Marrakech, The Red City

There was only one way back and the weather began to change dramatically as Hassan negotiated the route down the valley past the dodgy rope bridge, the argan oil cooperative, the Berber house and the roadside pottery and soon we were in Douar Ouriki again and at this point we should have visited a garden but we were tired and it was overcast so we told Hassan to just carry on. This seemed to worry him because he thought he might be in trouble with Laurent for not having completed the full itinerary but we assured him that we would vouch for him when we got back and make it clear that it was our decision.

As we left the Atlas Mountains behind us the cloud swooped in swiftly from the Atlantic Ocean and completely obscured them from view and we were glad that we had left them just in time. We were on the long straight road now and as we got closer we could see Marrakech in the distance rising up out of the sun baked plain and glowing red in the late pale afternoon light.

Marrakech is popularly known as the Red City from its distinctive colouring from the pigments in the local soil mixed to make pisé from which the buildings were traditionally constructed. In the last century this was threatened by modern building materials and the French therefore passed a law that required all new buildings to be painted crimson so that they would blend in with the originals and this remains in force even today. There is also a rule that no new buildings in the old city can be higher than a palm tree and nothing in the new city can be over five storeys high so that nothing can compete with the Koutoubia Mosque for skyline prominence.

As we approached the city, passing the Jardin Agdal full of pomegranate, orange and olive trees, the road returned us into the city through the Bab Er Rob, one of the twenty gates punched into the ancient walls. The city walls date from the 1120s when, under threat of attack from the Almohads, the ruling Sultan, Ali Ben Youssef, decided to circle his garrison town with a ring of fortifications. The walls he had built were nearly ten metres high and formed a ring of defences ten kilometres long with two hundred towers and forts. Some of the original gates have been widened to accommodate modern traffic but it remains essentially the same even today.

Hassan dropped us off on Rue Siddi Mamoun and back at the Nafis we were disappointed to find that the terrace furniture had been packed away in anticipation of rain and the staff confirmed that this was almost certain. It didn’t stop Mike and I sitting out with a beer while Kim and Margaret rested because although it was completely overcast now it was still very warm and we had a couple of tins of Spéciale Flag.

As it turned dark and we were rested and refreshed, before dinner in the Riad we wandered again into Djemma El Fna which was buzzing again just like the previous evening. We looked for the fake henna tattoo girl but she wasn’t to be seen (probably mixing up more mud solution for later on) and then walked through the food stalls explaining patiently to everyone who pestered us that we wouldn’t be dining in the square tonight. We could have stayed here much longer and enjoyed the free entertainment (unless caught taking a photograph of course) but we had ordered evening meal at the Nafis so we had to return early.

On account of the weather we couldn’t sit on the terrace tonight so we had a table set up in the downstairs lounge where we had a delicious meal of salty onion tart, sweet chicken tagine and a Moroccan fruit salad and it was excellent and only spoilt at the last minute when Rashid announced that the fridge had run out of beer. Never mind we still had wine and we were tired anyway so we didn’t stop around long and had a relatively early night.

Because it was early the streets were still noisy as children played in doorways and someone somewhere was doing something unspeakable to a cat which made it howl and as I lay there trying to ignore the distractions I became aware of a pain building up in my stomach. After a while I dropped off but was woken again just after midnight with raging gripes and a nasty bloated feeling that wouldn’t go away and I worried about food poisoning and hospitalisation. I slept on and off but was woken regularly by the pain, the cat and the five o’clock adhan and in the morning I had to own up to not feeling especially good in the general abdominal area.

Marrakech, The Ourika Valley Trip

At five o’clock in the morning we had to endure the call to prayers again but thankfully they had turned the loudspeakers down from earthquake to only sonic boom level and it didn’t go on for nearly so long and I could only presume that this was because the full ensemble at maximum sound is only reserved for holy day on a Friday.

Breakfast is a good hotel performance measure and it was served on the terrace again but today there were different varieties of savoury pancakes and croissants and it was nice that a lot of thought was going into preparation of the meal and as the food was so good we ordered dinner for later.

After yesterday’s busy day in Marrakech today we were going out of the city and taking a trip south along the Ourika Valley and into the Atlas Mountains. Laurent had made the arrangements for us and had organised a car and a guide and shortly after breakfast he introduced us to Hassan who was to be our guide for the day. He led us through the streets to his vehicle and as soon as we were all comfortable he set off into the traffic and out of the city gate.

The Atlas Mountains are a mountain range across a northern stretch of Africa extending about two thousand five-hundred kilometres through Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia. The Atlas ranges separate the Mediterranean and Atlantic coastlines from the Sahara Desert and the indigenous population are mainly Berbers.

It was a trip of about sixty kilometres and the first part of the journey was along a straight road that first passed a developing western European style out of town shopping centre, edge of town modern hotels and some untidy looking housing and then through some of the run-down southern suburbs. As we left the city behind we entered a long flat plain of red, bronze and copper coloured earth but with few signs of agriculture and little or nothing to get excited about. The road was straight and wide and had a good surface so it was a comfortable ride but all of this changed when we reached the busy cross roads town of Douar Ouriki where the quality of highway engineering came to a sudden and dramatic stop.

This was the start of the Ourika valley and on the edge of town Hassan pulled over so we could stop to take photographs of the lush green vegetation which was in complete contrast to the barren fields that we had just driven through because the valley is an attractive string of villages along the dangerous river that shares its name. The landscape is fresh and green, cooler than the city and in summer a popular destination when Marrakech is uncomfortably hot but in winter the river can be dangerous and floods sometimes destroy entire villages, wash away roads and tear up trees.

The problem with stopping we discovered was that it was inevitable that someone would quickly appear trying to sell us something, usually necklaces and jewellery but sometimes fossils, that were almost certainly fakes, and fascinating round chunks of coal with iron Pyrite crystals which they claimed were completely natural and collected from the mountains but in reality are manufactured in a workshop using a simple crystal solution. Hassan kept an eye on things and although he allowed them to approach us he stepped in if their sales technique became too robust.

After the first stop we started a gentle climb into the foothills of the mountains on a road that continued to deteriorate as we drove. On either side there were thick woods punctuated with ochre villages hanging from the hillsides and built high enough above the river to be out of danger of winter flooding. The road began to twist more dramatically as we climbed until we reached the second stop of the trip at a Berber pottery at a dog leg bend in the road next to a tourist camel train where Hassan stopped the car and led us inside.

It was a tourist trap of course and once past the old man working at the potters wheel we were drawn inside into an Aladdin’s cave of brightly coloured pots, cups and dishes, tagines, plates and jugs and with the pestering attention of the possibly the worst smelling man in Morocco this morning we were invited to peruse the items and select a purchase. Kim was up for this but she knew exactly what she wanted and what colour it had to be as well. To be specific it had to be a double condiment pot and it had to be black with silver trim. We found the item and it was available in every possible colour in the world except the one she wanted and despite the salesman’s frantic search he just couldn’t find one; he couldn’t talk her into an alternative either and he was the more disappointed of the two when we took the opportunity to get caught up in the tangle of a large tour group that had followed us in and left empty handed.