Marrakesh Diaries: Gridlock

A peculiar traffic jam in the souks of Marrakesh

A covered souk in Marrakesh.

In the souks of Marrakesh, danger lurks. Not the kind the wary homesick traveller is expecting, that of violence and muggings. These sorts of things do happen, but in my experience the threat is more pestering than confrontation.

“You won’t get the real violent kind of crime here in Morocco,” a guide in Casablanca tells me a day after I’ve left Marrakesh, “not if you’re a tourist. The economy is too dependent on it and the penalty is so harsh.” Being pickpocketed, however, is a real and ever present danger.

But my pockets are full, it is not the threat of some dirhams going missing that I’m talking about. That threat is on two wheels and coming in hot. When you are in Marrakesh, at any time you are walking around the streets or souks of the city, there is a motorbike heading your way. You may think you’re safe. There may not be a motorbike in your eyeline. There may not be one within a mile. But wait a few minutes and it will find you. It will bear down on you and you will leap out of the way, lest you be thrust into the ditch or the nearest wall or market stall. If you don’t think a motorbike is heading your way, you just haven’t seen it yet.

The motorbikes in Marrakesh are laden with one, two, three people, and stuff, things, food, whatever can fit and balance on two wheels and allow the occupants to still gun it through streets and alleys. And they do gun it, even through the smallest souks. The soundtrack of the city is engines propelling two-wheeled contraptions across it, in the direction of unsuspecting travellers.

But even the fastest, most daring drivers get stuck in traffic. But traffic in the souks isn’t regular traffic. The souks are endless, tiny, warren-like places. Parts are wide enough for single-file only, and tourists and locals jostle for space as they make their way around the stalls and the shops. Parts do technically have space for motorbikes to pass through, but whether this is a wise decision on the part of the rider is up for debate.

But this is their city, the riders. They are the citizens of Marrakesh and this is how they get around. It is I that is in the way, creating a roadblock, taking up space. They are just trying to get home.

I go out one evening to take up some space and to find some street food. A guide has told me about an area known for it and I cross Jemaa El-Fnaa and then dive into the souks that I believe are those he pointed out. I walk for a few minutes down one covered street and then the next, looking at stalls containing pastries and cakes, smelling the cooking of grills and barbecues. I have no idea where I am.

In fact I walk so far that at a certain point the souks become the regular backstreets of Marrakesh. It takes a minute for me to realise that there are no tourists around me, no British or French or American faces amongst the crowds. The streets are quiet and filled only with those lucky few who don’t find themselves in the souks. Those lucky enough to be experiencing the relative peace of the rest of the city.

This is more relaxing, but I won’t get any street food here. I turn back and head into where I think the souks are. A couple more wrong turns and eventually I’m there. I’m again stood in a street that resembles a nightclub dancefloor. People move slowly and with great impatience. I peer and crane over the throngs and nudge and push my way through and eventually I’m face-to-face with a man and a huge grill.

On it are assortments of meat that he’s chopping up with cheese, onions, spices, and piling into bread rolls. This is what I’m looking for. When out looking for a late evening snack the health-conscious tourist may stick to a falafel salad and some green tea. Not me. I prefer a grill with some meat of questionable origin and authenticity. Put it in a bread roll and add some sauce and that’s haute cuisine.

A few minutes pass and my sandwich arrives. I don’t attempt to eat it on the move. I find a corner of the street where I perch in the company of a small cat, who looks up at his new friend.

I stand and eat and watch the street fill up. It’s not the narrowest part of this particular souk. This street is sizeable by normal Marrakesh standards but it quickly becomes almost impassable. The street leads onto Jemaa el-Fnaa and people keep pouring on by until it is no longer almost impassable, it is impassable.

I huddle in my corner and watch as people who were moving even just fractionally come to a standstill. There are dozens of people wanting to go to the square. There are dozens of people wanting to leave. Add in a couple of motorbikes who have somehow negotiated through the other obstacles to get here and you have gridlock.

There are shouts, horns from the bikes, protestations, shoves, pushes, kicks. Tourists try and fail to stay calm. This is not their small town in the country. This is Marrakesh at its most Marrakesh, and it’s kicking them in the teeth. I finish my sandwich, bid my feline friend adieu and try to make my escape. I get no further than a yard before I’m forced to join a line of people effectively queueing to walk down the street.

A bike forces its way through on the inside. Its horn blares constantly and its driver, a woman carrying parcels of food, looks at the people standing around her bike in consternation. But her wheels will do her no good here. She can barely move and neither can we. We’re all trying to go somewhere but getting nowhere. She revs the engine. More shouts and protestations. No movement.

Eventually something gives. It’s not clear what’s been causing the hold up and it’s not clear what solves it. But suddenly we’re on the move. I hold the man in front by the shoulder and we stumble on forwards. A bike coming the other way, extremely slowly, gently bumps into my shin. There’s no more damage than a scuffed trouser leg but I consider throwing myself to the ground and submitting to the mercy of my travel insurance.

We break free of this latest obstacle and then, miraculously, unexpectedly, we’re walking, moving, then half jogging as we clear the melee. I carry on walking and in seconds I’m in Jemaa el-Fnaa. It’s not often this cacophonous square feels like a breath of fresh air but for a while I practically saunter round it. I’m an old hand here now. I bat away the buskers and leap out of the way of the motorbikes. I’m out of the souks and I won’t be diving back in for a while.

All that for a sandwich.

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