The Colours of Marrakesh

I have always loved Naples. Genoa too. The endless narrow streets, allegorical, dirty; I wondered why I loved them so much. The answer eluded me, and my life continued on its course. Then one September, for some reason, I bought a flight to Marrakesh.

The sweet sun embraced me, and led me by hand through the mysteries of this city free of rules. The medieval Medina, with its derbs, blind alleys, bumpy lanes, widened into spaces in which anything was possible; descents, public squares and more derbs. My senses drowned in a sea of light, colour, unpleasant smells, scents, sounds and fun. I felt serene, a stranger united with a world far from my own logic, with its own existential parameters, its own brand of madness.

Towards evening, as the sun reliquished the place to the magic of nightfall, I sat down by an intoxicating hedge of jasmine, and in that moment, amid the myriad of small white flowers, I realized I had arrived. Looking across the small plain square, I saw a ruin, the heap of stones and earth spoke of memories lost, of never realized returns. And so my adventure began, I was overwhelmed by hidden beauty.

I spent whole days trying to find out about the ruins, who had lived there, what had happened. The old people told me stories of love, madness, blood and resignation. The young laughed my morbid interest. There were stories of life in those stones, histories of misery and fears, of young warriors, hidden harems, of roses blooming in the moonlight. I returned to Italy and within seconds left my job, the infernal circling routine, and I launched myself into a new elusive, light world. Sly, sometimes vulgar, sometimes sweet.

My life in Riad Amazighen took shape, a new life, dreamed of, sought after and never reached for out of fear. There were many problems, sometimes almost insurmountable, but I always had an awareness of having arrived. Marrakesh enchants me still as then. Its history, its monuments, its life. Jemaa el Fna, a square that shows you the importance of ingcomparisons, because poverty is not poverty, life can smile on everyone, even on the less fortunate.

Among villains, whores, gigolos and dancers, Jemaa el Fna is a history book, authentic, credible and objective, a mass of lives interwoven with dignity. Dignity that I revisit each evening, watching the cassecroute stall, selling sandwiches to the poor, sandwiches made of boiled eggs and potatoes which you can buy with a glass of tea for a few cents.

There, dark-eyed youths bite into sandwiches, thinking about their future, if there is a future. Proud young men enjoy their meal as if it were a special one, a king’s feast, turning to gaze at the profile of the Atlas, which have for centuries been the bringers of water and life, dreaming of the life to come. Here everything is imagined and imaginary, life goes on with its usual rhythms, its stories, its victories, its defeats and sufferings.

The magic of the evening in Marrakech is renewed daily by the wind that blows from the highest mountain in North Africa, Jebel Toubkal, a few kilometres from the city. For centuries, the wind has arrived punctually, refreshing minds clouded by the oppressive heat of long summer days. I love to celebrate this event that punctuates my days with a ritual, my own ritual: a steaming cup of mint tea, taken leaning against the wall of the terrace while stroking my dog and gazing below me at the Medina fleeing the evening heat.

The sounds, words, smells and feelings linger in the air and the wind breathes, a magic wind which squeezes your soul, rapes you with its arrogance, which blesses the spirit. Amid all the nuances of this city that I relive every day, sudden glimpses remind me of Naples and Genoa, where I lived, and which I love deeply. And my thoughts turn to the early days of my new life in Marrakesh when I was stubbornly trying to figure out what it was I liked about this mad city, and what drew me so strongly to these places, these streets and alleys, this colourful chaos, full of energy.

I know now and I love to think of a past life spent on some Bourbon galleon that sailed from Naples bordering the Barbary Coast, attacked by fierce pirates in search of gold and slaves. Or I see myself on a frigate of the Maritime Republic of Genoa, returning from deepest Africa carrying cargoes of spices, incense and Oriental perfumes. My Riad is called Amazighen, which translated from Berber means "free man" and is the term used by the Berbers to recognise and identify themselves.

Today I consider myself a free man, free to choose, to bring together the pieces of my life which until a few years ago I was denied or stigmatized for. Even my blog from Marrakesh, an idea that materialized a year and a half ago, has a clear title: Last Exit... Marrakesh! Yes, I think that this adventure is and will be my last exit. When you find the right energy, inner peace, the nuances that fill your soul, why keep looking?

Paolo

http://www.riadamazighen.com/