The Red City

Were you wondering where the gabby gadabout had gone?  I met up with Claire, one of my dearest friends from college, and so there was less time for writing to start with.  But Claire has a Mac and Google hasn't been loading on Macs in Morocco for the last few days. I certainly could have gone to a cyber and reported on all the fun I've been having, but spending time in a cyber when Claire and I could be hanging out didn't appeal.  My last dispatch was from Essaouira, and my last night there was lovely.
I went to a restaurant that happened to have wifi, so I could get some news on the latest world-wide tragedies.  And after dinner, the owner, Kamal, invited me to join him and his friend, a Moroccan visiting from France, for some wine and chatting.  We chatted for quite a while, and we all asked questions of each other.  My favorite question was "So, Monica, what about the Mormons?"  Apparently here in Morocco, the polygamist sects that have been getting attention over the last few years are lumped in with the mainstream Mormon church  and there is some fascination with the church and its splinter groups.  To me however, Islam and Mormonism have a lot in common - both acknowledge the Old and the New Testaments, were originated by a post-Christ prophet, have allowed or continue to allow multiple wives, ban alcohol, cherish large families, and eat massive amounts of sweets.  That's a lot, right?

The next day I bussed into Marrakech, ready to meet Claire.  Claire had warned me that the taxi drivers would try to rip me off and told me to pay no more than 15 dirhams.  Kamal had told me to pay no more than 10, so I tried that price as my counter to quotes of 50 and 60 dh once I got to the bus station.  These drivers would not budge.  They just gave me looks of disgust and walked away.  There weren't loads of other tourists either, so I was rather surprised at how intent they were at overcharging.  It's one thing to try, another to insist.  I ended up paying 15dh, sharing a cab (very common) and forcing the driver to get change for the 20dh note I paid with.  That was my intro to Marrakech, and my impressions haven't changed much.  I haven't been hassled, cajoled, arm-grabbed worse anywhere else in Morocco.  And when I make the rules that the universe operates by (never happening, I know), I will ban mopeds in the medina.  They are a menace, and the noisiest and smelliest of the many noisy and smelly menaces in the medina.

Visiting with Claire was wonderful though.  Not only have we been friends for ages and make each other laugh, but she also speaks French and Arabic, so I get to be the lazy American tourist.  Finally!  Marrakech has been her home base in Morocco when she's here doing research for her PhD, so she knows her way around, can ask for directions in Arabic when she does get lost, and has a lovely way of calling taxi drivers' bluff in Derija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, which I may be transliterating incorrectly.  She and her husband will be living in Marrakech this summer, so I got the chance to accompany her on her lodging search.  In my former life, I'd always pop into open houses so checking out apartments and cool, funky riads doesn't require arm-twisting.

Marrakech is an intense town.  It's definitely hipper than the other places I've been here in Morocco - the vibe is younger, cooler, more modern and trendy - but, man, it is an assault on the senses, particularly the ears and the nose.  The first couple of days I can't say I really liked it, but when we returned after our road trip, I could see the appeal better.  But we had plans to hit the south, so after two days, that's exactly what we did.