Marrakech

Tangier is not Morocco and neither is Marrakech but perhaps they provide something of a flavour of the country and we would like to think it is more Marrakech than Tangier.

We have arrived in Marrakech on the sleeper from Tangier on time and enter a brand new railway station almost identical to Tangier. We are whisked by people carrier to the modern airport along wide avenues and the only things that tell us we are very much in North Africa are the camels grazing on the grass verge and the traffic. Drivers in Morocco usually drive on the right, sometimes on the left and often down the middle all of which results in an exciting journey and will make crossing the road an interesting challenge – who will give way first?

We wait nervously for the Ryanair flight from Luton to land and wonder if our children and their partners will recognise us after our time away. When they appear they seem to know who we are and we all clamber into the car for the journey to the Riad Zalia (check out the web site www.zaliaretreats.com and consider it if you come this way).

As we enter the old town through one of the gates in the old walls we leave the modern French built city and go back 900 years. This is a place of narrow alleys, donkey carts, bicycles and numerous scooters and mopeds. Our car cannot take us to the riad as the main street can only accommodate cars in the early mornings before the stall holders and shop keepers open up and crowd the way with their goods. In any case, the riad is in a narrow back alley only wide enough for 2 people to walk side by side so we pull our suitcases the few hundred metres to the door of the riad walking between the high walls of the adjoining properties. People had told us of the oasis of calm that exists behind these walls and it is true, one minute you are in the hustle and bustle of a city avoiding the endless mopeds and the calls of the stall holders and the next you in the peace and quiet of your own space with only the sound of trickling water, the centre of every Islamic garden.

At the riad we are greeted with fresh orange juice and then given a tour of the three floors. Kitchen, dining room and lounge on the ground floor, three bedrooms on the first and a terrace and plunge pool on the second all built around a large courtyard that remains cool in the hottest of weather. The whole is decorated in a clean contemporary style with en suite shower rooms in black tiling with huge shower heads much to the delight of the lads. The rooms have been left with the Moroccan shape, narrow with very high ceilings and day beds are provided on the terrace and in the courtyard. We are not sure the plungepool is traditional but very welcome even at this time of year. The riad has been renovated by two young English men who obviously have a flair for it and it looks to provide a very comfortable stay. Everyone approves.

After unpacking we venture out for something to eat and are immediately faced with the challenge that will greet us each time we leave the riad – which way do we go? Being in the Medina and on the edge of the area occupied by the souks we are fortunate to be able to enjoy the real atmosphere of Marrakech but the alleys all look the same and we will get lost many times but rarely admit it. Although we have many offers from boys to show us the way and endless requests to view the contents of the stalls we press on to the main square and find a place to eat lunch – Moroccan style – couscous and tagines before we head back to the riad (only one wrong turn) and head for the terrace to sunbathe and relax.after the children’s early start and our twelve hour ferry and train journey from Spain. There is something of a heatwave and we have temperatures in the high 20’s and expected to hit 30.

In any Moslem country one thing that you will always remember are the calls to prayer. In Marrakech we were in hearing distance of six or seven mosques. The five calls each day, broadcast over speakers placed at the top of each minaret, were not perfectly timed and so we experienced this wave of noise that rang out round the city for a few minutes every few hours from dawn to dusk. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I can imagine the concerns that might be expressed in our own village if the bells were rung with such regularity. If we were out in the markets at the time of a call there was an increase in activity as the devout made their way to and from prayer.

The week unfolded in much the same way with mornings spent sight seeing or exploring and the afternoon put aside to sunning, relaxing and catching up – just perfect as all four had come from busy jobs in the UK and were ready to re-charge their batteries.

We made a visit to the night market when the ???? square takes on a magical atmosphere and where you can sit on benches (very Harvest Supper) and enjoy hot food from any one of the 100 or so stalls that set up each evening and are gone again by daybreak. The service was frenetic and the food was tasty and the stall holders competed to attract us to their stall – “this is not any food – this is Marks and Spencer food”!! John ended up sitting next to a couple of students, John and Jimmy, from the North of England. They were heading back to the UK the next day after spending their Easter holidays hitching down to the Morocco as part of a charity event to raise money for third world projects, they had had an amazing time in the Berber villages. Margaret had already met up with other students on the train who were on a similar mission.

We spent time in the labyrinth that is the souks (each of which specialises in a different activity – metal work, leather, spices, shoes, dying of wool and silk). Having made a purchase we were given a tour of the dyer’s souk where work was in progress and then onto the upper floor to look out over the workshops and the hanks drying in the sun. Margaret was bursting to take photos of the work but, as with other parts of the city, the photographing of people was frowned upon. The souks seem to go on forever and the narrowness of the alleys means that everything is either transported by handcart or donkey cart, raw materials, building materials and finished goods.

Marrakech is not rich and there are many trying to earn a living any way they can. There is the guy who takes the leaves off the oranges before they go on the juice stall, the women who sell small handmade biscuits from trays in the square, the guy who buys a pack of 20 cigarettes and then splits the pack to sell them singly on street corners. There is a feeling of pride in the city that seemed to be missing in Tangier, the streets are kept clean and although the stall holders were insistent they were never aggressively so. The feeling in the Medina was of excitement rather than concern over possible threats.

Margaret, Rachel and Emilie decided that a hammam was in order. Apparently this involved being hosed down, covered in warm black soap and left to marinade. Then the feared exfoliating mitt was brought out (no-one expects the Moroccan mitt!!!) and all three were mercilessly scrubbed from head to toe. A second hosing and black mud was applied and the room turned into steam bath for 20 minutes before another hosing, a massage and a mint tea. They arrived back at the riad looking simply gorgeous and with supplies for the same treatment when they get back home – Karcher at the ready!

We met up with some old friends from the UK and Canada who were passing through Marrakech as part of a guided tour of Morocco. It was good to catch up and in the two hours we managed to take them around some of the markets and show them some of the sights of the square – mainly snake charmers in the morning – before they headed off to the Atlas and Fez. We visited the gardens of the ????? mosque and took a walk around the city walls which are still much in evidence. We left by one gate and entered by another and strolled though a market area which has a very local feel to it and where meat and vegetables were being sold.

We saw the museum of Marrakech housed in a fabulous building in Andalucian style where there was an exhibition of photographs of the city from the later 19th and early 20th century – little had changed except for the lack of tourists. We visited a recently excavated washhouse, the Almoravid Koubba built in 1117, the base of which is now 10 or 15 feet below street level and provided showers and toilets for a long gone mosque.

The La Majorelle gardens bought and restored by Yves St Laurent were an oasis of calm (apart from the many tourists that visit) but provided stunning colours.

John needed a hair cut and visited a barber near the riad. Some said he was a Berber barber and only barbered Berbers but without a common language John received an excellent hair cut from a guy whose attention to detail was absolute so that no stray hair was allowed to escape the attention of his scissors, cut throat razor and clippers. Ok! Ok! Please insert your own jokes on the subject of baldness here.

As this trip is part of our anniversary celebrations the children insist on treating us to a meal at Le Fondouk which turned out to be a very swanky restaurant. It took some finding but after a couple of wrong turns we got there and were treated to some the best food and service we had while in the city on a terrace next to the ??? mosque.

Monday came too soon and after an early start, the children were dropped for the Luton flight and we to the station for 9am train to Tangier. The weather had become cloudy and we headed north over the plains with occasional ranges of hills. In our compartment are a young French couple who sleep all the way to Rabat, and a German couple, just arrived in the country, who were starting their tour of Morocco in Rabat. The train, made steady progress and is on time as we hit the Atlantic coast and the industrial outskirts of Casablanca and Rabat before heading East inland towards Fez.

Most of the country is under grass and cereal crops and we see the occasional settlement of mud brick as well as passing through white towns which look run down. Rubbish seems to be dumped on the outskirts which means that much of the landscape is dotted with the cursed plastic bag, in the fields and hanging on thorn bushes. This is an agricultural country and the herds of sheep, goats and cattle whether numbering one or 100 animals are always accompanied by one or more herdsmen. .

Finally by mid-afternoon we reach Sidi Kacem where we leave the Fez train and pick up the Tangier express thirty minutes later. This time we sit with locals a grandmother, mother and daughter (3 or 4 years old). As Margaret, gran and mother doze little girl gets bored and requires John to take part in a variety of games involving hiding and finding her watch, clicking fingers and blowing in ears. John, grandfather material if ever there was, obliges.

We arrive back at the coast and follow it up to Tangier to arrive on time and to the usual hassle of taxi drivers. Every one is on the make from the guy who jumps in our taxi for a free ride, to the ticket inspector at the port who wants money for a coffee. The good news is that the previous ferry was late and so we can hop on the gangplank and we are off and back in Spain within 30 minutes and in the campsite by 8pm (Moroccan) 10pm (Spanish) time.

The van is safe and sound but the campsite empty having been deserted by the Semana Santa holiday makers.