Marrakesh: Swedes and Rashida

What do you think of when you hear 'Sweden'? I think of fire-engine red hair. Bright green eyes. I think eccentric. I think sharp and strict and connected and international and compassionate (as long as I do not say the wrong thing, step the wrong way, send the wrong message). I think multilingual. I think Academia Arabesca. Whatever that means. I think camel dances and dress-up. I think remembering Arabic script by way of crazy hip dips and steps, and sounds that remind me of deranged animals. I think an utterly breath-taking riad, ten percent of an old Moroccan palace. Decorated with gardens, tilework, plasterwork, calligraphy galore. I think bargainer. I think 20 years old--but actually 65--who knew? I think sharp piercing voice. I think Moroccan holler, made by moving one's tongue back and forth impossibly fast and screaming at the top of one's lungs (I hear it calling me to every meal). I think Gita Sellman, my Swedish guide and host and teacher in Marrakesh.

Marrakesh has become everyone in my group's favorite Moroccan city. Except for me--my allegiance stands strong in Fes. But Marrakesh is undoubtably up there on my list. Built for use as the capital of the Almoravid dynasty in the eleventh century AD and subsequently capital of the Almohad and later Saadian dynasties, Marrakesh has reached another golden age in the twenty first century. Rooted by the infamous Djemaa el Fna at dead center of the old medina, it is a city of irrepressable pulsing life, beating drums, packed souks, fresh orange juice stalls, and questionably safety-threatening motorcycles speeding through tiny alleyways (no, mom, my safety is not really threatened).

Highlight of Marrakesh: Rashida.
Story: The second night in Marrakesh I made my way to Djemaa el Fna to try out food from one of scores of stalls serving kebabs, harira, snails, potatoes, aubergine, lots more food, and loads of entertainment. I was warned by Gita that I had to prepare myself for stall workers in white jackets who would harass me to eat at their stalls until I either sat down on their benches or escaped their grip and made my way into the next stall's zone, where the process would promptly begin again. 'Just beware to keep tabs on what exactly ends up on your table, or else you could end up with piles of food and a pretty hefty bill to foot', she reminded me for the third or fourth time as I walked out her door. With this information to direct me, I began my adventure to find the perfect food stall. I found it. The search started out with a clostrophobic walk through the labyrinth of medina alleyways and then labyrinth of stalls, sure enough attracting attention from stall workers, complete strangers, using every method from yelling 'Do you remember me?' to 'Lovely lady!' just to get me to pause for long enough to begin a conversation. Once you stop to talk, you will most likely end up eating at the stall you are in front of. I pushed on. As I worked my way deeper and deeper into the stalls, I had many menus thrown in my face. One caught my eye. Textwise, it was exactly the same as every other menu (and probably, to be honest, foodwise they are no different either... I only say that to be candid, if you ask me otherwise I will have to tell you how much better one stall is--my stall). But on this menu, there was a strange picture. Three strange pictures, to be exact. All the same image: an odd, toad-like face topped by an awkward brown leather hat, man or woman, who could tell? Confused and amused, I made the indeliberate but decisive move of pausing long enough to point to the picture to show my friends. We laughed and moved to keep walking. But, as soon as he saw me point, the stall worker holding the menu yelled, 'look, look!' and pointed dramatically to his stall. Standing on a raised step behind the grill was Rashida, in all her glory, the image on the menu personified, hat included, sporting an ear-to-ear smile and exaggerated thumbs up. Unabashedly entertained, I sat down to enjoy one of the best (and cheapest) meals of my trip this far. I have eaten at Chez Rashida every night in Marrakesh since. If you ever get the chance to visit this marvelously hectic city, go to stall number 42. Best advice you wil ever recieve on this blog, guaranteed.

I just returned to Marrakesh from the gorgeous seaside fisherman's town of Essaouira. After eating some good fish, hanging out on the beach, writing most of the past three blog entries from a perch in the crenelated fortification wall surrounding the city (built by the Portuguese in the 1500s), and trying rest up enough to shake my mono, I feel energized to begin my journey tomorrow south into the Kasbah and Oasis country and then into the Sahara. There, I'll get to ride some camels, inshallah.