Navigating the Souk of Marrakech

Marrakech was founded in a relatively verdant valley to the west of the Atlas Mountains by the Almovarids in the late 11^th century and early 12^th.  They were the first Berber dynasty to rule large sections of the Maghrib.  The name Marrakech is more like Mare-Kush in Berber and Arabic and is something like “Land of God” in Berber.   The name has descended to al-Maghrib, the Arabic name for Morocco and also the name of the 4^th prayer in the Arab daily prayer sequence; corresponding to the time of sunset. 

            Old City or medina (meaning city in Arabic) is the heart of the Marrakech.  It is a huge walled complex with many ornate portals.   Inside you can find old mosques, crooked streets, and the heart of the medina, the souk.   In Moroccan cities and towns the souk is the main marketplace where merchants peddle their wares.   The souk in Marrakech is world renowned, although it has the trappings of many market places where foreigners venture.  In these venues, you can be sure to hear the phrases: “Hey, my friend, come see this, it won’t cost you anything.”   Yeah, right.

The rampart surrounding the medina of Marrakech. 

            From my hotel in the New Town in the northwest, I walked to the wall around the medina.   Then I made a bee-line for the Koutoubia Mosque.  The mosque was built in 1147 to mark the victory of the Almohads over the Almovarids.   The Koutoubia minaret is the highest structure in Marrakesh, and is quite a landmark from a distance. 

Koutoubia mosque minaret, dating from the period of the Almohads.

            There are a lot of tour guides for the medina lurking around, and for a fee, they’ll give you a tour.   I’d heard that it’s a rip-off squared, because they’ll only lead you to their favorite vendors and talk you into buying their wares.   “oh yes, effendi, this is a very fair price…”   No doubt they get kickbacks for this.   I decided to take my chances alone, as I figured out I’d only get the square-root of the rip-off.  

            The taxi driver who took me in from the airport the evening before offered to be my guide, at “very reasonable price”.    When I'd left the hotel bound for the souk, a man approached me offering to be a guide, saying that it’s not a good idea for a Westerner to wander along through the souk.   I told him I’d take my chances.   When I got to the Koutoubia mosque, I could see three guides waiting in ambush.   I quickly melted into a German tourist group with their own guide, and joined the crowd as they walked past the other three guides. 

 

            Once safely past the guides, I spied some satellite dishes on rooftops.   I checked a map, and saw that they were all pointing due south, so I had a handy reference.  I then made my way past a square that becomes a nighttime market place and slowly walked into the souk.    On the way in, I found a shop that sold clothes.   Charlotte asked me to bring home some “Moroccan pants.”   I had no idea what that meant, but Karen texted me saying that they’re “I Dream of Genie” pants.   I managed to find some with only a modest hassle. The son of the shop owner wouldn’t take a big purchase as an ending, so he kept pushing.   “Hey mister, I get you Marrakesh style hat… Hey mister, I get you Moroccan style basket.”  

Satellite dishes pointing south on apartments just east of the Koutoubia mosque.

            Finally, I entered the souk itself.   Boy, what a rabbit’s warren. It is a maze of little kiosks lining alleyways.   The alleys are narrow, but that doesn’t stop donkey carts, human powered karts, motor scooters, and bikes from cruising through.   I’d estimate that perhaps two-thirds of the people cruising through the souk are actually local. 

            Many of the areas of the souk are designated for different crafts.   In some areas, fabrics are dyed.   In others, metals are worked into intricate designs, some for ornate lantern casings.   My first destination was the apothecary district.   I found it straight away.   Although the souk is maze-like, my sense of direction did me well, and every so often, I could spy a satellite dish to keep my bearings.  As I walked through, I found that the apothecary kiosks all looked very similar – some bottles of oil out front and large jars lining the interior.   I stopped at one, and immediately got treated to the hard sell by a guy named Abdul.   It was still pretty fun.  He immediately pointed me at some Moroccan remedies for sinus problems.   He was either clairvoyant, or just could tell from my voice that I was congested.   

Abdul, the owner of an apothecary kiosk in the souk 

            Abdul showed me some black cardamom seeds and demonstrated how to crush them in a handkerchief and inhale the aroma.  He did the same with some menthol crystals, which had a distinctly pungent odor.   We then did a “guess-the-herb” game, where he would expose me to the scents of many of the items in his jars and I would try to guess what it was.   I think I batted 0.500 on the identifications.   Abdul also showed me frankincense and myrrh, the first time I’d actually encountered them.  I couldn’t help think of the Christmas carol line, “Myrrh is mine, it’s bitter perfume/Breathes of life of gathering gloom/ Sorrowing sighing, bleeding, dying/Sealed in a stone cold tomb.”

            I finally relented to Abdul's hard sell and bought a bar of musk, some black cardamom seeds, and the crystal menthe – seeing as I did have some sinus congestion.   Of course, the price was exorbitant, of course I should have bargained, blah blah blah…but I figured I was paying for the show, so what the heck. 

Breaking bad: crystal menthe (note the "n" and the "e" please, mister custom's man). 

   

            Past the apothecary ‘district’ there was an open square and a local café.   It was hot and lunchtime, so I ordered a mint tea, and a cheese sandwich.   From the shade of the café, the business of the souk passed in front of me, including a local vendor who had been offended by a group of Italian tourists.   He went running after them, got in front of them and started cursing in Arabic. 

            After the café, I wondered back to the south, but found myself regaining one of the entrance streets to the souk.   I wanted to test my way-finding skills and set about the goal of finding Abdul’s stand again.  I made my way in the general direction, but let me tell you, the concept of a landmark in that warren is difficult – there is so much stuff that it’s all a jumble.   Nonetheless, I hit on a technique that worked wonders in the souk: the sense of smell.   You just decide what you want to find and follow the smell.   The apothecary area has a spicy smell.   You might guess as how you can find the fish-mongers.   The metal workers were distinguished by the black-smithy odors of their fires. 

            Just outside the souk on the north side, I passed a preserved structure that was the dome of a mosque dating from the Almoravid period – the oldest building in Marrakesh.  This is called the Kouba B’Adiyn, built in 1106 AD.  This is the only surviving Almoravid structure. As I was trying to get an angle to get a good photo of this, I noticed a British couple was nearby also trying to get a photo.   I explained to them the history of the place.   They seemed pleasantly surprised that I wasn’t offering to guide them or take them into some kiosk to hawk wares to them.   But then again, I was obviously not Moroccan.  

The Kouba B'Adiyn mosque, built in 1106.  It is the only surviving Almoravid structure in Marrakech. 

            I reentered the souk. One entrepreneurial young lad kept finding me and pushing me to the area where clothes were being dyed.  He said his brother sold the best fabrics. He was annoying, something like a fly that keeps landing on your cereal.  I kept dodging him as best I could, but he seemed relentless and omnipresent.  Even though I finally managed to ditch him, I did end up wandering into the dying region of the souk.   It was impressive, I have to say, and seemed downright carcinogenic.  Guys had arms that were deep purple up to the shoulders.   In a dimly lit room huge vats of nasty fluids and dye were cooking away.   Whatever they were using couldn’t have been very healthy.   As I entered, a guy who bore a surprising resemblance to the pestilential hawker got hold of me an demonstrated the dyes, and how many of the dyes in fabrics ran when subjected to water.   He hustled me into his kiosk and showed me how the dye in his scarves didn’t run.  He proceeded to tie up one scarf and showed me how to tie a turban on like a Toureg.   After bargaining a bit, I bought two of the scarves.   It was still a rip-off, but again, I chalked it up to paying for the show.  

            As I left his kiosk, who would you think just showed up, but his nervy younger brother who I immediately recognized as my pest.  He said “see, I told you it was the best.”  Hmm…

            From the dye district, I pressed on past a dark corridor illuminated by hundreds of lamps covered with the finely wrought ornamental metal work that I’d seen being fabricated in the metal-working area.    At this point, I’d pretty much exhausted the tour, and my stash of money that I'd brought along.

The alley of lights - finely wrought metal workings around lamps. 

            All-in-all, I was glad I went without a tour guide. Even if Abdul and the dye-guy were rip offs, it was all part of the show. I don't have the patience to bargain for too long.  I'm sure I could've gotten the dye-guy down further, but it was tough to say "I have no more money". I probably could've bargained harder still.   

I'd never done such navigation-by-smell before, but this was the ideal environment.