Snakes and Scooters of
Marrakech Written by Ryan Keith
Photographed by Ryan Keith and Carlo Bezoari
Stale yellow train, Casa to Marrakech, ricketing along the thirsty
red earth, stopping in dusty, almost apparitional outposts, letting
off some, others on—four hours, fatigued, the piercing afternoon
sunlight fiercely pinches my tired eyes. Veiled women sit hushed
with their restless sons and daughters a few seats down; we are
the only ones aboard this car. Altogether anxious and awestruck,
pull into station Marrakech, wait for good gracious friend Camila
with our first Arab bottles of water, wondering what next after
the long transatlantic flight. We arrive at Camila's quaint house,
dump our luggage in a white and yellow picture laden bedroom and
anticipate our inaugural adventures.
First excursion onto city streets, hot arid air in our neat collared
shirts, we walk to the Medina, sequestered old part, first city,
real city, barricaded by a giant primeval perimeter wall. Disoriented
first night, first meal, too exhausted, too paranoid, not sure
how to take it all in or express thoughts about it.
Next day back at the Medina. The colors are soft pinks, greys,
oranges, terra cotta, rust, some stark royal blues; parched palms
wave high above the streets. The streets. Esoteric unmarked pathways
choked with locals and foreigners alike, lined endlessly with
small shops filled with all sorts of crafts and clothes and foods
including severed cow and poultry parts, which the vendors of
swat flies from with makeshift fans. Occasionally these narrow
conduits are interrupted by small squares that house a bustle
of marketplace mayhem—a myriad mule carts and motor scooters
push through the hordes; the convections are fairly perfectly
chaotic, no one crashes or tramples. Main roads meld into incredibly
small and secluded passageways of raids, hidden restaurants, residences,
pristine mosques we're not to trespass, out of which dart daring
children--insolent and gorgeous in dirty western rags. Strong
smells of sewage, breads, couscous, carcasses and cat piss mingle
in the air, providing a distinct Medina stench. The vehicular
activities should be noted again—it seems every resident
has an older model Peugeot or Renault scooter, and if not a scooter,
a bicycle; sometimes even a small car or van wends through. Our
elbows barely miss their rear view mirrors.
Le Place Jemma-El-Fna, the hub of the Medina, is a nexus for
travelers, hosting a menagerie of indigenous affairs suited primarily
for entertainment. The locals sit in isolated spots throughout
the large open square—snake charmers and juice makers; monkey
tamers, craftsmen, buskers on beautiful derelict instruments,
all portraying themselves as players at a carnival, looking to
engage and take advantage of the curious roving bevies. Caucasian
tourists scurry around aghast, while their cherubic children—German
and Scandinavian and Dutch—float along in a transfixed twirl,
tugging meekly at their guardians' garments. I personally cannot
resist the allure of cobras in the flesh, so I'm drawn toward
a cluster of snake charmers, hypnotized as a snake myself, to
get a closer look. As I cross over the line of contact, one of
the men spots me and dangles a small unidentifiable but still
frightening snake in front of me. He waves it in the air as if
it were a party streamer and sticks his tongue out, showing playful
crazy eyes. The snake is draped around my neck before I get a
moment for assessment. I keep thinking how this is not out of
the ordinary among the many dubious tourist attractions, so as
not to get too alarmed. A rush of adrenalin surges through me,
exacerbating the dizziness from listening to the directions of
the jabbering showmen.
Suddenly I'm ushered
rather forcefully onto a large carpet next to another man
who appears to be some kind of traditional Bedouin character—tatterdemalion
with turban and weathered robes—though I can tell it's
somewhat of an act. He begins talking to me in French but
eventually realizes I'm from America. His English is coarse
and difficult to follow but I gather he spent time in Orlando
with a family member. He asks where I'm from. 'New York.'
'Ah, Kennedy!' he exclaims. 'Yes, Kennedy Airport,' I reply.
'No no, Kennedy,' and he forms his fingers into the shape
of a gun, 'bang, bang. It's good.' He gives me a thumbs up
and smiles broadly, sinisterly. At this point I realize he's
expressing a sick joy over the assassination of John F. Kennedy,
a tragedy over forty years old. This remark, for some reason,
is very unsettling.
He then reaches over to a pile of copperheads and cobras that
are capering on the carpet, grabs a particularly long and thick
serpent and swings it in front of my face. We have pictures. Instantly
his charisma falls dead; he shoots me a stolid stare and asks
for 100 dirhams, about eight U.S dollars. To his dismay, I was
able to talk him down to twenty. He grimaces as I hand him the
coins and I quickly walk away. I feel both accomplished and relieved
after my foray into the proximity of probably deadly but de-fanged
snakes, as well as uncharacteristically patriotic, brooding over
the loss of JFK, to my mind the one politician who might have
stopped the pendulum and reset it.
That, as they say, was that.
Ryan Keith
was born in New Hampshire in 1981. After a series of cross-country
journeys and habitations, he's back residing for the seventh
time in New York City, where he's occupied by several musical
projects as well as the ecstatic chore of finishing his first
novel, the biopic of a desk lamp entitled Bethel of Halogen.
Ryan is currently an Editor at Filler Magazine--a new publication
for the subversive demographic. He hopes to continue exploring
the earth and telling its tale with the craft and passion
such a marvellous place deserves.
