Down an alley in Marrakesh, I knelt to photograph a mosque beside an archway. A man slumped against the wall—orange in the glow of the streetlight—rustled, let go of a bottle next to him, and mumbled, “You have to pay.” “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know,” I said and started to move away. He got to his feet, tilted his head back, and thrust his hand toward me, “What’s your name?” “Ismi Yousef,” I answered. “You’re Muslim,” he asked, half-smiling. When I shook my head, he squeezed my hand and said, “Pay.” Face to face, I could smell the rum. I pulled away but he squeezed harder and whispered, “I’m ISIS. Pay.” I said no and left.
Down another alley in Marrakesh, I noticed a flame glowing at the bottom of a black stairwell and the flutter of a man stoking it with a long pole. I descended, and he pulled aside the cloth covering his face to smile sheepishly. He pointed at the bubbling black pots of tangia, lamb from the neighbors that would roast all night. We were underneath the hammam, the neighborhood bathhouse. I had read about this in the guidebook. I nodded a thank you and ascended.
Down another alley in Marrakesh, a man pulled me through row after row of rainbow-colored hanging silks and wools to his shop where I bought a shimmering violet-rose scarf. A teenager emerged next door holding a length of bright blue wool his height steaming in the sunlight. Inside, I saw a fire glowing and thick white clouds billowing up from a vat of black water. A man stabbed it with a pole and agitated the steam which swirled as he lifted up the netted wool now a deep deep fresh indigo I had never seen before, and smiled. Abdullah’s hands and face were dyed too.
