Above the crowded bustle of a Medina’s streets will invariably be the towering minarets blaring prayers, like Allah’s air raid siren, five times a day. No matter how much chaos goes on below, spiritual order is maintained, and with it an eerie sense of clerical control.
Traveling from the Atlas Mountains to the Atlantic we passed through numerous towns where, behind long low pink walls, were new freshly painted apartments. These housed the military and, like a blatant advertisement for escaping poverty, were a stark contrast to the rundown surroundings.
Then there are the checkpoints that crop up with frustrating regularity on every stretch of road. Ostensibly they are meant to regulate speed, but they do more than that. The police can see if the driver has all his paperwork in order (license, registration, insurance, manifest of who is being transported, etc.) and examine the vehicle for complete medical kits and up-to-date tags on the required fire extinguisher. And, like DWI checkpoints in New Mexico, where they are set up on the road constantly changes.
These are the most visible signs of authority we’ve come across. Not overly intimidating, but present enough so that there’s a vague sense of being monitored. And this is, weirdly enough, a source of comfort as Ali threads his way through the turmoil of mules and motorcycles and pedestrians that, as soon as the sun rises, transform the highway traveling through town into a marketplace.
So then, as Ella has mentioned in today’s post, we passed all the checkpoints (except one where a quick exchange of money took care of business), and made it to Marrakech by early afternoon. Until now, Marrakech was always a Sixties song in my head, the tune conjuring hippies stoned on hash wandering a bazaar. All I can say is that the last stoned person drifting through the Marrakech Medina was probably killed by a motorcycle years ago. It’s one thing to navigate throngs of tourists stopping suddenly for a beckoning shopkeeper, but to be on constant alert for two wheeled speedsters coming from behind with just enough room for the speedster and, well, that’s it: you don’t step aside, you’re a casualty. So melt into a wall, duck into shop, but always be nimble. As Ella has indicated, it’s draining on the nerves.