Despite receiving several travel guides describing the sights to see in Marrakech, I was more or less ignorant of what to check out in the city. I had flipped through several pages but really, I was content to wander the streets and gather up the surprise. I truthfully only had two expectatinsabout the week – the first, that I would probably be ripped off by the locals, and second, that there would be a Moroccan road trip to the Sahara. Other than these shreds of predictability I was prepared to freely sample the mint tea and orange juice in joyful ignorance.
As soon as I left the airport I think my first expectation came true. The literature regarding Morocco explained the high frequency with which taxis neglect their meters, hence the need to establish fare prior to leaping into the car. In our case We approached a taxi demandeding to know the cost yet naively underestimated the driver’s ability to quickly heave our bags into the trunk. Faced with the prospect of an irritated Moroccan speeding away with our bags, we instead accepted his price of two hundred dirham (about $20) despite the powerful Internet indicating that it should cost about seven USD. I suppose for the premium we at least we got a driver who was willing to talk to us. For about ten painful minutes we bantered back and forth in a hideous mixture of Arabic and English and French, the Arabic courtesty of a language book that I had brought along in the foolish hope of being able to communicate with the populace.
What failure looks like.
We were dumped off in the main square, named Djemma el-Fna – an interesting place to say the least. Donkeys are frolicking along pulling carts, little motorbikes go whizzing past, weaving in andout of crowds of pedestrians, while horse-drawn carriages cruise through the middle of it all. This old part of Marrakech, where we staying, is like this just about everywhere, although a bit more cramped when you get out of the expansive square. Plus it’s relatively dirty and there are a lot of cats. It is too bad cats cannot speak, because we had no clue how to find our hostel. Even a map, spawned from the coals of a blazing three-way involving Google Maps, MapQuest, and a Garmin GPS device would have been powerless in this maze. We instead found a small boy who claimed he could lead us to our destination for the small fee of fifty dirham ($5).
As we followed this kid through the labyrinth that is Marrakech I figured that we were probably being led to a nice knife fight beat down, after which we would be politely relieved of any and all valuables. My thoughts were seemingly confirmed when we were joined halfway through our journey by a random older guy, who seemed to be very interested in discussing Mike’s Weezer baseball cap. I was impressed when we were actually delivered to the doorstep of the hostel without a knife fight, met instead with whining about financial arrangement. After offering up the fifty dirham we were beset with bad English demanding more money, and in euros if possible. The one older gentlemen, who walked with us for perhaps fifty yars, repeatedly said “The police are really bad here.” I am still not sure sure if this was a threat or the only thing he knew how to say. The situation was resolved by finally buzzing the doorbell and escaping inside, leaving the small crowed that had now gathered outside with the few extra euros they had won after complaining us into submission.
Later that evening we headed out to see the sights, which reinforced my initial thoughts…that Marrakech is truly like no place I have ever visited. It was a teeming mass of humanity living in various and interesting conditions. Alleys cut through everywhere and everything. I have never before witnessed such a quantity of figs for sale, or the variety of brightly colored spices decorating the shops (this stereotype is quite true) and doing their best to throw a positive scent into the air.
Djemma el-Fna, which happens to be the main reason guidebooks tell you to fly off to Marrakech, transforms throughout the day. During the morning and afternoon the OJ and fruit vendors are all over the place, not to mention snake charmers and tatoo artists. As night begins to fall they start throwing up all these little food stands, which makes for a very intriguing walk through the square. One finds it difficult not to notice the shops selling sheep heads, which were hacked up and put into a pita. Difficult to believe they sell many of them, given that no customer is ever under the influence (Muslim country = dry country).
We eventually returned to the hostel, miraculously not getting lost in the gloomy confusion that is Marrakech at night. Rumor had it there was a bar on the premises, and after its discovery a painful discussion with the Arabic / French speaking bartender resulted in the purchase of several beers. 
In retrospect, the hostel was kind of like the beer embassy of Marrakech – outside, those little cans of aluminum were not welcome, but here – within these hostel walls – a beer could rest comfortably in a cooler without fear, waiting for a friend in need of a drink.
The night concluded much like they typically do in the world of hostel travel. That is, on a rooftop overlooking the city while drinking Ballantine’s scotch with a couple of Spanish travelers who still invited you over to share the bottle, even though you didn’t have the marijuana they were hoping for.
To prepare for the great Moroccan adventure the next day we found it appropriate to drink a random 1664 and a six pack of Pelforth, a French beer that is named for “pel” – for pelican, and “forte” – for strong and whose brewery also makes Killian’s, an old favorite and the subject of one of the best songs by the underrated Lucky Boys Confusion. During the heavy bottle lifting we both crammed clothes into backpacks and debated Superdrag while rocking out to…wait for it…DragonForce! That’s right, Mike came through in the clutch and delivered me a CD containing two superb DragonForce songs, one titled “Through the Fire and Flames” and the other “Soldiers of the Wasteland!”
