Tuesday, August 21, 2007

July 4-7: Marrakech



We arrived in Marrakech, tired after our 7 hour train trip. Needing cash and food, and with darkness descending, we headed to the city’s famous square, the Djemaa el-Fna, to seek out an ATM and see what the fuss was all about. After a short walk through the polluted streets of the kasbah (of “Rock the Kasbah” fame) we came upon the Djemaa, a thick buzz of people, street stalls and noise. Crowds of locals were ringed around solo street theatre actors performing by lamplight, babbling indecipherably and staring maniacally, generating laughter (and probably money). Little old women squatting on the ground proffered their decorated hands and offered “free” henna painting. A reedy teenager walked straight towards Limmy and whispered into his ear, “Hashish?” before darting away towards his next prospective customer. A couple of small fistfights broke out between local youths, watched by indifferent bystanders (police included). Bicycles whizzed between clusters of people and snake charmers. Like a beacon rising above the commotion, dozens of tall food carts were visible, their lamps illuminating all kinds of edible vectors of gastrointestinal illness such as grilled sheep’s gonad kebabs. We found a working ATM on our eighth try and breathed a little easier, despite the ubiquitous smell of food, people, smoke and oil. Welcome to Marrakech.



The Djemaa el-Fna.


Slightly closer than the last picture.


Our unforgettable experience in Marrakech was a Moroccan cooking class. Run by a Dutch lady, we got to buy our own ingredients from the souk (market) and cook them under the watchful eye of her grumpy-faced assistant Aisha. The souk area surrounds the Djemaa, and is just as crazy. Early in the morning we got to see locals woofing down their usual breakfasts of baked sheep’s feet and/or snail broth. We haggled with the local grocers for our veggies. Vicky lined up to buy the almond oil before realising (after being bypassed by about ten locals) that queueing is not the Moroccan way.


The souk.

Would you like meat with your tub of fat?


Limmy makes a new friend.



It's common practice to kneel at the market.

Not even a photo will stop a Moroccan selling his bananas.



Usher teaching Vicky how to knead the perfect loaf.


Don't mess with the bread guy!


That afternoon, in the Dutch lady’s beautiful house, we learnt three different ways to mash eggplant, parsley, tomato, garlic and spices, as well as making our own tagines and cookies. We can’t claim to have cooked it all, as at the first sign of incompetence, the grumpy-faced assistant would wrest any utensils from Limmy’s hands and complete the task at hand. As we ate our meal on the rooftop in 45-degree heat, our host remarked how fortunate we were that it was not like last year, when it was mid-50s during summer.




They almost look good enough to eat!

Iron Chef Limmy.




The fruits of our labour.


Here are several photos!




Nice pool.



In the mosque.


Peekaboo.



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