D-Dog’s Blog

Leaving Marrakech, after twelve days of macaroons, lazing around in the sun, ice cream and general laziness, was a bit of a pain. As the earliest riser in the group, it was deemed my job to make sure everyone was up in time to catch the eight-thirty bus to Essaouira. Despite my fears that it would prove difficult to rouse Frank from his often seemingly impenetrable slumber, we made our connection and soon found ourselves back on the coast, this time facing down the mass of the Atlantic. But accounts of uneventful journeys are, well, uneventful, so instead I’ll give a final summing up of Marrakech, the town that became, to us, Morocco’s answer to ‘the big easy’ (although, that makes little sense, due to the fact that the lax restrictions on alcohol that originally gave New Orleans its nickname clearly do not exist in Morocco, a Muslim country). Anyhow, I digress. During our twelve days we frequented the square and only the square; most of our days consisted of brief sorties into the outside world to procure ice cream and to use the internet (I am, after all, a busy editor). The ‘assembly of the dead’ could not be a less apt name for the enormous square that dominates the centre of Marrakech’s medina. There are the snake charmers, the con artists (according to some people one and the same), the henna artists, the orange juice sellers, the Berbers in their blue turbans who sell incense from rugs on the ground and the thousands of pasty tourists who throng in shorts and bumbags. Essentially, its a pretty lively place, especially once darkness falls when the tourists change into sensible cargo trousers and enter the fray looking for food. Needless to say, the residents of the square are only too willing to help, with thrusting offers of menus and phrases (directed towards the British tourists) like “it’s the dog’s bollocks”, “bloody marvellous” and “have a butchers”, all spoken through tongues more used to speaking throaty Arabic. And then there are the mobilettes, little bike-scooter hybrids that are surely the motorised equivalents of the weary mules they share the roadways with.

Speaking of the donkeys, after a long time spent witnessing their hardships, one cannot help but feel sorry for them. There’s something in their appearance which means they permanently look glum. Of course, the fact that they are literally worked until they die doesn’t help. In order to stop them running off, some owners tie their front legs together; others, so as to prevent them from scaring in crowds, put their eyes out. They are rarely fed, and only occasionaly complain with hee-haws and shrugging and bucking. Perhaps when I get home I’ll give some money to the donkey sanctuary. Hmm. Anyway, we rarely ventured beyond our comfortable surroundings, favouring instead to sit and read, drink and talk. Everyday but one the weather was marvellous, which made lying around even easier to justify to myself. Too long spent in the midday heat can cause you terrible problems. It’s true. Sunburn, heatstroke, melanomas. Do you think I’m going to go out there and risk DEATH? You must be a mentalist. No, instead I’ll sit here, sip from my jus de banane and read Doonesbury (do you read a cartoon? It’s like eating soup, it just doesn’t make sense).

Yes, Marrakech was good. Perhaps too good, for the place we have just checked into is shabby, and the roof terrace poor at best. Upon further inspection I discovered that there is NO ROOFTOP CAFE (!) and that some negligent person has dumped an old bed up there, complete with the customary mangy bit of animal hide. We shall have to see how Essaouira measures up. Seeing as I don’t surf, I shall have to find other things to occupy my time. Actually, I haven’t read today’s Doonesbury yet (has anyone else noticed that the Guardian is recycling old Steve Bell cartoons? I’m not happy – not that I ever really understood what the man was talking about). So there it is (was), the first post from Morocco’s Atlantic coast. Expect more tales of lazing about, ice cream, donkeys and Doonesbury.