Medina madness

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Geo: 31.6342, -7.99994

We were up early for one final breakfast with the group, before squeezing our things into our backpack (more inappropriate celebrations at zipping up the bag first time...) and then we left the quiet of The hotel for the bustling new city streets. Our destination was the serene Jardin Majorelle, a meticulously planned twelve-acre garden designed by, and housing the former studio of, French painter, Jacques Majorelle. After Majorelle, Yves Saint Laurent owned the beautiful jardin.

As we arrived to queue up, there was a fracas between two taxi drivers, several other drivers were also involved, and there was loud shouting and barging, adding to the frenetic atmosphere of the traffic honking and the the squealing of brakes. It was with a sigh of relief that we left the whirlwind of noise of the city behind us and stepped into another world. Huge bamboos towered over a stunningly tiled sunken pool, gaudy pots of shocking primary colours lined the deep red paths that crisscrossed perfectly manicured gardens of trees, shrubs and cacti from all over the world. Jacques Majorelle was considered one of the most important collectors of plants of all time, with hundreds of species on show, helpful diagrams naming each plant and it's origin. Spiny cactuses sprawled across the ground, while huge palms shaded the paths from the sun. Delicate trickling fountains dotted the gardens at different points, and we meandered along through the calm surroundings until we reached the Yves Saint Laurent memorial, an understated Doric pillar in its own tranquil patch. From here, the path led us to a covered bridge, the striking cobalt blue that is known as Majorelle blue - created by the painter to reflect the colour of French workmen's overalls. The blue is a rich, vibrant colour that contrasts with the many greens of the foliage in the gardens, and makes every item it covered into a star attraction.

The covered bridge looked out over a huge square pool, lilypads floating on the still water, towering palm trees reflected upon its surface. To the left, stood the original painting studio, now a museum hosting a huge trove of Berber artefacts, displaying the rich heritage of the indigenous culture. The studio too was painted in the arresting blue, with stunning tile patterns along its sides and surrounding the ornate doors and windows. Behind this was the Love Studio - a simple collection of framed prints of Yves Saint Laurent's signature postcards, each saying only LOVE and the year, in a mix of styles and bright colours.

After exploring for over an hour, we left the haven of the gardens and walked back through the pulsing traffic to our hotel, where we relaxed with a beer before being picked up for the transfer to our new accommodation, a restored riad in the old medina. We swerved in and out of the traffic, having several near-misses as bikes, cars and small trucks dodged around us, changing lanes several times a minute. Finally, we arrived in the narrow streets of the medina - our transport attempted to turn around in the crowded square we had paused in. Motorbikes and petit taxis squeezed into any available space around us, eventually, we struck one of the motorbikes that simply would not stop. Locals banged on the back of the van to remind us of their presence. It was, quite simply, chaos. We had been to the medina the previous week, but it had been nothing like this. We almost contemplated asking the driver to turn around and take us back to the relative sanity of the New City, but this was what we had come for, and I knew from the reviews that our new riad was worth the effort.

Our driver disappeared for a second, leaving us like frightened children in the melee. He soon returned with another man, who, he told us, would take us to our riad. We heaved our backpacks on, groaning under their weight, and followed him deeper into the chaos. We passed under covered walkways, palm leaves bound together to create a shelter from the heat of the day, past counters with huge hunks of meat stacked up and hanging from crude hooks from the frames. Fresh herbs and spices were laid out on blankets on the ground, while towers of sticky sweets were displayed, wasps and flies enjoying the free banquet before them. We left the main streets, twisting and turning down a series of narrow lanes that we would never have found for ourselves, past low doorways and ramshackle buildings. Finally, we arrived at an unremarkable door, closed against the madness of the city. Our 'guide' took his baksheesh and left us knocking on the door, hoping against hope that this was where we needed to be. Fortunately, the door opened wide and we were ushered inside what can only be described as our own Eden.

A stunning, shaded courtyard was dappled with light filtering in from above. Trees grew upwards, creating more shade, bright pink petals drifted down from one of them, some landing in the ornate pool in the centre of the courtyard. Wooden shutters decorated the walls, marking the doorways and framing the beautiful windows of the the rooms that led off the atrium. There was not a sound. It was literally an oasis of calm in the midst of all of the chaos, and it is clear to see how it retains its high ranking on Trip Advisor. We were given mint tea, and maps of every part of the medina we could need, detailed directions to find our way back to the riad after exploring. Suggestions were given of key attractions to visit, and warnings about what and where to avoid.
We were shown to our elegant room on the first floor, a romantically lit space with stylish furnishings and a stunning stone bathroom with traditional fixtures. It looked like something out of the Ideal Homes magazine, and was everything I had expected a riad to be. We sat back in the red leather chairs, taking the time to relax after our ordeal in the frantic streets outside and prepared ourselves to re-enter the fray.

With trepidation, we left our sanctuary and headed back, our three trusty maps in hand, quite prepared to lose ourselves in the maze of streets, but hopeful that we would see at least a few of the attractions we were aiming for. Making a mental note of house numbers, signposts and landmarks to help to guide us back later on, we navigated the pulsing streets and followed our maps and the occasional signpost to the Maison du Photographie. A former house in a back street, the wide, airy rooms have been converted into galleries showcasing the history of early photography in Morocco. Although not considered part of the Grand Tour in the late 19th and early 20th century, the country still attracted intrepid explorers keen to visit this outpost of Europe, an exotic location shrouded in mystery. At odds with the photography of today, much of the exhibition focused on early shots of people - something incredibly difficult to achieve nowadays (Moroccans are notoriously, and perhaps rightly, averse to having their photographs taken) and so it was a fascinating insight into the culture of the time. Had they not have displayed the dates of the photographs, they would have been difficult to place in time - so many were similar to photographs that we could have taken on our travels, the traditional dress and scenery having not altered hugely in over one hundred years. Of course, people here have begun to be westernised. Many people wear sports wear, jeans and football shirts, but equally, a large proportion of the population still opt for the woollen clothing and leather sandals and slippers that have endured the test of time. My favourites, however, are the mixture of old and new - women in long gowns made of synthetic leopard fur or zebra print in shocking pinks and purples, reminiscent of a Primark onesie, are particularly arresting. We climbed the final set of spiral stairs onto the roof terrace, from where we had a 360 degree view of the surrounding rooftops and distant minarets and mountains.

From here, we followed the labyrinth of streets to our next destination. However, our attention was diverted by a shop selling a huge array of lanterns. We chose two, multicoloured glass set into a copper frame, and haggled good-naturedly with the proprietor, taking both for just £8. Happy with our purchases, we continued through the winding streets until we reached the atmospheric Ben Youssef Medersa - a religious school founded in the fourteenth century and rebuilt during the 1560s - where students learned the Koran by heart, eventually training to be Imams or religious teachers. For just ten dirhams, the equivalent of 70p, we were able to leave the busy streets and retreat into the calm of its ornate corridors and beautiful central square. The corridors, which led along the ground and first floor, housed the sleeping quarters of the scholars, each room on the first floor with a pretty wooden framed window looking out onto the courtyard below.

The paved courtyard itself was constructed of two wide passageways, framed by columns, built around a large, sunken pool. This would have been pretty enough, but the walls were the star attraction. Tiled to head height, with beautiful Islamic designs in blues and whites, the full height of the walls rose up to over ten metres, two thirds of which was intricately carved designs creating high decorative arches stepped into the walls. Finally, the uppermost section was covered in ornate cedar wood lintels, carved into beautiful patterns. At the far end of the courtyard, was the wonderfully preserved prayer room, a stunning display of tiles, carving and cedar wood, inscriptions from the Koran displayed around the wall in stunning Arabic script. It was an intoxicating place to stop and stare around.

After a spot of lunch, we took the plunge and stepped through a narrow wooden doorway into the souks. The clattering of hammers on metal told us before we even arrived, that we had found the Metal workers' souk. Each trade is clustered into a series of workshops and stalls in dedicated areas of the maze-like area. Men were busy pounding metal into a variety of shapes, ready for lanterns, tools, decorative plates and tableware. We passed through this section, headed for the leather workers' souk. Here, hides were stretched out on the floor, paint in every shade and colour being applied by hand. The scent of leather was everywhere, while shoes, bags, jackets and belts hung from every available space. We stopped to admire a bright red skinny belt, and were soon engaged in humorous discussion with the owner. Stacey and I were both impressed by the French I managed to pull out of the hat - the entire transaction, buying two stunning leather bags and a belt, haggling the price and discussing and carrying out alterations was conducted entirely in French. Feeling newly confident with our haggling skills, we continued to wind through the alleyways, taking in the items around us, chatting with the owners and enjoying the experience. Soon, we chanced upon a leather jacket seller, his stall adorned with coats in vast arrays of colours and styles. Here, Stacey found her perfect jacket, and, after some lighthearted but serious haggling, we walked away with a soft, lambskin jacket for Stacey, and a gorgeous red satchel for me, a birthday present from my godmother.

By this point, we were ready for a break, and decided to aim for one of the terrace cafés on the Jemaa El Fna, Marrkech's main square, and where we had had our immersive first experience of the city when we arrived. However, en route, we passed by a shop on the main artery, tiny tea glasses in bright colours, shiny silver teapots and trays laid out of every conceivable shape and design. We stopped to admire an ornate set of glasses in various rainbow hues, the sunlight shining through them like stage lights. Since we hadn't really done any shopping (ahem!) up to this point, we decided that we could squeeze such a tea set in, and set about haggling fiercely. We halved the original asking price, and walked away the proud owners of a charming mint tea set.

We climbed the stairs to one of the cafés which overlooked the square from three storeys high. Here, we had a panoramic view out over the rooftops, the minarets of five mosques, including the imposing Koutoubia, visible from our vantage point. We sipped our drinks and gazed out over the square, heaving with people enjoying the snake charmers, acrobats and musicians. The stalls had been set up for the evening and plumes of smoke were rising into the air, creating a perfect photo opportunity as the sun set behind them. As the sun dipped below the buildings at the far end of the square, a caterwauling of discordant sound began - each of the mosques in the area began its own call to prayer, the notes jarring against one another, each one rhythmically out of time with the next. The chorus went on for around five minutes, the loudest mosque being the one directly next to our heads, the speaker crackling as the sound bounced around the terrace.

Once the air had become quiet again, we took our final photographs of the atmospheric scene below us and descended the stairs into the madness of the square. The mosque to the right, whose call to prayer had blasted our eardrums, was now overflowing with worshippers, spilling out onto the flagstones, praying in the traditional prostrate position, rising in unison and then kneeling and bowing again. It was like a wave, the men barefoot and undulating with incredible symmetry. We watched, enthralled, aware that we were intruders on this private moment, but found it hard to tear our eyes away from something that we would not normally have the opportunity to witness.

We left the mosque behind us and decided to use the rudimentary map to attempt to find our riad unaided. Ignoring the catcalls of children and vendors who, seeing our map, shouted out offers of help to find our way, we weaved through the streets, passing steaming carts, women hand pulling bread and pushing it down onto sizzling hot plates. Men clamoured at a stand selling fresh smoothies, devouring them like drunken students guzzling beer. Unfortunately, what we had failed to anticipate was that our journey home coincided with the end of prayers, and a deluge of people suddenly flooded into the streets, motorbikes, push bikes, handcarts and pedestrians all fighting for their own path through the pandemonium of the tightly packed alleyways. We were looking for a mosque, which you would think would be an easy thing to find in this city, but as we were pushed and shoved onwards, no mosque was to be seen. We concluded that we must have been carried, unseeing, past it earlier and so turned around and tried to swim against the current.

A restauranteur called out to us to offer his hell, but we declined with a wave of our hands. When we saw the bright lights of Jemaa El Fna in front of us, we knew we had gone too far, so we turned and again retraced our steps. We passed the same restauranteur, laughing at us, "Ladies," he called. "You said you did not need my help!"
"We don't," we replied, assuming we would be pulled into his establishment if we accepted his help, and turned into a narrow alley which led off to the left. This became narrower and narrower as we ventured further, giving us the only uneasy feeling of the whole trip. Eventually, we realised this wasn't the way, and turned back. We repeated this process three times, walking up and down the same street, dodging people at every turn. We passed the restaurant owner again, and admitting defeat, asked for his help. He willingly gave it without expectation, teaching us once again to leave our prejudiced preconceptions at home. Finally, we found our riad and, with sighs of relief, escaped into its serenity, where we collapsed with a beer in the serene courtyard and then slipped into our tranquil room for a blissful night's rest.

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