I’ve just had dinner at the markets in the main square of Marakesh. I chose a chicken couscous, but without a guide I refrained from trying to eat it local style – with fingers. It was challenging enough to work out that the dish of chilli was for dipping the bread. I had wondered if I was meant to be pouring it over the couscous or trying to eat it with the fork.
Scott and Pip, the Aussie couple tried the meat tajine. Very tender, apparently, but dissapointingly, came on a plate rather than in the tajine.
We’d wandered through the markets for a while, letting the sales people in front of each stall try to convince us theirs was the best. In the end, we chose number 97, mostly because the guy started quoting from Summer Heights High. There were also many stalls selling freshly squeezed orange or grapefruit juice and just as many more selling nuts and dried fruit in huge piles.
Nearby, women paint henna on hands, men in colourful outfits ask to have their photos taken and men hold cups of water out for their charmed snakes to drink from. It’s all visible from our hotel rooftop if the pressure from the vendors gets too much.