Marrakech, Final Moments

The sun was out again now in its full glory and this certainly improved the disposition of the two girls. We walked along the busy east west thoroughfare until we reached a roundabout and a major junction with Avenue Mohammed V where there was a debate to be had about what to do next. Mike wanted to see the railway station but it was obvious that Margaret and Kim could happily live without this experience so we agreed to split up. Mike and I would carry on and they would return down the Avenue and return to the Complexe Artisanal, which was an excellent compromise because just as railways didn’t appeal to Margaret and Kim more pottery and kaftan shops was not going to especially thrill the two of us either.

So while they risked their lives, crossed the road and headed back toward the old city we continued west along a modern major road flanked on either side with swanky shops, car showrooms, Kentucky Fried Chicken and leather and chrome banks that was all just about a million miles away from Djemma el Fna and the Souks. We passed not one but two McDonald’s where they serve burgers and fries of course but also a sandwich that can’t be bought anywhere else in the world, a cumin-spiced flatbread creation called the McArabia Tagine. The McArabia was launched in 2003 and the twenty-three McDonald’s franchises in Morocco localised the recipe by tweaking the seasoning and sauce to give it a specific local flavour.

We carried on until we reached the train station and were surprised when we got there to find a modern glass and concrete structure behind a wide open flag stoned square. Quite honestly we expected to find something more colonial, something you might find in a city of the Indian Raj with old fashioned waiting rooms, street vendors and market stalls and clanking old steam engines. Actually we didn’t see trains of any kind because there are only two or three every day and the next one wasn’t due for nearly two hours. The ticket inspectors allowed us to go on the platform but warned us not to take photographs and we went through to a modern transport terminus that neither of us was really expecting.

Leaving the train station we took our turn to risk our lives crossing the road at a roundabout lacking any sort of lane discipline and walked down another wide boulevard, the Avenue Mohammed VI, the present King of Morocco, and started to make our way back to rendezvous with Kim and Margaret. The road was straight and smooth, two lanes in either direction, wide footpaths with a leafy central reservation and modern corporate hotels on one side and expensive villas behind security gates on the other. The sun was shining ahead of us but clouds were chasing up from behind but we kept ahead of the rain and turned into Rue Moulay El Hassan, the Crown prince heir to the throne, and reached the Place de la Liberté where it met the Avenue Mohammed V.

From here it was just a short walk to the Complexe Artisanal where the timing was perfect because the shopping was reaching an end as Kim had finally made her selection and with no luck on finding the black pottery she had set her heart on she had settled on the royal blue one instead. From here it was just a short walk to the little restaurant where we had eaten last night and where we returned to now for a last meal in Marrakech before returning home.

Once again it wasn’t very exciting but it tasted fine and filled us up ahead of the journey and after we had dined we left and walked back for one last time through the Souks and Djemma el Fna where the weather was deteriorating again now and then back to the Riad Nafis to collect our bags, say goodbye and meet the taxi that Laurent had arranged for us. It arrived dead on time and the driver took us back to the airport where there was another form to fill in, this time to say that we were leaving the country before our early evening flight back home to the UK.

Marrakech, The Grand Tazi, a Hotel with Alcohol!

On the way Kim kept snapping away taking pictures of local people as they went about their business. She had to be quick however and mostly secretive about what she was doing because a lot of people weren’t that happy about having their photographs taken. This is something to do with being suspicious about having an image made of themselves and on most occasions when someone saw a camera pointed their way they would either turn away or wag a reproachful finger to say no.

My stomach was groaning and I was ready to go back to the Nafis but Margaret and Kim wanted to go back to the herbalist shop that we had visited this morning and when we arrived there the shopkeeper must have surely been surprised that they had kept their earlier promise to return. After the massage they bought a few bags of spices and I began to worry about taking these little multi-coloured bags of suspicious looking powder through customs especially bearing in mind that Morocco has a reputation of being a big producer of illegal drugs.

After the massage and the shopping the girls still had enough energy left for a bit more shopping but I was ready for a rest so I left them and Mike and went back to the Riad while they returned to a small bazaar that they had briefly seen earlier in the day.

There was bad news at the Riad Nafis because no one had restocked the beer cupboard so it looked as though this would possibly be a dry night. It was a good job that we still had some wine left in the cartons that we had thoughtfully brought with us from the UK and after everyone had returned Rashid (now working frantically on his end of holiday tip) opened up the terrace for us and made sure we were comfortable and we sat and had a glass of red wine.

Margaret and I still had weak stomachs so we weren’t sure where to eat tonight but earlier we had seen a small restaurant with a reasonably priced menu that we were confident that we could find again so we agreed that we would go there.

At about seven o’clock we left the Riad and made our way back towards the centre tackling the crowds and the traffic on the way. At a busy section there was a rather seedy looking hotel called the Grand Tazi and the word was that it served alcohol so we took a look inside and indeed it did and delighted by this discovery we followed a waiter to the roof terrace and ordered beer and wine. Mike and I had a bottle of premium Casablanca lager and Kim and Margaret had a small bottle of Moroccan red wine to share. We drank it and thought about a second but before we had made our minds up the waiter returned and charged us 200 dirham (about £20) so that made our minds up for us and we left.

After walking around the fringes of Djemma el Fna and through the food market again we made our way to the little restaurant and found it effortlessly. It was busy and we had to wait for a table but it didn’t take long and soon one was ready and we ordered a simple meal that didn’t turn out to be especially thrilling but it was cheap so we didn’t have any complaints about it.

Walking back we debated returning to the Grand Tazi for a second drink but the prices put us off and in any case Kim started to speed up and walk faster and faster and by the time we reached the hotel it was difficult to keep up with her as he reached Olympic walking race speed. The reason, it turned out, was that suddenly her stomach wasn’t feeling too clever and she was in a rush to get back to the Nafis. Now there were three of us with upset tums!

We sat on the terrace again and Rashid fussed about and made sure we knew that he was leaving early in the morning and we may not see him then. So we gave him his tip and he seemed delighted with it. Now three of us were ill our theory about the Setti-Fatma lunch was thrown into doubt so we had another think and suddenly something that we hadn’t previously thought of came into consideration. At the argan oil cooperative all of us except Mike had sampled the produce and used bread broken into pieces to soak up the oil and now it seemed possible that this may have been responsible.

Marrakech, The Badii Palace and the Bahia Palace

At breakfast Margaret told us that she had a bad stomach as well so we tried to identify the possible source. We were certain that it wasn’t the food at the Riad so we discounted that and we had all had the same to eat at the roadside grill and the Djemma el Fna food market so that seemed to rule those out as well so the finger of suspicion was beginning to point to the lunch at Setti-Fatma where Margaret and I had shared food off of one plate and Kim and Mike off another so it seemed that we might have copped for a dodgy kebab in the Atlas mountains.

Breakfast was served inside the Riad this morning because the terrace was still closed in anticipation of bad weather and even though we tried to convince ourselves that there were emerging patches of blue it was very overcast this morning. It had rained in the night but now it was dry so after breakfast we had agreed to be collectively optimistic and leave the umbrellas behind and we set off for another day on the streets of Marrakech.

To begin with we walked back to Bab Agnaou and along a street which led to a long road, Rue Asset el Maach, with mostly local shops and little stores selling food and household items each with a single door and a gloomy interior with boxes and tins stacked from ceiling to floor to make use of all of the available space. As we turned a corner there were herbalist shops with spices arranged in colourful pyramids and baskets of dried flower heads and quack remedies. Margaret and Kim went inside to look at the jars of colourful potions and perfumes and to enquire about a massage but there wasn’t time this morning so they promised they would return later. I imagine that this is a promise that shopkeepers in Marrakech hear hundreds of times every day and probably don’t take them too seriously.

The site that we were heading for was the Badii Palace and for such a big place the entrance was tucked into a narrow lane which we only found after asking several times for directions. The Palace is in ruins now but reputedly took armies of labourers and craftsmen twenty-five years to build and when it was completed it was said to be amongst the most magnificent palaces ever constructed with walls and ceilings encrusted with gold and precious jewels and in the middle a massive pool with an island flanked by four sunken gardens. Sadly the magnificent building survived for barely a hundred years before the Saadian dynasty was overthrown and replaced by the Alouites and the conquering Sultan, Moulay Ismail, came along and stripped the place bare at about the same time as he was sealing up the Saadian Tombs.

Moulay Ismaïl was an interesting character and by all accounts a man of excesses. It is said that he personally killed over twenty-five thousand men but to make up for this he is alleged to have fathered eight hundred and eighty-nine children. This is widely considered the record number of offspring for any man throughout history that can actually be verified. It is estimated that to father that number of children Ismaïl would have had to have sex with an average of 1.2 women every day for sixty years so that must have been a real chore! When he wasn’t slaughtering or shagging he was building himself a new capital city at Meknès in the north of Morocco and it took twelve years to dismantle the Badii Palace and remove the treasures and relocate them and all that is left now are the stripped red mud bricks.

It was easy to imagine how grand this place must have been when it was first completed and we wandered around the extensive gardens where the Sultan and his courtiers would have enjoyed the lavish surroundings and a life of opulence. We walked the walls and climbed the one remaining tower where there was a good view of the site and the city outside it which we shared with the only remaining inhabitants of the palace today – the storks that had built their untidy nests at regular intervals along the top of the walls.

After the Badii Palace we returned to the busy streets and walked the short distance to the Bahia Palace which was built just over a hundred years ago by a grand vizier of the city. The place was much smaller than the Badii Palace and with scores of other visitors felt more crowded as we walked through a succession of immaculately tiled rooms with sculptured stucco and carved cedar wood decoration and outside private courtyards that were once the home of the vizier and his four wives. By all accounts this too was a place of grand excesses and the ruling Sultan, Abdel Aziz, was so jealous of the riches of the Bahia that when the vizier died he had the palace stripped and looted.

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, Berbers, Argan Oil and a Rope Bridge

We drove on and the road started to follow the river now which wasn’t deep but it was wide and quite fast flowing. The silver water dashed between gullies and rushed over rocks and every so often there were local women doing their weekly washing in the water and stretching it out over boulders to dry in the sun in the way that they have always done. Further on the river dropped in between steep banks and the only way to cross was by using rope bridges with wooden slats that didn’t look awfully permanent. There were cafés now on either side of the river with plastic tables and chairs out in the open air and close to the water so we assumed we were getting close to our destination.

Hassan stopped the car again and our next stop on the itinerary was to visit a traditional Berber house. The Berbers are a unique ethnic group who live in North Africa, the oldest settlers in the region and quite different from the Arabs of Marrakech and the rest of Morocco. Squeezed in between the Mediterranean Sea to the north and the Sahara Desert to the south the Berber communities have developed and thrived in the Atlas Mountains and now we were invited to take a look inside a real Berber house.

It wasn’t a real house of course, it was a sort of living museum and women in traditional costume were preparing food in a small corner of a ramshackle arrangement of higgledy- piggeldy rooms that Hassan showed us through and explained the traditional domestic arrangements as we went. Next to the house was a shop of course and outside were the hopeful peddlers of necklaces and bracelets who implored us to buy as we left.

Opposite the house there was a small building where a women’s cooperative was producing argan oil. Argan oil is valued for its nutritive, cosmetic and numerous medicinal properties but is one of the rarest oils in the world due the small and very specific growing areas because it is produced from the kernels of the argan tree which are only found in Morocco.

In the past Berber women would extract the undigested pits of the argan fruit from goat excrement on the ground because the animals are very fond of the fruit and will even climb the trees to reach it but that isn’t terribly hygienic of course and I think they have stopped doing it that way now. All argan sold today is produced by the women’s cooperative that shares the profits among the local women and under the supervision of UNESCO has established an ecosystem reforestation project so that the supply of argan oil will not run out.

Mike was sceptical about whether this was authentic or simply a set-up for the tourists but inside the building women were sitting on the floor with rough rectangular stones between their knees cracking pits with rounded rocks. We learned that each smooth pit contains one to three kernels, which look like sliced almonds and are rich in oil. The kernels are then removed and gently roasted and this accounts for part of the distinctive, nutty flavour of the oil. It takes several days and about thirty kilograms of fruit, roughly one season’s produce from a single tree, to make only one litre of the precious liquid. The cosmetic oil, rich in vitamin E and essential fatty acids, is used for massage, facials and as a magic ingredient in anti-aging cream.

Naturally there was a shop attached and after the lesson we were invited to look around and try some samples. Actually it really was rather good but also terribly expensive so once again we waited for a crowd of people to arrive and slipped out under cover and away from the hard sell routine. We were getting good at that.

Hassan drove on and still we were climbing and following the river on our left and the boundary of the Parc National de Toubkal to our right, which includes the highest mountain in Morocco, Jbel Toubkal. After a while Hassan stopped the car and for no apparent reason invited us to take a walk across a precarious looking rope bridge to the other side of the river. We understood why when a local Berber man in a check kaftan and bright blue skull cap appeared from the side of the road and it seemed to be his self appointed job to usher people over to the other side, have his photograph taken with terrified tourists and charge a few dirham for the privilege.

I say terrified because to cross this swaying, rotting foot bridge required Indiana Jones type nerves of steel. Some of the planks of wood were missing and the steel rope that held it all together was rusty and corroded. With two or three people on it at the same time it rocked and lurched from side to side and below us was a drop of about twenty metres to the fast flowing river strewn with sharp rocks and jagged boulders which would have guaranteed an unpleasant landing and maybe a night or two in a hospital bed if the whole thing had come crashing down.

Marrakech, Djemma el Fna and the Food Market

Later on the terrace we watched the sunset usher in the darkness and bring to an end a day of perfect blue sky and sunshine and refeshed and rested we made preparations for a night on the town. We were returning to Djemma el Fna and when we arrived there the place had taken on a whole new identity.

Sometime between the end of the afternoon and the early evening the square had been transformed from a market place to an open air theatre with swarms of people and this is something that occurs every single day of the year. The snake charmers and the monkey men had packed up and gone home and had been replaced by a carnival of musicians, storytellers, transvestite dancers and other entertainers. There were fairground stalls and all sorts of opportunists trying to sell things not just to tourists but to each other as well. There was a crackle of excitement around the square that was fuelled by the energy of all the players and it was impossible not to be caught up in it all.

Some more than others it has to be said because first Margaret and then Kim allowed a young woman to decorate them both with a henna tattoo, Margaret on her arm and Kim on the back of her hand. This didn’t look like a good idea to either Mike or me so we just stood and watched and wondered when they would come to their senses. Sadly they didn’t and they both ended up with a skin decoration that they didn’t really want. And then of course the woman wanted paying for her handiwork and although they both explained that they hadn’t asked her to do it in the first place so they wouldn’t pay it was obvious that this was never going to work.

She asked for 200 dirham (£20) and we laughed and offered her a few coins and now from behind her black veil that covered her face the dark opal eyes that had once been warm and friendly became narrow and angry as she hissed and cajoled and kept her hand extended for payment. I offered her the coins again and she explained that she thought that I was crazy and taking the piss and I explained that it was all that I had and she could take it or leave it. She remained persistent and a stand off ensued during which time Mike and Margaret took the opportunity to slip away and she must have noticed that our bargaining position was strengthening the closer we got to the edge of the square and the crowds of people in the food market. I offered her the coins for a final time and she cursed and scooped them out of my hand and disappeared to find another couple of mugs. I can’t be sure but I think she made off with about 40 dirhams or nearly £4.

Now we were in the food market where every night a corner of the square is transformed into an open air free for all restaurant with one hundred and sixty hastily erected stalls and kitchens all competing for business from hundreds of people, locals and tourists, as they pushed through the narrow aisles in between the steaming barbeque kitchens. At every stall there was someone trying to entice us inside by explaining the menu options and making impromptu offers to entice us and we didn’t get very far before we gave in and allowed one of them to lead us to a trestle table with a plastic tablecloth before thrusting the menus into our hands.

It was all really lively and good fun and there were local people eating here so we thought that might be a recommendation and we ordered a selection of food in a tapas sort of way and in only a short time the table began to fill up with bread and spicy dips, beef tagine, mixed skewers, couscous, salad, fish and chicken and we all tucked in to this rather unusual food combo. While we ate we were pestered constantly by young children selling a variety of things we didn’t need – mostly packs of tissues, but they were doing no harm so it was a bit sad when one of the waiters in an adjacent kitchen kicked one of them up the arse to chase him away and clouted him round the head for good measure. He didn’t half squeal and he didn’t come back in a hurry.

After we had finished we left and continued walking and had to explain every few seconds that we had already eaten to the waiters that continued to accost us every few metres or so. Most of the stalls sold fairly similar food but there were some speciality places and at the edge of the market there were five or six stalls, next door to each other and back to back, all cooking and selling portions of steaming snails with glistening shells which seemed to be really popular with the locals but which didn’t especially appeal to us.

It had been a long day and we seen all that we wanted to by now so although it wasn’t especially late we negotiated our way back to the Riad first through the jostling crowds of people and then the traffic that even now showed no sign of easing up. Once inside the walls of the back streets we left the noise of the city behind and then through the heavy wooden door of the Nafis it was though it never existed at all.

This was a perfect place, an oasis of peace and quiet deep inside the disorderly mayhem of the city and we had a final drink on the terrace served by the attentive Rashid who was already working on his end of our stay tip. While we chatted Kim and Margaret scraped the brown henna from their skin only to find that it wasn’t henna after all and it had left behind no sign of any decoration. The mixture that the tattoo artist had used had probably been a simple mud solution (we hoped) because it washed off without any difficulty and there was nothing left to show for our 40 dirham.

Marrakech, The Koutoubia Mosque

Finding our way around was much easier now in the daylight and we followed last night’s route through the tangle of back alleys past builders beginning work for the day on a building with wooden scaffolding that certainly wouldn’t comply with health and safety rules in the UK. On the street outside the King’s Royal Palace there were beggars and old ladies looking for holy day handouts (Friday is the Muslim Sunday), mechanics working from dark ill equipped and disorganised workshops with motor bikes and scooters in various stages of disassembly and reassembly at the side of the street and little shops that looked as though they may have been open all night.

The Rue Sidi Mamoun was busy with street traders setting up stalls near the bus station, workers congregating in groups ready to be taken off somewhere for a day’s work and street cleaners with besom brooms swishing the pavements and kerbs in slow rhythmic sweeps. The sun was shining and it was warm already as we negotiated a busy main road where snarling traffic with impatient drivers were trying to push their way past a roundabout that was holding everything up and where traffic was being rather hopelessly controlled by a policeman who was fighting a losing battle against the chaos and confusion.

Once across the road we entered the Koutoubia Gardens, a big green open space with rows of palm trees, and followed a main route through where rough sleepers were getting out of their cardboard beds and preparing themselves for a long day begging on the street corners. Ahead of us was the twelfth century Koutoubia Mosque, the highest in the city, soaring into the perfect blue sky above and we could see clearly now why the early morning call to prayers had been so loud because on each of its four sides were two enormous speakers that looked more appropriate for an open air rock band concert than a church.

The Mosque wasn’t open for business at this time but we wouldn’t have been allowed in even if it had because non-believers are forbidden from entering a Muslim Mosque at any time so we had to make do with admiring the structure from the outside and sneaking a look inside through any open doors whenever we could.

There was no going any further now because we had to return to the Riad for breakfast so we retraced our steps and back at the Nafis found Mike and Margaret already waiting for us at our table that was laid out on the sunny terrace. From the terrace we could see (past the satellite dishes) all over the city and away in the distance to the south the Atlas Mountains that this morning were obscured by a hanging heat haze which made weather prospects look promising for the day ahead.

Hotel breakfasts are always a bit of a lottery I find and they can range from thoroughly disappointing to exceptionally good and I am glad to say that this one was right at the upper end of the scale. There were pancakes and cakes, fresh juice and plenty of tea and coffee and some absolutely delicious fresh baked bread and a range of fruity preserves all served with an excellent and satisfying attention to detail. Over breakfast we filled in another official form which seemed to serve no purpose other than to confirm what we had said on the entry form but the owner insisted that it was important because she had to register us at the police station today. We all ate far too much and when we had finished we left the terrace and prepared ourselves for a day in the vibrant streets of Marrakech.

Marrakech, The Riad Nafis

Another turn and then a dead end with a wooden door in the wall but nothing to indicate that this might be our destination. He knocked and someone inside approached and let us in. Here was a complete contrast to the medley of noise and confusion outside with an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity in a tiny five room guest house with an inner courtyard and a swimming pool with floating candles. This was the Riad Nafis and it was immediately charming and delightful. We had chosen well and Laurent, the owner, introduced us to the staff, allocated us our rooms and showed us around, which didn’t take long because it was only a small place after all.

We had selected a Riad for our accommodation because we wanted to stay inside the walls of the old towns rather than in the modern corporate hotels of the new city on the other side of the walls. The Nafis looked perfect and had good guest reviews and we were not disappointed. We had excellent rooms on the first floor with internal balconies overlooking the pool, nicely furnished bedrooms and big bathrooms.

As it was our first night we had chosen to eat at the Riad this evening and on the open air terrace a table had been prepared for us so after we had settled in and Laurent had given us all the advice that we could possibly need for a four day stay we made our way to the top and settled down for evening meal. Being in an Arab Muslim country we had been concerned about the availability of alcohol and had brought some with us just in case but, and I don’t want to sound like an alcoholic here, we were relieved to find that the Nafis had a licence to serve beer and wine so we ordered the local varieties and then had an excellent first meal of Moroccan salad, chicken tagine and a fruit pastry desert.



It had been a long day and there was a lot to do tomorrow so we didn’t stay up late but went to bed looking forward to a good night’s sleep. Unfortunately no one told us about the adhan which is the Islamic call to prayer, recited by a man called the Muezzin at various times of the day and starting it seems in the middle of the night. In total the adhan is called out in every mosque five times a day, traditionally from a minaret, summoning Muslims for mandatory prayers and the main purpose behind the multiple loud pronouncements of every mosque is to make available to everyone an easily understood summary of Islamic belief. In the old days this would have been done by shouting from the highest window but now it is done with the help of loudspeakers and there was no way of sleeping through this. From the top of the highest Mosque, the Koutoubia, it went on for about ten minutes and there was a lot of activity in the Riad as the young staff woke up and scampered to the roof with their prayer mats to join in.

It was about five o’clock and it was difficult to sleep soundly again after that and anyway Kim was excited about getting out onto the streets with her camera so after an hour or so I gave in and agreed to join her.