The Walls of Marrakesh
The walls of Marrakesh loomed as I approached on my bike. Bits of old brick and suchlike poked out, offering evidence of its establishment way back in 1062 by Yūsuf ibn Tāshufīn. Yūsuf rightly realised the combination of accessible fertile plains and a balmy climate made Marrakesh a great place for farming. He and his chums established the city market, and started haggling over prices. The inhabitants of Marrakesh happily continue the tradition to this day, and will try to sell you not just farm produce but accommodation, shoes, food, parking, money, brassware, beads, accommodating company and the occasional dose of whacky baccy.
I rode into town with caution. But once inside the city limits I got completely lost and found myself on the edge of a massive open square, the Djemaa el Fna, where I stopped to look at my map. Immediately a young dude in a baseball cap leapt off the pavement and asked if I had anywhere to stay, wanted a coffee, needed a new necklace or somewhere to park my bike.
A woman I’d met in M’Hamid had given me the name of a small hotel in the city centre, so I had an address on a scrap of paper to wave at him. Without asking me if it was OK, or confirming that I really did need help, he jumped on the back of the bike, ushered me back into the traffic and into a maze of tiny ancient alleyways in search of my hotel.
Mejid (my hustler’s name) turned out to have more confidence than actual knowledge. We rode unstoppingly around the old city with him shouting at me to make sudden changes of direction every few minutes. Local moped riders hooted approvingly as we swerved across the road in front of oncoming buses. We stopped and asked for directions from old men selling rabbits, young women with baskets of food, men with no teeth and shopkeepers selling sheep’s heads with the skin ripped off. Without exception, they spoke at length in Arabic then waved us off confidently in different directions.
After what seemed like an hour of random backstreet swerving and asking, we arrived outside a wooden door marked Riad Amiris, the hotel on my scrap of paper. Mejid loitered expectantly, but I was by then too exhausted to notice his presence. Nonetheless (or perhaps because of the lack of any tip), he asked me to meet up with him later at the café round the corner where Winston Churchill reputedly took tea.
After I had unpacked and washed the grime off, I set out to meet him again. He was waiting patiently at the café, so I bought him a tea and some cake. He gave me a cat in exchange, then, sensing the moment was right, insisted we visit his cousin who I was assured had the best shop in Marrakesh for the most keenly-priced souvenirs that would absolutely make my visit complete.
As we threaded our way through the souk with its racks and piles of goods swinging on every wall and rafter, I began to realise that Mejid was more of an almost-hustler than the real thing. He spent way too much time grinning and being helpful, and never pushed for a sale or stopped answering my enquiries about this that and the other. He was a great guy, and obviously very proud of his hometown.
We wandered deeper into the twisting heart of the old city, saw the place where Robert Plant bought some drums, smelt spices that made us feel like Sinbad, and tasted sickly sweets that made us feel like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. Every now and again Mejid would hurriedly dash up a sidestreet, beckoning me to follow. I asked him why and he told me he was keeping clear of the tourist police who might fine him if they thought he was being a nuisance to me, even though I was actually enjoying his company.
At last we arrived at his cousin’s shop close to the old city wall. Saying it was full of stuff would not even hint at the way it was. It was jammed solid with lampshades, kettle hooks, clothes, carved wooden nick-nacks and a whole warehouse-worth of brassware, furniture and carpets.
Sadly, this avalanche of memorable items was so astonishing and bewildering I forgot to buy anything. I spent my whole time there taking photographs of the unending jumble that could never have been sold in a hundred years, no matter how many cashed up tourists visited. By now Mejid (having expended at least a couple of sale-less hours on me) was looking a bit fidgety and I guessed keen to get back to the Djemaa el Fna for a heavier-pocketed prospect than me. Feeling slightly guilty, I dug in my pocket and slipped him 200 dirhams. His face lit up with a broad smile as we waved goodbye and he set off back to the main square.
Over the course of two days, Mejid tried hard to pretend he was a hustler.
But he never sold me anything, never swung a deal with any pinch-faced shop owner, never gave me a moment’s back lane unease. He was a perfect ambassador for his city, and his country. He didn’t make a buck out of me, but do look him up if you visit Marrakesh. He will make your visit.
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