Marrakech Express
imagine the debauchery that went down in such a lavish place.
As Nagip predicted, by 10.30am the palace is buzzing with crowds so it’s time to head back into the market-lined alleys towards Koutoubia Herbal. Like many Marrakech gems, the store is marked by a small, unassuming door that hides a spacious two-storey atrium. Inside, the air is woody and sweet, no doubt from the dozens of glass jars stacked along the walls, holding dried roots, leaves, powders and seeds. Labelled in French, some names are easier to guess than others; thym, macis, paprika and carvi, cumin, poivre noir and canelle.
We take a seat and a Moroccan woman donning a white lab coat explains how the women-run herbal co-op began; providing jobs for women so they can be independent. “You come here as a woman and will leave as a queen,” we’re promised, as staff present a parade of herbs to smell, taste and massage into our skin.
Whether you suffer from snoring or low libido, dry skin or arthritis, these women have the cure in plant-based oil, cream, tea or paste. Whether or not it’s more effective than Western medicine, I don’t know, but it’s certainly more fun (and fragrant) than a pharmacy. Inspired by the potential remedies for our collective maladies, we mooch around the shop and I leave with a chunk of amber resin to use as perfume. Unlike the markets, it’s a fixed, high price but I’m content knowing the profit goes towards the coop.
As is the case with our lunch spot, the Amal Association; a not-for-profit training centre and restaurant that teaches and employs disadvantaged women in Marrakech.
It’s Friday, which means one thing in Morocco; couscous. Lifting the lid of my tagine, buttery steam billows out from the soft golden pyramid, surrounded by tender slabs of pumpkin, zucchini and eggplant and topped with a dollop of caramelised onion. Portions are generous and although I’m full halfway through I polish it off and count it a success I don’t lick the plate.
Sated and sleepy, most of us spend the afternoon resting at the hotel. At 8pm, we’re back where the day started, Tinsmiths Square, waiting for a woman named Zineb. The local has never met our group before (aside from Brahim), yet we’re about to do something arguably quite intimate; go to her home for dinner. After quick introductions, we follow Zineb’s purple headscarf as it bobs through the crowds, along a street, then a side street and finally through a literal hole in the wall.
“This is not a renewed raid or a fancy hotel, this is the real Medina,” Brahim says as we climb a gloomy set of concrete stairs before shuffling along a narrow hallway. To the right is a shoebox kitchen, small to make space for a large guestroom, which holds a low wooden dinner table surrounded by plush red couches. No matter how rich or poor you are, the guest room is the fanciest in any Moroccan house, Brahim explains.
To be hosted in a local’s home is honour enough but tonight we’ll also be joined by Houwayariat, an all-female band who specialise in traditional Moroccan Houariyates music. Sixwomen strong, the group has been together 14 years and play at weddings, birthdays and any other events that need a little hell-raising.
While we are digging into a tapestry of dips and bread laid out before us, three of the musicians walk into the guestroom, sit down and, with zero warning, launch into song, the lead singer’s voice loud and raw over the beat of a small drum and tambourine.
Houariyate music has always been charged with emotion. In the late 19th century, we’re told it was played to motivate the Moroccan rebellion against French colonisation. Today, Houwayariat use it to express women’s fierce emotions. Occasionally, Brahim yells out lyric translations and they sound like something you’d expect to hear from Joan Jett or Patti Smith; lines about fury and lust, conflict and desire. About giving an angry man a glass of whisky and, if that doesn’t calm him, shoving him down the stairs.
“Most families are conservative in Morocco,” Brahim said, so for birthdays or weddings they’ll often have multiple rooms for dancing. “Women, they want to dance freely without men. So they have their own space,” he said, adding that Houwayariat would play for such rooms. It sounds like a club I’d want to be a part of, and am, just for tonight.
Without windows, the room quickly turns muggy with the smell of warm bodies and mint tea. There is no microphone or sound system but the women’s sound is thunderous; it soaks into my skin, thumping against my chest. Eyes full of wild joy, the women grin mischievously as they rock their bodies side to side in perfect time.
Eventually, the main dish arrives. Seffa medfouna means “buried” and consists of a pile of buttery thin noodles that “bury” a slow-cooked chicken or pile of vegetables. As we eat, the band continue at full pelt. There is no microphone or sound system but the women’s thunderous voices and drums soak into my skin, thumping inside my chest. One woman stands on a chair, grabs a fistful of her long velvet dress and shakes her hips to the beat before pulling us up to join. Soon, we’re all standing on the couches, arms in the air, skin slick with sweat, whooping and hollering along.
Time blurs and soon it’s 10pm so we gather our belongings and say our goodbyes, still fizzing with euphoria in the cool night.
“The happiest people in Morocco live in Marrakech,” Brahim says as he leads us through the moonlit streets. Thinking back to the women, careless and jubilant, I don’t doubt him for a second.