The Jemma El Fna or ‘place of the dead’ as it used to be known. It is hard to stay away from this place. I am drawn to it. It is so definitely not a place of the dead – I have never been anywhere more lively. It is mesmerizing and you almost forget yourself – you cannot decide what to do – there is so much. I find it best to just find a corner and watch. Take it all in. Tourists, beggars, monkeys, medicine men, water carriers, donkey carts, scooters, police, traders, henna ladies and pick pockets. Sounds, scents and vibrations overwhelm. It is an assault on the senses.
Overwhelmed by the Place I take time to wander around the back streets and wander into hotel foyers. I am amazed that you can get a room for 60 DH (about 6 euros) so close to the square – on the square! Surely you would pay more if they updated the room a bit! Perhaps the charge is by the hour… The decoration is superb, old tiles which are laid perfectly cover every inch. I live in Marrakech but would happily pay 60 DH and stay here just for the experience of it – I may well do.
The owner eventually spies me taking pictures – they hate people taking pictures – makes my life very hard and I have to explain to her that it is for a book, would she like to be in it? Not sure, don’t understand me? She waves me off not quite sure who I am or what I am doing there. I go, not wanting to disrespect her.
Cats are everywhere. Under your feet, in holes, in baskets. They creep around the cafes, eyes missing, deep cuts, the most unclean and bedraggled looking cats you may come across. But they always have food. Scraps of food lie everywhere. Someone feeds them. Someone cares – just enough to keep them on there feet – just.
Time for a coffee on a terrace. Getting hot now. More beautiful tiles guide the way to the roof of the Cafe de France.
Nuss Nuss. Half Half in Arabic. Half milk, half coffee. It’s so good. A latte is watery mud in comparison. You can taste the earth in a nuss nuss. It rolls nicely off the tongue – nuuus nuuus. ”Un nuus nuus s’il vous plait”. I’m getting quite used to saying that.
One of the first books I read on Marrakech was Peter Mayne’s ‘A Year in Marrakech’ most of it was written here at the Cafe de France. In fact a lot of writers including Orwell have sat in the Cafe de France penning their tales. The above picture is the upstairs restaurant at the cafe. Again such amazing detail in the tiling and nobody was there – I had the whole place to myself. It’s like most of Morocco – the beauty is hidden behind a veil or a wall or something.
Back on the street and in the hustle and heat people are toing and throwing. I’m dodging bikes and donkeys and feeling alive. I part with the odd dirham or two for the odd beggar or two and feel like I am living. I am eating the air around me. I am part of the soul of the city. I walk in the shadows and try to stay unnoticed. The flies buzz around my ears if I stop too long, the babouche sellers offer me their babouches. Someone can show me this and someone can show me that. I hear them and see them, their sounds and offers bombard me yet I walk on in the shadows, their chant a song playing in the background.
I make my way back to my car. An odd shot here of a door or the inside of a fondouk. I pinch myself that I am not on holiday. I live here. I LIVE here.
