Christmas in Marrakech

Moustafa arrives early on Christmas morning, cloaked in a brown djellaba.
'I am here to help you démystifier Marrakech,' he says, as we prepare to set off into the medina.
'When you look around you, there are two things you should remember about Marrakech: first, Marrakech is a crossroads between Europe and Africa and between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic; and second, there are two main influences on our history and culture: Arabic, of course, and French.'
And, raising his cowl, he steps out of the riad into the little alleyway, his prayer beads rattling by his side.
We briskly follow suit.

Despite the early hour, the crowds are out in force. We pause by the side of a small square.
'This is the old slave market of Marrakech,' explains Moustafa, and I nod and smile inanely, not having heard him properly.
'It is no use to pretend this is not a part of our history. But now you can find things from a women's cooperative for sale here, and that is liberating. To move from slavery to liberty – that is good,' he says, with a twinkle in his grey eyes. A slightly pat message, but one which I appreciate nonetheless.
'Come! On va découvrir d’autres endroits insolites!'

* * * * *

In the evening, the Djemaa El Fnaa pulses with drumbeats and a swirl of humanity. The snake charmers have given way to food stalls, and the smell of cooking billows into the night. Monkey-trainers, musicians and story-tellers throng the square, along with vendors and merchants with mounds of spices and fruit. In the shadows of the gas-light, the scene before me seems to flit between the present and another Christmas – many years ago – when I stood, younger but no less mesmerised, before the same, timeless spectacle of clamorous colour.