Wanderlust

Djamaa el Fna at sunset is an awe-inspiring sight. It’s the biggest public space in Marrakesh and every evening hawkers, restaurateurs, thieves and tourists mingle in the baking hot desert air.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t really appreciate the magic of this particular North African night. This was mostly because I’d just been punched in the face.

I had arrived in Morocco six hours earlier with a mad Italian friend of mine. This was our first time in a country we had read and heard so much about. We wanted to find the real Marrakesh, so set out on our first evening walking the winding back alleys of this centuries-old city.

I soon found myself kneeling down with dozens of Moroccan children, listening to a story teller spin her tale. It was all in Arabic of course, but enchanting nonetheless. This somehow led to an invitation for a glass of sweetened tea with a carpet salesman, which in turn, somehow led to joining a procession of Berber musicians.

After this string of less-than-ordinary events, I spotted an elderly man sitting alone. He had two boxing gloves by his side. I inquired what they were for and he told me in broken English that I could pay a “small fee” and be taught the art of Moroccan Boxing. “Great,” I said, “I’m in.”

No sooner had I put on the gloves than the spindly old man jumped in the air yelling at the top of his voice. Within minutes, around 150 curious locals had gathered around me. The old man continued to shout and scream. He had become a ringmaster and I the attraction.

This was all very confusing. I thought perhaps the old man was going to give me some sort of public tutorial in the ancient art of Moroccan fighting, or maybe I was going to have some sort of mock fight with the old man himself.

Not so. Not even close. I realised this almost immediately when the crowd parted and a young, shirtless, ripped-like-a-bodybuilder Moroccan man entered the circle.

Before I had time to ask what was going on, my opponent started to beat me up. I had never been in a fight before, not even close. I’m a thin, gangly nobody from the suburbs of Sydney, who had just accidentally entered a street fighting tournament in Morocco.

When I retell this story, I usually say that I got a couple of good punches in. In truth, it was a blood bath, and I was well and truly on the receiving end. But in hindsight, apart having to explain the black eye to my Mum, it was a travel adventure I’ll never regret.