Morocco—and an ode to life in the Pink City, and beyond.
Browsing the internet a while ago, on the Matador Network, I found a photo essay that transported me to Morocco’s Pink City. Marrakesh. And to the “blue city.” Essaouira. And I quite enjoyed going back to places I’ve been to, seeing images I’ve seen with my own eyes. Fortunate eyes.
And then there are the Atlas Mountains and the Sahara. Places that I still owe to myself to visit.
And I had to share it. Not only because of the stunning images… But also because Exploring Morocco’s Pink City and Beyond provides a charming insight into Moroccan life.
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Marrakesh is one of Morocco’s oldest and most alluring cities. Despite the constant influx of tourists, the city has maintained an exotic Old World atmosphere – particularly within the ancient medina, where map-toting tourists attempt to navigate the labyrinthine streets and locals go about their daily business as they’ve been doing for centuries.
Bikes and cars are common in Marrakesh (prepare for a fair bit of pollution) but the donkey is still a ubiquitous form of transport, especially in the dusty medina where it’s used to pull heavy loads through the notoriously narrow streets.
Another common sight in the medina are… kids! The family unit is cherished by Moroccans and the streets also serve as a children playground, often for boisterous gaes of soccer such as this.
A large part of Marrakesh’s exoticism are the abundance of old traditions and customs that are kept alive. Here a vendor sells groceries direct from a hand cart.
Traditional artisan skills such as weaving, metalwork, pottery, bread baking, and carpentry are all very much alive in Marrakesh. In fact, the medina has its own “artisan quarter” where you can watch these craftsmen at work.
Morocco is a Muslim country. Several times a day the familiar sound of the muezzin (call to prayer) sails through the air and devotees swarm to the many mosques (sitting outside if they are full), or simply kneel and bow their heads toward Mecca wherever they happen to be.
A trip to Marrakesh is not complete without a visit to the souks. This intimate warren of pathways is comprised of shops often no taller and wider that the people inside them, who hawk everything from silverware to oriental carpets, pointy “baboush,” replica desiger handbags, and love potions. Be prepared for lots of haggling – Monty Python style.
The souks are intensely atmospheric. Packed tight with locals and tourists, they are a whirlwind of motion, smells (good and bad), and patchwork roofs that create compelling chiaroscuros when the sunlight filters through.
Though Marrakesh doesn’t hold an abundance of cultural highlights compared to other cities, there are several places well worth visiting. One is the beautiful Ben Youssef Medersa – the city’s oldest Koranic school – which was closed down in the 60’s but refurbished and reopened to the public in the ’80s.
During the day, Marrakesh’s main square, the Djemma el Fna, is a busy and fairly modern hub for shoppers, traders, and tourists touts (snake charmers, water bearers, acrobatic dancers). Come nighttime, the place transforms into the largest open-air barbecue in the world, as the air fills with smoke and locals and visitors sit next to each other to chow on everything from harira soup to seafood.
Sometimes the heat and hassle of the Pink City can get too much. Fortunately, there are a number of easy and accessible escapes routes. One of the most popular trips is up to the Atlas Mountains, just an hour or two’s drive from Marrakesh. The cool peaks provide beautiful respite from the chaos of the medina, and are full of Berber villages and superb walking routes.
And if you thought life in the city was authentic and traditional – life in the mountains is often more so.
Non meat eaters needn’t worry, though – even mountainside cafes have access to vegetables.
Another possible day trip from the city is to Essaouira, a small, charming fishing town on the coast. It has good tourist infrastructure, and its distinctive white and blue medina is today a UNESCO heritage site. The seafood here, as you’d expect, is especially tasty.
Those looking for a more dramatic adventure can book a safari out to the Sahara. It’s possible to spend the night (or more) in traditional bivouac tents, climb sand dunes, and drive around marveling at the vast expanse of sand and nothingness. Now and again the barren landscape is punctuated by nomadic shepherds like this hardy Berber lady.
We also came across these Berber children, who were happy to receive our gifts of jewellery and biscuits in exchange for a photograph. The didn’t pause too long given the encroaching rainstorm.
Personally, I can’t get over the contrast in the expression of their eyes.
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All photos by Paul Sullivan. Original article can be found here.
Today’s Moroccan Photo
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Photo from trekearth.com
Today’s Moroccan Photo
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Photo from trekearth.com
Today’s Moroccan Photo
Today’s Moroccan Photo
Morocco—and an ode to ordinary beauty.
Un Voyage Marocain. A Moroccan Journey.
Un Voyage Marocain is a limited-edition photography book by Eric Mannaerts. A book that depicts Morocco in a different light. A discrete light. A simple light.
A light that captures only the ordinary, and with that, the real beauty of Morocco. That beauty that many times is not seen. That beauty that goes overlooked, disregarded to the eyes that don’t look carefully beneath the illustrious colors of this land that never ceases to amaze.
The beauty that is found while choosing the best loaf of bread at the corner shop. Or while bargaining for the acceptable price for fresh fish at the port. Or in every sip of the tea you make with the mint you choose at the market. Or when you take a leisurely, unrushed stroll through the medina, and you are able to see the traces of everyday life…without being blinded by the wonderful colors of Morocco. Those colors that, with their magic, hide the ordinary beauty of life in this country.
The foreword of Un Voyage Marocain was written by Tahir Shah, who always writes about the details of life in Morocco, and how they shape his own experience. He wrote about the ordinary beauty of Morroco, and how to find it.
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The other day a man approached me down at the port.
I was waiting for a friend, a friend who is always late. As someone who moved to Casablanca from northern Europe, I find it near impossible to be late myself. Punctuality is quite unfortunately in my blood. So whenever my friend and I arrange a rendezvous, I always spend half an hour or more glancing at my watch, fussing at his tardiness and at my inability to learn from the past.
So I was standing there, a little on edge, and a little irritated at what I imagined to be a waste of time, when a short stout figure in a tattered jelaba staggered towards me. On his cheeks was a week’s crop of tattered grey beard, and on his feet were a pair of grimy baboosh slippers.
When he was close, his face fifty centimetres from my own, he put down the basket of fish he was carrying, cleared his throat, and began to laugh.
As I had the time to make use of my curiosity, I smiled politely, and enquired what the man found so amusing. He didn’t answer at first. He was too busy wiping his eyes. But then, taking his time, he pressed his hands together, palms followed by fingertips.
‘To understand the extraordinary,’ he said all of a sudden, ‘you must learn to appreciate ordinariness.’
I asked what he meant by what seemed to me like a random remark. The man touched a calloused finger to his cheek. Then he smiled. It wasn’t a big toothy smile, but rather one that was soft, gentle. It filled me with a kind of warmth, as if something unspoken was being passed on. For a split second I thought the first remark was about to be followed by another. But the man’s mouth shut tight, and the questionable dentistry vanished. He lifted up his basket by the handle, shooed away a pair of cats that were now sitting before it optimistically, and he strode off towards the old medina.
For an instant I considered going after him. I sensed my weight shifting forward from my back foot. But then, in the moment before stillness became animation, my friend arrived. He spat out an excuse, something about his mother in law and a kilo of lamb, and we went for tea.
For an hour, as my friend rambled on about the challenges of his life, and as the waiter circled our table like a tired old shark, I thought about the man with the basket of fish.
I couldn’t get him out of my mind.
At length, when our meeting was at an end, my friend and I exchanged pleasantries once again, good wishes for each other’s families, and we parted. But I was on auto-pilot, because still, all I could think of was the man and the fish, and what he had said: To understand the extraordinary you must learn to appreciate ordinariness.
I have spent twenty years in search of the extraordinary. I’ve written books about my quests for it, and have made television documentaries about it too. I have ranted on to anyone prepared to listen about the glorious energy, the sheer intensity, of the unusual and the unexpected. I’ve risked my life in the mountain ranges of Afghanistan, and in the jungles of the Upper Amazon, and have surmounted all sorts of difficulties, on the trail of oddities and the bizarre.
Through each of those years, the extraordinary has been my currency, one that I have hoarded and squandered, and enjoyed with every breath. And in all that time, the months and years in celebration of the peculiar, I have never given any thought or time to considering the exquisiteness of the ordinary form. It had always seemed like comparing consumé to goulash, a delicacy unlikely to satisfy the appetite of a starving man.
But the stray remark at the Casablanca port changed my outlook in the most unexpected way. It coaxed me to appreciate a secret underbelly of ordinariness, a layer of existence so profound, that it is extraordinary within itself.
I have come to believe that we receive things when we are ready to receive them. Like seeds falling on arable land, the right conditions must be present for them to germinate and prosper. Our ability to appreciate takes place in very much the same way. We see, really see, when we are ready to, and not a moment before.
What I find so bewitching is the way the world slips you a jewel when it knows you are prepared to recognize it as a jewel. Equally, you could say there are jewels all around us, but ones that will only be activated for our particular perception in days and years to come. And that’s the spirit in which I find myself, with regard to Eric Mannaerts’ photographs of Morocco.
I encourage you to move slowly through the pages you hold between your hands. Spend as much time as you can on each photo, observing from different angles, questioning what you see. Ration each one. Allow your mind to soak up the scenes of a magical land, a land that is a canvas for an artists’ genius. These pictures do not feature the grand monuments, or celebrities, but they are a Twlight Zone of reality, a perception that is utterly familiar to anyone who has lived in Morocco.
The amusing thing for me is that, these days, glossy style magazines the world over devote acres of space to their fantasy of Morocco. It’s a destination that’s regarded as wildly exotic, rapturously appealing because it mirrors – or surpasses – our own imagination. But most of the time the media’s fantasy doesn’t echo the genuine article at all.
To understand this extraordinary kingdom, you must understand the ordinary, and hold it tight to your heart. Three rusty chairs on a terrace by the sea, the shadow of a man moving quickly across warm tarmac, a fragment of graffiti on a mottled old wall: this is Morocco, real Morocco, the place those of us who live here yearn for when we are gone.
On my travels I have crisscrossed this country. I have visited desert shrines and mosques, palaces, bazaars and citadels. And in the wake of those journeys, I have regaled my audience with tales of colour and mystery. But I have never told them of the silent moments: endless meals alone with a paperback, beaches naked of footprints, railway platforms in the rain. It’s those moments that remind me of these photographs because they are so private they are impossible to fully explain. Such subtlety is rewarding beyond words if you can catch it, like a whisper on the wind.
This morning when I went to meet my friend, the one who’s always late, I asked him something. I asked him to describe the beauty of his land to a person who had lost the power of their sight.
My friend thought for a long time before answering.
He seemed a little nervous, as if I were asking the impossible. Then he glanced out at the street.
‘The real beauty of Morocco,’ he said pensively, ‘can only be seen from the inside out. Search from the outside in and you will never find the truth or the real beauty.’
This book provides a keyhole into the Morocco that touches my heart, and shows the kingdom I love, from the inside out. The pages bear fragments of reality that all together form a carpet, bejewelled and magical, that has the power to transport us to another world, to the land of our dreams.
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All photos are from Eric Mannaerts’ Maroc Collection. To see the rest of the photos, click here.
Today’s Moroccan Photo
Morocco—and an ode to men in djellabas.
Oh, my memories of Morocco…
It’s strange, the things you remember sometimes…
Sometimes I see things that take me right back to Morocco. Some things always bring it right back into my mind. Things that look inevitably Moroccan. Things like men in djellabas.
The way they look as they walk by, or as they sip sweet mint tea as the day goes down.
Or things like the work of Thomas Cristofoletti.
I found it. I clicked over, and clicked some more. I lost myself.
I lost myself in pictures of men in djellabas. Pictures of Morocco, of its women and children. Pictures of Meknes, of Fez, of Marrakesh, of Merzouga. Of the Sahara, of camels, of the touareg.
All beautiful pictures. Breathtaking and stunning. Some took me back to the places I’ve been to, the things I’ve seen. Others made me want to go to those places I’ve not been too, see those things I’ve never seen.
And that’s exactly what good pictures are supposed to do. To inspire you… or to make you feel nostalgic. To make you wish you were there. There.
In Morocco.
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To learn about Thomas Cristofoletti, and to see more of his work, visit his website, his Flickr, or Behance.
Also, make sure to take a look at Cristofoletti’s collections of Bolivia, Peru and Dublin. Just amazing! They also make me want to go there.
Fez—and an ode to the city that forgets time.
Pink Saddles and Djellabas, Edith Wharton’s Fez in Morocco is an article penned by Inka Piegsa-Quischotte, and it was recently feature on Literary Traveler.
I came across it the other night, and thought it was splendid. Took me right to Fez. To Fez, that mazelike city of minarets, cloaked figures and forgotten passages impossible to crack —and yet painted with profound enchantment.
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Pink Saddles and Djellabas, Edith Wharton’s Fez In Morocco
“Madame,” my new best friend Mohammed gushed, sweeping his right hand through the air. His inviting gesture wasn’t directed at the back door of a stretch limo though. His left hand grabbed the tattered stirrup of a mule covered with a pink saddle.
A light breeze coming off the mountains through which the Fez River cuts alleviated the day’s heat and ruffled Mohammed’s immaculate, beige djellaba (loose-fitting robe). On his head perched a baseball cap with the shield rakishly placed over his left ear.
Oh Edith, I thought, you would enjoy this.
The Edith of my thoughts was Edith Wharton, whose book In Morocco I had read shortly before embarking on my trip to this North African country that never ceases to fire the imagination.
Like Wharton on her month-long travel in 1918, I had arrived in Fez via Tangier and Marrakech. Edith traveled in style in a government owned “motor” but when she came to Fez, the “motor” had to be abandoned quickly for the primary means of transport to move around the narrow streets and alleys of the Old Town and the medina: mules which came equipped with those distinctive pink saddles. The color of the saddles delighted her no end.
Nothing much has changed in nearly a hundred years and I really shouldn’t have been surprised.
Still, stepping out of a modern five-star hotel, in the Nouvelle Ville of Fez, having been told that transport was waiting outside, I did a double take at the prospect of having to mount four legs instead of four wheels to go about our business.
The business in question was my wish to buy a small riyadh, one of the traditional Moroccan mini-palaces of many tiny rooms, courtyards, roof terraces, rose gardens, hand-painted tiles and whispering chandeliers. I went about finding my dream place in the traditional Moroccan way: making use of a go-between. I asked the receptionist and he immediately recommended a friend of a friend of his cousin, who knew about several available properties and would be only too happy to show me around.
That’s how I was introduced to Mohammed in the hotel lobby and ushered me outside to the waiting “transport.” Without further ado, I heaved myself into the pink saddle. Mohammed grabbed the reins, and off we clip-clopped towards Fez El Bali, the oldest part of the oldest city in Morocco.
Late afternoon sun bathed the enormous walls surrounding Fez in a golden light tinged with red. Fez, like no other town in Morocco, casts a spell over the visitor from the very moment he catches sight of the majestic walls and the white washed houses beyond which tumble down the cliffside towards the river. In Edith Wharton’s poetic words:
It was as though some enchanter after decreeing that the city should be hurled into the depth, had been moved by its beauty and with a wave of his wand held it suspended above.
Whereas in places like Casablanca or Marrakech, modern times mingle with or sometimes impose upon the traditional. In Fez they are no more than freckles on an otherwise immaculate skin.
Once we were through the archway of one of the gates and into Fez El Bali and the medina, it was clear that the only way forward was either by foot or mule. Cars are prohibited and, comically enough, some alleys don’t allow mules either.
A labyrinth of endlessly criss-crossing alleys and narrow passages that would have put a minotaur to a test unfolds with images of veiled women, proud, blue clad Touraregs and swishing djellabas in black, dark brown and beige.
Cross-legged artisans sit in front of their small workshops, hammering copper and brass into beautiful shapes and styles whilst just across the alley a halal butcher loudly praises the freshness of a severed camel or sheep head dangling nearly into the face of passersby.
I almost got dizzy from the assault of shouts in French and Arabic and the sounds of busy craftsman at every twist and turn. The mixed smells of roses and orange blossoms with freshly slaughtered meat and the billowing smoke from an oven further away. Not to mention the mouth-watering smells of sizzling kebabs, simmering tagines and other Moroccan snacks offered loudly from the tiniest of stalls.
“Mind your head, Madame,” Mohammed warned.
I ducked just in time as we turned into yet another alley entirely covered by straw mats overhead, creating the impression that we were traveling in a tunnel.
At the end of the tunnel, Mohammed brought my Rosinante to a halt. I looked to my right and saw a huge, sand colored wall looming into the sky.
“This is our first property,” he said and helped me jump down.
Where is the entrance? I wondered, before finally discovering a wooden door the same color as the wall.
Mohammed pushed it open and my mouth just formed an OHHHH. The nondescript door revealed a courtyard right out of Edith’s book. Apart from her literary career, Edith Wharton was also a renowned landscape architect and interior designer, and her eye for these details shows through in her descriptions of more stately riyadhs.
Orange trees in full bloom surrounded a small fountain and three stories of galleries rose above. Stone benches, decorated with blue and white patterned tiles were just visible in recesses below the galleries. And, sure enough, the chandelier of my imagination, albeit somewhat dusty, was hanging from a wrought iron chain high above.
“Bonjour, Madame, bien venu,” said a deep voice from right behind me.
It belonged to a tall Moroccan, dressed in traditional clothes who could have been 50 or 80 for all I could tell. Time and age lose their meaning in Fez. I didn’t even think about stating my business straight away. Lengthy introductions followed, all in the particularly melodious French most Moroccans luckily speak.
Curious dark eyes peeked out of several corners and, respectfully waiting for a gesture from the patriarch. Out came a bevy of women and girls who ushered us into a rose garden beyond the courtyard and proceeded to serve us mint tea. I settled down on the plush cushions and enjoyed my tea. I wished I never had to leave.
Street noises did not penetrate beyond the thick walls. The only sounds to be heard were the lively chatter, twittering of birds, and the ever present rushing waters of the river below.
Another one of Wharton’s observations sprang to mind: how associate anything so precise and occidental as years or centuries with those visions of frail splendor seen through cypresses and roses? Frail splendor are indeed the crucial words to describe Fez. It is crumbling everywhere, but underneath lies the strength of 1200 years and the splendor of defiance.
The riyadh I was visiting was no exception. I have no idea how old it was, but I got the impression that this particular building would never fall down.
After more tea and pleasantries, I got the tour. I stopped counting rooms after I reached 15. Stairs led up and down a warren of halls, kitchens, bedrooms, living quarters, and storage dens. The whole outlay boggled the mind. Finally, we reached the roof terrace and I gazed at the view Edith so aptly described: just below the window the flat roofs of a group of little houses descend like the steps of an irregular staircase. Indeed, the adjacent roof terraces were so close that I got the impression I could step from roof to roof and walk right down to the river without ever setting foot in the street.
In the cool evenings, the roof terraces are populated by the inhabitants of the house, enjoying the breeze and having a friendly chat with their neighbors. Children are everywhere. You simply forget which century you are actually in. Scenes like the one I was enjoying would have been exactly the same in the times of Sultan Murad III when Fez was part of the Ottoman Empire.
Everyone waved, asked me my name, and no one was in the least fazed by this tall, blond foreigner who had landed in their midst.
Once the tour of the house was over and I had duly admired everything, negotiations took place in which the go-between played the role of “interpreter” although it wasn’t necessary. But he needed to earn his commission and it was a question of pride to be heavily involved.
I didn’t make a commitment then, but it wasn’t expected. The purchase of a house is an important decision – and this is true not only in Fez. We departed with reassurances to return for a future visit. Another thing to bear in mind: even when bartering for less expensive items, a word is a word and it is taken very seriously. Once you have committed, there is no going back.
Mohammed graciously showed me a few more wonderful places of frail splendor during the next two days. But alas, I didn’t buy a riyadh on this occasion.
Fez has left me with the reassuring feeling that there are still places in this world where tradition and history are more important than the progress of modern times. I will be back to have another look next year. My go-between will be waiting patiently, because as a true citizen of Fez, a year means nothing to him.
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Photos from trekearth.com
Fez—and an ode to the soul of Morocco.
Fez. Oh Fez!
Described by many as “the soul of Morocco.” Fez, a city of cracked and dusty streets that hide all kinds of beautiful and forlorn relics. Mysterious and mystical. Faded but stately. Crumbling but proud. Fez…
As Bowles put it, an “enchanted labyrinth sheltered from time,” Fez manages to reveal its beauty, while still remaining hidden. Fez speak in symbols, you see? The symbols that encrypt the meaning contained in the patters of hand-knotted carpets; in the voices of traditional Sufi and Gnawa singers; in the cosmic swirls of carved plaster of its architecture; in the tattooed faces of Berber women.
Fez… A place with a soul. The soul of Morocco
*** Photos from trekearth.com
Bazaar Hopping 