Djemna El Fna

The first time I saw Fatima, I knew she had seen me first. I had the “new” look and I was an easy target! “Henna?” she called as she sprinted after me. I politely declined as she took my hand and whipped out a tube. “Okay, this is a gift for you,” she said as she tightly held my finger and squeezed a thin sliver of brown mud onto my thumb. “For free”, she insisted. Protesting was futile, as was trying to regain control of my digit. “What’s your name? Are you married? Children?” She conversed in a manner born to distract as she finished with a shot of glitter. “Okay, just pay me for this bit.” You have to admire her creativity. It’s a difficult market.
I had arrived in Marrakech some hours before and was escorted to a beautifully tiled riad near Djemna El Fna where my door opened onto the courtyard and a tortoise slept beneath an orange tree. The riad’s roof terrace had steered me towards the plaza in those first few hours. Exhausted, I could hear drumming drift from the glowing haze. It drew me. No amateur photographer could hope to capture this place nor a professional capture its essence. A thousand words is still only so many.
White smoke billows from the stalls and glides skywards on Djemna El Fna plaza in the walled Marrakech medina. Locals and travellers browse the tourist tack and pottery stalls among falcons, and snake charmers. Souks sell leather, dried fruit and spices piled high into pyramids and ranging from rose pink to deep brown. Scooters and pedestrians jostle for position with donkeys and loaded carts. Luminous toys are fired into the heavens on slingshots. An assault on the senses, it’s a beautiful mixture of colour and noise!
Street food stalls in neat rows vie for business. Vendors advance presenting menus and promising free drinks. One hawker used a few French phrases before he tried “you’re an Essex ming-ger”! In the split second it took to process that a Moroccan with perfect cockney had insulted me, I was escorted to a bench! Then, lost business to the other vendors, I found a tranquillity in chaos. Kebabs and calamari lay in front of my neighbour. Dismissing the nag of hygiene regulations back home, I placed my order.
A trusted friend had recommended Moroccan rose oil for its wonderful healing properties in mending a broken heart so on my first evening alone in Morocco, I sought it out. That night, I had great faith. Not just in the rose oil but in the wonderful therapeutic and fascinating energy of amazing Marrakech.