No, Marjane is not a Town in Morocco

The Lanterns of Meknes,
originally uploaded by Raven Weaver.

This past Sunday, I visited the town of Meknes. P. had invited me and I thought that it might be nice to explore another town nearby. On the drive there, directional signs printed with the word Marjane were plentiful. If you did not know better, you could be fooled into believing that Marjane is a town. It is almost the size of town once you are inside of one, but it is instead one of the new super supermarkets. After horseback riding the other week, I dashed into the new Marjane briefly with the list provided by Sanae. Almost instantly blinded by all things new and shiny, I was smart enough to keep my head down and my eyes on the list. Driss the driver had already been waiting patiently for over two hours at the stables so I was pretty sure that twiddling his thumbs in the parking lot and then watching me stumble out with a washing machine and an Italian coffee maker was not in my best interests. I resolved to return.
I returned many days later but to the older (like calling one twin the older) Marjane Oued Fez. I do not wear a watch but time did seem suspended in there. I admired too many candy apple red appliances and finally emerged with a glass milk bottle printed with red cherries. (I was determined to have a proper milk bottle when the fresh milk vendor finally appeared in my wanderings.) I could have been part of the cast of a zombie flick for there were many of us inside aimlessly trolling the aisles, picking up various and sundry unnecessary goods. Whoever said that religion is an opiate for the masses had never been inside a modern shopping mall or uber-supermarket. With great difficulty did I tear myself away munching on an expensive chocolate wafer studded with caramel.
So when P. stopped someone in the ville nouvelle of Meknes to ask for directions to the market, I was willing to bet money that the directions led to another Marjane. Luckily, they did not. They led instead to the medina of Meknes which was simply a delight. Every lane, alley and courtyard made me wish for a watercolour palette and some talent. The walls were washed with soft blues, creamy yellows and a soft red that had faded to the rosy tone of your favourite childhood blanket. There was a stillness in the medina. We wandered the fruit and vegetable stalls before heading into the fabric souks. Then the jewelry souk where I admit to feeling a bit light headed. So much gold in such a small place. My eye could not really focus. Lunch was in a stall with only one small table. A beef tagine with chickpeas in a tomato sauce served with warm, soft bread. The gentleman's wife cooked at home and he carried the large stew pot to his stand where he ladled the portions as needed. It was finished with the omnipresent sweet tea. At this time of the year, the herb shiba is offered if you prefer that to the mint. It is a milder flavour and most enjoyable. We wandered after lunch and I BOUGHT SOMETHING! After three weeks and only two belts, I bought a turquoise and silver kaftan with an underdress of pale blue. (Let us allow a moment for all of you familiar with my black on black closet to recover yourselves....) If I cannot find a high-quality, elegant djellaba, I might as well find the flashiest kaftan that I can. And I have. Kaftans are only worn inside the home. They are worn with a belt and so are made a trifle long. They are very ostentatious. P. explained that Muslims are not to display their wealth so I surmise this is why the amazing kaftans are kept for private wearing and the more discrete djellaba for daily outside wear. However, I am a foreigner. I may just wear my kaftan for coffee. Probably in Vancouver. Or Paris (you know in Paris, no one will bat a eyelash in my direction if I do). After the kaftan purchase, I felt that it was time to return to Fez so that I might admire my sparkling new delight and laugh at the improbability of its ever being worn. The drive home was less eventful than the drive to Meknes. Just as P. had been explaining about the Moroccan policing system, (as he explained all things Moroccan or otherwise, all day-apparently my appearance conveys complete ineptitude and overwhelming ignorance. Why didn't any of you tell me before??) we came around a bend and saw a police truck in the median. They flagged us over and P. produced his papers. Off he and the policeman went to have a discussion. P. returned to explain as we set off that the original fine of 750 MAD had been reduced to "As you like". The "as you like" translated to no fine as there was no substantiating radar printout of his speed. This good Moroccan king has said that foreigners must be left to continue on their way without harassment. I believe that this means you might drive whatever speed you like if you carry a foreign passport. (Where is that car rental agency again? Anyone remember where we passed it? Got to get a car....Did I mention that I have been watching a few too many episodes of the British show Top Gear? Hmmm, a Bugatti Veyron and a Moroccan freeway....HOLLYWOOD EPIC MOVIE MUSICAL SCORE SWELLS. GLINTING SILVER/BLACK SUPERCAR FLASHES BY INTO THE DISTANT SETTING SUN. CAMEL SLOWLY AND PONDEROUSLY SWAYS ACROSS THE ROADWAY. FADE TO BLACK.....