Its 5:19am
on an unusually warm December morning, I’m lying in bed next to a beautiful
woman, her rich hair cascades towards me across a thousand threads of Egyptian
cotton, enveloping all in its path like the darkest waters of the River Nile. My
chest rises and falls as my lungs draw heavily on air thickened by spice; shrouded
in the grey light of early dawn, hints of yellow, blue and red creep down the
terracotta walls, spilling southwards from star-shaped impressions in a concave
atrium, the glass within stained by the colours of the sea, sun, and the blood
that flows through us all.
There is a
silence in the air as peaceful as any I have known, paradoxically so as the
city in which I find myself, Marrakech, is quite possibly the most vibrant,
loud, hectic, invasive and totally insane place I have ever had the pleasure of
visiting, especially from behind the wheel of a hire car at rush hour. Woe
betide anyone who takes a wrong turn into a Souk (a covered Moroccan market);
although that being said I was the only person who seemed to think the driving
conditions were out of the ordinary as I crawled past spice hawkers and leather
merchants, gave way to donkeys and piggy backed a number of small children down
their equivalent of the “World Foods” section at Waitrose.
In fact, as an
activity, driving in Morocco is the perfect antithesis of lathering yourself in
Oil of Olay, chewing on a stick of celery and wearing factor fifty sun cream
for a trip to the shops in November. I aged more during my week behind the
wheel in North Africa than I did in the interim between my Common Entrance
exams and my departure from University over a decade later.
So prevalent
are road accidents that the usual deposit of £250 Europcar deduct from your
card is raised somewhat to cover the added risk, something which they decide
against telling you until you have to ring them from your Riad, at vast
expense, because they have cleared out your bank account of, wait for it, 1600
Euros!
“But Monsieur, it is in the small
print on the back of the 13th page of the contract you signed, in
size 1 font, not our problem”.
The clock
struck 5:20am and the silence was shattered by the call to prayer, across the
city Tannoys atop mosques bellowed with the words “Allahu Akbar” (God is great), and Marrakech stirred into action; a
few hours later, we did the same.
Using Trip
Advisor Jackie and I had pre-booked every hotel and Riad we were to stay in
over the eight days, usually we’re happy to wing it on arrival, however with so
much to fit in and a few haunting memories of India involving pushy Tuk Tuk
drivers on commission, bullying our exhausted bodies, laden with 20kgs of
footwear and clothing that “seemed like a
good idea at the time”, we decided to get everything in order before touch
down.
I will add that Trip Advisor is fantastic for hotels, and I have taken
its advice in a number of very different countries to great effect, however I
would avoid using it to find yourself a good restaurant. Perhaps my standards
of food are a few fathoms further on than those of where I choose to bed down
for the night, however there seems to be a pattern emerging. Just last week I
stopped for a (ever more frequent) double date supper at The Salmon Inn in
Berwick-Upon-Tweed, en route to the best New Year’s party I’ve ever been to
just East of Edinburgh. A Trip Advisor plaque hung in pride of place behind the
bar, adorned with the accolade: ‘Certificate of Excellence’ and ‘5*s’, my associate
Tom highlighted this and only just managed to conceal his excitement. The
affable bar tender looked at us and said, wisely; “Aye, but you’re in Berwick now, not London”. He was right.
Our first stop
was Riad Slawi in the back streets of the Medina (old town); run by possibly
the friendliest guy I’ve ever come across, Adam, to whom I owe three fantastic
night’s sleep in the magical room mentioned in the first paragraph (for which I
apologise, that was my attempt at creative writing). An I.O.U valid for one
heated phone call to the sub-humans at Europcar to establish why they’d rinsed
the life savings from my bank account; plenty of delicious mint tea, a lot of
invaluable directions and the best Aubergine spread I’ve ever had, for which I
forgot the bloody recipe so I sincerely hope he reads this and sends it to me,
otherwise I’ll have to go back.
Marrakech is
a magical place; we strolled for hours through souks and squares, mosques and
tombs, marvelled at minarets and tucked into tagines. Contrary to what we were
told about the pushy hawkers and unsavoury locals trying to push you into
buying things, we felt totally relaxed. My mother felt harassed there, and I
can understand why, but I think the answer is not to let it affect you and take
a step back. There were moments when I had to be firm with people trying to
flog me things, and one instance when I had to give a bloke a few Dirhams to
get him to bugger off after he decided to take on the role of tour guide and
got a little aggressive. Such is life, it didn’t hold a candle to the violation
I’d felt in Varansi or Delhi.
If you
decide to go to Morocco for a week then I would 100% recommend getting a car and
pay the extra for complete insurance, as I have no idea how we made it through
unscathed. But DO NOT opt for the Sat Nav for an extra £100, outside of the
medinas the roads are straight all the way to the next town, and inside the
navigation has no record of anything so is totally useless. We learnt this the
expensive / terrifying way, it isn’t possible to find your hotel by looking at
a screen that’s telling you you’re in Algeria and dodge donkeys and children
simultaneously.
Day two and
we journeyed over the High Atlas to Ait Benhaddou, home of the Kasbah featured
in pretty much every film set in Islamic North Africa. Perhaps most famously in
Gladiator as the home of Proximo (Oliver Reid R.I.P), where Maximus is trained
up before returning to Rome to deal with Joachim Phoenix’s Caesar. Nothing can
prepare you for the first glimpse of the Kasbah, built into the back drop of a
dusty hill and circled by a dried up river bed, the northernmost reaches of the
Sahara Desert are in full and barren effect here.
Day three
and a two hour drive out to the coast and Essaouira, a small city painted in
rustic white with a charming medina and laid back atmosphere. Over the
centuries it’s attracted artists and musicians who came for the peaceful
beaches, temperate climate and the fish. Jackie had a cuttlefish tagine that
was simply next level, accompanied with a view out into the harbour and the sea
beyond. Jimi Hendrix spent a lot of time here in the 60s and wrote the song ‘Castles made of Sand’, referring to the
turrets and battlements protecting the city from the waters of the North
Atlantic.
Morocco is a
country with a landscape that changes dramatically and almost without warning,
from the Northern Sahara to the barren South Western coast; the beautiful
beaches of the Mediterranean, a stone’s throw from mainland Europe, are in
stark contrast to the battered empty stretches of the Atlantic. The High Atlas
south and east of Marrakech provide a stunning backdrop to the city, and
further north in the foothills of the Middle Atlas, you can find the city of
Fes, the next stop on our journey.
Unlike its
bigger brother Marrakech, which sprawls out in all directions across a flat
valley flaw, Fes is built atop a hill and flows down the sides in a maze of
tiny streets. There is a route indicated by blue tourist signs affixed to walls
and beams above that proved a God send, confusing would be an understatement
when describing Fes, beautiful, but totally
nuts.
Two days and a lot of expensive leather later, bought from the Tanneries, Morocco’s
largest and a sight to behold, albeit quite pungent, and we were in the home
stretch.
As a treat we booked a spa in the mountain town of Chefchaouen for our
last night, and it couldn’t have been more perfect. It was pissing down with
rain so we walked around for an hour or so before retreating to our spa, where
I spent a good couple of hours lounging by the private pool and enjoying a
Hammam rub down from Fatima, who although dressed head to toe in the attire of
Islamic Africa’s female demographic, didn’t even break a sweat. Which is more
than can be said for me as I perspired and almost expired in my swimming shorts
in the forty degree steam room. To top it off the hotelier gave us a memory
stick filled with brand new films, and we spent the evening, and the next
morning until 11:59am, horizontal catching up on a bit of pop culture.
Our trip to Norway
and the Northern Lights at the beginning of the year was in stark juxtaposition
to Morocco, but together they acted like the perfect bookends to a pretty
bloody good year. So it is with great trepidation and even more excitement that
I lunge into 2014, next stop Middle Asia, and a toss-up between Kyrgyzstan and
Uzbekistan. It is going to be a very, very good year!
