I’d arranged for a few days for recuperation in Marrakech between the two more arduous parts of our trip – the horseback ride and the desert tour. After six days in the saddle and some sightseeing Rena-style – deeply informative death marches through the souks and historical high points of Rabat and Meknes – we needed it. Kurt’s back was royally f-ed up, I had a scabby ass and a knee that would occasionally object to maintaining my weight.  We were both dehydrated and the heat (most days in the mid-90s) had taken the starch out of us.  It seemed the others had similarly planned for Marrakech and, on the last day of the ride, we huddled to consider our options given the earthquake of the night before.

It wasn’t concern about aftershocks that had most of us hesitating.  It was the notion of descending as tourists amid a crisis.  Would our presence add to the logistical challenges? Would we be perceived as trauma tourists?  Danielle and her daughter decided to head instead to the coast for some beach time.  Katie called the hammam (spa) where she’d booked a day and they told her they were open.  I called the small riad (inn) where we had reservations and they too said we were welcome.  The casualty count was still rising but it seemed the majority of those were in the Atlas Mountains and that, though Marrakech had sustained damage, it was open and eager for business.  Katie, Kurt and I caught our Sunday morning train ready to give Marrakech a try but committed to moving on if it seemed inappropriate.

I’ve tried to imagine what Washington or Chicago or Denver would be like 36 hours after a 6.8 earthquake.  The streets would surely be empty as everyone with a vacation home or relatives elsewhere would have fled.  The shops too would be empty as those who stayed, would feel a desperate need to buy 16 packs of toilet paper, gallons of milk, and any tool they saw used on Alone.  And, the national guard would be rolling the streets, you know, like they do during peaceful marches. 

What greeted us outside the ultra-modern Marrakech trains station was … bustling traffic and busy Moroccans.  Our taxi driver dropped us outside the medina walls and signaled that we needed to walk in and take the first left.  We were instantly lost.  The medina had swallowed us.  I eventually called the riad and Hammed, our host, found us.  He led us down a dark alley of motor-scooters and trashcans to a heavy metal door.  Stepping through it, we entered sanctuary.

On the ground floor, Riad Jaaneman has fashionably decorated salons of low sofas surrounding a courtyard with a small plunge pool and a lush planting of tall banana trees and jasmine vines that grow tall to reach the open sky above.  Suites are arranged around the perimeter of the second floor.  Above these is a terrace with an array of chaise lounges, potted cactus, and a view of the rooftops of the city.

Worried that if we stayed too long in the cool comfort of the Jaanemen, like lotus eaters we’d never leave, Kurt and I dropped our gear and ventured out.  Again we were swallowed by the complex network of narrow streets that connect souks for spices, rugs, leather goods, etc -- all open for business.  We did encounter areas of damage.  But these were well on their way to being sorted by industrious men with donkey carts who would speed in empty and out loaded with rubble. 

As the days passed, we began to notice a change.  Mixed in with the shop keepers and a few intrepid, dusty tourists, like ourselves, were an increasing number of Americans and Europeans in highly curated shabby chic and boho outfits with perfect make-up and hair.  These are the Kardashian Instagram followers, the YouTube foodies, the selfie-stick brigade.  Their return made our impending departure more inviting but also gave me hope that Marrakech will recover well from this small dark side note in its thousand-year story.