Morroco

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Marrakech.

Our first impression of the legendary hospitality of the Moroccan people came within ten minuets of arriving in the Souk s, Just in front of the biggest mosque in Marrakech inside the Medina walls of the old town. We stood clandestinely trying to avoid the gaze of would be muggers and con artist of whom we’d been warned of previously, and whom I’d become increasingly paranoid of since the knife point ambush in Marseille and the pink panthers appearance in Barcelona were my €100 were the object of desire. So there we were, the three of us trying to blend in, but looking completely lost. We sneakily unravelled our map and tried establish our location and more importantly the location of the hostel, this proved unfruitful and not as sneaky as we’d have like, because as soon as we’d show the slightest strand of fear, the smallest amount of naivety even the most tiny fraction of gullibility we were approached. The chap that came over was a short, skinny, toothless man but he also carried a big smile and with hand extended welcomed us to Morocco in broken English and immediately charmed us, maybe we over reacted and let paranoia get the better, Brits abroad we thought, typical attitude we were better than that, we were part of the new generation, educated and free. Our new friend Ahmed offered to take us to our Hostel and assured us it was a short walk through the market and into the Souks, we soon found ourselves in the busy hubbub walking at a strong pace that shocked me for such a short old man, we were practically jogging. As we burrowed deeper into the souks we became more aware of how different this place was, and it was exciting. There seemed to be an endless ocean of stalls selling anything the heart (and wallet) desired, men were shouting in an vast array of languages tempting you buy something from their shop. Typical scenes of spice mountains in a rainbow of colours that seem impossible to be natural, rows upon rows of leather designer bags and jewel encrusted belts, stock piles of ripe fruit and vegetables being carried through the narrow streets on donkey and cart, whilst the owners stride aside in there brilliant blue robes. despite the fact that hundreds of pedal and go motorbikes come whizzing by missing you by inches they maintain unnatural balance, as three to four people cling on for dear life, it looks like anyone of them could be professional stunt riders. The Smells range as much as the colours and modes of transport, with wafts of ripe banana, freshly squeezed orange juice, strong spices like paprika and cinnamon, are abruptly replaced with horrendous doses of faeces that shock the sense and immediately tauten the face in wince. I think this sweet and sour, pleasure pain just makes you appreciate the good all the more. We’d been walking a good ten minuets now, at this Olympic power walking pace when we abruptly took a right through a low hung archway under an old house painted a light terracotta and had a brilliant oldly world nature about it somewhere Aladdin could have lived perhaps. We meandered through the narrow ally that at some points became corridors and seemed to be a residential street secluded from the glare of the hoards of tourist floating about. “Oh shit, were going to be murdered, or worse, made to spend hours in his cousins carpet shop” I thought. “No’ this is Ahmed, our friendly Moroccan guide” I reassured myself, just as this conversation with myself was taking place I hadn’t noticed Ahmed had stopped walking and so had Jon and Amy I consequently walked straight into them almost toppling everyone over. “Why’s he stopped?” I asked Jon, then peered over his shoulder to see Ahmed holding out his hand as if the willing recipient to a high five, it took a few moment to sink in before enlightenment finally struck me, “cheeky bastard wants money” I whispered, “but I thought we were fiends” these words dribbled pitifully out of my mouth as I realised we were easily and rightfully duped, mugs, and due to our current location in a narrow ally in the centre of what felt like spaghetti bowl of paths tunnels allys and passages , with surely several snipers stalking our every move. I gathered ungainly courage and an undoubted British approach to bartering, “How much?” I commanded in a deep powerful voice worthy of any world leader fully content on gaining the best possible bargain and cutting my haggling teeth on our first would be con artist, “you pay taxi €10 for same trip” came Ahmed’s reply, “here you go then have 100 Dirham instead” I chirped handing over the brown note. Moments later we realised we were stood yards away from the hostel, and a few moments after that I realised that with the exchange rate I’d just paid him about €12 for his walking taxi service, quality British bargaining skills.
The Hostel was like a tardis, for what it lacked visually on the outside it quickly made up for in abundance on the inside, now this place really was somewhere Aladdin could have lived. You walked in and found yourself in a large square room with several columns holding up the ceiling the floor covered in brightly colour Moroccan rugs and a square of large thick cushions were people sat to commune, read or just to relax. We were shown our room which was on the first floor and was an 8 bed room (the cheapest naturally) it consisted of two bunks and four singles, the bunks incorporated a massive two foot thick mattress each and were made from thick hardwood, something your wouldn’t find in IKEA or a prison which is the norm from most hostels in Europe. The singles were covered by what can only be called a giant make shift indoor tent, but looked really cool. In front of the room was a large terrace that surrounded the courtyard below where birds chirped and played in the fountain, these small birds would often come into our room and play, which is a much more pleasurable wake up call than the lorries that shudder my entire flat back home when they thunder past. You climbed a further floor and then onto the roof terrace from which you could command fantastic views of the medina with the Atlas mountains as a backdrop, during sunset this was amazing especially as the mosques fired up there loudspeakers and began the call of prayer simultaneously titillating the visual and auditable senses.
After a fanned nights sleep constantly interrupted by someone’s mobile alarm going off every ten minutes because they were both too lazy to wake up and too lazy to turn the alarm off we headed for the Market in Jemaa El Fna, the beautifully named, square of the dead. We wondered around for several hours soaking up and breathing in the atmosphere and culture of the place. We explored the many different districts of the Souks including the technology market with donkey and cart carrying 43” plasma screen TV’s to the leather market with its poignant smell of tanned hide, we even found the ‘things to do with an old car tyre’ market, and believe me you can do a lot with an old car tyre. After several hours of walking and constant berating and unnecessary vituperations for not buying anything, as nice and well made as it is, I was hoping for it to be at least a bit cheaper than London, not double, perhaps we were all a bit naïf then, easy pickings, we decided to call it a day.
The next day we’d arranged to meet with a Moroccan guy, a Swedish couple and a Japanese girl we’d met on couchsurfing.com, rent a car and drive through the Atlas mountains to the Eastern boarder and on into the Sahara desert. Our Car was a Chevrolet Spark which is just a re branded Daewoo Matiz , a pile of shit basically, a real arsehole wobble overcame us as we’d be driving through some pretty tough terrain in said beast. Nonetheless we set off full of fine fettle and not a care in the world. After about ten minutes I think we’d all aged ten years, Marrakech hasn’t the most stringent traffic laws, and competition for lanes were betwixt man, beast and machine. To say that the roads were chaos would be a severe understatement, and full respect to Jon for not totalling the car, and my credit card as that was the deposit. The Road through the atlas was stunning, but with this beauty came the mortal fear of death, as we meandered through the winding roads at warp factor 5 trying to keep up with Hischam our guide, we were often greeted by coaches, trucks , goats or/and people on our side of the road. To drive off the edge would be instant death, and with no barriers (because they’d been toppled over the edge by previous accidents) it was a very real factor, but still it made it all the more exciting. We soon passed through the mountains an entered the flats but night was falling and the only visible scenery was the immediate 10 feet or so of tarmac illuminated by the headlights of the Chevy. After six or so hours of driving we arrived at Hischam’s parents house, where we had traditional Tagine with the Berber family, also where Jon and I tried goats brain for the first time, very interesting. The six of us stayed in the same room on one massive bed made from giant pillows and sheets.
The next day Jon Amy and I decided to head back to Marrakech because we wanted to visit the Kasbah in AÔt Ben Haddou, which is where they filmed the African fight scenes in gladiator, whilst the other decided to head deeper into the sahara. Fortunately the Kasbah was on route to Marrakech and we didn’t have to deviate from the road, otherwise we would have died undoubtedly. The Kasbah looked like a giant sand castle from a far, and almost as if it couldn’t be real. But as we etched closer the sandcastle grew and became very real, it even had its own moat (well a river). Whilst we walked through the small town at the foot of the Kasbah a Berber man in traditional blue dress beckoned us over “oh no not another sales pitch” you could hear us all groan, but as it turns out he just wanted us to write him a postcard in English to his friend, we all sat down and had green tea together. This was one of the most genuine experiences we had and I think we will all remember that one. We left and carried on our journey to the Kasbah where we were soon confronted by the torrid rapids of the surrounding river, we were then further surrounded by the local entrepreneurs trying to sell donkey rides across the stream. We ended up wading across as the river as they wanted about a million pounds and headed for the summit of the Kasbah. All the houses in the Kasbah were waddle and clap and the street were narrow the whole place had a medieval feel and I’m glad we visited.
The next few days were spent relaxing and some more exploration in and around Marrakech, we visited the old Royal palace and Jewish quarter where they had a weekly market on, here I saw my first skinned dog, which looked surprisingly tasty. We found we were far less hassled here and managed to wonder round unnoticed which was such a welcome relief. So there it was, the end of our east African adventure, and nothing but the daily grind of home to look forward to . Oh well Sweden in just over week.

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Photos

Sunset
View from the roof of the hostel

Hostel view
View from the roof garden

Cactus in the desert
On route to the desert

Atlas road
One of the highest point in the Atlas

The Kasbah
Loving the windy

Square of the Dead
at night