Exotic Morocco boasts mint tea, mosaics and a trip to the Sahara with Jimi Hendrix
Like any parent with children living away, when the opportunity to spend time with them arises your defences are weak and a suggestion to go somewhere out of the ordinary sounds great.
Now mind you, my daughter is not living in what you would call an ordinary place, but for her, a change from her studies at Cambridge would be a welcome treat, and Morocco was waiting.
We planned for months. We both bought guide books to give us a little insight to the customs and perhaps a word or two of vocabulary with which to dazzle the locals. I had been to Morocco many, many years before and had the luck to stay with a Moroccan family I knew, so I didn’t have to mingle with the locals without a translator or guide. This trip with my daughter Tessa would prove to be very different.
We had arranged accommodation online from Tessa’s college room for the first couple of nights in Marrakech. The type of accommodation is called a “riad.” Tessa guaranteed me it would be a step or two above a hostel (that word made me shiver, recalling hostels on my trip across Spain on the Camino).
I made it clear that bunking in a room with a snorer or sharing bathroom facilities would be deal-breakers.
We wanted to get the real feel of the country by staying close to the centre of town, where many of the riads are located. We also wanted to keep costs under control. I’m happy to report that we were pleasantly surprised.
Arrival at Marrakech’s Menara airport was exciting. The owners of our riad suggested they arrange a cab from the airport to avoid the onset of “premature haggling anxiety.” Oh yes, this is a land where few price tags are displayed, and you can haggle for anything. In fact, it’s expected.
The drive to the main square, D’Jamaa el Fna, was interesting. Speeding cars, mopeds, bicycles, donkeys and humans, some carrying gigantic bundles on their heads, share the roads and byways. Honking horns, wild hand gestures and an unpronounceable tirade from the driver made the 20-minute drive an adventure of its own.
We were met by the owner of the riad at the edge of the square. We walked five minutes to our lodgings, but travelled back 2,000 years in time — the sounds, the smells, people in ancient garb selling, shouting and jostling each other to make a sale. Tiny winding alleyways, high walls and cobblestones beneath our feet made everything feel ancient until a motorcycle going at breakneck speed zoomed past us and jolted us back to reality.
Once inside, far away from the din of the market and the crushing narrowness of the pathway outside, we were in a little paradise. The centre of the building opened onto a beautifully tiled courtyard that, in turn, opened up to the clear blue sky three storeys above our heads. Our bags were taken to our room and we were offered a pot of mint tea on the rooftop terrace garden — our first of many during our week-long stay. We gratefully accepted.
After a rest and a change of clothes, we made our first foray into life as tourists in Morocco. We dined like natives at an open-air restaurant and the food was delicious.
Over the next two days we visited a number of sites in the city. We were amazed again and again by the opulence behind closed gates. There were stunning displays of colour and patterns in tiny mosaic tile, and wooden ceilings painted with intricate designs. The number of magnificent fountains and pools we counted was in contrast to the hot, dry climate.
But for me, the minarets — the tall, slender towers attached to the mosques — were one of the most eyecatching features of the city and later, in the south of the country. We must have seen thousands. Every community, no matter how small, had one of these architecturally uncomplicated, often delicate-looking structures.
No two towers were the same. The clean lines were usually paired with a magical Arabic feature — an arch, a mosaic, a patch of brilliant blue or aqua, or different peak designs.
The minarets are prominent features in Marrakech, visible from any high point. The narrow bell towers are equipped with loudspeakers where the voice of the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer. The first call comes at 4 a.m. and there are five throughout the day.
I remembered my visit many years before to a small town in northern Morocco when the muezzin climbed the tower and made the call with a megaphone.
To add even more spice to our adventure, we had signed up for a three-day trip to the Sahara. Tessa’s burning desire to take a picture of me on a camel was beyond my understanding, but I was game. Sahara Desert, here we come.
At seven o’clock one morning we were picked up at the door of the riad and escorted to a small touring van on the main square, D’Jamaa el Fna. In our little group of 16 there were 10 different nationalities represented.
Our driver, Rashid, spoke French with a smattering of “tour guide” English. We scored the prime seats up front. The incredible journey across Morocco lasted most of the day. We headed across the High Atlas mountain range and deep into Berber province. Our driver was Berber so everything Berber was highlighted.
The Atlas Mountains are spectacular, traversed via steep winding roads past picturesque villages where mud and straw constitute the primary building materials. As it rarely rains, the erosion of structures is minimal.
A quaint image it may be, but almost every structure boasted a satellite dish. Cell coverage in Morocco is some of the best on the African continent. We saw old men and women bent double, burdened with massive loads of firewood, straw or water jugs on their backs and imagined that some of them might have had cellphones in their pockets.
Southeast of the Atlas range we crossed flat plains with desert-like vegetation. Everyone in the van is pumped; the Sahara, perhaps? Alas, not yet.
The tour proved to be more interesting than we had hoped. We were shown some of the geological diversity of the country, including dry riverbeds hundreds of metres wide waiting for the melt waters in March and April. Our first night’s lodgings were in a hotel in the impressive Gorges du Dades.
Moroccan cuisine has long been a favourite of mine and we were not disappointed with the couscous, brochette and tagines we enjoyed daily. The term tagine describes the actual prepared dish of either chicken, lamb or beef with local vegetables as well as the conical, two-piece dish it is cooked and served in.
Local fruits of the vine that are widely available in fresh or dried form include orange, lime, banana, fig, pomegranate, date and olive.
The other fruit of the vine not readily available, at least not in liquid form, is wine or alcohol of any kind, as Morocco is a Muslim country where drinking is not the norm. Restaurants will serve it upon request but you will not see it offered on the regular menu.
On Day 2 we finally saw heat waves in the distance hovering above the deep rusty red sand of the Sahara desert. It was a gradual transition from whitish sandy plains covered with heat-hearty plants to the red silky dunes of the Sahara.
Near sundown, we arrived at the inn where we were to meet the “ships of the desert” that would transport us to our oasis for the night. The temperature at our destination that day had been 50 C!
It was a cool 38 C when we boarded our camels. In the past, I have been known to hold my own aboard a horse, but the feeling of sitting atop a camel was much more comfortable than I had imagined. The slow, rocking motion made you feel in control, although the name of my dromedary — Jimi Hendrix — made me a little nervous at first.
Our guides scanned the group and quickly matched us all to our trusty mounts. Joined by a lead rope and a guide per group of four, we started out. You couldn’t help but conjure up images of Lawrence of Arabia.
The camels’ feet — the size of mini satellite dishes — sank a foot or so into the deep red sand, and you went with the movement. The warm wind blew like a hairdryer in your face. As we stopped to view the setting sun, you could not help but feel at peace with the world.
The early morning camel ride to our van was also magical. On the drive back to Marrakech, the driver had a couple of surprises for us, including a stop in an ancient kasbah to try to get us all to part with a few dirhams on original Berber carpets. The rugs were beautiful and apparently all handmade by the owner’s sisters and mother. Based on the amount of time he told us it took to make each carpet and the number of carpets on hand, we figured he had a very large family or else they were all very, very old.
Tessa and I took in the last evening meal on a balcony overlooking D’Jamaa el Fna, the heartbeat of Marrakech. Orange juice vendors, snake charmers, henna artists, and restaurant flag boys played out their roles to the next batch of haggle-weary travellers.
On the flight home, since Ryanair has a strict one-bag policy, we carried memories back with us, but not much more.
