Morocco, A Unexpected Shopping Tour of the Fez Medina

But this relief from the hard sell routine didn’t last long because as we walked through the dusty back alleys Hussein suddenly declared that he knew a shortcut and knocked on a wooden door with flaking blue paint and rusty red hinges and as it creaked open and we were invited inside it was obvious that this was not a sudden shortcut recollection at all and that we were inside another shop and I was beginning to detect a pattern here and for someone not generally very keen on shops it was not very pleasant discovery because the truth was that we had been duped into a shopping tour! I shared this suspicion with the others and the girls just smirked in a knowing sort of way.
This time it was an antique and jewelry shop and the owner, a Berber of course, offered us mint tea and said that he would be offended if we said no and invited us to look around the shop while the kettle boiled. I’d had enough tea already so wasn’t looking forward to any more but luckily Micky came to the rescue and after a bit of bartering bought some silver (well, perhaps it was silver) bracelets and after the deal was done we were allowed to leave and as the kettle whistled to an empty shop everyone seemed relieved to forget about the tea.

There was no attempt by Hussein to disguise the true purpose of our tour now as he rushed us past things that might have been interesting to see with indecent haste because there were no shops and presumably no commission to be earned straight into another shop selling embroidered table cloths and napkins which we escaped from quite quickly but only directly into another one selling bedspreads and brightly coloured scarves and handkerchiefs. Here the owner had a more effective sales technique where he corralled us all into a corner in the back of the shop with no easy escape route and kept banging on and showing samples in the hope that eventually one of us would lose the will to live and get a wallet out and it worked because after a few minutes we felt obliged to buy a couple of inexpensive scarves before elbowing our way towards the door.

Outside there was a saddle makers shop but we didn’t stop and I can only assume that this was because Hussein didn’t have a deal going there because of the fact that not many tourists are in the market for buying leather saddles in Fez on account of the difficulty in getting them home because of the Ryanair personal baggage allowance restrictions.

It was lunchtime now and Hussein led us straight into another trap – a Berber restaurant where before we knew it we were sat down and ordering off the menu of the day whether we wanted it or not. Actually it was rather nice and we enjoyed a selection of salad dishes for a shared starter and then a main course, most of us had some sort of traditional chicken pastry pie, and then fruit to finish. It was good but there was a shock to come because the bill came to about £150 which is about three times what we are usually prepared to pay for lunch and that presumably included a healthy percentage for our guide.

The first stop after lunch was a spice and argan oil shop. 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. By this time we were becoming rather sceptical about whether this was authentic or simply a set-up for the tourists and when we saw the girl who was going to give the demonstration being rushed into position and bundled into traditional clothing we were certain that we were being had!

Naturally there was a shop attached and after the lesson on argan oil production we were invited to look around and try some samples. Actually it really was rather good but also terribly expensive so once again we apologised for not making a purchase and slipped out and away from the hard sell routine as quickly as we could. It’s a real nuisance and a shame because it rules out any sort of browsing in the shops of the souks. There seems to be a collective ethos which is determined to separate visitors from their cash as quickly as they can. There is no understanding that most tourists have a budget and no comprehension of or concessions made to the European or western style of shopping.

Next it was a tannery and the price to pay for a rooftop view of the famous limestone dye pits was another difficult twenty minutes in a leather shop selling coats, jackets, slippers and bags. I didn’t think we were going to get out of there very easily but again Micky was our saviour when he negotiated the purchase of a belt and we were able to get away. Abdul was waiting for us outside the tannery and he loaded us up into the taxi and we set off for the other end of the souk.

We could have walked the short distance but this was no use to Hussein who really needed to keep us altogether because there was one last shop to visit. Abdul dropped us off at Fez’s most picturesque entrance, the Blue Gate, Bab Boujloud, blue on one side, the colour of Fez and green on the other, the Muslim colour of peace. We walked a short way into the souk which on account of this being Friday was disappointingly quiet and closing up for the day and then we ended up in a silversmiths shop where there were more invitations to look and buy but I think they sensed that we were all shopped-out by now and not in purchasing mood and so they let us go quite quickly.

Abdul drove us back to the Riad and then it was time to settle up with Hussein. We asked how much and he said there was no set price and we should pay what we thought the tour was worth. This was difficult for us because we had no idea so we pressed him for some clues on what he might expect and we decided on €60 which he seemed to be happy with. We said goodbye and he hurried off presumably back to the shops and the restaurant to pick up his commission on the sales and I expect Abdul was getting a cut as well because surprisingly there was no charge for his services today.

Back at the Riad we captured the sunset from the rooftop terrace and then we rested and played cards in anticipation of walking out later to a restaurant recommended by Hussein but after an hour or so it started to rain, not just light rain that you can walk out in but heavy driving rain which turned the alleys into streams of mud and made it impossible to go out, the sort of rain where you could be sure that the sales assistant in the carpet shop wouldn’t be attempting the three hour walk home. Luckily we weren’t that hungry after the big lunch so we sat and wasted the evening away, drank our duty free wine and some mint tea and simply enjoyed the company of good friends until it was time to go to bed because, weather permitting, tomorrow we were going on a day trip out of the city.

Morocco, Fez Carpet Sales

Abdul drove us as far as he could towards the centre but was finally obliged to stop at a gate which marked the beginning of the pedestrianised area of the Medina. The Fez souk is claimed to be one of the largest contiguous vehicle free areas in the world but it is not completely without traffic because this pedestrianised restriction relates only to motorised transport and there were plenty of push carts, bicycles and donkeys to keep an eye out for once inside the congested narrow streets.

The Souk was busy with street traders setting up and attending their stalls and this was quite unlike anything we had ever seen or visited before and it was everything we had expected but more with a riot of colour and frenetic activity that was exciting and vibrant. We followed Hussein through the streets and the food markets in a northerly direction and here was a whole new experience with street after street of shops all overflowing with things for sale that we didn’t need and we had no intention of buying but each with an owner who didn’t understand this and was determined if he possibly could to part us from the cash in our wallets.

Some of the shops were no bigger than a broom cupboard and many of them sold exactly the same things and as we walked through we were under constant pressure from the owners all trying to entice us with a ‘special price’. What didn’t help in establishing whether this was a special price or not was that nothing was priced in the first place which meant this form of shopping was very difficult process for people like us who are not used to haggling.

Our guide led us into the centre of the oldest part of the city and invited us to gaze into the central Mosque through its several open doors but we couldn’t go in of course because as infidels this is forbidden. It was approaching midday and there was a call to the most important prayers of the day and also, because this was Friday, the most important of the week. Hussein was getting edgy because he needed to get to prayers himself but he took the time to show us around an inner courtyard of the ancient university but time was running short for him so he anxiously hurried us through and then took us to a carpet shop next door where he left us with a replacement guide, who clearly wasn’t so concerned about getting to prayers, and disappeared quickly to the Mosque.

The new guide gave a brief introduction to carpet making in Morocco and then handed us over to a young assistant who led us through the maze of rooms to a staircase at the back of the building and invited us to join him on the roof. There was a good view and the young man poked a finger in the direction of the mountains to the south and told us that his village was over the top and in the next valley and that he walked to work every day and this took two hours – no wonder he looked fit. I asked him about going home at night and he said that this took three hours because it was uphill most of the way but if it was raining he might stay in Fez and kip down on one of the carpets.

The viewing session over we were then led back downstairs and provided with a cup of mint tea and then the sales pitch began. The first guide (who, surprise, surprise turned out to be a Berber) spoke excellent English, was intelligent and knowledgeable and a bit of an amateur philosopher who talked for awhile about the Berbers and life in Morocco in general whilst we sipped our tea and then the carpets started to come out as they were theatrically thrown down onto the floor accompanied by a bit of explanation about history, designs and methods of manufacture.

Soon there was a carpet barricade blocking our exit and I began to worry about how we might get away from here without buying a floor covering that we didn’t want and still the pile just kept getting higher and higher. Eventually it only seemed fair to be honest with him and tell him quite firmly that we didn’t need a new carpet, Kim told him that we had bought a new one from John Lewis only a couple of months previously but being unfamiliar with UK department stores this information was meaningless to him, we had no intention of buying one today here in Fez and we didn’t really want the sales demonstration in the first place.

His young accomplice gathered and rolled up all the carpets spread out before us and I think we all just wanted to leave but we couldn’t go straight away because our guide had not returned so we sat in uneasy silence in the demonstration room having all wasted each other’s time.

Eventually Hussein came back and I for one was pleased to leave and get back out into the streets to continue the tour.

Morocco, A Guided Tour of the Fez Medina

I was continuously restless after the five o’clock Adhan and didn’t really sleep properly again so eventually I got up early because to be truthful I was rather anxious to check the weather. At the top of the Riad there was a sun terrace and as I climbed the internal steps I could feel the warmth and brightness spilling through the open door and cascading down the staircase like a waterfall of sunshine and once on top I was rewarded with a perfect blue sky and a view over the whole of the city across rooftops decorated with thousands of satellite dishes all the way to the Atlas Mountains and I was satisfied that it was going to be a fine day.

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 delicious fresh baked bread and a range of fruity preserves all served with an excellent and satisfying attention to detail.

We were planning a sightseeing tour of the souks today and the previous evening the owner of the Riad suggested that with over nine and a half thousand streets and unmarked alleyways creating a labyrinthine maze where we would be sure to get lost or pestered by local boys offering to show us around that it would probably be a good idea to employ the services of a proper guide who would show us around and look after us. This seemed sensible so we agreed and after breakfast we were introduced to our chaperone, Hussein who, before we left, explained our itinerary for the day that would begin with Abdul driving us out of the Medina to see some places on the outskirts of the city.

Abdul negotiated the narrow streets with impressive precision and through a gate punched into the eleventh century city wall which Hussein explained was fifteen kilometres long and currently under renovation and reconstruction. Fez is one of the four Royal cities of Morocco, the other three are Rabat (the capital), Marrakech and nearby Meknes, it is a UNESCO World Heritage city and claims to have the oldest Medina in the World (although I seem to remember that they told us this in Marrakech last year, so I cannot be certain if this is so).

Abdul drove the taxi along a road with city walls on one side and the gardens and the ochre coloured walls of the Royal Palace on the other. The King lives mostly in Rabat but will visit his other palaces every now and again so there was a heavy presence of military guards at strategic points around the walls. Our first stop was at the ornamental bronze main gates of the palace with carved cedar wood panels and blue tiled arches with elaborate wood and plaster decoration.

It was only a short stop and soon we were driving away from the city towards the Borj Sud or south tower which was once a strategic military fortress built to protect the city but is now no more than a tourist destination because of the fine views all across the city and beyond. We stayed here for a while and then returned to main road through intermittent olive groves where local people were harvesting the fruit in the traditional way by thrashing at the branches with a stout stick and knocking the fruit down onto plastic sheets which covered the ground below the trees.

Hussein explained that Fez is the religious and spiritual capital of Morocco and the theological centre of the country with the oldest Muslim university in the World. He also mentioned that it was the handicraft capital of the country where manufacture was strictly controlled by the government to ensure authenticity and tradition and that he would now take us to a place where Berber people made tiles and pots in a workshop that was run as a cooperative.

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 Fez 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 it now turned out that Hussein himself was a Berber and it seemed likely that we were now being taken to see some of his pals.

The workshop was interesting but it didn’t look to us as though the kilns had been fired up for some time – they don’t fire on Fridays the guide told us but I suspect there would have been the same explanation whichever day of the week we had visited because there was no real evidence of any recent activity. He escorted us through the potters shop and a room with half a dozen men chipping away at tiles to make mosaic pieces and then a man making a traditional table which looked like a million piece jigsaw puzzle.

None of this was authentic of course - it was just a way of decieving gullible tourists and getting us through as quickly as possible to the pottery shop at the end of the tour where there was an overstocked room with far more items for sale than could ever have been produced by the handful of people allegedly working here. We bought a couple of pieces anyway and after they had been wrapped and paid for we were back in the taxi and returning to the Medina and the historical centre while Hussein calculated the commission that he would return and collect later.

Morocco, Riad Layali Fez

We travelled to Fez with Ryanair on a late afternoon flight and I am certain that they have crammed in even more seats onto the aircraft because there was barely enough room to turn the pages of an A5 book let alone a broadsheet newspaper that they sold me so I tried to sleep and managed this for about an hour of the three and a half hour flight and after that had to try and amuse myself as best as possible for the rest of the cramped ordeal.

The landing at Fez airport was delayed but there was no explanation for this but at least Ryanair couldn't play their 'arrived on time' fanfair'. When we stepped from the plane at about half past seven we were greeted with an unexpected chill blast which cut through our clothing into our flesh and meant that we had to turn our jacket collars up and button up our coats against the wind because the temperature was dangerously close to zero and even though it was December this surprised us.

There was a lot of congestion at passport control and an entry form to fill in which was probably the worst designed official form that I have ever been faced with. Despite dealing with all this bureaucratic nonsense however the queues actually went down very quickly and when it was our turn to be processed we were given our unique identity number which was theatrically stamped into our passports and waved through to where a supervisor checked them for a second time presumably to make sure it had been done properly by the first official.

Before travelling I had read some advice that said watch out for taxi drivers in Morocco who will gladly overcharge unsuspecting tourists. That is no different from anywhere else in the world of course but I was mindful of that and took the second piece of advice which said when arriving for the first time it was advisable to take a pre-booked shuttle service because finding places for the first time and in the dark can be difficult. At €30 it was a bit expensive but our driver, Abdul, was waiting for us as promised in the arrivals hall and he quickly loaded our bags and set off for the city just twenty kilometres away.

The traffic was mad and so was Abdul as he carved his way through the rush hour traffic coping brilliantly at roundabouts with the ludicrous French driving rule of priorité à droite where vehicles from the right always have priority at junctions and roundabouts and which was evidently still the norm here even though the French themselves have seen the sense of virtually abandoning it in their own country. There was no real lane discipline that I could make out with drivers simply filling any available space that opened up in front of them and the thirty minute journey was one extended game of ‘chance’ where drivers simply waited to see whose nerve would fold and who would yield first. We flashed past motorbikes and donkeys pulling wooden carts, pushbikes and pedestrians and at one point even encountered a camel train.

As he drove he pointed out the tourist must-see sites along the way and then took us through a narrow gate into a busy road with small shops on one side and a high wall on the other that turned out to be a school building that would be overrun with children the next day. He parked the car and unloaded our bags and suddenly darted into a side road, no more than an alley really with an uneven surface with houses and shops along one side, then through a dog-leg turn and into a narrower lane and by now we were glad that we had taken the shuttle bus option because we would never have found this place by ourselves that’s for sure.

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 rang the bell 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 eight room guest house with an inner courtyard and a swimming pool and tables set out for dinner. This was the Riad Layali and it was immediately charming and delightful. We had chosen well and we were introduced to the staff, served mint tea and allocated our rooms.

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 staff insisted that it was important because they had to register us at the police station tomorrow.

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 Layali 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 in the courtyard a table had been prepared for us so after we had moved in we made our way to the table and settled down for evening meal. Being in an Arab Muslim country we had been concerned about the availability of beer and wine 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 Layali had a licence to serve drink so we ordered the local varieties and then had a first meal of Moroccan salad, chicken tagine and fruit desert. To be honest it was a bit disappointing and not nearly as good as we had had in Marrakech a year previously but we ate it anyway and washed it down with the beer and wine which tasted almost illicit being here in a Muslim country.

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 by the man with the loudest voice (like Brian Blessed perhaps) but now it is done with the help of loudspeakers and although Kim was oblivious to it all there was no way that I could sleep through this.

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 Majorelle Gardens

The gardens were just around the corner now and it was hot in the sunshine as we queued for our tickets and then went inside through the gates. The garden was designed and laid out in the 1920s by the French painter Jacques Majorelle who designed marble pools, raised pathways, banana trees, groves of tall bamboo, coconut palms and bougainvilleas and first of all we followed a path through species of cacti collected from all over the world.

The path led to a lily pond that reminded me of Monet’s garden at Giverny in France and which stood in front of a house, a museum now but closed today during refurbishment, which is painted a unique shade of blue. This seemed odd, it was in contrast to every other building in Marrakech and I wondered how the painter had managed to get around the crimson decree. The blue is called Majorelle and is made from pigment found only in the Moroccan soil and he must have been especially fond of it because as well as the house the garden was full of large pots all painted predominantly in this colour and contrasting nicely with others in orange, yellow, red and green.

Majorelle, it turns out wasn’t a great artist and his garden, rather than his paintings, was his masterpiece and it is composed and coloured like a work of art. As well as the pots, water is an important feature and there are water filled channels, lily ponds with reflections of the towering palm trees and bubbling fountains. Majorelle was an avid plant collector but after he died in 1962 the house was left empty and the garden abandoned for nearly twenty years. After a long period of neglect however the garden was then taken over and restored by the fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Berge.

As we wandered along the meandering paths the blue sky suddenly gave way to grey cloud and within seconds we were in the middle of a heavy rain fall and we had to take cover in a café where there was shelter under the leaves of the banana plants planted around the perimeter. It took about twenty minutes for the heavy rain to slow down and before we could leave the shelter and then as the rain eased off we returned to the gardens which somehow managed to look even better now with the shiny wet pavements catching shimmering reflections of the brightly coloured pots.

There was a shop of course where I was chastised for taking a picture of a brightly coloured corner and the assistant stood over me and insisted I delete it from the camera. I fooled her by not following the procedure all the way through but she was satisfied that it was gone and she let me go.

The path took us around the blue house with its bright yellow windows and strategically placed pots, through pergolas where exotic climbing plants raced each other to the top, past ponds full of goldfish and terrapins and through the bamboo swaying in the breeze. A second wave of rain passed over and we had to shelter next to the memorial to Yves Saint Laurent but it passed over quite quickly and we were able to continue the visit as rain drops splashed us as they dripped from the overhanging leaves. On balance we would have preferred to have visited the garden without the rain but I suppose the plants all enjoyed the drenching.

When we had completed the walk around the garden and Kim was finally satisfied with her collection of pictures of the pots we left and started to walk back the way we had come. We hadn’t got very far however when it started to rain again and this time it was really unpleasant. It came in at an angle that got underneath our umbrellas, it had turned quite cool and the sky was grey and horrible in all directions.

We still had a few hours left before the flight home and we didn’t want to walk around all day in this but then as Kim whinged and Margaret complained about the plan to walk to the railway station Mike and I could see some better weather in the north so at a busy crossroads we found a café where we sat and sheltered and thankfully watched the weather, and the girl’s moods, improve as the pavements quickly dried as the sky turned blue and the temperature began to rise.

Marrakech, Guéliz The New City

I somehow managed to sleep through the five o’clock call to prayers but was woken instead this morning by the sound of heavy rain thrashing against the window. It didn’t sound very promising and as I tried to get back to sleep I worried about a washout for the day ahead. On a more encouraging note however my stomach seemed to be back to normal.

On our final day in Marrakech we planned to leave the old Arab city and visit the adjacent new city known as Guéliz that was designed and built by the French during the period of the Protectorate. After breakfast we packed and settled the bill, left the Riad and set off. We were careful to take umbrellas today because the forecast promised more rain for later on.

The direct route to the new city was along the most important and the busiest road in Marrakech, the Avenue Mohammed V, named after Morocco’s first post independence king and effectively the spine of the city that links the old to the new. We walked past the Complexe Artisanal where there were shops selling the same things as in the Souks but with prices on them so the sort of shopping we are more familiar with and Kim and Margaret made plans to return later.

We left the old city when we passed through the Bab Nkob which was a gate that would bare little resemblance to the original because the wide four lane highway has punched its way through the rosy pink walls at this point and its construction would have required significant alterations to a gate that was built for donkeys and carts.

Outside of the city walls we were in a completely different environment because now we were in the new city. The French built this new city because they didn’t find the old town with its warren of crooked streets and lack of plumbing and sanitation much to their liking and they designed something altogether more Gallic with tree lined boulevards and villas and parks in which to live and work.

The sun was shining now and it was becoming quite hot as we followed the busy road around the outside of the wall heading in the direction of the Majorelle Gardens. At the next gate the Bab Doukkla there was a wide open square where men were standing waiting with bags of tools. This was like a big open air job centre because it was literally a labour market where tradesmen were waiting for potential clients. Each one advertised himself by his tools, the plasterers with their trowels, the mechanics with their spanners and our favourites, the plumbers with bits of copper pipe complete with taps.

The roads were busy as we had become accustomed to and we had to negotiate a couple of murderous roundabouts and then a street with only intermittent pavement and to be honest this wasn’t the twenty minute walk that we were led to believe it would be so it was quite understandable when Kim began to whinge about the distance. To be fair she wasn’t feeling especially good because of her upset stomach and at one point we did have to make a dash for bathroom facilities in a modern shopping mall.

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, getting lost in the Old City

We walked on and for a few minutes seemed to be followed by a spooky looking man wearing an ill fitting djellaba who stopped when we stopped and speeded up when we speeded up and we began to feel a bit uneasy about him. Eventually we shook him off but once again we had taken turnings and made route changes that didn’t improve our situation. Gradually we slipped out of the tourist areas into shabby parts of the city that were exclusively local but we remained certain that we must be getting close to the wall but then we came across a group of young boys who told us that we were walking into a dead end so we asked for their help.

This was a simple and elementary error because there is a warning against doing this in all of the guide books. They looked at the free give away tourist map that they must have seen hundreds of times before and appeared confused themselves and entered into an animated debate. We pointed to the wall and told them that that was where we wanted to go and then they marched off with our map and beckoned us to go with them. We were still confident that the wall must be just around the next corner so we made a mistake and followed them like sheep.

They kept walking and walking, stopping frequently to consult the map and then arguing between themselves about the right direction. It was all a game of course and one that they play every day of the week and they were walking us around in circles and deliberately getting us lost. Just ahead of us were a couple of tourists who seemed confident with their map and we thought this was possibly a good sign until they suddenly stopped and declared themselves lost as well. It was obvious now that the boys were no help at all so we gave them a few coins and dismissed them from our employment and the ran off to look for some more mugs.

In a busy main street there were some tour bus drivers who we felt sure must be able to give us advice but they either couldn’t or wouldn’t and in the next street two taxi drivers gave us completely contradictory directions.

We had been walking around in circles, completely lost, for about an hour by this time and Margaret and Kim were beginning to lose their patience and Mike and I were using up all of our chances to get the situation resolved. Luckily at last we came across a landmark that we could reconcile with the map and then we could see the Koutoubia Mosque so we knew that if we headed for that then we would find ourselves somewhere familiar and eventually to our relief we found ourselves at the Avenue Mohammed V.

After a drink at a café where we made a vain attempt to try and understand from the map where we had gone wrong we completed our long walk around the city by returning to our starting point earlier this morning the Bab Agnaou but this time we kept to the main roads so that we wouldn’t get lost again.

Marrakech, Navigational Difficulties

It was after midday by now and time for a break from walking and sightseeing so we selected a café with a roof top balcony on a noisy road leading to Djemma el Fna. There had been some hints of blue sky on and off this morning but now as we sat in the open air the cloud was noticeably thickening from the west and turning from chalky white to peppery grey and we had to admit that this was probably about the best we could expect now for the rest of the day.

The plan now was to make our way from the Bahia Palace through Djemma el Fna and the around the Souks to visit the next site the Medersa Ben Youssef in the northern part of the old city and we found our way without any difficulty back to the main square and we congratulated ourselves on our grasp of navigation around Marrakech.

To get to Medersa Ben Youssef the direct route now was to walk through the Souks again so we took the main route in through an arch and past a Mosque which led us to the Rue Semarine which is a perpetually busy street with shops selling robes, kaftans, carpets and antiques then into the Souk el Kebir with a tight warren of alleys all with tiny shops and kiosks.

The Souks were busier today because Sunday is a main trading day and all of the shops were open, there were more people and more noise. There are signs at the entrance to the Souks which clearly say ‘no bikes’ but they were only there for decoration because no one took any notice of this at all and people on push bikes whizzed past and there was the constant rasping of moped horns as impatient drivers forced their way between the shoppers and the tourists and we had to keep a permanent eye out for danger.

Half way through and we were in the Souk des Babouches where every shop sold a range of brightly coloured, pointy toed soft leather slippers and then the Souk de Tapis where the shops were larger and most specialised in carpets and then finally the Souk des Ferronniers where metal workers and carpenters were working in cramped workshops making furniture and lanterns and intricately designed silver jewellery and belt buckles.

Eventually we were through and out of the Souks and outside Medersa Ben Youssef which is supposed to be one of the best buildings to visit in Marrakech but unfortunately I am unable to confirm that because today it was closed. We walked around all four sides of the building looking for an entrance and when we had circumnavigated it someone told us that it didn’t open today because of the leather auctions at the nearby tannery although I couldn’t really understand what the connection might be.

So now we had to rethink the itinerary and we must have looked as though we needed assistance because people kept stopping to give unrequested help with the map. Most wanted to take us to the leather auctions and they assured us that they didn’t want money but we were suspicious and politely said no thank you. Some were more persistent than others and kept insisting on leading us and as we doubled back and slipped around corners we managed to disorientate ourselves and we lost our sense of direction, a situation that wasn’t helped by the fact there was no sun in the sky so we couldn’t establish any sort of directional fix.

We thought we were walking in a north-easterly direction and the plan was to reach the wall and one of the twenty city gates. This quickly proved difficult and made even more so by the fact that although the streets were named on the map there were no corresponding signs on the streets themselves so establishing location and direction quickly became a matter of guesswork and we had to admit that we hadn’t grasped Marrakech navigation at all.

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 Atlas Mountains and Setti-Fatma

Crossing the river was an interesting experience but I think we were all glad to get back to the other side and continue the journey for the last few kilometres to the village of Setti-Fatma where the road into the mountains ended and the final stage was to be on foot. I imagine Setti-Fatma was once a desperate and inhospitable sort of place but the locals have turned it into a bit of a tourist trap with cafés and shops for the visitors who find themselves caught at this natural terminus.

Hassan quickly found a guide for us for 50 dirham each was going to take us further up the valley to visit the waterfalls, which were promised as the highlight of the day. We crossed the river over one of the rickety apple wood bridges and then began a gentle ascent at first as we set off for the top. We were at one thousand six hundred metres (that’s about half as high again as Mount Snowdon) and we were going to climb another two hundred to get to our destination.

At the beginning there was no real indication about how tough this was going to be and the path meandered gently through shops and cafés but after a while the track narrowed and started to get steeper and suddenly instead of just strolling to the top, as we imagined we were going to, actual climbing was required instead. It was probably a bit dangerous and certainly wouldn’t have been allowed in the safety conscious UK and people all around us were attempting this in inappropriate footwear and flimsy clothing. What made it even more difficult was that people coming down had to use the same narrow track as those going up so there was quite a lot of congestion to cope with and a quicker group behind us was showing irritation with our slow progress as their pushy guide tried to find inappropriate short cuts so that they could get ahead of us.

It took about thirty minutes to get to the end of the walk and to the inevitable café at the top where we stopped for an expensive bottle of water next to the waterfall that was plunging through the rocks and vegetation. The pushy guide was saying his prayers on the roof which explained his impatience to get to the top and some people were paddling in the shallow pool of icy water and taking a drenching under the waterfall and before we set off back down Margaret decided to do the same although she couldn’t persuade Kim to walk over the sharp gravel in her bare feet to join her.

Going down was if anything more difficult than going up and fairly soon our legs began to ache as we slipped and slithered down the uneven path. At one especially tricky spot Kim got into a bit of bother and as she slipped she gave up any attempt at saving herself and launched herself at the unsuspecting guide who took the full force of her bosom full in the face and we thought that would probably do as his tip! Gradually the path levelled out and we passed through the shops again. Shops which incidentally sold pottery and I cannot imagine for one minute why anyone would want to buy pottery while climbing up the side of a mountain. Back at the road we said goodbye to the guide and thanked him for getting us back in one piece and then he led us to a tagine restaurant by the side of the river which was probably owned by a member of his family.

In the garden of the restaurant we sat at a table by the water and had a simple lunch of meat skewers and local sausages all swilled down with a nice glass of beer and then I realised that I was hallucinating because it was just a nice glass of ordinary mineral water! As we sat there some musicians turned up and played a repetitive tune that they wanted paying for but we refused and then they circled the garden with similar lack of success. It was starting to get cooler and some worrying bits of cloud were coming in from the west so we paid up, left and reunited with Hassan we left Setti-Fatma and began the drive back to Marrakech.

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, 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.

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 Kasbah and the Saadian Tombs

Next on our unprepared itinerary was the Kasbah which was an area of the city close to our hotel so we walked back along the Rue Sidi Mamoun which although busy seemed quiet and relaxing compared with the traffic in the centre and crossing the road here presented no real difficulties whatsoever. Passing through the Bab Agnaou, the best preserved gate of the entire city we entered the Kasbah, one of the oldest parts of the old city.

We were looking for the Saadian Tombs which the guidebook said shouldn’t be missed but could be difficult to find. First of all we discovered that it was completely right on the second point and after we had walked around the outside of the Kasbah Mosque we missed the entrance and took an unnecessary detour into some back streets and lanes which took us nowhere in particular.

After all the walking we were feeling hungry now so while we consulted the guide book maps we found a café with pavement tables and had a bottle of water (a bottle of water!) and a chicken kebab snack that was cooked on a grill on the pavement which tasted good even though it was complimented by exhaust fumes and the smell of horse manure from a carriage parked up close by. The helpful waiter showed us on the map where we would find the tombs so after we had finished eating we paid up, left a tip and moved on.

The reason that we missed the site was that the entrance is squeezed in between the back of the Mosque and a narrow row of kiosks and having found it we paid our 10 dirham entrance fee and walked through a very narrow alley in between two tall buildings where there was barely room to pass the visitors that were coming out.

The Saadian Tombs were sealed up in the sixteenth century by a jealous ruler, Moulay Ismail, who resented the wealth of his predecessor, Ahmed al Mansour, and who set about dismantling anything he had built or acquired. So successfully was it hidden away that it wasn’t rediscovered until the 1920’s when an inquisitive French administrator overcome with curiosity opened up the entrance and found this treasure hidden away from public view half in ruins and completely forgotten. It would be nice to think that there may still be treasures like this just hidden away somewhere but I suppose with modern mapping techniques like Google Earth this is most unlikely.

There has been a lot of restoration at the site and the two main mausoleums have been returned to their original state when they were built five hundred years ago to contain Mansour’s own tomb. The graves of over a hundred Saadian princes and royal household members are scattered around the garden and the courtyard most with gravestones brilliantly tiled and elaborately inscribed. It was only a small site and it didn’t take long to complete the visit even though we had to compete with several large tour groups to see everything there was to see.

We had been walking now almost continuously for six hours so it was time to return to the Riad for a rest before going out again in the evening. This had been a long six hours without a glass of beer but one of the best things about the Nafis was that it had a bar of sorts so Mike and I were able to enjoy a local brew called Spéciale Flag on the terrace while Kim and Margaret rested. The alcohol conundrum perplexed us but we had no answer to the apparent contradiction inherent in a country brewing beer and making wine but not being able to sell it or drink it.

Marrakech, A Pedestrian’s Nightmare

The layout of the Souks was interesting because it was set out in sections where every shop sells the same produce. A whole Souk selling silver, another selling silks and so on which would be a bit like all of the jewellers shops in a UK shopping mall being organised side by side which I think we would find unusual but here the competing shop keepers seemed quite comfortable with the arrangement.

Getting lost in the maze of streets was not altogether surprising and we wandered around for an hour or so before we emerged at last in the sunshine of the streets. In a small square traders were set out in the centre selling products, squabbling with each other and encouraging tourists to stop and take a look. On the edge of the square there was a three storey café with a good view over the proceedings so we went inside and climbed to the top of the building where we sat in the sunshine and drank tea and coffee. We would have preferred alcohol of course but this was quite impossible because of the strict Muslim rules on drink.

After this short stop we made our way back into the streets but stayed in the open now and away from the Souks as we wandered in a westerly direction, (well, I think it was a westerly direction but it was difficult to be absolutely sure) along a narrow busy street where we had to have our wits about us not to be knocked over by the horse drawn tourist carriages that seemed to use this as a principal sightseeing route. And then there were the motorbikes and the pushbikes that made no concessions to pedestrians which meant this was not really the place to have a casual stroll.

The further we walked we began to leave the main tourist areas and the landscape transformed into a predominantly local environment with little markets selling vegetables and small butchers shops, just kiosks really, selling meat I couldn’t identify, except for the cow hooves and the sheep heads! There were lots of ad hoc improvised stalls sometimes no more than a blanket or a bit of cardboard on the pavement where men and women offered a few products for sale that had probably been grown in their back gardens or on their window cills.

Soon we were the only tourists amongst the crowds of men and women in their traditional Arab clothing, the men in long gowns called djellabas and the women in colourful kaftans, headscarves tied around the hair, some with face veils and a small minority with a full burqa. We were in unfamiliar territory now and although there was no danger and we felt perfectly safe there were no street signs to help with navigation so at a convenient junction we took a turning into a parallel street which seemed as though it should return us to Djemma el Fna.

By a stroke of good fortune it did and as we got closer the local stalls gave way again to tourist shops and we pushed our way back through the Souks and into the huge square where shifting circles of onlookers were constantly moving between acrobats, drummers, dancers and street apothecaries. We kept a safe distance from the snakes and the monkeys and had a second cup of tea in a café with a balcony that overlooked the square and we worried about finding somewhere with alcohol for our evening meal.

By now it was mid afternoon and for the time being we had had enough of the market and the Souks so we slipped out of the busy square along a road that smelt of equine piss with a line of horse drawn carriages with drivers looking for customers. We walked along the opposite side of the road and looked unsuccessfully for restaurants with alcohol along the main route of the Avenue Mohammed V but a short way along we had to admit defeat and turned instead back towards the Koutoubia Gardens and Mosque.

This involved the tricky process of crossing the busy road with two lanes of manic traffic driving in each direction. Buses, cars and lorries don’t give way to people in Marrakech so this was a potentially death defying procedure. There are zebra crossings marked out in the roads but they are there only for a bit of highway decoration and are not something a walker can rely upon so we watched the locals as they strayed into the carriageways and we stuck close to them because they appeared to have a sort of sixth sense about which vehicles might stop and which would simply mow a pedestrian down without a second thought.