Morocco at Nine
Lauren Hall
Throughout the years i've realised the importance of age when it comes to the existential analysis of traveling. When I was nine my parents took me overseas for the first time and the tune of the travel corresponded nicely with the age that I had turned. I’ve realised since first stepping foot in the city of Marrakesh that although a country may be beautiful, it evades the regular knowledge of what a nine year old knows of the world, therefore this experience was unlike anything that I had ever witnessed before and is the clearest in my memory of any other country that I’ve had the pleasure of visiting since.
When I was much older than nine, I soon met a young girl who’s first travelling experience involved eating too much blue cheese, visiting “the place the hunchback of Notre-something was from” and buying berets in all sorts of sizes and colours. When I walked into the chaos of the morning market in Marrakesh at 9am with smoke rising from all corners, snake bearers twisting a whistle, girls grabbing my arm to henna, the smell of eternal incense and the always overbearing sound of people cheering, yelling and screaming for attention, I realised that the world was a much bigger place then the nine square metre radius that had previously been my life.
But what an adventure! The ground everywhere in Morocco is tangerine and dusty. I remember lines of palm trees along the expansions of roads that we would chase mirages along and my parents trying to understand Arabic radio stations, searching for media commentary or a familiar tune. Bazaars in every city were filled with leather, spices, glittered fabrics and coloured glass. Tanneries in Fes are the clearest in my memory because this market hasn’t changed since its inception in medieval times. We had a tour guide at the time that led us through a leather shop to get to the Tanneries. It was filled to the brim with handbags, jackets and slippers. My mother, in her brilliant hind-site had bought fresh mint from the markets outside our hotel that morning and thankfully as when you visit the Tanneries, the animal hides have a scent that is not pleasant to smell and the pigeon poop they're treated in doesn't help.
Blue. That’s the colour of the streets in Chefchaouen, endless sky blue. From these streets to the Jardine Marjorelle with its psychedelic desert mirage and thousands of flowers and plants, my journey through Morocco was an enchanting experience. One that I would recommend to the rest of the world or even just another nine year old.
