I have already complained about time. Haven’t I?

About the way it passes. It passes… Quickly. Carelessly. Ruthlessly.

About my constant battle to beat it, but I never can. I never can. And it is because of that battle that sometimes I miss out. Miss out on the tiny beautiful things that life offers every single day. Would you believe it, that I sometimes don’t get to see the tiny beautiful things?

Oh! Time, that abstract idea. I can’t see it, I can’t touch it. But you bet I feel it as it passes… Quickly. Carelessly. Ruthlessly.

And then the other day, the other day as I was again rushing through my morning cup of coffee so that I could get ready to head out the door and attack the day, I came across an interview with Moussa Ag Assarid. I stopped, reevaluated my priorities for the day, and ended up sipping my coffee slowly.

I wondered: What if I didn’t have a watch? Would time still pass so quickly? So carelessly? So ruthlessly?

I had never heard Moussa’s name, I knew nothing about him. But it took 5 minutes for me to become absorbed with his story.

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Like many generations before him, Moussa was a shepherd in the Sahara desert, a member of nomadic Berber tribe living in areas throughout North Africa, called the Touareg. One day, when he was a child, the Paris-Dakar rally went through his camp and a book fell out of a French journalist’s bag. Moussa rushed to return the book to her, but the journalist gave it to him as a gift and explained what the book was about. It was the Little Prince. It was at that moment that he decided that one day he would be able to read it himself. Two years later, after his mother died, he convinced his father to let him go to school. He walked 15 km every day until a teacher took pity on him and gave him a bed, while another lady in the village was fed him. His determination paid off—he won a scholarship to study in France.

When Moussa arrived in Europe, he cried the first time he saw water run from a faucet. Until that day, every day of his life had been spent in the search and collection of water. He says, to this day, it still pains him to see elaborate water fountains. But what shocked him most, even more than running water, was the materialism of Western society, the fast pace of life, and the inability to live the here and now.

So far, Moussa has written two books: Y’a pas d’embouteillage dans le désert! Chroniques d’un Touareg en France (2006) and Enfants des sables: Une école chez les Touaregs (2008). Both books became hits in France and throughout Europe. Moussa now uses his popularity to speak in defense of the nomadic pastoral tribes that live in the deserts of North Africa.

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The following is the complete interview with Moussa Ag Assarid, conducted by Victor M. Amela and which first appeared in the Castilian-language paper from Catalunya on February, 2007.

 Moussa Ag Assarid: I don’t know my age. I was born in the Sahara desert, with no papers! I was born in a nomadic camp of Touaregs, between Timbuktu and Gao, in northern Mali. I have been a shepherd of camels, goats, sheep and cows for my father. Today I study Management in the University of Montpellier. I am a bachelor. I serve as an advocate for the Touareg shepherds.

 Victor M. Amela: What a beautiful headdress!

 MAA: It is a fine cotton fabric: it allows me to cover my face in the desert when the wind blows sand, and allows me to continue to see and breathe through it.

 VMA: It is a beautiful blue color.

 MAA: We Touaregs have long been called “the blue men” because of this color. Interestingly the fabric loses the color and transfers some of the blue ink onto our skin.

 VMA: How do you get this intense blue?

 MAA: From a plant called indigo, mixed with other natural pigments. The blue, for the Touaregs, is the color of the world.

 VMA: Why?

 MAA: It’s the dominant color, of the sky, the roof of our home.

 VMA: Who are the Touareg?

 MAA: Touareg means “abandoned,” because we are an old nomadic tribe of the desert. We are lonely and proud: masters of the desert, they call us. Our ethnic group is Amazigh (or Berber), and our alphabet is the tifinagh.

 VMA: How many are there of you?

 MAA: Approximately three million, the majority still are nomadic. But the population is decreasing. A wise man said it is necessary for a tribe to disappear to realized they existed. I am working to preserve this tribe.

 VMA: What do they do for a living?

 MAA: We shepherd camels, goats, sheep, cows and donkeys in an infinite kingdom of silence.

 VMA: Is the desert really so silent?

 MAA: If you are on your own in that silence you hear your heart beat. There is no better place to meet yourself.

 VMA: what memories do you have of your childhood in the desert?

 MAA: I wake up with the sun. The goats of my father are there. They give us milk and meat, and we take them where there is water and grass. My great-grandfather did it, and my grandfather, and my father, and me. There was nothing else in the world than that, and I was very happy!

 VMA: Really? It doesn’t sound very exciting?

 MAA: It is. At the age of seven you can go alone away from the compound, and for this you are taught the important things—to smell the air, to listen, to see, to orient with the sun and the stars… and to be guided by the camel if you get lost. He will take you where the water is.

 VMA: This sounds like valuable knowledge, no doubt.

 MAA: Everything is simple and profound there. There are very few things, and each one has enormous value.

 VMA: So that world and this one are very different.

 MAA: There, every little thing gives happiness. Every touch is valuable. We feel great joy just by touching each other, being together. There, nobody dreams of becoming, because everybody already is.

 VMA: What shocked you most on your first trip to Europe?

 MAA: I saw people running in the airport. In the desert you only run if a sandstorm is approaching! It scared me, of course.

 VMA: They were going after their baggage.

 MAA: Yes, that was it. I also saw signs with naked women. Why this lack of respect for the woman? I wondered. Then at the hotel I saw the first faucet of my life: I saw the water run and I wanted to cry.

 VMA: Because of the waste, the abundance?

 MAA: Every day of my life had been involved in seeking water. When I see the ornamental fountains here and there, I still feel intense pain.

 VMA: Why?

 MAA: In the early 90s there was a big drought, animals died, and we became sick. I was about twelve years old and my mother died. She was everything to me! She used to tell me stories and taught me to tell stories. She taught me to be myself.

 VMA: What happened to your family?

 MAA: I persuaded my father to let me go to school. Every day I waled fifteen kilometers, until one teacher gave me a bed to sleep in and a woman gaveme food when I walked by her house. I then understood what was happening: my mother was helping me.

 VMA: Where did you get interested in school?

 MAA: A few years before the Paris-Dakar motor rally came through the compound and a journalist dropped a book from her backpack. I picked it up and gave it to her. She gave it to me and talked to me about the book: “The Little Prince.” I promised myself that I would be able to read it one day.

 VMA: And you did.

 MAA: Yes, and because of that I won a scholarship to study in France.

 VMA: A Touareg going to college!

 MAA: Ah, what I most miss here is the camel mil. And the wood fired. And walking barefoot on the warm sand. And the stars. We watched them every nigh, every star is different, just as every goat is different. Here, in the evenings, you watch TV.

 VMA: That is true. What do you dislike the most here?

 MAA: The have everything, and it is still not enough for you.  You complain. In France people complain all the time! You chain yourself to a bank; everyone is anxious to have things, to have possessions. Everyone is in a rush. In the desert there are no traffic jams, and do you know why? Because there, nobody is interested in getting ahead of other people.

 VMA: Tell me about a moment of deep happiness for you in the desert.

 MAA: It happens every day, two hours before sunset. The heat decreases, there is still no cold air, and men and animals slowly return to the compound, and their profiles are painted against a sky that is pink, blue, red, yellow, green.

 VMA: That sounds fascinating.

 MAA: It’s a magical moment. We all get into the tents and we boil tea. Sitting in silence we listen to the sound of the boiling water. We are immersed in calmness, with our heart beating to the rhythm of the boiling water…

 VMA: How peaceful.

 MAA: Yes… Here you have watches; there, we have time.

(Photo source)
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What if I didn’t have a watch?

I sip white tea, without sugar, of course. I never take sugar. And since I recently read that white tea increases the body’s ability to burn fat, my vane side has been pushing me to drink at least one cup each day.

I don’t have a book. This morning my alarm rang much too quickly and, in my eternal quest to beat time, I forgot my book under my pillow. While I walked, I realized time always gets me. I can’t beat it because it always moves, and I always stop. To sleep. To eat. To read. To think. To converse. To enjoy moments like this one.

But I have a piece of paper and a pen. A piece of paper and a pen… I look at the new leaves on the trees, I feel a sort of small, simple happiness. More like a tranquility. I’m aware that time keeps moving, but for this moment, I’ve given up my quest. It doesn’t matter.

I let my mind go. I set it free and wait to see where it takes me.

I think of hands. I see the photography of Nabil El Aïd El Othmani.

I think about all the hands I know. The hands that matter to me.

AK’s hands. His long hands. Strong but soft. I remember the shape of his fingers. How the hold the spoon as he stirs his coffee. And how they always make me feel safe. How I always find a place between them.

I think of my mother’s hands. How the play with my hair and console me when I cry. The way they look while they jump around in the kitchen to produce the best meals. I remember the way they felt when they held me, a long time ago, when crossing the street.

About Mariel’s hands. How they play the piano. How the pour the wine. How they repair broken teeth. How they touch me and tell me that, really, it’ll be ok.

And about my grandma’s hands. I picture them patting the table, helping her find her glasses. I feel them holding my arm so she can bite my elbow. Or holding my head so she can kiss my forehead.

I remember, too, my father’s hands. They used to hand me an ice cream cone every Sunday. And hold my bike when I couldn’t pedal on my own. And rest on his belly while he slept. My father had big hands. And hairy hands.

I look at my own hands. At my red nails. At the ring around my finger. A ring from AK. I hold the pen on my right hand, and I pin the paper down to the table with the left one. I realize, there are so many things hands can do. Everything that fits the imagination. And so many feelings they can express. More than words. More than eyes.

And my hand now awaits me. Awaits me to materialize the ideas that swim in my head, to give them the shapes of letters, and words, and sentences.

Of odes.

So my right hand shapes one. An ode to herself, and to the other one.

And ode to hands, and to the things they do.

The hands we use,
to work, to live…
and to love.
The hands that dance
to the rhythm of vibrant choreographies
that are the symphony of duty.
And sometimes pleasure.

The hands that knead legends,
dust tales,
comb our hair,
and the hair of those we love.
And at the same time,
they earn the bread
and cut it.

The hands that create
memories, and everything else.
Scissors and cups,
hats and brushes,
coins and eyeglasses,
books, paper and pen.
Even clocks.

The hands that sculpt life.
The true artists,
the true creators.
The hands that paint your life,
with any color you choose
in a canvas that you then
make your own.

The hands that engage
in life. In that relentless battle.
That sprout out of the heart,
burst into arms,
and jump.
Come into the light,
and struggle.

The hands that are simply
the tools of the soul,
of the heart,
and of the mind.
The  messengers.
And the fighting branch
of our being.

They plant,
the flower and the big tree.
They seal the word,
when the heart wishes to promise.
and spur love,
when they find those hands.
Oh! Those hands
that make out of the skin
an slave.

The hands…
lithe and sharp,
dressed in an invincible cortex.
Inexhaustible and generous fountains
of life,  and progress…
And treasures.
And of everything,
everything that fits
the imagination, the heart, the mind…
and the soul.

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Nabil El Aid El Othmani is a young Paris-born Moroccan photographer who learned about photography all by himself. His work is often described as operating in the field of dreams, in that hidden time frame between the real and the unseen. He now lives and works in Morocco, and although his work has received great encouragement worldwide, Nabil still stays an adept of the underground art movement and has never attempted to make himself public nor propose his work to critics or galleries for review. He does, however, keep a website: The Time Machine. Click over and see more of this unique work.

All photography in this post © Nabil El Aid El Othmani.

Morocco has an outstanding tradition of storytelling, and in very few places in the country does this become more evident to the foreign eye than in Djemaa el Fna. Because, even as The Square is a de rigueur destination to the flocks of tourists that descend upon Marrakesh year after year, it remains a sacred and special place for Moroccans. If you find yourself at The Square and pay attention to what goes on around you, you will quickly realize that you are there, but you can’t really “get in.” There is something about it that’s impenetrable. Something that you don’t know, you don’t understand.

And yet, it absorbs you. It captivates you.

It requires will and interest, to make sense of it. To at least attempt to find any kind of order beneath the apparent chaos that perpetually colors Djemaa el Fna. And it takes time; you can’t do it in a short visit. But if you get a chance, that fortunate chance, to immerse yourself in it long enough, if you get the luxury of getting “inside” it, you will observe that everything here makes perfect sense to the Moroccan soul. Every performer has been there for years, keeping his act interesting to the crowds. Perhaps they have been taught their talents after generations of ancestors have mastered it, right there too, in Djemaa el Fna. Every halqah (the circle of observers that gather around performers) in The Square has a good reason to be there: these aren’t purely foolish acts for the paying tourist. They play a role that is vital to the essence of The Square: they keep it going, and they have been doing so for over hundreds of years.

Every time I visit The Square, I become excited. There’s always something to discover, and something I realize I’ll never quite understand. But I feel amazed. My personal impressions about The Square are remarkable, fascinating, and… a bit heartbreaking.

Late one night during one of my trips, sitting at a café in a dark corner of The Square, having tea with AK, I saw that, in spite of the presence of a large number of tourists, Djemaa el Fna has an inevitable Moroccan character. A character that persists above all, that delimits everything that takes place here.  Besides coming here to eat and be entertained, like tourists do, Moroccans also come to be cured, to find out about their luck and their future. They are the ones that force performers to keep their acts sharp. To tell and listen to stories. And for that reason, that night, I understood that there will always be some things here at The Square that will forever remain a mystery to those of us who aren’t Moroccan. Because as time moves from day to night, as you move from halqah to halqah, as you find yourself surrounded by master musicians, story tellers, transvestite players and dancers, boxers, cigarette sellers, snake charmers, monkey handlers, medicine men,  fire eaters, teeth pullers, amulet writers, tarot card readers, henna artists and water sellers, you become more and more aware that there is an oral tradition and an extreme force that you can’t quite understand, that highlights Moroccan tradition and defies the onslaught of relentless mass tourism and globalization.

Djemaa el Fna is only minimally influenced by tourists, because even as you take pictures and watch the performances, you can’t speak the language and so, you can’t influence the acts or participate in the storytelling. You can listen to and appreciate the music, the sounds and the atmosphere, the sights, but you can’t grasp the depths of cultural traditions of The Square. You are an observer of the show, but you can’t ever get to be a central part of it… Of course, the performers are more than happy to make some money off tourists (and they do chase you around if they see the flash of your camera go off) but their main role goes beyond that. They are there to provide an entertainment that Moroccans can’t do without, and to partake in the perpetuation of these traditions. Traditions that have been preserved precisely because of the interaction between the performers and the Moroccan audience; and because of the electric mood they create, one that keeps the crowd attentive to their acts filled with sheer ingenuity. What happens at Djemaa el Fna, every day and every night, year after year, is the very essence of Morocco.

But don’t despair! Djemaa el Fna is always breathtaking, always astonishing. Perhaps because it always intrigues you, it always absorbs you. Perhaps because you can only look at it from the outside.

Djemaa el Fna is wonderful because it is like a theater that never stops. During the morning hours, there are constant matinee performances; as the sun moves over the sky, storytellers and musicians start to make their appearance; and by the time the sun finally goes down, food stalls open and The Square becomes alive. And it stays alive late into the night.  It is during the nighttime that the nature of The Square changes, when the shadows, instead of hiding, reveal the place under a different light. And even the smells change. It is magical when the food stalls erupt into the night with clouds of smoke floating across the air. With the pungent smoke of aromatic spices and herbs, the air becomes charged.

If you are in Marrakesh, choose a vantage point and sit around The Square for a whole day. Sit there, immerse yourself and see it move, see it transform as the day goes into the night. If you are a tourist, this could likely be the absolute best way to spend a day during your stay in this city of charismatic character. The absolute best way to try your best to take in the chaos at Djemaa el Fna. And it’s a perfect way to learn a little about that Moroccan essence The Square displays behind that enigmatic barrier. Sit there, and watch how Djemaa el Fna becomes a place that enchants everyone around it, locals and tourists alike. You may not be able to understand it, to make sense of it, to participate in the storytelling, in the Moroccan traditions. But you will surely enjoy the pleasure of contemplating something that will forever live in your memories, that will charm you, that will make you want to come back again and again.

Even if it remains forever unknown. Forever mysterious. Forever impenetrable. 

He has set up to enlighten us—Moroccan fashion is interesting, authentic and sophisticated.

Yusuf is a photographer and blogger from Casablanca. His photography is exceptional, and allows for the rare luxury of viewing Morocco through the eyes of a true Moroccan. He also, and above all, has a passion for all things fashion, style and design. Especially those that are Moroccan made, or Moroccan inspired. He thinks of himself as a creative thinker and a big dreamer; I think of him as one of my most talented, ingenious and artistic friends. I seriously believe he does a great job, and that he will get far…

In his effort to enlighten us when it comes to Moroccan fashion, he has created an exciting project: YOU*ARE*THE*STYLE. His blog, the place where all his endeavors come together, his very own tool to correct all the mistakes and misconceptions there might be about  the subject. As Essaouira Walking would say it, YOU*ARE*THE*STYLE is Yusuf’s ode to Moroccan fashion and style. And he does it all in a superb way, with a cadence of colors and shapes, of Moroccan pieces that reflect how he takes his passions to heart.

YOU*ARE*THE*STYLE showcases Yusuf’s work as he covers the local fashion scene, and as he patrols the streets á la The Sartorialist and Au Coin Du Ma Rue in search of good, interesting street style photography showcasing Morocco’s very own sense of style, the beautiful gems of individual flair that can be found there. Most importantly, it shows that today’s Moroccan fashion is the fusion of modern Western style with traditional Moroccan fashion (Moroccans are experts at merging Eastern and Western esthetics), and chronicles the industry’s steps in dealing with the challenge of conciliating the richness and abundance of Moroccan tradition with the technical and cultural requirements of the present, and of the future.

Click over to his blog, and you will see how Yusuf is convinced that Moroccan fashion, even as it is inevitably tied and specific to Moroccan culture and society, it still reflects originality and modernity. Yes, modernity! He’s also convinced that great fashion designers, with great ideas to create, don’t have to come from Paris or New York. Indeed, they do come from Casablanca, Marrakesh, Fez, Tangier, Agadir, Rabat, Meknes… They can be (and they are) Moroccan. And, he’s confident that Moroccan fashion is so exquisite that it becomes inspiring.

And he’s not far from the truth. As a matter of fact, I think he’s completely hit it right… Moroccan fashion has been recognized for its style; for its fluid, refined, elegant lines. It has also been going steady about garnering a strong reputation and winning awards at international fashion shows throughout Europe. And, it has been inspiring Western designers to the point where it influences their creations and the mood they seek to set. Turns out, it’s not only Moroccan fashion that’s now touched by Western styles—Western fashion is also influenced by the sumptuous Moroccan style.

To my very own delight, it’s no longer a surprise to see Moroccan-inspired fashion in the catwalks – or in the streets – of Paris, New York, Milan, London…And Yusuf, in his YOU*ARE*THE*STYLE, is doing an awesome job of documenting and portraying it all: Moroccan fashion, its influences, changes and evolution, and how the world now gets a chance to let the Moroccan influences enter their closet…

So, next time you think about Moroccan fashion, think again. I’d say, and I’m sure Yusuf would agree, if you are the style, make sure you let it be Moroccan style…

 A couple of days ago, I had the fortune of finding myself in the aisles of the Montclair State University’s Harry A. Spregue Library, and browsing through travel magazines in the Periodicals Section, and I found an article that took me right to the heart of Marrakesh –the Djemma el Fna Square.

 I read it, it put me right there, in the Magic Circles of Djemaa el-Fna. It left me in awe, missing it, wanting to be there.  And right there realized I had to share it!

 The Magic Circles of Djemma el-Fna is the name of the article. It was written by Louis Werner, and was first published on the July/August 1993 print edition of Saudi Aramco World.

 Enjoy!

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 When world travelers think of Morocco, it’s often the historical splendors of Fez, Rabat and Meknès that come first to mind. But it is the everyday mystery and magic of Marrakech that most intrigue the first-time visitor, that inhabit his dreams and beckon him to return.

Marrakech certainly has its own imperial highlights – the Almoravid Qubbah, Morocco’s only intact architectural treasure from its first Berber dynasty; the Koutoubia minaret, an unrivaled Almohad construction towering nearly 70 meters (230 feet) over the city; and the Saadian tombs and the Ben Youssef madrasah or school, both covered in stunning zellij mosaic, carved plaster and white marble.

But Marrakech also feels like a world apart, a gathering place of disparate centuries, cultures and races. While the traditions and values of Morocco’s northern cities might resemble those of the eastern Arab capitals, Marrakech is different.

Indeed, upon crossing the threshold of its Bab Agnaou, or Gate of the Blacks, visitors feel they are leaving behind the Arab world and entering a different – perhaps the real – Morocco. It is not surprising that Marrakech was long known to English travelers simply as “Morocco City.”

Robert Cunninghame-Graham visited all of Morocco’s main cities in 1897, “but none of them,” he wrote enthusiastically in his classic account Maghreb el-Aksa, “enter into your soul as does this heap of ruins, this sand heap desert town metropolis of the fantastic world which stretches from its walls across the mountains through the oases of the Sahara.”

And nowhere is Marrakech’s otherworldly nature revealed in more telling detail than in the old city’s main square, the Djemaa el-Fna – serving day and night as marketplace, outdoor eatery and musical fun fair all in one. Today, just as centuries ago, it is here that Marrakshis and their country cousins, be they Berber, Arab, Tuareg or black African, congregate to be awed, amazed, entertained and, very likely, parted from some, or all, of their money.

The square’s name is often mistranslated as “gathering place of the dead,” but this reflects as much its eerie power of suggestion as it does deliberate error. In fact, the Moroccan colloquial word fna can be derived from either of two classical Arabic words: fana’, signifying annihilation and extinction, or fina’, with the more prosaic meanings of courtyard and open space.

Djemaa is related to the Arabic jami’, or mosque, and indeed the Saadian dynasty had once planned to build a great mosque here, on what is still the old city’s last remaining expanse of open land. But instead they made it a place of execution, and subsequently permitted the area’s use for public oration and display. Thus the square’s literal meaning is perhaps best left to the imagination. It has, after all, more mysterious ways of communicating with outsiders.

There is no better way of making sense of the Djemaa el-Fna, of stopping its kaleidoscopic swirl and seeing instead the parade of human faces, than to remain in the square uninterruptedly from dawn until late at night.

Viewed from its most accessible vantage point, on the roof terrace of the Café de France, the square begins to take on a new shape as a complex of circles of people. Each circle is tightly bound, its components standing shoulder to shoulder. The perimeter of each pulsates with anticipation, its liquid outlines occasionally breaking and reforming. From here, the square is a living, throbbing carpet, patterned not by knots in woolen pile but by knots of human beings.

Each circle – or halqah, in Moroccan Arabic – is formed by tens or scores or hundreds of individual onlookers, their attention fixed on whichever snail-seller, storyteller, or snake charmer has been lucky enough to catch their eye and draw them inward.

As more people join the ring, it expands; as more of the crowd moves along, it contracts. And there is much jumping back and forth from halqah to halqah as spectators’ attention falters at one ring and is teased away to another.

Maintaining the halqah’s integrity is so important that even solo performers designate an assistant to exercise crowd control at its perimeter. Like dressing a stage to suit the act, an assistant might tighten the ring for a magician’s trick and then expand it for an acrobat’s vault. When the time comes to collect contributions, he walks the circumference, hat in hand.

But in the early morning, just after dawn and well before the rings form, the square is quiet – free of the entertainers’ cries and empty of the pressing crowds. Solitary sweepers brush and scrape away last night’s debris, while people hurry past on their way to work in nearby suqs (markets) or in the distant ville nouvelle (new town). Shoeshine boys set their kits in a neat row; orange vendors untie the tarps that covered their stands.

Khalifah Salami has been at his juice stand since five o’clock this morning, when he came to replace his partner on the overnight shift. “Something is always for sale in the Djemaa el-Fna,” Khalifah says with a toothy grin. “Day or night, you find what you want.” But his many customers undoubtedly come to savor the hour’s peace as much as their drink.

The crowd has already begun to swell by the time the sun has peeked above the High Atlas’s snow-capped range. Earlier, most people passed through the square on their way somewhere else; now they enter to stay. Men waiting for their morning tea huddle tightly around bucket braziers. Boys bearing charcoal, mint and sugar push their way through to resupply.

Among the first to arrive in the square are tarot card readers and amulet writers, each with an open black umbrella to protect the paying customer’s privacy from the merely curious. They establish a characteristic kind of order here, sitting, cross-legged with their backs to the sun in a perfectly straight line. Later, when the square is choked with scurrying spectators and the sun is high, their strange geometry still holds firm.

Ghareeb Ahmad has been writing customized amulets in the Djemaa el-Fna for nearly 10 years. He also reads the Qur’an in a mosque and takes legal dictation outside the courthouse. But today he is busy with his bamboo pen and brown india ink, asking a superstitious petitioner to specify his particular problem.

A folk apothecary, his sales pitch as loudly colored as his potions, has installed himself nearby and is already doing brisk business. Tins of dried leaf, twig, nut and bud are set at the mat’s outer edge. Roots and rose hips, carob pods and persimmon, a whale’s bone and a snake skin are among his many other, less identifiable charms.

His patter is nonstop and lightning fast, accompanied by the rhythm of two spoons clattering back to back. In his palm he mixes blue, yellow, and red powders with attestations of each one’s pharmaceutical credentials and claims. One for virility, another for longevity, a third for levity – all man’s bodily needs are herewith catered for. Opening the way for others, he swallows a gulp and calls out for a buyer. His pet iguana hungrily eyes the crowd.

What the apothecary’s secret dosages will not cure, a turbaned dentist wielding mean-looking pliers promises he can. Standing beside a work table piled high with molars and incisors, Al-A’aouni Ait al-Muqaddam waits patiently for a walking toothache to pass his way. He averages ten public extractions a day, he says, adding bit by bit to his mountain of human enamel.

By noon the first entertainers begin to gather, but these are the less polished, afraid perhaps of going against the finer talent that will appear in the late afternoon. But the crowds are nearly the same and a midday dirham, they need not be told, gleams like any other. Their main game here is more improvisatory than practiced, a kind of street theater cast from ready onlookers and unwitting passersby.

An early afternoon staple in the Djemaa el-Fna are the children’s boxing matches arranged and refereed by M’barek Muhammad. Everyone loves to watch a good fight, and he has simply found a way to make them pay, without anyone actually being hurt. M’barek is in fact more monologue artist than match promoter, and between his long-winded bouts of gab few boxers have time to throw even a single punch.

Asking for two young volunteers, M’barek has them step forward for introductions and straps on their gloves. He asks why they want to fight. Before they can answer he interrupts to say that boys shouldn’t fight; if they insist, however, they must box cleanly and fairly. From this lead-in he recounts, blow by blow, classic world heavyweight matches of the past.

The boys meanwhile are left waiting. Once scared and nervous, their faces grow bored as M’barek’s story grows longer. The crowd first hangs on every word, then it too begins to lose patience. Sensing this, M’barek finally signals the boys to fight, then immediately waves them off again. Now he discourses on glove position and footwork. The boxing lesson momentarily recaptures his audience.

And on this goes – a whistle to box, a whistle to break, and more on the theory and practice of pugilism. The gloves are only props for the boys, who in turn are only props for M’barek. Each missed swing brings to his mind another story. Like a lion tamer in a one-ring circus, who makes his tired cats claw and snarl, M’barek promises blood sport but delivers only a children’s ragtag game. And, brilliantly, he earns a living at it.

The sun is high enough overhead now to call up a strong thirst, which the square’s red-smocked, tassel-hatted water carriers stand ever ready to slake. More buffoons than business men, Abid ben Khalifah and his grizzled side kick Boujamaa el-Fakaak stride through the crowd ringing handbells and clacking brass cups. Snowmelt from the High Atlas, which in truth pours from every spigot in Marrakech, is their special claim.

But drinking from a goatskin is not a city person’s everyday experience, and thus the price seems fair to many customers. Abid’s leather gear bag is studded with silver coins from around the world – “the payment of foreign tourists,” he assures, “who lacked exact change.” The Yemeni dinars, American quarters, French francs, and English pence seem to bear him out.

Suddenly the double-reeded shrill of a ghaita, or Moroccan folk oboe, pierces sharply through the background hubbub. Another ghaita joins, the steady beat of a drum orchestra comes in, and soon everyone’s attention turns to the snake charmers.

Morocco’s snake charmers and scorpion eaters all belong to the ‘Isawi brotherhood, founded by Sidi Muhammad bin ‘Isa in the 15th century. The Djemaa el-Fna’s ‘Isawi are led by Idris Hawishaan, who was taught to handle cobras, pythons and diamond-back rattlers as a child in his home village near Meknes. It is Idris, sitting crosslegged on a carpet, who conducts his musicians and musters his snakes here today.

Two wooden boxes hold Idris’s serpents while his ghaitas and drums play an introduction. The performance begins with a lithe black cobra slithering from the box and coiling neatly before him. With head and both hands dancing, fingers extended and palms turning alternately up and down, Idris catches the snake’s eye and induces its heavy hood to dip and bob in rhythm. A shaking tambourine makes it sit up straighter. To end the dance quickly, he caps the cobra with the same tambourine and turns now to a rattler.

The fat rattler apparently needs a more aggressive touch, so Idris must snap his fingers, tease with his tongue, and drape the snake over his head. But it still declines to dance and is popped back in the box. Showmen, it seems, have no patience with stage fright.

Finally only pythons remain, which despite their name and their angry, gaping mouths look more like harmless green garter snakes. Idris takes one in “each of his hands, their necks outstretched and tongues like spitting darts, and bumps their heads together, which puts them in a fighting mood. Held high over his lap, the snakes weave to and fro in mock aerial combat, one lunging forward as the other recoils.

Tiring of the duet, he loops the larger of the two around his neck and treats the smaller as a plaything. But this toy bites, its teeth sinking deep and holding onto Idris’s left hand. Slowly, carefully, lest it rip the flesh, Idris backs the snake’s teeth out and, still keeping time to the ghaitas’ circular seven-note melody, raises his palm for all to see two drops of blood trickle from the twin puncture.

Idris’s hand needs a bandage and this no doubt will close the show. The musicians too are tired, the ghaita players’ eyes bloodshot and bulging. With the air now cleared of the insistent tune, spectators shuffle their feet and begin to wander, as if the spell that had first drawn them near could be broken by one bite.

The hour is nearing four-thirty, which, in the Djemaa el-Fna’s own time zone, is time to eat. Disassembled food stalls have just been carted in and re-erected along the last remaining empty reach of the square. Each stall has a posted license number and each has a specialty that will be served by the light of gas lanterns until late tonight.

Sharif Ben Aissa sells grilled kidney and sausage to a hungry few. Next to him people gather around a conical pile of boiled land snails flavored with hot sauce. But most are lining up for shibakiyyah, a traditional Moroccan street sweet made of sugar, flour, cocoa and egg topped with walnut, coconut and jasmine.

Thus revived, it seems less daring to press oneself into the outer edge of yet another halqah. With a bit more burrowing, a front-row view is within easy reach for more street theater in the round. Here two actors play a comic, epic struggle between country Arab and country Berber. Each speaks only his own language, but both are perfectly understood by this bilingual crowd.

The characters seem inspired by Juha, the clever peasant of Arab folklore (See Aramco World, May-June 1971). One plays the donkey, with flip-flop sandals for ears and a rope around his neck; the other plays the donkey driver, wearing a wig and holding a paper whip and squirt bottle.

Their acting is pure slapstick, making full use of the clowning behavior known as mashkhara, meaning – appropriately – a donkey’s bray. They prattle back and forth in endless variations on the time-tested routines of the commedia dell’ arte. But their play’s scenario rings with the genius of insightful social commentary.

The donkey, staying always close to character, begs the crowd to buy his freedom for one dirham. With acts of feigned cruelty – quirts, squirts and slaps – the donkey driver uses all his might to obstruct these pleas. Only by pleasing this tough audience with the most imaginative improvisation at his command can the donkey earn his dirham and with it, his liberty.

Roles and props are then reversed: Donkey becomes donkey driver and vice versa. Thus Arab and Berber compete ceaselessly for the upper hand which, once decided, is always soon to change. The contest’s absurdities point a moral lesson while the incentive to overact becomes a plot device; Shakespearean comedy meets Marrakshi mise-en-scène.

Still pondering the act’s simple truth, one must be careful not to back out of the halqah straight into the outstretched arms of an ape. Monkey trainers work this corner of the square, and often, just to enliven a slow day, they turn their charges loose upon the crowd. Any one of them is apt to jump up and run a quick and larcenous little hand through an open pocket.

Card sharps, storytellers and acrobats also ply their trades on this corner. It is an overused spot, near the Bank al-Maghrib and the Pharmacie de la Place, but it is where tour buses unload. Money here has a way of changing hands more freely, and some of it even has a good chance of dropping to the ground, where it is scooped up by the legions of small boys underfoot.

Now taking shape is a large halqah around the square’s acknowledged masters of al-’aitah, the sung Arabic music of Marrakech’s Hauza plain. The ‘Abidat el-Rma were the first to play in the Djemaa el-Fna and have since become the city’s most popular wedding musicians.

The orchestra consists of an electrified ‘ud, or lute, two viols, two darabukkahs, a tambourine and an oil-barrel lid used as a foot drum. Its sound is loud and boisterous as the musicians take the stage, and the group leader uses his tambourine freely to beat the heads of passersby who transgress the still unclosed ring.

Ethnomusicologist Philip Schuyler, an authority on the music of the Djemaa el-Fna, has pointed out that a halqah must be formed rapidly but with precision – fast enough to steal spectators from rival entertainers, but with an expert eye for filling in each arc of a well-drawn circle. In this case it is done in a matter of minutes and the singing soon begins.

The leader assumes an eerie falsetto voice for the popular praise song “Muhammad, al-Nur al-Hadi.” A seasoned showman, he patrols the halqah’s perimeter so that his listeners – many indeed seem to be enraptured fans – can touch his hand. Passing the tambourine after finishing the last verse, he exhorts both crowd and orchestra to open wider their hearts.

After such a stately act, it comes as something of a surprise to run headlong into two high-hopping, drum-beating, head-twirling Gnaoua. The earliest Gnaoua were members of a brotherhood transplanted from the sub-Sahara – “Gnaoua” is a Berber corruption of the country name Guinea – that claimed descent from the Prophet Muhammad’s first muezzin, Bilal ibn Rabah (See Aramco World, July-August 1983).

In recent years in the square, however, they have become known more as entertainers than as members of a religious order. The crux of Gnaoua ritual is its up-and-down dancing and percussive rhythm, beaten out with metal castanets, qaraqeb, and oversized side drums, tbel.

Abdul Latif el-Dhahabi and his 12-year-old son Tayyib dance and drum with all the fervor they can summon after a long day in the square. Little Tayyib has been a regular here for nearly 10 years, so he knows well how to play an audience. Spinning his head to make fly the long tail of his sha’shiyyah, a red doth cap embroidered with cowrie shells, he smiles broadly and clangs his qaraqeba for all he is worth.

When night finally settles over the Djemaa el-Fna, the big musical shows pack up and leave. An impending chill pushes spectators into ever-closer circles around solo storytellers. Few of these rings have kerosene lanterns: Near-total darkness covers a hushed and spellbound crowd, undistracted even by the loud slurps and the din of spoons from nearby soup stalls selling spicy bean harirah.

“The month of Ramadan will soon be upon us,” intones a wizened faqih, or religious scholar. “Come learn how to properly perform your ablutions.” With this he begins his lecture, prepared no doubt after years of teaching in villages far and wide. His talk blends pantomimed gestures with gentle words of persuasion.

Lessons follow on the principles of prayer and fasting. His low voice trails on. His attentive listeners edge forward, learning at this late hour, now well past 10 o’clock, something new in the Djemaa el-Fna. It is time to put aside the pleasures of the day.and seek the higher aims of religious instruction. Whatever the reasons for coming to the square in the first place, such are the rewards with which people finally go home at night.

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