and creeping towards the border of unbearable. After 15 minutes or so the lights came on and the air began to flow, and slowly the train began crawling along the tracks again.
At the next stop the same thing happened. And again. And again. I was hoping, wishing, praying, that a major station would be next so that all these people would disembark and I’d find a seat again. It did eventually happened, it took two more stops for half the carriage to empty out, and as I stood on my tippy toes trying to see a free seat, the legend that was helping people when I first got on was waving at me, and pointing to a seat in front of him. Awesome, I thanked my new hero and took a well needed seat.
At Casablanca station we sat waiting. To no ones surprise the electricity went out and the air con quit. It must have started and stopped a good half a dozen times over the course of an hour, and the locals had enough. The train doors acted as a protest drum, banging them across the entire train. People also banged the windows, the panelling, anything that would vent their frustration. One by one people started to leave, and I wasn’t entirely sure if I should too. But the ladies in front of me were staying, so I stayed too. Patience would finally pay off, and as the train lurched to life, all across the carriage smiling relieved faces painted the expressions of all us survivors.
The train finally pulled into Marrakech, almost 3 hours late, making it a 9 hour train ride of hell. With the entire day written off, my only thought was to get to the riad and eat something. My plan for the train trip was to do some reading on Marrakech, something which I hadn’t actually done at this point. Outside the station the petite taxi swarm waited for their prey, and one of them offered a ride for 70dh. Now this is really expensive, but not having any context of how far the train station was to the main plaza, and just wanting to get to the riad, I agreed and barely 10 minutes later I was dropped at the Djemaa el-Fna square (meaning a taxi in another city would have cost 20dh if that).
Making my way towards the riad thanks to GPS (more on the Djemaa el-Fna square later), the usual tout picked up my scent and started “guiding” me to the riad. I was tired enough to not really care, and after arriving at the rather ondescript door and in a strangely dodgy feeling lane, I confirmed it was in fact the riad (a small plaque to the side of the door had the name), and the tout was joined by someone that claimed to work at the riad.
While his friend knocked on the door and rang the doorbell, the tout asked for his tip. Yeah of course, I pulled out some coin and he started shaking his head. No that’s nothing! Normally a tip of 20dh would be met with enthusiasm, but this is Marrakech, and everything is dialled up to 11 including the touts. I asked him how much he’s expecting; 250dh. I could only laugh at this and cranky me told him to piss off. As his mate went to knock on the door again, the tout put his hand over the door knocker and said aggressively to his mate, not until he pays.
Shaking my head I tell him again there’s no way I’m paying that. We must have argued for 10 minutes, I could start to tell his mate was getting a little bored of this and tried to tell the tout to see how much change I was offering. He counted it and tallied to 45dh. That’s nothing, he said exacerbated again. I we getting over this too, so I pulled out a 100dh note and told him that’s all you’re going to get. His mate looked at the tout almost pleading to take it, which he finally did and walked back down the lane.
He just cares about the money, he mate tells me, he’ll help you out now. Then the tout calls down from the end of the lane, if you need anything, I’ll be here to help! And like that he vanishes, for the time being.
After a bit of a sleep in (9 hours in a hot train really drains you), I don my tourist cape and go sight seeing. The first stop is the Bahia Palace, that the Grand Vizier Si Moussa began in 1894. This 150 room palace sitting on 8 hectares is fairly disappointing. As you go room from room, they’re all empty and there really isn’t anything to see here other than an endless sea of tour groups. It would have been so much more spectacular if they’d made some effort to put in some replica furniture and tried to give you an idea of the opulence it would have been back in the day. Thankfully this was the low point of the sites.
Nearby is the Badi Palace, the summer retreat for the Sultan built in the 16th century. This incredible site is in the process of restoration to it’s former glory, with a huge courtyard of sunken gardens and reflecting pools. I can’t help but feel envious of those visiting this site in a few years time and seeing what it may have been like 400 years ago. It should be an eye opening attraction.
Also nearby is Dar Si Said, filled with amazing feats of artisan wood carvings, murals, and a musical instruments. Further north of the medina is the Ali be Youssef Medersa, a Quranic school in previous life, again showcases the beautiful woodwork carved into the doors and panelling, with an upstairs floor that housed the students in small stone rooms where some of the lucky ones having a window overlooking the courtyard below.
Next door to Ali be Youssef Medersa is the impressive Musee de Marrakech, which began restoration is 1997. This once was called Mnebhi Palace, home to defence minister Mehdi Mnebhi in 1894, and converted to a girls school in 1965. Now the museum houses a fantastic display of photos of the restoration and black and white (well, really brown and white) photos of the neglected palace. The main feature is the indoor courtyard, where a great canvas overhead blocks out the sun and casts a stunning yellow over the entire area, much to the gasps of awe as tourists enter and see it for the first time.
The riad I was staying at was in a weird lane off one of the souq’s, and to get to Djemaa el-Fin it was a 5 minute battle of a walk through the souq, and it was here the touts hung out waiting for the tourists to come by. On that first morning I had the mate of that tout wave me down and tell me about the Berbers are only in town for just today and I should see their tannery now, as they’re only here for the morning. Obvious a lie, I was on the way to the Bahia Palace at the time and thanked him anyway. Coming back just after 3pm (my camera battery died) I had another tout tell me the tannery would close in an hour and I should go with him so I could see it. Maybe later, I told him and went back to the riad.
Leaving around 5:30pm that tout was still waiting at the lane corner, again saying I should come with him to see the tannery. Nope, I walked off looking for dinner. On the way back from dinner, now around 9pm, yet another tout, who must have been new and really made it too obvious that he was following me as I turned into the riad lane way, told me this way is closed. What’s closed, I asked? He points down the lane, it’s closed down there. I roll my eyes and tell him I have a key. A key, he asks trying to understand. I don’t know if he just didn’t know what the English word for key meant, or he just didn’t know how to respond to this, but he blurted out that I should come with him to see the tannery before it closes. I just keep walking.
The Marrakech tannery had me curious on what was going on. I’d not seen anything about this tannery in any guides, and I began wondering if this was a state sponsored effort to compete with Fez’s famous tannery. After a quick google the boring and expected answer came up; it was tout scam where people have had some pretty scary encounters being abused and threatened to buy leather goods and tip various touts for being “guides”.
The next morning I began calling them out. You’re a lucky man, Berber are only here for today, you should see the tannery. You mean the Berbers from yesterday? The tannery is about to close, come with me. You mean the one that closed this morning, or the one that was only open yesterday? They don’t even reply, just melt back into the crowds. The tout from the first night spotted me and came over grinning away, and shaking my hand. You’re a good guy, you need anything let me know. Eh sure, okay.
The touts in this area stopped even trying to approach me. I’d see them up ahead, ready to start their tout dance of walking casually in front of you and then “noticing” you. But when they noticed me, they would stop short and slink back. But when they did notice, it was just a nod or even one guy giving me the bro hand guns. I guess I’d made a reputation, probably starting with arguing with the first tout, and had earned some respect.
On both nights I had dinner on terraces overlooking Djemaa el-Fin. This plaza is huge and insane. Market stalls selling all sorts of knick knacks and trinkets fill a good portion of the western area, freshly squeezed fruit stalls to the east, and in between a handful of snake charmers and poor chained monkeys are exploited for peoples amusement.
In the day there’s no real shade, I was making my way across the plaza with a 37 degree sun stabbing my eyes to the point they were watering. The juice sellers were only 4dh a glass, and I swear I would have had no problem propping up a deck chair next to one of these stalls and just become at one with cold fresh orange juice. However on several times buying a juice, I’d managed to attract kids asking for money. At first there was just one of them, standing next to me asking over and over for dirham until I’d finished my juice and left. Then each subsequent visit attracted more kids, I don’t even know where they were coming from. It was like Children of the Corn, little kids with their hands out surrounding me while I was just trying to cool down with the gloriousness of a cold OJ.
It was when the sun went down that the plaza comes truly to life. With the heat gone and a nice breeze flowing through, the people come out in droves. Hundreds and hundreds of people, tourists and locals alike, additional market stalls would be erected for the new crowds and their purses. Additional buskers would arrive at this time, with Berbers playing drums while their money man would dance around offering his hat to the surrounding crowds for some coin. There was even a brilliant acrobatic troupe on my last night that defied gravity and human safety.
Marrakech is certainly an eye opener, Djemaa el-Fin specifically. Everything here is bigger, the medina rolls on and on, the food portions are excellent (especially the chicken tangines, that would come with a good portion of chicken), and the price of everything is definitely exaggerated. I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to arrive in Marrakech first and have this city assault the senses, where as I feel like I’d slowly been working my way up to the craziness of it. Also, the Fez medina is by far the better medina in the country.
It was time for the last leg of this trip. Back to the west coast and to the resort town of Agadir and then Essaouria, the final week to be just relaxing on beaches and doing nothing much else.