Finally I gathered my camera gear with the intention of photographing the sand coloured architecture. I followed a long road through the medina, passing market stalls either side until I came to a court yard of palm trees opposite a dusty road.
Away from the touristy part of town, I wandered through the streets and found myself in the weekly berber market. At this point I met my first guide who took me to a friends spice stall, where I was introduced to various teas, herbs and incense. Despite telling them I had no money they were perfectly happy to continue telling me about the flavours they use in their cooking as we drank sweet mint tea. Eventually I left and made my way to the Jewish quarter where a young group of school boys offered to show me to the synagog and seemed bemused when I stopped to photograph a donkey eating grass. I chatted to a group of teenagers and told them we have no donkeys on the streets of London. They understood, but everyone laughed when I showed them the pictures.
The synagog was interesting but not very photogenic. The boys seemed proud to have taken me there. I wondered if they aspired to be tour guides when they were older and wanted to practise their English skills. I didn’t pass a single tourist while I was with them.
With so many alley ways I am always curious to see what appears around the next corner. Where I am seems to be residentual with a school and an old stone bakery. Children play in the street and older men lurk in doorways. A young man tells me there is nothing ‘this way’, and takes me through the souks to a Jewish cemetary. I meet another man who’s job it is to look after the cemetary and tells me some of its history. It consists of hundreds of raised mounds in the earth, stretched over a field sized piece of land.
My new guide tells me he is studying medicine and we begin to talk about life. He asks if I would like to drink tea with his brothers and sisters, so I accept. I remembered the tales of Summer, my tour leader from a previous visit, and her Moroccan ‘family’. We go through a small wooden doorway with a stone floored basement covered in diamond shaped tiles. In a typical style for Moroccan houses there is a narrow staircase which leads up to a courtyard, filtering off to the kitchen and living room. I am introduced to his sisters, brother and mother who sit on low down sofas watching tv. They seem completely relaxed at my presence and Braheim brings everyone mint tea. I photograph the silver tea pot and Braheim takes my photo with his little sister who wraps her arms around me and seems delighted to be photographed.
As we talk, my new friend asks if I have tried henna tattoos and I tell him I want to get one before I leave. He tells me he knows a berber woman who is very good and we set off to find her. As we walk through the streets, young boys kick a football around and a group of men are throwing playing cards into a circle. Women chatter amongst each other and teenagers hang around on bicycles. The pace here is slow, with much warmth and compassion for others. Braheim yells ‘Jamelia’ into several doorways and we walk up and down the street a few times before he asks an older woman who appears with a wild looking berber woman, with thick straight hair and fierce eyes.
I take the oppertunity for Jamelia to mix a solution of sugar, water and henna as Braheim tells her I want traditonal brown henna. This seems ideal as I sit in the woman’s home, under the recomendation of locals, feeling as if I am being accepted into their community. She is very good compared to the women that work in the heat of the main square. She probably takes half an hour and begins adorning my hands with swirls and petal shapes. While I wait for the henna to set, an older woman makes the four of us mint tea and we sit chatting, with music playing in the background.
They treat me as a friend and tell me I have a Moroccan face and look like ‘Fatima’. I find this amusing but it seems that they see me as one of them, and feel happy to talk to me and show me around without money. Apparently because I have ‘Moroccan face’ and ‘nice smile’. I shake hands and leave my new found friends to head back to the hotel. Everywhere I look people are generous, helpful and welcoming.
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