The blue dot only goes so far

…and the rest is up to Allah

Today was about charting the journey.  After striking another palace off the list of Medina destinations (a nineteenth century ruin that was crumbling to dust), along with some tiled tombs (of sultans turned to dust), we picked out three different museums that we hoped would give us a closer look at Moroccan artistry.  Given the seamless cluster that make up a Medina (along with an abhorrence of signs and arrows that point to signs), we knew none of these museums would call attention to themselves.  The Google Maps blue dot would stop sliding forward and we would be craning our necks looking for a doorway, or arched recess, that might indicate an entrance.  If we were lucky enough to happen upon an entrance, the fee would be figured out in French.  Then it would be up to us to follow the yellow arrows on the floor.  

After secreting ourselves inside these cramped museums like a couple fugitives, I was continually amazed at how many other tourists were already there.  There is no getting off the beaten track in a Medina; no matter how dark and twisting a cobblestoned path, there is always a motorcycle, hand cart, or donkey to dodge, or a group of tourists to meld with or avoid.  These small, specialized museums offer no refuge and remind us that we are among the horde bulking up the tourist economy.  

As a good tourist, I have photos to show that I’ve done my bit.  But in actuality, my snapshots are a desperate effort to keep from getting lost; they are my unraveled ball of yarn.  If only these murky souks weren’t so similar, selling the same sort of leather goods, pottery, and rugs!  And it doesn’t help hearing the engines revving up on me from behind.

I gave myself the supreme test this afternoon.  While Ella was getting some rest after a particularly complicated set of street maneuvers getting to and from the House of Photography (black and white shots of Morocco at the turn of the last century—evidence that progress has been slow), I decided to be proactive and make a test run of the path we’ll take to the cooking class tomorrow.  Armed with my Google blue arrow activated in the direction of the Bab Doukkala mosque, I set off undaunted by the sharp reversals indicated by the blue dots.  No problem, they just show where the street turns abruptly.  

I didn’t account for the street not merely being a street, but a series forked intersections and small openings squeezed between stalls piled high with merchandise that the Google arrow had a hard to keeping up with.  Add trying to ignore the constant barrage of sales pitches from aggressive vendors while keeping hyper-vigilant about avoiding being rammed by motorcycles and bikes, and it was going to be harrowing trial by fire for the Master of Misdirection.

(I hear dg’s voice above the hubbub as I start to lose myself in the Marrakech maze, “Why doesn’t Sir Ali just call a cab?”  “Because this is a test!”  “Of what?  To see how stupid you are?”  “To see if I can walk and stare at my phone without being killed.”  “So this is like ‘Survivor’ for old people.”  “It’s my attempt at staving off dementia.”  “If you ask me, you are defining the term.”)

According to Google maps, it should take me 14 minutes to get to Bab Doukkala.  Thirty minutes later, after reversing my direction a dozen times, Google informs me that I’m 20 minutes away.  If I keep it up, I should get to Bab Doukkala some time next week.

But I don’t give up.  No matter how lost I get, the Medina is only so big.  (“Ah, Sir Ali?  The Medina in Marrakech is the biggest in Morocco.”)  When I finally glimpse what I think is my destination (the blue arrow has come to frozen halt ten minutes earlier) it looks like a Hollywood staged parody of a traffic jam made up of taxis, buses, motorcycles, horses, donkeys, and bicycle carts.  We’re supposed to meet here for a cooking class?  If we were going to Hell, this is where we would grab a cab.

Now I can only hope that my cellphone battery keeps its charge long enough for me to retrace my path back to our Riad.  When I finally stagger up to our room three hours later, I look at Ella and say, “You know that cooking class?  Why don’t we take a cab?”