Moroccan Madness

A hard piece of round fruit thrown at my face, what was that about? Sipping a cup of sugary, aromatic mint tea after been scrubbed down, bathed and massaged at a local hammam, I contemplated the cultural experience I was encountering here in Morocco. Having spent the break of day navigating my way through the earthy medieval medina walls of Marrakesh’s pulsating markets, it was time to escape this commotion in search of the more rejuvenated side of the city. I came across a well-dressed local I thought could direct me towards my next destination: a Moroccan bath-house. Little did I know, these directions would come at a small price -- and a slight diversion! Playing follow-the-leader, I was led through hushed, slender alleyways past tethered donkeys and centuries-old doors, all the while dodging pot holes…and getting a sense of walking around in circles. Then the words, “That will be 100 Dirhams, please” were barked. Having fallen prey to what I later found to be a common scam in Marrakesh, I compromised at 30MAD. This offer obviously wasn’t good enough and a swift scuffle to snatch 50MAD from my wallet was underway! How quickly my wee journey through the markets had turned into a monetary stand-off! Having eventually extricated myself from the mysterious medina walls, my stomach boasted some grumbling noises. Oh no, did I bring my Imodium tablets? Fortunately it was hunger pains not explosive pains. And then…the fruit incident. On approaching a restaurant doorway, I unwittingly walked straight into the assault. Not what I had in mind for lunch flying fruit? This was Morocco, not the moon! Bewildered as to why a middle-aged man who seemed peaceful and pleasant enough would do this to a complete stranger, I could only assume it was because my face was not covered, even though the rest of my flesh was. But my tummy groans were rushing me to move on, so I continued meandering through the dimly lit restaurant, admiring the silhouette lamps as I headed for the flying-fruit-free top floor. When the food was finally delivered to my table, I took a few moments to admire the sensory feast: brightly zesty, citrus tagine, cous cous and an exotic mixed fruit drink. So many colours - it was more like eating a paint, not food, palette. Digesting via a few more dusty streets and I'd finally navigated my way to the local hammam. Entering the bath-house through a ragged wooden door was like an invitation into another world of the more tranquil kind! Tiptoeing down the calming candle-lit corridor towards the wash room, segregated for males and females, I was intrigued about the other mysterious patrons within these dark rooms. Two hours later, soaking up my journey so far with all its head rushes, mystery’s and fruity onslaughts, I marveled at Marrakesh taking a mouthful of my warm Arabic patterned glass of mint tea - quietly toasting to myself “the adventure of it all”.