Braaaainnnnnsssssssss
Note: Sorry for the lack of posting to any and all that were concerned; there is a lack of good, fresh-squeezed internet in Morocco. As is such, these events happened weeks ago.
Much has been written about this circus of food and entertainment located in the heart of Marrakesh’s medina, but I will tell you my grand tale of culinary and cultural exploration within this magnificent atmosphere.
We arrived in Marrakesh via train from Rabat. It was a long and taxing journey, our first in second class. There was no air condition, and consequently I was stuck to my orange leather seat the whole time in extreme discomfort. When I opted to stand in between cars to get a draft of air from the open door (this ain’t the first world, kids), there was always a bevy of interesting and crazy people to talk to from all over the world, but mostly Agadir, Morocco. Examples: Crooked-glasses drunk Moroccan Obama supporter, though against his “blackness.” Hooded t-shirt clean-cut man. Smug resident of Casablanca who took pride in his English and his job as a consultant at firms I never heard of. Various Spanish tourists. Train cart chain smoker. All proved to me that perhaps going second class, although only five dollars cheaper for me as an American, was perhaps a great way to get in touch with Moroccan populace (though I took first class on the train home ;) )
After visiting a local art festival located in the luxurious French imperialist part of the city and rubbing elbows with aristocrats and people who complain about paintings, the night quickly befell us and we grew hungry, with prospects of eating at the legendary Djemma el F’na. We put on some fresh clothes in our riad and hit the square with a fervor rivaled only by the fervor that I hit the streets of Amsterdam last week (perhaps that will be another post, though I don’t think I can really write about what I did there). It was positively bustling; gnawa flute, snake charmers, amateur boxers, story tellers, beggars, and food stands as far as the eye could see. Walking through the food stands as a white person, it’s as if these Moroccans are in a cartoon – they see you, and you instantly turn into a bag of money or a dollar sign or the guy from Monopoly.
“Hey, touch my hand!”
“Bonjour!”
“You want eat? Best fucking food!”
“Hey! You look like Slim Shady!”
“Hey! You look like Borat!” (this one to my mustached compatriot)
Some even had the audacity to clothes-line us or block our path with physical force. It was madness. As such, we spoke Arabic to them and they quickly shut up and looked amazed that these Nazarenes (thank you Paul Bowles) could speak Darija. I, if I may brag, was mistook for being Algerian and Libyan at one point. It’s amazing how the level of respect and honesty skyrockets if you make an effort to speak their language.
Menu at a stand
Our plan of action the whole time was to eat where there were only Moroccans sitting down at a given stand. This meant we would get the best harira, the mintiest tea, the most tender tangia, and for my risk-taking companions, succulent sheep’s head (I didn’t try it, but my friends were disappointed and were pretty sure they got little pieces of brain in theirs). We were warned by our program to not eat at outdoor food stands, which made the experience all the more intoxicating. When you think about it, though, there must be a certain level of cleanliness. These men are cooking for you right in front your eyes, not that I would dare say anything if, perhaps, my server sneezed in my loaf of bread and handed it to me. Actually, I probably would. Regardless, all of the cuisine we ate was delicious and cheap. The harira, a soup I eat very often with my host family, was thick and hearty. The tea tasted like liquid Wrigley’s, but in a good way. The tangia, a meat (not sure which type) stew, was juicy and moist and so greasy. The bread, God! The bread! Levened crack cocaine. We filled our bellies with everything imaginable, acting like big shots and taking turns paying when it all cost us about $12 dollars a piece. Afterward, we drank a tea that contained every spice not included in Moroccan cooking, which is basically everything but cumin, salt, pepper, and saffron. It was so sharp it was almost alcoholic in taste. It soothed my stomach and made me feel “like a horse,” to quote the man standing next to me.
This was not a story, but an overview of an experience I recommend highly. People complain that Marrakesh is overly touristy. And I agree. But living in Morocco and being privy to the joys of family life and just carrying about a normal existence here, I wanted touristy. I wanted to act stupid and dress however I wanted and make fun of people and stay at luxurious hotels. It made me appreciate my life in Rabat, but also my new found capacity for touristic enjoyment. The Djemma el F’na is not a place to sleep on if you ever make it to Morocco. Delicious food, endless entertainers, and enough trinkets to make your eyes bleed.
