The Way to the Souks Marrakech
Now I had acclimatised to the clamour, the calling voices, the dark narrow roads
like slots carved in dried mud. The urgent tradesmen, sharp and wary, in and out of old
carved doors followed by sleepy cats, anybodies cats.
This was the old town of Marrakech were muslim families hide away in their riads.
Some painted caves like a London lockup, house glass cases full of Bedouin knives,
set beautifully in ivory and bone with mosaic, inlay and tassels of hair.
Other riads are more grand with arches leading from a central hall, topped by a enormous
dome adorned with fourteenth century painted symbols and designs.
Rooms lead off above, behind yellow, blue, red and green glass screens to the last of the
evening sun and a view of city rooves.
At the end of a long hot day the city regains its ancient silence, the shop becomes a home
and the last of the wanderers are ignored, left to be lost without a guide.
The light ebbs from the streets, the walls take on the dusty light of dusk like powdered
chocolate. Muslim women, hidden during the day perform daily chores, the youthful full
of grace carry baskets of laundry. The occasional motorised bicycle snakes hazardously
through the narrow arches, impatient to return to the new town and modern
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