The cats of Marrakesh

by Teddy Ashworth (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Morocco

We are alone. The taxi zooms back the way it came, our misunderstanding of the exchange rate playing firmly to the driver’s advantage. We are left with blue exhaust smoke, our rucksacks and the clouds of our own breath forming in the unexpected chill of night-time Marrakesh. Google Maps is useless here. The alleys of the medina follow no rules, twisting out of sight. The still night air is quiet, broken only by quiet murmurs of figures in brown pointy-hooded robes huddled in doorways, or the high-pitched rattle of an overburdened motorcycle, disappearing as quickly as it came and leaving us in silence. Somewhere nearby is the riad we booked; the pictures on the website of a sun-drenched courtyard with a bubbling fountain bears no resemblance to the dark and dusty alley we find ourselves in. We try one way then another, each clutching the other’s hand as we try to navigate this unsettlingly quiet city. We turn the corner and eight sets of eyes stare back at us. A pack of alley cats have draped themselves across the environs of a small dead-end. Quickly losing interest in our intrusion, they go back to lazing around or searching for morsels in the dust. Each of them is grey and brown, with none of the sleekness but all of the grace of a house cat. Surveying the small dead-end we found ourselves in, we realise we have arrived at the front door of our riad. Bidding the cats farewell, we go to bed. None of the guidebooks mentioned them, but the cats of Marrakesh are the undisputed lords of the city. Every way you turn you are greeted with a new scene and hidden within each a feline shape can be spotted. Some are nestled among carefully positioned silver teapots on a blanket spread on the street, while others are only seen as four shadowy paws from underneath, stalking across an overhead canopy. Most often, they are a quick point of movement on a perfectly still street. The cats of Marrakech are everywhere, because this is their city. Your mind is constantly torn on the issue of how best to be in Marrakesh; is it in surveying the chaotic sprawl of the Jemaa el-Fnaa from a café terrace, or from right within the crowds of the souk, at snapping distance from the dancing snakes and in the searching gaze and quick greetings of the self-appointed street guides? Surely no perspective compares with that which is perceived through the gleaming eyes of the true rulers of the city. This initial impression of imperiousness soon gives way. Past the slinking movements you see patchy fur and ragged coats. Some of the cats are missing eyes or ears. We furtively gather bread from the breakfast table into napkins, to feed to our friends outside. They coldly reject our offer. One tiny kitten, so very still outside the doors of a mosque, accepts water from the lid of a plastic bottle. A little boy smiles and strokes the little kitten as we leave. We pass by again later that day and the doors of the mosque are open; worshippers pray inside, and the kitten is gone. On our last evening in Marrakesh we had dinner in a restaurant terrace overlooking the spice market. As we dined, the sun set, and the sky went from blue to hazy orange and purple. The distant smoke rising from the Jemaa el-Fnaa caught the evening light, then night fell and one by one the stars emerged. From our vantage point we watched the crowds dwindle and the market stalls disappear; flags, carpets, spices, tortoises and chameleons in cages, all disappeared into the little doorways that lined the square. Through it all the cats slunk, searching for scraps. A small cat, no more than a kitten, watches from under a wagon. A man wanders over with a white plastic bowl and sets it down nonchalantly. Cautiously, the kitten stalks out to investigate; warily at first, she begins to lap at her dinner. The man watches for a time, then both he and the cat slink away to bed.