Ever present in Orwell’s narrative, dirt symbolizes both the ubiquity of the poor in Marrakech and their invisibility. Dirt becomes intermingled with the native population, covering them from birth to death, as they “sweat” and “starve” over the course of their lives. After they die, this dirt covers them, and without tombstones or coffins, the peasants return to the earth. Orwell highlights this connection, suggesting how the bumpy dirt paths he walks on feel like the lumps of laborers’ skeletons. This image of bones in the dirt conveys another connection between the dirt and the locals. Often compared to the Moroccans’ skin color, Orwell suggests that the dirt that surrounds them camouflages them in foreigners’ eyes, allowing travelers to see past the hard lives of the laborers working close to the dirt. Orwell admits that the mass of laborers he and other foreigners ignore appear “less interesting” to view than the dirt, a tacit admission that their low status and hard lives are jarring to these colonial officials, travelers, and tourists.
Dirt Quotes in Marrakech
Marrakech Quotes
When you walk through a town like this—two hundred thousand inhabitants, of whom at least twenty thousand own literally nothing except the rags they stand up in—when you see how the people live, and still more how easily they die, it is always difficult to believe that you are walking among human beings. All colonial empires are in reality founded upon that fact.
All people who work with their hands are partly invisible, and the more
important the work they do, the less visible they are. Still, a white
skin is always fairly conspicuous. In northern Europe, when you see a
labourer ploughing a field, you probably give him a second glance. In a
hot country, anywhere south of Gibraltar or east of Suez, the chances
are that you don't even see him…He is the same colour as the earth, and a great deal less interesting to look at.
It is only because of this that the starved countries of Asia and Africa
are accepted as tourist resorts. No one would think of running cheap
trips to the Distressed Areas. But where the human beings have brown
skins their poverty is simply not noticed.
Most of Morocco is so desolate that no wild animal bigger than a hare
can live on it. Huge areas which were once covered with forest have
turned into a treeless waste where the soil is exactly like broken-up
brick. Nevertheless a good deal of it is cultivated, with frightful
labour. Everything is done by hand. Long lines of women, bent double
like inverted capital Ls, work their way slowly across the fields,
tearing up the prickly weeds with their hands, and the peasant gathering
lucerne for fodder pulls it up stalk by stalk instead of reaping it,
thus saving an inch or two on each stalk.



