On Marrakesh: Conquest

I came to Marrakesh expecting to get lost. I was warned of labyrinthine Medina alleys, snared with the glimmer of Chinese-made souvenirs, and briefed on the pervasive threat of ambush from seemingly innocent vendors, ready to pounce at the smell of foreign bills. Before stepping foot in the city, I had already accepted defeat.

A lavender-streaked sky and the distant silhouette of the Atlas Mountains accompanied me on my first conquest of Bab Mellah, the city’s Jewish Quarter where I was staying. Tempted to retreat back to the security of my riad, I trudged onwards past a crowd of French tourists, determined to investigate the commotion behind them. 

As the market came into view, my gaze drew to a hushed ruffling above me. Jute tarps were loosely strung overtop the street, filtering the last of the day’s light into speckled strips that fell messily onto the cobblestone. I marveled at conical sculptures of Berber spices, following the lethargic, almost sensual waft of frankincense that perfumed the air. A shopkeeper slipped hurriedly past my left, rearranging a display of brass camel figurines and leather knick-knacks I had unknowingly bumped into. 

I turned to apologize, gesturing with my hands to convey my carelessness. His textured skin and peppered beard made him appear much older than he actually was. I stared more intently at his face while he responded in French, figuring he must have only been a few years older than me. 

Suddenly aware of how little French speakers actually pronounced any of their words, all I could muster in response was a sheepish smile. A silence proceeded, and I imagined slipping into the current of the crowd behind me, being carried somewhere downstream, somewhere safe.

As I braced for confrontation, he extended his hand, white peeking from the corners of his mouth as they tugged upwards. My palm hesitantly met his, a resounding “welcome brother!” hurled promptly at me. He had made his advance, and I had nothing to counter.