Djamaa El Fna in Marrakech is where it’s at. This vast square is the hub of all activity; eating and drinking, shopping and browsing, watching and being watched, chilling and baking. It all happens in the heart of Marrakech.
Food stalls with steam and smoke wafting up and over the adjacent Koutoubia Mosque. Huge stalls of spices with a small space for the stall holder to pop his head up in the middles. Fresh orange juice stands, strong cinnamon tea, snake charmers, dancers, drummers. All before even thinking about the countless souks and the numerous burkha-veiled women offering to paint henna patterns all over your feet, ankles, wrists.
But like many other places it’s the people who make it what it is, and in Marrakech that means the swarm of stallholders and hawkers all competing for your business. They are a talented bunch, always ready with a good line to reel you in with.
Firstly though, they spot your nationality from a good thirty or forty metres away and they’ve got you in their sights. Presumably these talented hawkers have got so good at spotting the idiosyncrasies of differing national styles of dress and manner that they instantly know what language they need to use.
In all the time I was there it was rare that someone tried the wrong language first off, and even when they did, it was generally a mere momentary lapse before they switch effortlessly to English for me.