First Night In Morocco

Our flight landed at Aeroport Marrakesh-Menara at about midnight. My husband, Al, and I were traveling in Spain with our two twenty-something year-old kids and decided to visit Morocco for a long weekend. This was our first time vacationing in country that did not use the Roman alphabet. Generally, even when our language skills were limited in European countries, there were enough common words that we could figure things out. In Morocco, the primary language is Arabic. We could only say hello (marhaba, مرحبا) and thank you (shukran, شكرا ) and could not begin to decipher the written script. French is the secondary language, and although Al knows some high school French, it did not prove particularly helpful.

The airport was modern; immigration was a breeze and our checked luggage appeared quickly in baggage claim. Al had arranged for a ride to the Riad Princesse Jamila, a small bed and breakfast near the historic center of Marrakesh. As we entered the ground transportation hub, we were pleased to see a young man holding a sign that read, in our familiar alphabet, “Riad Princesse Jamila.” Things were going according to plan.

“Hello! Bonsoir! Marhaba!” we said to our driver. He spoke no English and not much French, but he gestured towards his car and helped put our bags in the trunk.

We entered the old part of the city and found ourselves in a labyrinth of dark narrow streets, shared by scooters, bicycles, pedestrians, camels, and cars. Lane lines were mostly ignored and traffic seemed to flow according to some mysterious telepathy between drivers. Our driver calmly navigated the maze and the chaotic traffic patterns, at a speed that scared me. Abruptly, he stopped the car, took our bags out of the trunk and drove away without a word. The area was very dark, illuminated by only a few dim street lamps and the light of the half moon above. We were standing in a parking lot, surrounded by a few open stores and numerous small groups of men sitting at small tables, playing games, smoking, and talking. No Riad, indeed, nothing at all to show the way.

We were tired from the flight and the hour, and feeling very lost in this unfamiliar dark place. Suddenly, a young man said “Riad Princesse Jamila?” He beckoned for us to follow. Al and I looked at each other nervously, more than a little uneasy about following this unsolicited stranger through the dark and narrow streets. However, we really had no choice. It was self-evident that we would never find the Riad on our own. He took off ahead of us. We looked at each other and at our kids, shrugged and, dragging our suitcases, followed him on foot as he led us deeper and deeper into the maze of ever darker and ever narrower streets. We had no idea where he was taking us; the surroundings provided no reason to suspect we were getting closer to the Riad. My imagination stirred with the knowledge that not everyone likes American tourists and that my family and I were completely vulnerable. Still, there was no alternative. We could not find our own way through the confusing web of narrow, dimly lit passages. Hearts racing, we walked on in silence, following this stranger.

Eventually, the stranger stopped at what appeared to be a dead end, but pointed to a rounded door to our left. In the dim light of a small sconce, we could read the words “Riad Princesse Jamila” over the doorway. He rang the bell and a young woman wearing a traditional, light-colored caftan opened the door.

“Welcome,” she said in English. “Come in.”

Breathing several sighs of relief, we followed her into a spacious, well-lit atrium and motioned for us to sit down. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Although it was 1:30 in the morning we gratefully accepted her offer. “Shukran.” She smiled and went back to the kitchen.

Another young woman, an employee of the Riad, soon appeared and with the help of our guide took all of our suitcases and carry-ons and disappeared. I assumed and hoped that they had taken our bags to our rooms. A few minutes later, the two of them reappeared and stood off to the side of the room. They said nothing, but stared intently at us as we awaited our tea. Finally, the young woman gestured toward our guide and asked, “Would you like to tip him?” Of course! Al gave him some money. The young man looked at the cash, and finding it satisfactory, left. This was our first lesson in trust in a land that seemed both exotic and dangerous, but turned out to be open and friendly, as well as very tip oriented!

Zara, the proprietor of the Riad, emerged from the kitchen carrying a silver tray that held a silver tea pot, four small tea glasses and an assortment of cookies. Using delicate silver tongs, she placed a sugar cube in each glass and filled each with hot and delicious mint tea. Our first taste of Morocco! We delighted in the warm hospitality of Zara’s Riad, but finally gave in to the fatigue of night. We went upstairs to our rooms, and, of course, our bags were there, the candles were lit, and we settled in for a good rest.

Over the next few days we became acquainted with this vibrant red city. We heard music wailing from the Koutoubia Mosque calling believers to prayer six times each day as it had done since the 12^th century. We learned to use the great mosque’s tower to navigate the city, reducing, but not eliminating, the time we spent lost and confused in the maze that is Marrakesh. We relished the rich, unfamiliar flavors of tagines and soups. We meandered through the souks inhaling the rich aromas emanating from stalls that sold spices, dried fruits, teas, and fresh fish. We admired the red clay architecture and the intricate patterns in the tile work that adorned buildings and courtyards. Like the feral cats that roamed the streets, we basked in the warmth of blue-skied Moroccan sunshine. And, we learned that an unsolicited stranger in the dark can sometimes lead to a remarkable adventure.