“Crikey, that engine’s giving off some heat,” I remarked to the Other Half as we left the back stairs of our plane at Marrakech’s Menara Airport. It was only after we were halfway to the terminal building that I realised it wasn’t the engine. Even in pitch darkness, the Moroccan heat was remarkable. What would it be like in the midday sun?
Our first proper glimpse of the wondrous madness that is Marrakech came as our taxi driver dropped us and our cases off at the edge of the world-famous Jemaa El Fna square. Cars can’t go much further – certainly not through the souks (market stalls) to where our riad (guesthouse) was. The taxi driver called for Ali, and over came an elderly bloke with a large barrow. In it went our cases and off Ali trundled with us not far behind him. The Jemaa El Fna at night must be one of the world’s great sights – the rising smoke from the food stalls being backlit by the glaring lights; the instantly recognisable music of the snake charmers; and the drums. Oh the drums. It reminded me of a late night at Glastonbury, but this time the drums weren’t being beaten by an accountant from Guildford named Tarquin. This was real. Well it probably wasn’t, it was probably typical tourist fare but it felt a million miles away from the Manchester we had left a few hours before.
Steam rising from the food stalls on the Jemaa El Fna
On Ali trundled and through into the narrow lanes of the medina. At this point, I was starting to feel bad for the poor bloke. I wanted to make sure we tipped him something, but didn’t want to give the game away and be inundated with people asking for money – as if following a guy with a barrow containing your cases wasn’t ‘colonial’ enough. It always takes me a few hours or even days to get used to a different city, so initially I’m always a touch over-cautious when it comes to being scammed. In the few words of Cantonese I could muster, I asked the Other Half (fluent Cantonese speaker) how much we should give him. We decided on 5 Euros and even that seemed paltry for the effort he’d put in – and showing us through the maze-like medina safely to our riad. But, as foreigners seem to forget, the British don’t usually carry Euros around.
The guy at the riad asked if we had tipped our new friend. On hearing we had he looked worried. “Oh, you shouldn’t tip. The transfer fee includes payment. How much did you tip? Ah, five Euros is not so bad”. This pleased us in various ways. Firstly, it seemed that Ali’s tip was, in fact, a tip and not just a miserly payment for his good work. Secondly, it reassured us that our hotel chap was honest. This goes a long way to settling the irrational nerves in a new country!
As it was a special holiday for myself and the Other Half, we had booked a junior suite. The hotel chap showed us to our room. It was through the courtyard, through some doors and up some stairs. It was quite small but our friend told us we had access to the sun lounge upstairs. We dumped the bags and failed to find the off switch for the radiators that felt as if they were on at full blast (there were no radiators, Morocco in August is just really warm – who knew?). I then decided to check out the sun lounge. Turns out this was a private terrace! The room was looking more like a suite, even if the bedroom was just a bed and wardrobes. In the light of morning we found the other section of our suite – it was down the stairs through the doors we had entered, and was rather large. Large enough to have a sofa, table, metal owl and banana tree anyway! The riad (Riad Alkaderi) was utterly perfect for our needs. It was quiet, relatively close to the Jemaa El Fna and the staff were wonderful and friendly. Some of the decoration was showing a slight sign of decay, but I wouldn’t have swapped the place for anywhere.
Well, perhaps the Mamounia… We popped into this landmark hotel on one day to have a look around. It’s where Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day’s characters stayed in the Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much, and while I didn’t recognise too much from the film, it’s a beautiful hotel and definitely worth a quick look round.
But our first day was about getting our bearings. And what better way to do that than walk 16 miles in 40 degree heat? We must have been everywhere. We started by purposefully getting ourselves lost in the souks. The hustle, bustle, sounds and smells were captivating and we were happy to explore even dead ends, despite locals telling us they were dead ends. We had heard of one scam in the souks in which a local person acts friendly and tells you that you are going the wrong way. He will show you the right way but then you will end up in the tanneries and he’ll hassle you for money. Thankfully, this didn’t happen to us. Any time a person told us we were going the wrong way, they ended up being correct and we just smiled, before walking off in the right direction. But don’t be afraid to explore the souks. To not do so would be to miss the magic of Marrakech. Although some sort of map would have come in handy, especially as we soon re-appeared dazed by the side of a main road outside the medina’s ramparts. This is where I realised that my Google Maps app was working on my phone. This was a great discovery. It was a long walk back to the riad, but we did pass the Badii Palace. Clearly deciding this wasn’t enough for one day, we headed out again, past the towering Koutoubia minaret and the aforementioned Mamounia. On this occasion we carried on walking and headed to the new town area of Gueliz, and back in to the medina near the bus station. It’s hard to explain just how hot it was but a notoriously unreliable pharmacy sign showed 46 degrees.
We vouched not to do so much walking again, but it was time to relax near the Jemaa El Fna. There are many eateries and cafes on the periphery and I’m sure some are much better than others, but they seemed much of a muchness to us, although for cheapness, we just preferred Snack Issafen for drinks. The terrace of Cafe Kessabine had a great view of the square and its tagines were beautiful, but the cafe bar next to Toubkal was nearly offensively cheap for good, budget food. On our final evening in Marrakech, we pushed the boat out and visited Nomad in the spice souk. It has a gorgeous terrace and serves modern Moroccan cuisine – and beer. It is, of course, more expensive than most places but mains still come in about £10 and are tasty. However, we had a strange feeling leaving there. We had been happy with the food but something seemed not quite right. Was it that it seemed a bit too upmarket for its own good, or was it because we were leaving Marrakech?
Marrakech had impressed us. Its energy was relentless and we could have happily wandered around without seeing any of the sights. But sightsee we did. With the Badii Palace being so close to the Saadian Tombs and the Bahia Palace, you could do all of these in an afternoon. We tried, but the Badii Palace seemed closed. At £1 for entry, we were impressed with the Saadian Tombs, mainly because it was cool. There isn’t a lot there but what there is is very pretty, and is definitely worth the admission.
One piece of advice, definitely visit the Saadian Tombs before the Bahia Palace, because the latter also charges £1 entry and is much bigger. The walk from the ticket booth to the main entrance is impressive enough, but that opinion relents a little as you pass through the first few rooms. It didn’t seem to have the wow-factor, but we put this down to our last holiday including the Forbidden City in Beijing. Thankfully though, the outside courtyards and gardens brought smiles back to our faces and their beauty is now imprinted on my brain.
Impressive courtyard at the Bahia Palace
However, the most fantastic sight in Marrakech was the most expensive at nearly £7. Out past the bus station is the Marjorelle Garden. This beautiful villa and environs were designed by French artist Jacques Majorelle in the 1920s and 30s and act as a showcase for the shade of brilliant cobalt blue which bears his name – as well as his extensive collection of cacti. The gardens were opened to the public by its former owner, renowned fashion designer Yves Saint-Laurent, and the area also houses a memorial to YSL who passed away in 2008. The gardens are busy and you will probably have to queue to get in, but we were happy to spend an age walking round or sitting on one of the many benches, marvelling at the beauty of this sweet haven. Do, though, ensure you sit on a shaded bench. I think I may have left part of myself on a sun-baked one.
We had wandered towards the Majorelle Gardens in search of a car to hire. It turns out that, no matter how helpful our hotel chaps were, they couldn’t work miracles and find us a car for the following morning. With a slight change of plan, we decided to hire a car for a couple of days’ time, but the internet couldn’t help. August is a busy time for car hire in Marrakech, so plan ahead. Or go to Farad Cars (I think that was the name), which is in a courtyard off the northern side of Boulevard Mohamed Zerktouni in Gueliz. We only found this place as we tried Air Cars before, and on leaving their office saw this other ‘office’. If a room with a computer desk and a couple of chairs counts as an office…
One of the many beautiful vistas in the Jardins Majorelle
It was closed when we arrived, but a man soon came running, smiling from next door and let us in. This was Mustafa. He was only too happy to provide us with a car, a Peugeot 208 diesel. We agreed a suitable price and he also allowed us to arrange a drop-off at the airport, which would save us the hassle of finding our own way there with our cases. We left his little office feeling pleased with ourselves. And a bit worried. Surely hiring a car can’t be that relaxed?
We had truly loved Marrakech. We even learned to have fun with the guys trying to get our custom around the Jemaa El Fna. Their English is brilliant, so I pretended to be Hungarian for most of the week as it’s an unusual and, quite honestly, unfathomable language to most outsiders. This did the trick on most occasions as most people’s only comeback was “Oh…hungry from Hungary!” It dawned on me how tired most Magyars must be with that ‘joke’. The other occasions it didn’t work was when the people presumed I was Spanish. I’m the least Spanish looking person since, erm, Andrés Iniesta, so I don’t know where they got that from. They also presumed the Other Half was Japanese, so it became the norm to walk down these beautiful bustling alleyways to a chorus of “Hola señor, konnichiwa!” However, the most impressive bits of hawking were reserved for the food stalls in Jemaa El Fna. “Cheap as chips”, “Asda price” and “I’m from Hemel Hempstead…HEMEL HEMPSTEAD!” all assaulted our ears, but we decided on the stall next to the guy who had previously told us “they’re all the same, but come to mine”. We liked his honesty. You really do have to try one of the stalls, and we opted for kebabs, mergeuz sausage and couscous. Not at all stereotypical! The food is fine, nothing special, but it’s a great lively atmosphere to eat in. And you can even be relieved that you didn’t choose one of the stalls that serves boiled sheep heads. I really wanted to try this, but knew I wouldn’t stomach it all and thought it would be a waste. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
Afterwards we went for a beer. In a Muslim country, that’s harder than you might imagine. The Hotel Tazi is a short walk from the Jemaa El Fna and is one of the few places you can just pop in for a beer. We had noticed that most cafes were filled with men. Were the women not allowed? Or did they just not fancy going? With this in mind, I sent the Other Half into the hotel bar first. No one batted an eyelid and I ordered a nice cold Flag Speciale and sat down in the dark, smoky room to watch some of the Olympics. A dish of olives was brought to our table and we settled down for a pleasant hour in this time capsule. I’ve never been to a gin joint in Casablanca, but I imagine this place would have been the setting for that film… had it been recorded by the cast of Phoenix Nights. But it was welcoming and relaxed, and for that I loved it.
We gave myself a strict two small-bottle limit as I would be driving the following day and it is unforgivable to drink-drive in any country, let alone a Muslim one.
We arrived back at Farad Cars with trepidation. There was no one there. Oh.
But, a few minutes later, Mustafa appeared, grinning as before. As we signed a few forms, we became surprised by how almost formal this was, but it didn’t last long. Asking Mustafa how we’d drop the car off at the airport, his reply was “I’ll be there”. And with that, he led us out to the car – a nice silver Peugeot 208 – and loaded our cases into the boot for us. Flicking the windscreen wipers on just to worry Mustafa (honest), I drove out of the courtyard and realised I needed to do a left turn on a busy road. Mustafa walked into the middle of the road and stopped four lanes of traffic so I could get out. Now that’s service!
I soon realised why I usually drive into cities from a distance, rather than hiring a car in a busy place and trying to dodge traffic on the way out. Apparently to turn left on a roundabout, you can use any lane and just barge your way through. But we made it unscathed and the traffic died down very quickly.
Leaving the Fes road, we turned right towards Ouarzazate and hit more traffic due to the roadworks. The endless roadworks. I had been informed by a friend that this road was empty but he travelled on it about 10 years previously – and it’s definitely changed. The road was heavy with traffic: buses, huge lorries and the like. Passing these on the pass through the Atlas Mountains was precarious to say the least. If you couldn’t see a car coming in the opposite direction, it was safe to overtake – even if you couldn’t see because there was a bend or a hill in the way. The perilous driving conditions were not the only distraction. The scenery was stunning, with dark, sharp peaks giving way to lush green valleys hiding terracotta-topped houses. Dotted regularly along the way were people selling their wares – mostly buckets of karmouss (cactus fruit which can be seen nearly everywhere around Marrakech, and grows wild by the roadside) and gemstones of the most exquisite blue.
Even though the mountain road carries on for ages – due to a combination of the traffic, extensive roadworks, and the winding nature of the route – its beauty never gets tiring. Leaving the mountains, you immediately realise why the Moroccan flag is as it is. From lush greenery, you are now greeted by the deep red terrain of the Sahara’s northern reaches: a very different but equally stunning environment. The villages were equally pleasing – ancient staging posts with ramshackle mud brick buildings and occasional kasbah.
And then the road straightened out and the weather changed. Being Brits in the desert, it obviously started to rain. Not proper northern English rain, but enough to wet the windscreen. The dark, ominous clouds seemed a lot lower than they ought to as well. And with this sense of foreboding we arrived in Ouarzazate, or Holly-oud as it’s known. It was clear why that moniker has been attached. On the northern edge of town is the Atlas Film Studios, an impressive edifice a few hundred yards from the road, surrounded by desert.
We arrived at our hotel, the Perle du Sud, and checked in. The price for our room was very cheap (about £30) and the reception oozed faded glamour, but the staff were very friendly. The view from the room was stunning, looking west across the desert dotted with small oasis-like villages and palm trees.
With us only being in town for one night, we headed straight back to Atlas Film Studios. I’m not much of a movie fan, but the Other Half is, so in we went…eventually. We arrived at the same time as a coach load of tourists and followed them as they entered the Oscar Hotel. Confused, we headed back out, presuming we had taken the wrong route. But with no other entrance, we re-entered the hotel and looked around the foyer. Sure enough, this was the correct place to buy the studio tour tickets – a bargain at £5 each. We’d missed the main rush too and our charismatic guide only had us and a young French family to show round. For someone who was initially very sceptical about whether we should bother going, I was pleasantly impressed. We viewed sets and props from the likes of Cleopatra, Game of Thrones, Jewel of the Nile, Gladiator and countless other movies. The studio lot is large and you easily spend in excess of an hour there but it’s a beautiful place to wander, especially if the sun shines as it eventually did.
One of the many intricate sets at the Atlas studios.
And how it shone. Returning to the Perle du Sud, I suddenly remembered why I had favoured this hotel – it had a pool. After a very relaxing dip, we hit the town.
This bustling town has, for centuries, served as a caravan stop for people heading across the Sahara and its centre was abuzz with people shopping, lost-looking tourists, and families. We opted to eat at one of the many restaurants on the northern edge of the main square, the Place Al Mouahidine. The food was cheap and decent (the Pizza Berbere was an interesting concoction, but I would have it again) and the waiter was a character. He expressed his delight on hearing we were English because he thought we also disliked the French as much as he did. We really don’t! But the main entertainment came from watching loads of kids scoot round the square on little mechanical vehicles. One girl, aged about 8 or 9, came round to ask for some money so her younger sister could have a go. Someone at another restaurant relented and gave her some money. The younger girl was delighted as she drove around on her little toy. After that, both girls went back to their parents, before the older sibling ventured back out to beg for more money. She was good at it and we found ourselves admiring her ability.
The Taorirt kasbah is an uneventful 15 minute walk from the square but is worth the hike. It’s a beautiful sight and looked to have some sort of multi-media display during the dark of the evening, as seating was set up across the road and some sort of gantries lining the road. However, we were tired and had a long, long final day ahead of us, so we retired to the Perle du Sud.
Fortunately, more kasbahs were the order of our final day. Retracing our steps as far as Tazentoute, we turned off towards the fortress town of Ait Ben Haddou. The roads immediately took a turn for the worse, but only because they were being worked on. The amount of construction going on on these roads was quite something, and should bode well for future travellers – as long as the upkeep is decent. This called to mind my travels in Kazakhstan where many new and improved roads were being built, but lorries were allowed on to the pristine tarmac too soon, leading to rutted and wrecked roads in a short space of time. The other reason these roads reminded me of my time in central Asia is due to the nature of the roadworks: an impromptu road is constructed nearby but is, unsurprisingly, a very rough surface. Driving the Peugeot down these tracks, and through a trickling stream took me back!
We arrived in the quiet Ait Ben Haddou and realised we had beaten the tourists. This was good news as viewing the stunning ksar (fortified village) with so few people around really added to our sense of wonder. We wandered across the dry river bed to get the best view and came across a couple of workmen on the other side. One of them shouted something to us and then asked where we were from. “Français?” No. “Espanyol?” No. “Italiano?”. No. “Erm..Deutsche?” No. “Where from then?!” “The UK”. “Aaah England, cool!”. It’s a good job we weren’t Welsh, Scottish or Northern Irish.
The ksar at Ait Ben Haddou
The large mud-brick edifice slithers down a mound-like hill and, perhaps with yesterday’s visit to a movie studio fresh in our minds, recalled the likes of Lawrence of Arabia. And with relatively decent cause too. The road between Ait Ben Haddou and Telouet is an old caravan route between Marrakech and the Sahara and dotted with kasbahs and ksars. It was also the domain of the Pasha of Marrakech who helped the French overcome nationalist resistance, and it is very easy to imagine north African warriors tearing through this terracotta landscape to attack these protected strongholds.
With our appetite for constructions whetted, we decided to venture further up this rocky road. Our original plan was to carry on past Telouet and back on to the main road near Tizi n Tichka but with a plane to catch and the amount of roadworks leading us to question the state of the road, we reluctantly agreed to go only as far as the next village.
We went as far as Tamedakhte and the ksar/kasbah there. It was in a worse state or repair that Ait Ben Haddou, but appealed to me much more. This beautiful building was just there at the side of the road, no fuss was being made about it. We parked up by the side of the road, walked past half a dozen grazing camels and in to the front part of the kasbah. A guy was sat in what appeared to be an old security guard’s hut near the front but carried on whistling as we strolled by. The door to the main building was locked but the views of these places are much better from the outside anyway!
After a few peaceful minutes here and a quick stroll round the village waving to bemused locals, we returned to the car and drove back through Ait Ben Haddou and on to the main road, happy with our morning’s viewing – but a tinge of regret about not carrying on further.
The Kasbah at Tamedakhte, rugged and crumbling
Making just one more stop before the arrival at the airport, we pulled up at Tizi n Tichka, the highest point on the Atlas mountain road. It was very quiet, just a few huts selling ‘precious’ stones and the like. Until we pulled up. Every shop owner rushed to our car, asking us to buy their wares (although one man asked if we had cigarettes as it’s apparently miles from the nearest cigarette shop!) All we wanted was a photo with the summit marker, so we were relieved when French tourists pulled up behind us and attracted the hawkers’ attentions.
As we headed down the mountain road, our mood sank too. This was it. Our time in Marrakech and Morocco was at an end. It had been beautiful, mystical, busy and fun. We arrived at the airport wondering how we would hand the car back. Heading to departures we got stuck in a bit of traffic and the Other Half pointed to our left. There was Mustafa, beaming as usual as he ran over to meet us. Within the space of 30 seconds we had handed the car over and were loaded up ready to enter Menara airport and bid a final farewell to Morocco.
Black Tar Rivers 