Olives and preserved lemons are typical in Moroccan dishes.
dancing man, dressed in a colourful women’s robe, shakes his hips and flirts with the audience; his eyes sparkle from behind a veil. Nearby, a band accompanies a group of acrobats building a human pyramid, a cobra dances in a woven basket, and a fortune teller whispers secrets into his client’s ear. This was Djemaa el-Fna, Morocco’s most famous square in the heart of old Marrakesh, four years ago. This public space has traditionally bustled with acrobats, musicians, dancers, and other performers. Usually the largest crowd gathers around old men wearing hooded djellaba robes. They are storytellers who borrow their adventures from the Arabian Nights tales. Performers at Djemaa el-Fna make their living from tips. The longer you watch a show, the more you pay. Often storytellers pause at a cliffhanger, holding the ending as hostage and only releasing it after the audience has paid a ransom. But tonight this UNESCO World Heritage site is quiet. The spot in the middle of the town square where men recant their ancient stories is now occupied with wide banners. Slogans are written in Berber and Arabic, and a cardboard sign in English sums up the protesters’ concerns: “Where are the rights of artists in Djemaa el-Fna?” SNAKE CHARMERS ON STRIKE “I used to earn enough money to take care of my family. Life has become much harder,” says Mohamed Bziou. The musician has performed at Djemaa el-Fna for more than 50 years, but he says that his passion for singing has faded. “The square has become a marketplace gearing heavily towards tourists. Merchants hawk henna tattoos and nonsense souvenirs, and food stalls take up our performance space and steal the audience.”
It’s ironic that snake charmers and other performers are infuriated about the shift towards commercialisation. But these men don’t find the situation amusing. “There are 450 of us, and we will strike as long as necessary,” Bziou says. “If the authorities don’t come up with a response to our grievances, we will march to the capital and ask for help directly from our king.” Traditions are giving way to change in Marrakesh, the fourth largest city in Morocco. ONE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS Beyond the lure of the snake charmers, the accommodation sector, too, has realised the value of tradition. In Marrakesh, more than 200 traditional houses or riads have been converted into hotels. Sabah Agrcif works at Si Said Riad, a tiny boutique hotel in the old quarter, referred to as the Medina. The hotel’s courtyard is surrounded by columns, the floor is covered with colourful tiles, and the fountain is decorated with ornaments. Renovating a riad can take up to two years. Everything except the walls has to be replaced in the centuries-old buildings. “A riad is considered to be a historical monument. It’s important to focus on the details and restore these buildings to their original glory,” says Agrcif. Riads used to house three or even four generations of the same family. Over the past 15 years, however, many residents of the Medina have sold their homes. The most elaborate riads of Marrakesh are now hotels owned by investors from abroad. “Younger generations don’t want to live under the same roof with their parents anymore,” says Agrcif. She predicts that after the oldest generation has passed on, their heirs will sell the last traditional riads. Converting family homes into boutique hotels is one example of Morocco’s change. But despite the undergoing cultural transformation, the streets of the Medina carry on the way they have for centuries. A cyclist pedals down a narrow alley with a live chicken in tow as a DECEMBER 2013
BLUE WINGS
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