Morocco: Marrakech At Face Value
By Genevieve Richards

It’s not every day that I am chased by four men and a snake through a crowded Moroccan square. My first instinct was not, oddly enough, to put as much distance between myself and the snake as befits any normal person, but to cry – and not pretty little girly sobs either, I favour big, chest-heaving, nose-running wails. My brain screamed “snake”; the water works started; and only then did my feet, seemingly of their own volition, start pedalling me backwards and away from the impending threat of death.

Now, while even I can manage an adrenaline-fuelled dash if danger presents itself, this little episode still baffles me. Not only was I running backwards, but I also had the presence of mind to worry about the effects of my mascara streaking down my face with each new torrent of tears,....and I still managed manoeuvre my way around my friend to use him as a human shield. I quickly poked my head out to gauge the situation and wish I hadn’t for there was still a man coming at me full-pelt while waving the snake menacingly in my direction.

How on earth did it come to this? I was in Marrakech, the mysterious Jewel of the South, not the Australian outback where creatures of this nature are de rigueur. I was supposed to be bargaining my way through truckloads of goodies in the souks and gaily sipping peppermint tea at one of the cafés overlooking the Djemaa el Fna, not flailing about with frantic last-will-and-testament type thoughts while gaggles of people stopped going about their business to witness my imminent demise. I guess I should have had an inkling that this trip wouldn’t be a run of the holiday when we missed our flight to Morocco and had to wait 4 hours and depart from a different airport 100 miles away for the next one.

Marrakech is the ultimate paradox. Although situated in North Africa, it is unlike any other city on the Dark Continent – and I should know as this is the continent of my birth. It has a rhythm and flavour that is more akin to the Middle East and is somehow both shockingly real and ethereal at the same time. In fact, Marrakech is distinctly “other worldy”—it gets under your skin and mesmerises you and, believe me, it takes no prisoners.

Maybe this has something to do with its location in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains beyond which lie the sands of the Sahara. Or perhaps it’s because Marrakech is an assault on the senses—it’s like falling in love; you can’t help but be overwhelmed and infatuated by her ancient architecture, exotic people, sultry weather; and innate spirituality.

As much as I was now besotted with Marrakech, like many a love-story it hadn’t started that way. My first hours in the city were a nightmare—it wasn’t what I expected, or what I wanted. I wanted a bit of peace and quiet; it was crowded and chaotic. I wanted to feel safe and secure but instead was on guard and a quivering wreck racing through the maze of ill-lit streets in the Medina. I wanted time to “window shop” at the various restaurants in the Djemaa el Fna before deciding where to eat, but instead I was accosted from all directions. People shouting at me, pulling at me; crazed faces leering at me every which way I turned. I couldn’t cope; it was all too much. I felt cheated by the experience. This was Africa; I was supposed to feel at home, like I belonged, not afraid and bitterly disappointed.

Then during dinner a funny thing happened to me. I made a conscious effort to catalogue my surroundings and take stock. I realised I was on the inside looking out; and slowly, ever so slowly, I found I was starting to enjoy the view. One of the “menacing” restaurant touts was sharing a joke with a couple, and his sweet, child-like laughter drifted down over me; a group of giggling French tourists were posing for a photograph; a traditionally dressed Berber couple were finger-feeding their young children at a table not far away. The panic slowly eased.

In a short time I had learned my first lesson. Marrakech cannot be taken at face value—you have to delve deeper to take in the essence of the city. Take the time to wander the narrow streets of the Medina; don’t fear the twists and turns of the alley-ways; learn to recognise a few landmarks: turn right where the two wires cross at the chink in the wall, left at the coca-cola sign, right at the iron railing. Haggle to your heart’s content in the souks and don’t fret when you get lost; it’s what being in Marrakech is all about. Talk to the locals, listen to their stories, and accept their hospitality graciously. And perhaps most importantly, be careful where you point your camera because if a snake charmer thinks you have taken his picture without “compensating” him for it, you too will find yourself being chased by a four men and a snake.

My voice, hoarse with fear, could not be heard above the gleeful shouting of the men; and even if it could, I doubt they would have stopped to listen. They were enjoying their reign of terror far too much. It seemed my only course of action was to grab a wad of Dirhams from my bag, throw it in their general direction, and hope that it would stop them in their tracks. I closed my eyes and threw. Success; it worked!

I opened my eyes to find the four men holding their sides and laughing uproariously at their clever gag. The crowds began to melt away, and it seemed my human shield had disappeared too. I whirled around to go in search of him and promptly found him crouched over on the ground in an effort to be overlooked.

When I think back on the experience, I know that I probably wasn’t in any real danger. But there is something about being chased by a venomous snake that makes you a little crazy. There is something in the air in Marrakech, and it affects everyone one way or another. If I had been thinking rationally, I would have remembered that this is a place known for treating strangers like family; but it’s important to remember when within the walls of the fabled Pink City, there are jokers in every family.

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