Morocco is having a Moment. After years of slow, steady progress, the country is suddenly experiencing a tremendous growth spurt. Streets that haven’t changed for hundreds of years are being torn out and repaved; rivers are being dredged to make way for new waterways; small towns composed of rammed-earth buildings are being razed to make way for new housing developments.
Even as a first-time visitor to the country, it was immediately obvious to me that things are changing, and fast.
The reasons for the growth are mostly economic: the European Union is grooming Morocco for inclusion; numerous US companies are creating offices here to take advantage of the relatively cheap labor; tourism is expanding at a breathtaking rate; the monied elite from surrounding countries are building palatial vacation homes like so many miniature pashas.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in Marrakech.
Amid rolling hills of red earth, the ancient city is rapidly becoming something altogether new. The
old city wall, called the medina, can no longer contain the population. As we drove into the city, we saw so many work crews and so much scaffolding that we felt as if we’d driven into a construction zone. The red and yellow latticework of cranes punctuated the skyline, competing with the palm trees for height and prominence. Bags of cement slumped in heaps every few feet along the sidewalk, while groups of men lackadaisically scraped shovels against the dusty ground.
New construction is happening at such a rapid rate that builders don’t complete one project before moving on to the next. In these newly completed complexes, it is not uncommon to find light bulbs dangling naked from the ceilings; coils of doorbell wire sprout outside of the doors, with no hardware attached.
The air literally crackles with tension. It felt entirely familiar to me, and for the first couple of days, I couldn’t figure out why. Then it occurred to me that this frantic, urgent atmosphere was nearly identical to the Silicon Valley during the dot-com years. Rapid change has a certain physiological temperature that is identical no matter where in the world you are.
Weathered, toothless cabbies shook their heads and sighed, lamenting that old Marrakech was
disappearing before their eyes. We bounced across rutted dirt roads to tour a new development, one of many in which no expense is being spared. These are homes that belong in magazine spreads, replete with intricate details, sweeping views and lush grounds. Just outside the walls of these impressive complexes, people live in low rammed-earth homes and hang their laundry on wires that stretch between the structures. Little boys run barefoot through the dirt. We were coated in dust after just a few hours. Even the palm trees were grey from accumulated grime. If I didn't know better, I would think that the women with scarves covering their noses and mouths were wearing them to protect against the elements.
Back inside the city, walking through the souk, I had the sense that we were experiencing the last gasp of authentic Marrakech. Yes, there are still burros carrying loads of oranges through the streets, and yes, the calls to prayer by the muezzin still float hauntingly through the air, but tour buses line the streets, disgorging loads of camera-toting gawkers into the square, and it may be that the land of Ali Baba will soon be about as genuine as Fisherman’s Wharf.
Ah, but then the sun goes down.
In the next post: the charm of Marrakech returns when dusk falls.
