Marrakesh, Morocco - a local treat on the roadside

Wandering the passageways of a medina outside of Rabat

To avoid the touristic hordes, my local guide had intended to navigate us to view the Koutoubia Minaret at smoggy dawn.  As with all good intentions however, sometimes more important things take precedence.  For my travelling companions, this took the form of a shopping expedition through Marrakesh’s Djemaa el Fna Square.  After a successful ransack of the souk, a chaotic maze of shops and informal stands located within the medina walls, our travel group armed with their loot of spices, colourful harem pants, medjoul dates and souvenir T-shirts, finally allowed the guide to introduce us to his beloved mosque.

The Koutoubia mosque is named after the manuscript sellers that used to peddle their wares outside the walls. As only Muslims are allowed to enter the 12^th century mosque, our party was happy to stroll around the complex and view the pink stone Moroccan architecture.  Gazing at the looming minaret, I was amused to once again see the striking resemblances to Moorish architecture found in the south of Spain. 

Minaret in Fes

Mohamed, the guide, tapped me on my shoulder and motioned for me to follow; and whilst the rest of our party explored and photographed the gardens, the two of us hustled towards the back gates of the garden.  Trying to pry the surprise out of Mohamed as we dodged other pedestrians on the sidewalk proved impossible.  Mohamed stopped alongside three men sitting against the garden fence.  An old man slowly stirred a pot on a burner, and I was urged to take a seat with them.  After a rapid exchange of Arabic and some dirham notes, a young man got up, and took out two ceramic bowls.  Whilst I watched intently, Mohamed said: “You wanted to taste bissara – this is the only way to do it.  The hotel is no good.” The old man spooned the rich soup made from broad beans, garlic and spices into the bowls.  He then turned and picked up a canister to drizzle olive oil in spiral patterns.  The bowls were finished off with a sprinkling of dry roasted cumin.

Sitting on upturned crates covered in newspaper, tearing away pieces of flatbread called khoubz, I swiped up mouthfuls of this rustic, yet glorious soup.  In the background, the midday Adhan - or call to prayer - started.  Dressed in my Indian punjabi – my most conservative dress with its baggy pants and long tunic – and sitting amongst four males in a conservative society, to the passers-by I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.  But for me, this moment with my silent lunch companions was truly authentic.

On the road in Morocco - a view of an oasis