Post card from the Road
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I’m writing this perched in the welcome shade of the orange trees that grace the perimeter of the bazaar, a cup of sharply delicious mint tea in hand. I’ve fallen under the spell of this desert city. Marrakech – true to your word, tranquillity flows amidst the pleasant chaos of your strongly-scented souks. |
| Wandering 12th-century coral-toned walls, I experienced the lost wonders of mosque and marketplace. The myriad of peoples here reflects the origins of our world. Heady calligraphy of tradition gave way to street radios playing North African beat hop with a French-Anglo patois as I turned mysterious corners, glad in the trusty company of my Lost Cabos BENJI sandals on my very own magic carpet ride through this ancient and overpowering caravan town bursting with life. |  |
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The medina’s tireless offerings. Designer shoes, leather goods, ceramics, rugs and relics mix in the intoxicating shadows of these squeezed-full shops. A bohemia of fashion that inspires the soul. I bought a beautiful tiny teapot (enough for just one cupful!) inscribed in miniature with the same tessellated geometries you see everywhere here. |
| Across the faint rising dust of the street, a wily snake-charmer coaxes his pet out of an old leather briefcase in hope of earning a few dirhams (the local currency) for a meal of his own – perhaps a thin, aromatic gazpacho or some flavoursome tajine that the locals love so much. For me, I’m content to sit here in secret and sip my tea as it cools. The rattle and hum of a waterseller banging his brass cups together to drum up business arrives before he does. It is so very hot here! |  |
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I’ve heard the souks of Jemaa el-Fnaa will really come to life after dark. Filled with the chorus of a thousand street performers relating tales of old while the hotchpotch of Marrakech’s modern-day nomads rub shoulders. I’ve packed my lightweight BRIA slides - perfect for travel, their natural bamboo weave fits dreamily amongst swaying date palms. As the sun goes down the rich glow of burnished spirit lamps turns night into hennaed tattoos of acrobats, soothsayers and artisans. A carnival score of spices and the Quran mingling like smoke with the illicit sweetness of my escape.
L.C. xoxo |
