Visiting the medina is like entering a different world. It feels unreal. As you walk through the narrow alleys of the old markets, you’re first confronted by precariously stacked piles of fresh fruits and vegetables. And when I say fresh, I mean fresh. Morocco doesn’t have the resources for refrigerator trucks and chemical fertilizers. So when you buy produce here, its from the surrounding countryside and most likely picked within the last 24 hours. During Ramadan, you can also find all sorts of sweets that are used to break the fast at sundown. They are deep fried and drenched with sugar and honey. These sweets are constantly covered with bees, wasps and flies as they buzz around. These sweets taste something along the lines of baklava and are amazing.
As you wander a little deeper into the market, there are mounds of Moroccan spices, sold by increments of 100 grams where you can find turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, and lots of other spices I couldn’t name. As you wander into the furthest depths of the market, you can smell the meat before you can see it. You’re confronted by large carcasses hanging on meat hooks. To avoid hitting a carcass you have to weave around as you carefully step down the narrow aisles. Here you can find live chickens and rabbits that butchers kill and de-feather right in front of you. Other stalls have cow feet for sale along with goat heads, livers, kidneys, intestines, stomachs, etc. On one counter you can see a cow head with the tongue lolled out at it stares into nothingness. The smell is overpowering as the blood mixes with the mud on the floor and squishes under your shoes. I could hardly stomach being in that meat market for two minutes. In America, we never really think about where our meat comes from. We buy it in a neat little sterilized shrink-wrap package and that’s all we see and all we know. It’s easy to eat meat when you don’t have to hear the squawking, see the blood and smell the death. Although I’m still not a vegetarian, since that day I’ve started eating meat in much smaller quantities.
When you leave the food stalls and head into the clothing souk, you can see the clash of the old and new like night and day. First you see one stall selling traditional burkas and djellabas while the stall next door is selling Armani jeans and designer shirts. In the middle of the street is a little stand selling cell phones while another shop owner is selling traditional Berber medicines and miracle cures. The Moroccan people are as divided as their stores. Most of the older men and women wear the traditional Moroccan burkas and djellabas while nearly everyone under the age of 30 dresses in traditional western clothing of jeans and t-shirts. However no one really wears shorts and women dress much more conservatively. I saw a mother and daughter that I thought illustrated the differences in generations perfectly. The mother was wearing a long djellaba and scarf that covered everything except her hands while on her arm was a 13-year-old girl wearing jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt similar to those worn by any young American girl.
As two of my roommates and I were wandering through the alleyways of goods. A friendly 30-year-old Moroccan man started talking to us in fairly good English. It turned out he had attended the local university in Meknes where he had studied some English. (But remember, you must take whatever a Moroccan tells you with a grain of salt because they are known to “fancify” the truth.) He told us he wanted to introduce us to his father and started leading us through the narrow alleys of the medina. Within a few minutes we were completely lost and had to depend completely on our guide. We had long ago left the crowded markets and were now walking through the narrow and empty alleys of the residential area. Eventually we ended up at his father’s shop in the artisan section of the medina. His father spoke very good English and displayed his work, showing us how he made each item. He specialized in handcrafting iron objects inlaid with silver thread, one of the crafts that Meknes is renowned for.
Surprisingly, when we decided to leave he didn’t pressure us to buy anything. His son then led us to his own little shop near the main plaza El-Hedim where he pressured us to buy some jewelry. When we said we weren’t interested he demanded some money for showing us around. That’s when we decided to head back and catch a petit taxi. Moroccans are known for their friendliness and hospitality, however in tourist areas, Moroccans have a tendency to be very good at pressuring you and making you feel guilty for not buying their goods. After a few weeks, you just get used to the way business is done here and no longer get so flustered by persistent shopkeepers.
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