Marrakech is my mother

Marrakech is my mother. She eats fresh fruit, gets caught in traffic, wears blue and sand, and stays up very, very late. While my mother is actually from Casablanca, she is very much at home in the city and so am I. In spring and late summer we drive my grandma’s car two hours south to find ourselves whisked about by rosy daylight and the hot, hot wind. My brother sits in the back of the car, me in the front, my feet up on the toasty seat as my eyes dry out from the contrast between Casablanca’s humid, coastal territory and Marrakech’s baked, simmering heat. My mother drives confidently on her roads, it is a straight, unchanging line once we turn right at the end of my grandma’s road. We watch the greenery peel away, and rock and hills spread out into arid land. There is one gas station en route, we always stop to peer over the apocalyptic view of the Jbilet hills; there is a solidity to the terrain. It is an unsculpted stone that, strangely, makes me want to slip off my sandals and walk all over its back. As hard as it might be, I know it would also be a warm and welcoming kind of homecoming. We stop for ice cream and soda every time. The fizz and cold are a satisfying fix. As we near Marrakech, mopeds peel onto the roads. The bitter smell of gas and the whine of accelerators, chatting radios and tinny songs introduce us to the speed of the city. I am quite used to seeing groups of four or more, slotted and piled onto wily mobylettes. I think I’d make good use of a moped, slipping through traffic and heated gusts of wind. I settle into its rhythm quickly, getting used to Marrakech is easy, that's part of why it works for me. It is a source, a fountain, for me to pour over myself. To rest, to feel, to gather. It is not often that a place can leave me so empty and placid.  

When we make our visits, we are faced with the determining decision: the palmeraie? or the medina? Well… we simply read our needs. Do we wish for the slow, generous shade of huge, tender palms? Or, do we yearn for the unsettled abundance of well-trodden, scented alleyways? I will always choose the medina. I am part of a naive, romantic group that enjoys wandering, lost, in the maze of narrow, cobblestoned lanes. Stalls and scenes tucked into every nook and crevice. I’ll let time pass me by, listening out for the ariose call to prayer and I might comb through heaps of pillowcases and masses of babouches.  

When in the medina I wear light denim, flip flops and a well-worn t-shirt. It is my uniform, I feel homely and safe under these soft fabrics. Sunglasses let my eyes wander over objects without being seen by keen vendors, it is a noncommittal window-shopping technique for only the most expert of souk-goers. Here, it is normal to touch, talk, and observe, to sidle up to a shady wall and watch others go by, this is how we enjoy ourselves. Admiring is natural. In recent years, the commune has installed intricate, wooden coverings over the tops of many passageways, allowing for a more leisurely movement through the souks and enabling my gaze to rove over the various ceramics, textiles, and leather goods even more indulgently, no longer having to avoid the midday battering of the sun, I can wander to no end.  

School children, weaving mopeds and crouching ouvriers, all skilled and adapted to the hop-step of the lanes. They remind me that the medina is a place to be lived in, not just to be visited. I am but a tourist, my citizenship is invisible, holding little value as my limited derija holds me back from local prices and veritable exchange. It is strange for me. I consume my culture and I’s most favourite fruits: mechoui, beghrir, and sfinge. Food is as close as I can get to really knowing my Moroccan self. In feeling out flavours and textures in my mouth I can reject and accept the most base and essential. Almonds, strawberries and artichokes were the ingredients of my youth and have become the definition of this place. Here, my mother surprises locals with her Arabic tongue. My brother and I stand back and watch her with smiling pride. She buys olives, or rose water, or fabric for the curtains in her bedroom back home. Her language and country envelop her quickly as she is her nascent self. An uninhibited, raving comic, comfortable in culture and spirit.  

Outside of the medina, Marrakech sprawls out, stretching like a languorous cat. The palmeraie is beyond the city’s walls. She is not walkable, she is still, stubborn and large. In the palmeraie, sunset is naturally perfect, veering from mandarin orange to Chefchaouen’s blue with winks of floral yellow. The sun is higher for longer, we have more time here. More time to be scorched, more time to flick through pages, more time to sit with our brothers and mothers. The weather leaves me lush, my skin taught and carmine from too much sun. Luckily, the black soap in my mother’s washbag leaves me scented and softened; ripe for sitting in sticky plastic chairs and drinking mint tea. I like my tea very, very sweet. Tea is poured from high above the table, it is a common trick, like shuffling cards, but never fails to tickle me. While the medina might be owned by humans, the palmeraie is for storks and sweet, little lizards. We sit cross-legged on bright tiles, playing cards, rolling into the cold pool every now and then. The palmeraie feeds us breakfast, lunch and dinner. Warm water and sharp flecks of grass sent to us for rest and revitalisation.  

We leave every time, Marrakech has never been ours for long. Every time we do leave, my mother seems wistful for a few days, it is her home after all. Why would you leave your home? Life has taken her elsewhere. Fortunately, despite perennial distance and undeserved negligence our mother welcomes us back every time. Thank you, Marrakech.  

All images belong to the author, unless otherwise stated.