“Just another two minute shortcut and we’ll be right there. I promise…”
We’ve been in Marrakech for less than 24 hours and it’s good to get all those irritating rookie errors out of the way fast in this city of seductive bamboozlement.
The rules are obvious enough but ever so simple to break:
#1 Never arrive after dark and try to find your hotel in the medina.
“It’s just a two minute walk” says our cab driver reassuringly as he deposits us and our bags at the nearest medina gateway to our riad. Several incredibly friendly but fruitless requests for directions later, including a barbers shop focus group, we finally give in to an offer of help from a young boy who gives me a withering look as I put a few Dirhams in his hand as recompense for the ninety second walk to the massive iron-studded front door to our hotel. Adding a couple of Euros to his tally seems to do the trick and he strides purposefully away looking for more business.
#2 Never ask for directions or stop to look at a map in the street.
En route to the main square Jemaa el-Fnaa I ask a smiling, helpful looking gentleman sporting a red ‘Morocco’ cap and official looking lanyard for directions and the next two hours are lost in a swirl of “shortcuts” via various emporia (a blur of rug sellers, spice and argan oil merchants, antiques and leather goods sellers). Time and time again we try to give him the slip, but his grinning face is somehow ever present and only when we finally succumb and purchase some slippers are we released back into the labyrinth (after also paying him for his trouble), past the anguished looks of other ‘victims’ still caught in the web.
#3 Never say you’ll “come back later” to a shopkeeper or stall holder as a means of escape, as you will inevitably pass by them again and be held to your promise.
My surefire navigation technique perfected in Tangier’s training wheels sized souk of turning in the same direction at every junction produces the inevitable result.
#4 Once you are in the hands of a salesman (and they are always men) in one of Marrakech’s 18 souks, resistance is futile so (try to) enjoy the ride. You will not get out of there empty-handed.
The cacophony of colours in “Le Souk des Tinturiers” (clothes dyers souk) are an irresistible lure and the young salesman’s patter is so breathtakingly brilliant that Sabrina and I exchange looks and relax into the onslaught.
“What’s your name?” he asks me as he wraps my head Berber-style in a cobalt blue cactus silk scarf. “Today it is Mohammed!”
The style of the spice seller in the adjacent cooperative is much lower key, but the conclusion is equally foregone.
“Of course, to look is no problem, you don’t need to buy” he declares as we smell the array of spices on offer, inhale the mint crystals they use for clearing sinus passages and Sabrina rubs the argan oil and musk perfume bars on her skin. ‘Try before you buy’ takes on a whole new meaning.
Infuriating and intoxicating in equal measure, Marrakech is not for the faint of heart. We have grown to love it though despite its full on fusillade, extreme temperature range (January days start off freezing cold but can top out in the mid to high 20s here in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains) and the risk to life and limb navigating its maze of narrow, noisy, smoke-filled streets and alleyways as a medley of motorised and donkey pulled transportation careens past. Taking care not to tread on one of the scores of semi-charmed cobras, as I nearly do in Jem el-Fnaa square is also advisable.
Nothing quite works here and yet the overwhelming charm and self-effacing candour of Mar’rakishis is completely disarming, as they themselves attempt to navigate their way through the chaos. “Everything is difficult here” declares a resigned Asma, the delightful concierge at our riad, after a futile hour trying to book train tickets for us online. Last September’s earthquake has also added to this sense of fatalism and although the physical damage to the city has largely been cleared up, the most visible sign being metal bracing around many important buildings including the Koutoubia Mosque, the mental scarring will take far longer to heal.
Life within the red clay walls of ‘The Red City” simply teems at street level at every hour of the day and night. On Rue Boutouil, a short walk from where we are staying in the far north of the medina, metalwork and motorcycle repair shops shower sparks as panels are beaten and edges are ground or soldered, as they compete for sidewalk space with bakers, barbers, costermongers, print shops and a myriad of other merchants twixt wood smoke burning food stalls hawking everything from boiled sheep’s brains and snail soup to merguez and mechoui (slow roasted lamb). A rich stew of sounds and smells punctuated periodically by prayer-summoning muezzin, though even their calls seem to have little effect on practically perpetual motion.
Fortunately there’s an escape valve, as when it all gets too much or we have one near miss too many, we’re never too far from a relaxing rooftop terrace. Most riads, ours included have one of these havens for guests and we make the most of it every morning over long, drawn out breakfasts as the sun gradually warms things up, but to be able to retreat from the fray at will is as pleasurable as it is unexpected, be it for drinks or a meal. It’s hard to pick a favourite, but both unforgettable in their own way were La Terrasse des Épices where we enjoyed bowls of the soup that Marra’kishis break their daily fast with during Ramadan, which is made with spiced tomato and pasta, accompanied with a cumin-dusted boiled egg, dates and a sweet glazed pastry and La Terrasse des Arts where we watched the sun set before dinner and as the temperature dropped, donned the thick hooded robes (djellabas) helpfully provided. Afterwards we spent time chatting with the restaurant’s owner Youssef Ait Bouskri, a well known street photographer, whose extraordinary work is exhibited on site.
Best of all though was a simple dinner around the corner from the 16th century Bab Doukkala Mosque at Zaman, where we enjoyed a Tanjia (clay-pot roasted lamb shank) on a rooftop terrace accessed by a staircase so steep that it might as well have been a ladder. Getting ourselves up and down from there was one thing, but how our young waiter managed heavy trays of food and drink, was something else altogether.
Marrakech Tanjia: Serves four to six
1 kg lamb leg meat, cut into pieces
2 tbsp minced garlic
1 large pinch of saffron threads, soaked in 1/2 cup of hot water
1 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp pepper
1 tsp salt
1 preserved lemon cut into quarters and seeds removed
1/4 cup of extra virgin olive oil
Mix the salt, pepper, cumin and garlic together, then sprinkle over meat and rub thoroughly over all the pieces.
In an oven safe earthenware casserole add the meat, preserved lemon, saffron with water, and olive oil, stirring to combine. Then wrap the top with a double sheet of parchment paper and string (making sure the lid of the casserole fits snugly). Then place in a preheated 140C oven for 3-4 hours.
Serve with crusty bread.
It’s no surprise having spent some time here that Marrakech was Yves Saint Laurent’s muse. “Before Marrakech, everything was black…this city taught me colour and I embraced its light, its insolent mixes and ardent inventions…”. Whether he and his creative and life partner Pierre Bergé would appreciate the grandiose suburb of Majorelle that has has taken its name from and now surrounds their former compound we’ll never know, but beyond the ‘All about Yves’ t shirts and designer goods stores the Jardin Majorelle, Villa Oasis where they lived (now an exceptional museum dedicated to Berber culture) and the Musée Yves St Laurent are a fitting and moving memorial to an extraordinary couple who first fell in love with this city in 1966 and returned in December and May every year thereafter, to plan and design their biannual collections.
Ironically, their first home here, the much more modest ‘Dar el-Hanch’ (The Serpent’s House), is hidden somewhere behind an unmarked metal-studded door in a small alleyway behind Bab Doukkala Mosque, just a few minutes walk from where we are staying. A name that fittingly encapsulates the escape from the back-biting and bitching of Paris couture which Marrakech must have represented.
Sabrina will never buy it, but I can’t help but feel Marrakech luring me away from the real world too.
Oh Morocco! Brings back so many memories. For our honeymoon, we drove 1,000 miles throughout Morocco and it was an unforgettable trip. And I actually just made a chicken tagine this week to bring back the delicious flavors of that place ;)
The quality of the light is extraordinary!
You can get by in English but French is definitely an asset if you want to go beyond bartering in the souk or being ‘helped’ by a ‘guidé!