Mysteries and magic of Morocco: Musings from the gaze of a Black woman on vacation

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  • Published on July 22, 2022
  • Last Updated March 10, 2023
  • In Guest Writers

Writer Jet Toomer gives in to the magic of Marrakech, Morocco on a trip to celebrate her partner’s birthday.

On the ride to the Queens, New York airport the night of my flight to Morocco I googled “How to survive Mercury Retrograde shadow period.” My partner and I were heading to the city of Marrakech, then the village of Asni in the Atlas Mountains, and finally Essaouira, a coastal town of the North African country. This was all in celebration of her recently passed milestone birthday. I was concerned our trip to the ancient country would be affected by the celestial occasion, a time marked by the proverbial humans planning and gods laughing. Most people would have been doing last minute searches readying for their journey to a foreign place, but I had heard enough secondhand accounts that allowed for my distraction to stay among the stars. Mostly, people shared their concerns for the things I could not hide; my perceived gender and the indelible mark of my dark skin. My femme queerness, likely becoming punctuated only in the company of my masculine-presenting partner, would be something I would negotiate like I always do: case-by-case. We could be Black, because we were American. We were offered the shield of safety because of our male guide and driver. But in Morocco we were sisters, or perhaps special friends. Our bodies were outlawed, not unlike in the country that had issued our passport.

Despite my ignorance of the nation that would be my home for nearly two weeks, the notes from the astrology pages prepared me to be flexible and to not take myself too seriously. From what I knew about the country there was glamour and style in the North African desert city. Our flight landed in the hours before sunset. Our driver, Mohomed, a tall, friendly light-skinned man smiled often, offering us a mini sightseeing tour on the way to our sprawling hotel. My nerves were beginning to fray after traveling through three airports, countries and time zones. My body kept the score. It was night by the time we returned to the city square to meet our guide, Zaky. That night in the dark bustle of the city, I trailed behind my partner and our guide. I swallowed my jet-lagged New York City attitude. I gazed in merriment at the lively square, the Medina. It was brightly lit, against the darkness of the star-speckled sky. The Kutubiya Mosque stood, in sand-colored stone adorned with different designs on each of four sides. Light bouncing off of and through filigreed windows. The ornate tower sparkling with heritage, a small flag-shaped marker indicating the direction of Mecca. Old-world beauty.

Among the tourists there were families, of all sizes, many intergenerational, some tourists themselves from other parts of Morocco. There was music, contemporary, old, in between, all in languages and harmonies that I can only describe as Arabic, but which I learned later have older, darker-skinned histories. Smoked goat’s heads as display, simmering meats on large ceramic tagines over open coals; stewing snails in giant stainless-steel bowls of gingery broth; fish and chip platters and battered pink prawns the size of a child’s hand. We tried the freshly pressed juices, room temperature, because our guide discouraged us from taking in the local water via ice. We tried nuts, dried fruits and olives, young and old (green to black) persevered in pungent and spicy brines.

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Home decor Boutique at a medina Marrakech in Marrakesh, Morocco. Photography by Jet Toomer

Morocco doesn’t import any of its sundry nuts, produce or meat. This was most evident to me in the tastes of the plums (and other fruits) on which I would exist for most of the trip, after getting food poisoning (from a five-star hotel’s hamburger) on my third day. The fruit, the scents, the energy was exuberant. As inviting as the aromas were, I never loved the food, with its saffron-forward meat dishes with indulgent tough breads.

“I’m just showing you a taste of the market, since it’s late,” Zaky told us.

He was right. As we left the square of the old city, my leopard-printed clogs cobbling along the grounds, we paused to enjoy the many circles of families, singing and clapping gayly in celebration; of what, I do not know. The warming, stinging sensation of appreciation in the form of a salty water welled behind my eyes.

“This is so beautiful,” I said.

“Yes, it is positive energy,” he replied.

This would be the feeling that would grip me, along with deep curiosity, aesthetic delight and a comforting desire to both bargain and to give thanks. The nights of an ancient desert city were where the magic was found and made, the burden of the days cooling as the sun sets. By the next morning my body informed me that I was on a 24-hour world clock and fatigue could not outpace my personal supply of adrenaline. The five-hour time difference was no match for my regular sleeplessness. The luxurious hotel 20 minutes outside of the city of Marrakech did its job from the interior of our suite, to soothe the impulses to eat and sleep.

I decided that I would no longer think of distances in terms of miles. I would ask about the duration of a trip. The U.S. is a country hellbent on distancing its citizens from how the rest of the world computes proximity with its antiquated use of the imperial system. There is no quick conversion in my mind that can shift me from miles to kilometers. As for currency, that would still be measured by the U.S. dollar; a quick equation meant to shrink the distance between what I understood and what was being transacted.

“Divide by ten and that’s how much in USD,” my partner reminded me a half-dozen times along the trail of shops in the zouk.

I picked up a pair of sandy-colored handmade raffia loafers, a design I had never seen before; they were perfectly framed against a ruby-lacquered shelf. $400 Dirhams. Roughly $40.

My phone, in its usual spot, my hand, would become my second pair of eyes. Framing what I wanted to savor. The camera compelling me to slow down, to do a double-triple-quadruple take. The photo of the shoes elicited dozens of responses from my Instagram viewers.

The power of the image of the interiors, exteriors and the many objects of Marrakech became an obsessive fascination for me. The light, the shadows, the textures, the rich ochres and rusty hues made for a chic and mystical landscape. I could see the enchantment for those coming from the West, finding deep wells of inspiration and imbibing at the source. I walked quickly at first, following our guide, and then, slowing my pace to that of a tourist who wanted to see as much as she could. I felt compelled to digitally invite my friends and followers on a trip that was made even more magical because I had done little, other than pack, to prepare for it.

The city of Marrakech is old, founded in the 11th century. It has endured the arid and sun-drenched weather, multiple wars and attempts at colonial occupations for centuries; its elite have benefited grossly from the trade of human life. What is left from (some of) that history has not been scrubbed or excavated; the gates and rampart walls from the city’s inception still stand. Entering the gates of Marrakech signals a commitment to ancient aesthetics that find themselves prominent throughout, from the grand walls that encase the Medina, its royal homes and many mosques, to the Moorish designs of the 7th century that frame entries and archways throughout the city. Courtyards that felt like they were in the middle of a maze in the winding streets of the zouk, were the sunny respites for the narrow streets that cast shadows on wooden doors, decorated with metal designs from the country’s indigenous people: The Berbers.

On foot through the souk, I could see the mundane trade of market life and the youthfulness of the city. Like many countries designated as “Middle Eastern,” the median age of the population in Morocco is under 30 years. The darker-skinned natives, known as Gnawa, from the southernmost regions of the country, were visible every 30 or 40 people. I saw mostly men and boys, or those appearing to be so. Fewer women, or those who appear to be so, were visible in the markets, or on the streets during the day. One queer man, one queer woman, or those who appeared to be so. For the most part people were not especially fascinated by us. Some commented on our clothes; Black folks called us their sisters. I wondered if we were coded as queer and no one cared because the lack of queer visibility erased the identities we so happily perform back home.

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Footwear at House Slippers at the a Medina of Marrakech in Marrakech, Morocco. Photography by Jet Toomer

In the span of several daylight hours, we bought a dozen handmade rugs, with Moroccan and Berber designs at a wholesaler. Next, a dozen pairs of shoes from a shop called House Slippers, a crew of artisans that happily engaged in the frenzy of our excess. Next, we learned of and purchased herbs, natural remedies, makeup from the ancient Berber tradition. In between our quest for materials, we stopped at a centuries-old school for young imams,now a tourist destination, Ben Youssef Madrasa. We walked past one of several hammams, and met a Gnawan (Black) man, who carried on his family’s five-generation history of cooking the tagines in hot coals in a sweltering den. There we were serenaded with spiritual music accompanied by the three-stringed instrument, a gimbri, and the clapping and chorus of friends who looked like they were built into the chairs in which they sat. Many of the places of business we entered were rarely just occupied by the proprietor or staff. The overwhelming sense of community, from shared baths to shared hearths, reinforced my understanding of the African continent’s commitment to unite in communal space.

We were hosted that next hot morning by Jnane Tamsna, a boutique hotel owned by a Black woman. We had a full day planned after our tour. But my bout of food poisoning emerged after I stylishly rode through the zouk as a passenger in a hunter-green sidecar of a motorcycle. We rode dangerously close to people walking, and other motor bikes. We rode through a weekend flea market just outside the gates of the zouk. The sun poured down on my bare shoulders, and I mistook the churning in my stomach as a reaction from the heat. Some of the more pungent odors from the unrefrigerated butcher shops affirmed my morning decision to skip breakfast. I was nauseated. Our guide, whose name I cannot remember, was a young millennial with a badass kind of vibe. Tall, with roguish eyes and no shortage of opinions. I liked him. He showed us the newer parts of the city and shared his love for his native land and its culture. We had lunch at the resort upon our return, which I barely ate. I attributed my fatigue and lack of appetite to the unrelenting temperature. We rested comfortably in a cool rouge-colored room, and then I got sick. That night is a vague memory of pain, but was resolved quickly by a visit from a local physician who prescribed medicine that cured my symptoms overnight.

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Inside the walls of the Jnane Tamsna hotel in Marrakech, Morocco. Photography by Jet Toomer

The Jardin Morelle, the popular garden that sits next to the Yves Saint Laurent museum and houses a Berber cultural museum was our next destination.The garden’s stunning resemblance, in style, layout, plant life and color, to Casa Azul (Frida Kahlo’s Mexico City home) left me spellbound. We walked slowly, inspecting the dozens of species of cacti, and of course taking dozens of photos. This place was a playground for online portraiture. There was romance in that garden. The sweet, thick smell of Jasmine enveloped all of its guests. The Berber Museum felt like a truncated attempt to offer context for a culture whose language is dying but whose people are very much alive. Over 600 objects collected by Pierre Bergé and Laurent, were itemized and described in French and Arabic in display cases and mannequins in three compact rooms. That night we had a homemade dinner prepared by our guide’s wife. We were greeted by a band singing popular songs, and we (bravely) drank what tasted like buttermilk and ate a sweet date before crossing the threshold. That night, we indulged in sweets first with many glasses of mint tea, had henna applied to our hands and ate Seffa, a traditional homemade dish of sauteed chicken rice topped with rice noodles, powdered sugar, almonds, raisins and cinnamon. Then we ate beef tagine and bread with our hands. It was a party in our honor, and I was incredibly grateful for the experience.

After an early morning hot air balloon ride that ended in a crash, we spent a day and night in the Atlas Mountains. The hour-long journey to the Kasbah surrounded by gardens in the mountains revealed an ecosystem that grew more verdant as we ascended toward the hotel. There, the woman who performed our body scrub was a Berber, whom I mistook for Ethiopian. All of the staff spoke at least three languages, first their mother Afro-Asiatic tongue, then Arabic, French and often English. My understanding of the colorline was disrupted many times encountering iterations of people who would be read as Black, or non-white back home. This mystery would collapse my understanding of the colorline, something that often happens when the U.S. perceptions of race are de-centered. Race, though truly a construct, is something that was obfuscated in Morocco, there were unambiguous Black people there, but I was unsure how to even broach the topic in conversation. When I did, our guide, who would be mistaken for a light-skinned Black man back home, said he was white. The doctor, the pharmacist, the coal keeper, all assured us they were Black, but the context still remained unclear.

Upon our departure we bypassed the city of Marrakech and took a four-hour road trip to Essaouira, a coastal town known for its export of sardines and scenic 16th century ports—a popular draw for the film-and-television industry. On the way we saw goats standing in an argan tree and then visited an Argan oil collective, owned and operated by women. We ate a lunch of fried seafood by the beach when we arrived at Essaouira talking to West African migrant hustlers selling artwork and Rastafarian-inspired clothes, before heading to our hotel.

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Goats climb an argan tree in Essaouira, Morocco. Photography by Jet Toomer

As we walked from our car, with helpers carrying our luggage I felt more visible than before. First as an excessive American tourist, then as a Black woman. In the way that I could quickly move through the labyrinth of the Zouk in Medina Marrakech, I was on full display walking the long white-and-blue corridors of this medina. I felt hyper invisible, in that it seemed folks went out of their way not to see me. Despite my tender stomach, I ate delicious oysters-on-the-half-shell and fresh sea urchin as we watched a few takes from a movie being filmed that day. We quickly traipsed through the shopping districts. Though a beautiful break from the heat of the inland of Marrakech, the spirits of all those who had passed through in chains for centuries haunted my ancestral memory, and I could not find peace on that land. Our arrival back to the city coincided with the sunset. We were tired but happy to be back in a place that offered familiarity in its metropolis. This would be our last night in the city, and we stayed in a massive hotel. We ate dinner, then came home to pack and sit on our balcony to watch the city come alive with our view of the Medina Square. The days spent in the city of Marrakech went by in sort of a blur, us squeezing in rest, and private time during some of our tours.

There is so much of Morocco I didn’t see. In the short time of our travel, I grew to understand the city of Marrakech to be a welcoming home to those who desire to learn more about what they witness than the narratives of Arabic countries that are damning and pervasive in the U.S. I felt safe, my queerness roaming right alongside my femmeness, my blackness. I think having a guide and a car waiting everywhere helped with that. Since my return back home, I’ve obsessively researched Morocco, perhaps the way I should have before I arrived, but frankly I would do the trip the same way all over again, learning through space and place as I go.

Jet Toomer is a writer, muse and community organizer from NYC. She is a Creative Writing MFA candidate at Columbia University and the inaugural Joel Gay Creative Writing Fellow; a grant awarded by Roxane Gay and digital writing platform Substack. Her writing can be found at tinyviolences.com.

This story was created by Detour, a journalism brand focused on the best stories in Black travel, in partnership with McClatchy’s The Charlotte Observer and Miami Herald. Detour’s approach to travel and storytelling seeks to tell previously under-reported or ignored narratives by shifting away from the customary routes framed in Eurocentrism. The detour team is made up of an A-list of award-winning journalists, writers, historians, photographers, illustrators and filmmakers.

This story was originally published July 22, 2022 9:00 AM.

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