As expected, I did not have any trouble sleeping, unlike my mother who was awoken at 4 AM by the call to prayer from the surrounding mosques. She was still awake at 9 when I woke up. We had made a deal with Adil to have breakfast at 9:30--not too early, not too late. Since Ramadan ended yesterday, today the locals would break the fast by celebrating, praying and visiting with their families. A basket of bread with jams and marmalade was already laid out on our table under the indoor fruit trees. After crepes, Adil led us into the street until we knew where the riad's address began, and we were on our own.
Dusty turns led us through a lively bustling souk, or cluster of shops and food markets. At every corner sellers called to us as we were easily spotted and identified as Westerners. Whistles, pleas, bargains and promises were thrown at us all at once and surprisingly we were able to resist the smoking meats and silk scarves until we reached the opening to the center square. Open air surrounded smooth brick walkways to reveal tents luring us in with the sight of fresh orange juice being squeezed. At one, a bizarre display of potions and folk medicine was graced by small cages with four tiny turtles, a bearded dragon, and a gray chipmunk indulging in an almond.
But my mother and I stopped in our tracks when we came across 4 Moroccan macaque monkeys scrambling around the feet of their trainers. As avid monkey lovers, we rushed over, but the trainer approached us first. He shook our hands, asked where we were from, and promptly set both of his monkeys on my outstretched arms. I had never even touched a monkey before. This was heaven. Their feet were like velvet as they perched obediently on our forearms.
As we moved on, we reached the Koutobia mosque, a brilliant looming building with intricate designs around the exterior. Visitors to Morocco who do not practice the Muslim faith are not permitted to enter any mosque, but in the El Fna square not far from our riad, there is a mosque whose doors are thrown open and while walking past we are able to catch a glimpse of what may be one of the most dedicated faiths in the world. Elaborate rugs are laid corner to corner on the tiled floors in a fluorescent blue-green wash as the call to prayer is heard throughout the city every few hours.
We spent today trekking back and forth from the medina to the mosque, our still tired bodies excited for the first glimpse beyond our winding alleys.
A distinguishing scene that makes Marrakech the city it is, is the midnight food stalls in the Djemmaa El Fna square. Hundreds of tents strung with bright lights are clouded with smoke from piping hot meat and foods in the very middle of being prepared. The finest food enthusiasts and cooks procure cow heads with the teeth still fresh in the mouth, freshly killed chickens, kebabs, crickets, cinnamon-sprinkled almonds, and local Marrakchi delicacies. The square is covered in the tents as we saw from our rooftop terrace view while enjoying a plate of spaghetti. We veered clear of market food tonight, our stomachs still fragile and adjusting to new surroundings, but made plans to sample the foods once we were hardy enough. The sound made by the hundreds and nearly thousands of people circling the market below is unbelievable. A low hum of every voice speaking at once in a splendid array of languages and dialects filled the air and served as almost a kind of music. The ambience was electrifying, the kind that jolts your senses awake and leaves them buzzing for hours on end. It was then, it seems, that I realized how big the world is and how small I am.