Marrakech - in the flow of the city

Everything half-finished

My dragon demands care. The engine warning light has been glowing ominously for days. I learn: Glowing is not yet serious. Blinking would be. Still, it makes one nervous when so many kilometers lie ahead. So I give in and check what's going on. ChatGPT and two friends suspect: poor diesel quality, high temperatures, too much dust. I follow the AI's advice and head to Ilyas's workshop, a bit outside Marrakech. One of many: small, dusty, greasy, the garage door open – as often here. Ilyas shows me his phone. It displays the explanation of the error diagnosis, translated by ChatGPT: Too much exhaust in the engine. AI is also here. And again, an image that doesn't quite fit.
Ilyas gets a new valve, rides off on his moped, disappearing somewhere in the maze. Two mechanics are tinkering and searching since the moment I arrived. Six hours later, the problem is half-resolved. I should have it checked again at home. Finally, a test drive. “Do you want to drive?” I ask. “No, you. There's too much traffic here.”

With the repaired valve and feeling somewhat reassured, I drive on towards the city the next morning. Many trust taxis, leaving their campers parked. I prefer to trust myself. Red lights are ignored, mopeds and SUVs weave past me while I patiently wait for the green light. Behind me, someone honks impatiently. This is how it is in front of every city – only in Marrakech, mopeds come from all directions. What bicycles are to us, mopeds are to here. Even more impatiently.

I come across a market along the N8, a federal highway, not a small side street. A man is pulling two cows behind him. Did he just buy them? One slips, almost kicking my bus. Another balances a sheep on his moped as he approaches me. Two-lane roads become four. Animals, mopeds, people, delivery vans overtake me from left and right. And I: stay calm.
When the dog in the mountains was baring its teeth, I was more nervous than now in this wild street jumble. Because the safest thing I can do is: trust the flow. Swing along with the chaotic rhythm of this city. Like the man with a cane, who confidently paves his way.

I was warned about Marrakech. Wild, loud, overpriced. I shouldn't buy anything. The woman at the first coffee stand asks 55 Dirham for a small Moroccan coffee – almost six euros, more expensive than in Berlin. It’s only ten in the morning. Everyone is still busy, reverently arranging boxes and containers so that everything looks nice later when the tourists arrive. Others sit down for breakfast in front of their shops. The selling mode hasn't kicked in yet. I wander unnoticed through the Medina. It sparkles more than others, shines grandly where profits are expected. But just two corners away, the other Marrakech begins. Halved cows hang down, animal guts are laid out. I grimace, slightly disgusted. “Don’t you like this?” one asks.
“No.”
“Why are you photographing what you don't like?”
Not a bad question.
Yes – I am one of those who wants to capture what is different. The carpenters, the blacksmiths, the greasy little workshops next to raw meat, fish, vegetables, fabrics. Everything open to the street, all visible, real and unvarnished. I want to show it so that it is not forgotten. That’s why I photograph guts. What I don't photograph are turtles, lizards, birds, and snakes in cages waiting for their performances. Here, I don’t stop. I show my incomprehension.

There is much construction happening. Marrakech is also preparing for the World Cup 2030. Overloaded donkeys carry bags of cement from one place to another, braying loudly, looking exhausted. Like the acrobatic couple in soccer jerseys who juggle skillfully with a ball at the Djemaa el Fna. They seem as if they themselves don't know what to make of it – and on which side they actually stand. I watch them over a cup of mint tea. Everywhere, things are being demolished and space is being made for more shine. The waiter confirms: Yes, Marrakech is gearing up. For the World Cup. For tourism. High expectations. Great hopes. And critical glances. What he really thinks, he does not say. I am a tourist. Only there to make money. Yet in his smile lies something heavy.

A woman takes my hand, starts to paint henna on it. “For luck in love,” she says. I pull my hand away, not wanting to be pressured to pay again. She stops – a half-finished henna is left behind. Only half luck, perhaps? I don't want to attach too much meaning to this message. But this started henna fits well with this country: It has understood a lot, is progressive and busy. And then, when the workers ride home on the donkey cart with their families, it seems calm, almost peaceful. Next to the hustle and bustle: a strange, quiet serenity. And the unfinished also resonates with me and this journey. We stay in the flow and look curiously at what lies ahead.