An orgy for the senses

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Geo: 31.6342, -7.99994

"I'm going to Morocco," I told friends. The invariable response was, "why? If you go to morocco, they told me, you'll be hassled everywhere you go." And being blonde, and having experienced the markets of Egypt and India, I feared the worst too. So it was with trepidation that we descended the steps of the plane, into the bright dry heat of the Moroccan morning. After the world's longest immigration queue, standing for over two hours to get our passports stamped - essential for a hassle-free exit from the country - we negotiated the airport, with its smiling staff and braved the taxi rank. Expecting to be pushed and pulled in all directions, it was a pleasant surprise to be met by a welcoming driver who simply ushered us into his taxi once we had agreed a price to the hotel. "Madam," he said and them proceeded to give us a guided commentary as we passed sights of significance. Justifiably proud of his city, he gave us directions to the major sights we would want to see as tourists and recommended restaurants near our hotel. So far, no hassle!

Our hotel was a dark, cool oasis in the heart of the new city. Despite its gloomy interior, created by one solitary window high in the ceiling, the riad was bedecked in brightly coloured cushions, lanterns and floor tiles, the spiral stone staircase with its gaudy tiles changing colour in every step, were lit by candles in stunning glass holders perched on the edge of each step. It was romantic, beautiful and undeniable Moroccan.

We headed out into the melee of the new city to grab a bite to eat. Here we did begin to experience some of the fêted hassle, with nut sellers, watch hawkers and mobile phone traders all vying for our attention, but a simple, "No!" was enough to allay their advances. We ordered a simple cous cous with chicken, raisins, chickpeas and vegetables. What actually came to the table was cous cous. Admittedly, it was adorned with a scrawny dry chicken leg, but it was cous cous alone. It was plentiful and well seasoned, but I couldn't help but feel a little short changed by the missing raisins and chickpeas - two of the foodstuffs I was most looking forward enjoying to in their native home. By this point, we were beginning to feel pretty sleepy from our early start and so made our way back to our hotel for a much needed siesta.

Meeting our tour group in the evening was a surprise. On previous trips, we have been among 20-30 somethings, with very few exceptions. However, our tour group this time was comprised of a much broader age demographic - two teenagers with their parents, two older couples and two 30 something solo travellers, their nationalities ranging from British, to Canadian, Australian, Dutch and Austrian. It would make for an interesting group. We enjoyed drinks on the roof terrace, overlooking the sunset as it painted the city in front of us in golden hues, the minarets and rooftops glinting in the remains of the day, backed by the snow-covered peaks of huge High Atlas Mountains providing a curtain of beauty behind them. On recommendations from Mohammed, our tour leader, we joined forces with Donny, the Canadian, and left the relative peace of evening in the new city to join thousands of others in the medina by night.
Marrakech has a distinctly Andalucian feel to it, (pr perhaps Andalucia has a Moroccon feel, or perhaps both places have influenced each other over the centuries). With low lying buildings and wide plazas, the new city, at least, has the outdoor cafe culture atmosphere of Southern Spain. The traffic, however, is like Spain. On acid. There appear to be no rules to the road. Red lights mean go, green lights mean go, zebra crossings make you fair game to be picked off the road by a rampaging motorcycle or errant truck. One rule is certain, the vehicle is king, pedestrians have to move out of the way or be mown down. The only way to negotiate the roads appears to be, move with confidence and purpose. Hesitation will make road kill of you.
Eventually, following a long hike, traversing huge pavements with kerbs like cliff edges, we passed through the thick walls of he he old city, punctuated with huge holes, and arrived at the iconic minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque - one of the symbols of the city, famous throughout the world and an ever-present navigation tool. From here, the assault on the senses really began. Horse and carriages lined the streets, their gentle harrumphing and occasional impatient stamps explaining the stench of urine and sweet smell of manure. As we rounded the corner, we were greeted by an incredible sight. Like a vision from a exotic poem, the sight above us slowly came into focus as we began to cross the Jama El fna, the main square in marrakech's medina. A thick haze was suspended in the warm evening air, and crowded underneath it were thousands of figures, all pulsating and weaving rhythmically in time with the pounding drumbeats and wailing pipes whose cacophony drifted over to us on the breeze. From this distance, it looked like a tableau of a celebratory gathering, however, as we neared the scene we could see that it wasn't one giant crowd, as it had first seemed, but pockets of people gathered around drummers, acrobats, musicians and speakers. Behind them, the huge sails of the night food market billowed, plumes of smoke pouring out of the openings and filling the air with sweet-tasting smoke. It truly was a feast for the senses.

We bypassed the food stalls, preferring to head into the infamous souks of Marrakech's medina. Heeding my friends' warnings, I painted a firm no onto my face and prepared to wage war with the sellers within. How wrong the commonly-held opinion was! Inside the souk, compared to the bustle outside, was a haven of tranquility. Tourists meandered unobstructed down its winding lanes, sellers occasionally called out to us with a smile - "Come and see, anything you like lady," but a simple smile and shake of the head was enough to dissuade them. After a short stroll, we found ourselves at a spice stall. Here we paused to admire the workmanship of the owner. From terracotta pottery dishes, pointed domes of spices were piled high - each spice took on the appearance of the ubiquitous tagine - reds, golds, oranges and browns all in neat rows. It was a truly arresting sight and we asked (expecting to be charged for the privilege) if we could take a photo. Of course, madam, came the response. The owner of the shop patiently waited for us to capture the best angle, answering our questions about the spices with interest and humour. When he suggested we smell them, I explained that due to a cold, I was unable to do so. He then told me he had something for me. Here we go... I thought, my friends' words echoing in my ears. Talking us through the process as he went, he placed black cumin (nigella seed) into a muslin and then sprinkled a pinch of eucalyptus crystals on top. He then bound it up with a rubber band, and, after rubbing it on his palm instructed me to close one nostril and breathe deeply. It was an instant relief from the blocked nose I had been suffering from for three days, and my head began to feel less congested immediately. "A gift," he said, smiling. And with that, we went on our way. Perhaps we were lucky, but at no point did we feel hassled, coerced or threatened in any way in the labyrinthine souk.

We emerged from a completely different point than the one we had entered via - the souk is like this - a true warren of narrow twisting lanes, which chew you up and spit you out through one of the rabbit holes that dot its extremities. It is possible, I am told, to be lost I there for hours: like Wonderland, nothing is ever as it seems - signposts for the exit are designed by the stallholders to guide you further and further into the heart of the souk, the outside world slipping further and further from your grasp.

We crossed the main square, back towards the food stalls. Here, locals and tourists rubbed shoulders as they jostled for space in the smoky, vibrant cafés - known only by their stall numbers. Surrounding the food market, a line of escargot stalls were doing a roaring trade, while fresh orange juice stalls had customers lined up to sample the freshly-squeezed nectar. We were ushered into stall number 117, with its long thin tables packed with diners, like all the others, an open fired kitchen at its rear. Perusing the menu, we were stumped as to what to order. Written in a form of French, it was just decipherable but still a mystery with dishes we simply did not understand. In the end, the proprietor asked - meat, vegetables or fish. We chose meat, not knowing what to expect. Immediately following our order, steaming bowls of couscous, plates of vegetables and salads were brought to the table. We looked for the non-existent meat in the dish and decided that perhaps we had not been clear in our requests. However, the food was divine, the couscous was perfectly flavoured and the thick round breads were dipped into a fiery pepper dip. Ten minutes later, we were still negotiating our way through the huge amount of food on the table, when the meat arrived! Steaming skewers of delicately flavoured chicken and pork, accompanied by skewers of onions and peppers were brought to the table and devoured. It was good, honest, smile and hearty food and set us up for the long walk home, where we fell contended and satisfied, into bed.

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