Last week you may remember we travelled from Tangier to Fes. A seven hour train took us on to Marrakech.
Having visited regularly at the turn of the millennium, I was cautious about returning to this now rather hyped city post-Easyjet. Yet, despite the initial shock at seeing the slickness of the revamped main square Djemma El Fna, where traders, performers, tourists and locals gather in their thousands, it’s undeniably more confident and less hassly, its Koutoubia minaret gleaming.
It’s a much easier city to navigate than Fes, too, with more options: so you can spend a day haggling over carpets or trinkets in the souk, or watching assorted storytellers in the Djemma (it’s a shame that monkeys and snakes are still mistreated, however).
There are many gorgeous riads in Marrakech, but this time we stayed at the Riad Les Yeux Bleus, a stylish oasis with birds flitting amongst the bougainvillea, lemon trees, and bamboo plants of its pool-filled courtyard. It was also walking distance to most of the ‘sights’, although the city is really about wandering. Taking your time is everything. There’s no rush, you’ll be told if you are walking quickly, or impatient in a queue.
So we strolled over to the 16th century El Badi Palace, where dozens of storks – transformed humans according to Berber Legend – preside over the city, beaks tapping eerily. And then, in hot afternoon sun, to Jardin Majorelle (below), an atmospheric tropical garden with cobalt blue house and pots, designed in 1947 by Jacques Majorelle and now owned by Yves St Laurent and partner.
Unlike many places in Morocco, the staple brochette or tajines diet is much broader here. We were surprised at how international the restaurants now are, eating particularly well at The Maison Arabe (on Derb Assehbe), and Ibizan-style Kosybar (Place Des Ferblantiers), where you can even order sushi. These are both licensed and in the medina, but for even more European-style debauchery you can head to Gueliz, the French-built ville nouvelle which now boasts Pacha nightclub.
Whilst the medina is a ‘wetter’ city than it was, be warned that many cafes overlooking the square still don’t serve alcohol. But they all do a mean freshly squeezed orange juice, and of course refreshing mint tea (order ‘sans sucre’ unless you want it cloyingly sweet on the tongue).
The day before leaving Morocco, we drove up to the High Atlas Mountains for a night at celebrated oasis La Rosarie, which I’d previously passed many times en route to the Sahara. It was founded in 1970 by Abdel Fenjiro, an ex-employee of Marrakech’s famous hotel La Mamounia, who developed an inhospitable corner of the Atlas mountains into a lush tropical paradise, with just forty Moroccan-style huts strewn across what is now fertile land.
That afternoon, as the sun was setting over the highest peak in North Africa, Mount Toubkal (4160 m), we met Rashid, our 25 year old Berber guide, for a hike. We passed through La Rosarie’s fragrant herb garden and fruit trees – tasting almonds (green and crunchy like an apple) en route – and climbed the hill. Olives gave way to junipers, prickly pears lining the path.
A low hum recalled what we thought was the sound of crickets. ‘No, they’re baby partridges,’ said Rashid, who had lived there all his life, and chattered to everyone he encountered, greeting each with a great smile.
As the sun finally dipped behind the mountain, we progressed along the salt-stained red river bed, the landscape lunar, huge boulders everywhere. I asked Rashid if he would ever live anywhere else. He shook his head. ‘The Berbers were the first people in Morocco,’ he said.
It was cold now, but we walked slowly back to our room before dinner. There was time to sit on the patio and watch the outline of the mountains, distant music just audible over the silence.
‘There was time…’ We say it without thinking. I remembered Najib, idling through the streets of Fes, embracing everyone with warmth and humour: ‘He who is in a hurry,’ he had reprimanded us, when I had once mentioned a lack of time, ‘is already dead.’
Words & Pictures: Stephen Emms
