Kenny Gilmore

Part two, Finding Abdul Gani

Two years previously my kiwi travelling companion Mike had been camel
trekking through the desert with a consummate host and tour guide by
the name of Abdul Gani, and the second day was spent largely looking
for this man in Marrakesh. First of all, we tried his phone number –
retrieving an interesting message in Berber Arabic which, in the
manner of all telephone operators everywhere made it abundantly clear
that we needed to try another way of finding Abdul Gani. Next we tried
the hotel and library where he used to work. This we found purely by
good fortune, having navigated our way from the square by the
democratic system of taking turns to make random navigational
decisions in the colourful winding labyrinth of the Medina. After
another good Tagine on the rooftops, and a few more glasses of
Moroccan mint tea, we were told that Abdul Gani no longer worked here
and we digested this information slowly as we stretched out on the rug
covered couches, the twin speakers nailed to the wall accompanying
our musings with the twang of Bedouin guitar desert blues. When
inspiration struck we arose as one man and set off to find a taxi
driver. We had an address to work with, indecipherable to the western
eye but according to the tall young taxi driver it would be ‘facile’.
The difficult part would be agreeing the price. The most successful
age of piracy apparently took place in this region in the form of slave
corsairs raiding the Mediterranean coasts for Christian slaves for at
least three hundred years. Spirited back to Marrakesh these hapless
Italians, Spanish, Italian and English slaves were sold on the block
and sent off into the deserts to a destiny lost to history. This
magnificent outrage was only brought to an end by a certain Lord
Exmouth in 1861, who fired 50,000 cannonballs into the city of
Tangiers (I think he was somewhat displeased). This may have been a
set back but I am pleased to report that one hundred and fifty years
later the descendants of these former pirates are doing well. They are
taxi drivers, and as far as I can see the true Golden age of Piracy in
this region is only just beginning. Having said that, after a good
hour of bad directions, U-turns, spiral driving patterns and quiet
French swearing I did begin to pity our young pirate as struggled to
find Abdul Gani in the strangely understated suburbs of Marrakesh,
where not a single roadway bore a sign or street name of any
description. At last we had a breakthrough, and we were standing
outside his door preparing to explain ourselves. This was answered by
a smiling young man in a tracksuit, who touched his hand on his heart
in the warm manner of all Moroccan men in greeting us and declared
that he was Abdul’s nephew and knew where to find him. Two hours later
we were tucking into Moroccan salads at the same hotel, knees to knees
at a small table with our tour guide, artist, musician, and soon to be
friend – Abdul Gani.

In our conversation that night the topic of Moroccan music came up and
I was fascinated to hear of the colourful variety and vibrant
traditions of Gnawa mystical desert music, Rai, Chaabi and underground
Muslim pop. The guy Cheb Mami who sung with Sting on the hit ‘Desert
Rose’ apparently is not Moroccan as I thought, but Algerian. Check out
this gentleman Dawdi:

Kenny

Day one (hangover hell)

Arrived on a dawn flight from Madrid, where we had literally paid
twenty euros for the privilege of laying our packs down for the night
while we joined a suicidal bar crawl for internationals in Madrid. As
the soft light of the morning sun warmed the green tiles of Marakesh
airport our hangovers where just beginning to set in. Upon reflection,
central Marakesh is probably not a good place to arrive in with a
hangover and no sleep. There are two strangers you will meet in
Marakesh, and they are named peace and quiet. The Souk is just one big
collision of merchants trading cloth, colours, leather, hasty lunches,
trinkets and touts, knives and guitars, sandals and snakeskins…and
noise. If you survive that open armed hug with your wits intact then
there is the central square. For a thousand years this has been the
meeting ground for the entertainers and the entertained, the hungry
and the food sellers, the lost and the confused and those that prey on
them..a steaming, heaving, boiling anarchic assemblage of humanity
where all languages and colours blend into the background ruled over
by the crashing of drums and the demented wailing of a dozen snake
charmers. Not, I repeat, a good place to arrive in with a hangover.
Through this melee we managed to drag ourselves to the safety of a
rooftop café, narrowly avoiding having our photograph taken with a
monkey (luckily for the monkey). Here we attempted to salvage our wits
with the help of our first Tagine meal, which was frankly delicious,
and did much to endear the first demiglass of sweet Morrocan tea to
us. And it was the tea that probably saved me, for the only part of
the conversation I remember was addressed to my friend and fellow
traveler Mike when I declared “if those snake charmers do not stop I
will throw myself over the balcony!”

Kenny