There are few more exhilarating activities than walking
through a bustling marketplace. Scents of parsley,
cumin, and rotting litter waft in the air, granting a new smell for each step.
Women in leopard print hijabs hustle their way through the crowd followed
closely by sharp men in Western business suits, with child beggars weaving around
them. Traditional Moroccan tiles line the booths of meat-stalls, and peering
inside I’m simultaneously intrigued and repulsed, initially intrigued by the
intricate designs, but soon after repulsed by the skinned pig legs and gleaming
butcher knifes. Young men shout out over the throng, attempting to sell 20-cent
headphones or 2-dollar shoes. Moroccan music blasts from speakers in the CD
shops, lasting only a moment before the next sound takes over.
Simultaneous to the commotion, my mind floods with questions: how do all
these stalls selling variations on the same knockoff brand make any money at
all? What led these child beggars here to the medina (old city)? Are they from
the mountains, the villages? What elements provoked each of these passing women
to wear the hijab? Was it their families, traditions, religion, personal choice…
or all of these elements at once?
But as quickly as these questions flash through my head,
they must be pushed away, there is no time to ponder in the medina. Motorbikes
curve through the skinny streets, daring the distracted to step into their
path. Men 'tsk' and follow the girls bodies with their eyes, sometimes yelling
out “ah spice girls!” or “como éstas?”. Stagnant water forms puddles in the
cracks of the tiled street, thus requiring a watchful gaze of path
ahead.
Wandering through a busy marketplace, then, is no simple
task; it requires constant awareness on all levels: aesthetic, intellectual,
and instinctual.
And now, it is where I live.
Take a right under the sign of the pregnant white lady, and
you will end up at 3 Derb Souaf, my temporary home. The door is a simple dark brown,
just like many others, but as tradition holds, the beauty is revealed on the
inside. The ceiling reaches up, cutting through the second and third floor, allowing a constant beam of light to reach the ground floor where I live. Rooms
are arranged on the sides of the house, making a square around an indoor
balcony. Fake flowers adorn the walls, lifelessly blooming in clay pots. The
houses within the medina have existed for centuries and much of their design
reveals this fact. In my room, an archway stretches down from the ceiling
marking the spot where curtains used to hang, blocking the public space of the
living room from the private bedroom of the children or parents. Currently only
one family lives here at 3 Derb Souaf, but at points it held up to five.
Legza, the main street in the medina. I live halfway down on the right.
The culture borne of communal living remains strong within
the medina today. Streets may be narrow but they remain full of life, with the
friends of shopkeepers rounding the booths asking, how’s your wife? Your kids?
Your mother? Your sister? And eventually, when they run out of questions, it's back to how’s your wife? Mohamed, my
host brother, says that even a new coat is cause for a conversation. Very few people in the medina own a car, thus requiring neighborly
contact at every turn, even if it’s just a simple Salam. The host brother of my friend Kea says that the basis of the
medina is love, that the love for neighbors and friends allows the medina to thrive. With the kindness and
patience I’ve experienced so far, I can imagine that to be true.
I’ll write more soon, thanks for reading friends.
Julia
Two blind men talk on the street.
A man throws wood chips into the furnace that heats the local Hamam, or public bath.
The golden sunset of the medina.
