Adventure calls in Morocco

Whether you head to Marrakech, Casablanca, Essaouira or Fes, there’s excitement waiting for you in magical Morocco WORDS: REBECCA KENT

“Balak! Balak!” Fes’s urban hubbub is punctuated by a string of short guttural cries that follow me as I roam the winding alleys of the walled medina. But my senses are already in overload, taking in food aromas, bleating hawkers, squealing children, distant traffic, pyramids of colourful spices, fresh hunks of slaughtered cow, and shelves stuffed with patterned leather shoes. The croaking is now closer behind me, and I spin around to face the watery snout of a mule. ‘’Balak!’’ it turns out, means “watch out!”. I didn’t, and as a result have momentarily exchanged hot breath with an ass. Unperturbed, the beast pushes on into the labyrinthine old quarter with seven gas cylinders fastened to his rump, taking no pedestrians for prisoners. 

Mules are the only mode of transport that fit into the bewildering network of narrow, winding alleys in Fes el-Bali, the city’s old town, and they are subject to stunning improvisation.

“These are Fes’s Michelin taxis,” our tour leader, Mohammed, says. He stops a passing mule-handler, who upturns the front hoof of his animal to reveal a shoe crafted from recycled tyre. “Nothing is wasted in the medina.”

It’s been 400 years since the Arabs exploded across North Africa and built Fes, now the oldest of the ancient Moroccan imperial cities and the country’s religious and cultural centre. Exploring its streets, it’s evident life continues to move to the centuries-old traditions on which it was founded.

In a poky little room off one of the alleys, a baker cooks golden discs of bread for families who don’t have an oven of their own. I venture deeper into the maze, my ears ringing as metal workers in Seffarine Square bash at pots and pans, unruffled by the people criss-crossing around them. Carts of tangerines and strawberries are whizzed about as boys sell bread from trays balanced on their heads. Cats prowl mounds of rubbish while old men sit on the ground, hawking the bunches of mint and parsley splayed out in front of them.

‘’If you want to get someone lost, send them to Fes,’’ Mohammed suggests as we navigate the throng. My group makes it to Chouwara tanneries in the heart of the complex, which reveals a fascinating glimpse into an ancient practice. We look down into giant vats of dye, laid out like a jigsaw puzzle, and full of men standing knee-deep, dunking animal skin. The stench here is as iconic as the sight. It’s pigeon poo, the ammonia from which is used to strip the skins.

Beyond the complex, the skyline is dominated by a sea of satellite dishes.

‘’We say they are Morocco’s ‘white flowers’,’’ says a man next to me, who has been trying to flog a leather jacket for the past 15 minutes. If it wasn’t for the satellite dishes you could be forgiven for wondering which century you’ve accidentally stepped into. I am three days into a group tour of Morocco’s main cities – Casablanca, Meknes, Fes and Marrakech – which we shuttle between by train. But so far, Fes has captured my heart. There’s something romantic about a place that time seems to have overlooked.

Meanwhile, Casablanca, Morocco’s cash cow, is a city of contradictions, where wide French-style boulevards exist alongside rubble-pit streets, and it has an old centre that I can see now was a soft introduction to the chaotic atmosphere of the souks in a walled medina. Sheeps liver and sausages sizzle at barbecue stands, and if you are in for a sunny holiday, this is where to get your sunglasses. ‘’One hundred per cent original fakes,’’ is one cheeky vendor’s pitch.

Casablanca’s crowning glory is the Hassan II mosque – an immense structure built on a rocky outcrop that can accommodate 80,000 worshippers inside and another 25,000 in its courtyards. It has heated floors, mounds of shiny marble and a retractable roof. The third largest mosque in the world, it is a structure of Wembley-like proportions.

A late train means the ancient imperial city of Meknes is just a whistlestop for the group, but we manage to dash into the Unesco-listed old town and kasbah just before it grows dark, and there’s still enough daylight to appreciate its cultural bounty – 45km of high walls, and intricate Spanish-Moorish architecture. We snack on olives and dates in the covered market, and stare for probably too long at dubious-looking cuts and organs in the meat section. Yep, nothing goes to waste.

But Fes has the spirit of both cities and then some. Any Fassi will tell you Fes created the world’s first university – the theological college, Khartoum – centuries before Oxford and Cambridge were a twinkle in anyone’s eye. As a result, the city has grown to become Morocco’s cultural and religious centre. There’s definitely an air of cool authority.

Its people are friendly, too. On my last evening here, a squat man in his fifties pulls up in a delivery van as I try in vain to hail a little red cab. “You go to Old Town?’’ he queries, dashing around to open the door before either myself or my four companions can even answer. He looks far too enthusiastic to be untrustworthy, so we pile in. Immediately the back seat gives way, and we are reclining awkwardly among a haul of computer monitors and TV screens in the boot. We collapse into a fit of giggles and cannot stop. The rear-vision mirror is skew-whiff and the man drives with worrying abandon.

We enquire about what he does for a job and, in French, he utters something about being a part-time delivery driver. Then he pauses, and in English, blurts, “I’m a Berber taxi!”. We take this to mean an illegal cab, but by this stage we’re heaving far too much with laughter about our bit-parts in this comedy sketch to care.

The driver enjoys this, too, and with his foot still firmly on the throttle, turns to look at us. “C’est magnifique,” he beams joyously. We wish he was paying as much attention to the traffic. Nevertheless, we arrive at our destination, having had one of the most enjoyable interactions with a Fassi yet.

The following day, we veer off the tourist trail, 40km south of Fes, to the village of Bhalil. Here, the hands of time have also got stuck. Villagers are turning out for the weekly market, from which I spot two boys wielding a bucket stuffed with a cow’s head. Still nothing is wasted.

We’ve come here to meet Lalla Aicha, an 86-year-old widow who lives in a cave. It’s a rare dwelling, only a few of which have been carved out, among regular houses, here at the foothills of the Atlas mountains. Its elderly owner bounds from a doorway with outstretched arms and multiple kisses for all 10 of us, then invites us into her dome-shaped pad for mint tea, or, as locals like to call it, ‘’Moroccan whiskey’’. They‘re the only words Lalla Aicha knows how to say in English. Mohammed tells us it’s common for a Moroccan to drink 25 cups a day – usually with a fearsome amount of sugar. ‘’It’s good for healing, it’s good for warming, it’s good for refreshing and, some say a good …’’ he pauses for dramatic effect ‘’… aphrodisiac’’. I choose to believe Lalla Aicha drinks it because it’s refreshing.

We take a seat in her cave and she dances over to us with a bucket of water on her head. This granny is phenomenally strong – a result of her 25 cups a day, perhaps?

My last few days are spent in Marrakech, and not even cosmopolitan Casablanca could have prepared me for its grandiose sprawl. The souk-filled medinas inside its dusty pink walls, along with sweeping palm-tree-lined boulevards and glass-fronted shops, really smack you in the face.

I enter Djemaa el-fna, the main square, and it’s like a carpet has been swept from under my feet. Chaos reigns.

Steeling myself, I take on a gauntlet of snake charmers, donkey carts, horse carriages, castanet-clanging water sellers and turbaned potion-makers. I get the jitters when I see that a monkey with an arse shaped like a balloon – in a dress and a dog collar – clocks me, so I dart to the right. Here, I encounter a row of orange-juice vendors, practically throwing it at me to try – or buy. As I march on, a woman wearing a hijab and pyjama pants grasps my arm.

“Hello madam, you want beautiful henna for your hand?” I refuse politely, and continue to charge into the guts of the square, like a pinball shunting from one encounter to the next, trying to soak up the atmosphere, but avoiding the hawkers. Despite the cacophony, the melodic muezzin rises above it all in a call to prayer.

After two days in Marrakech, I yearn for a reprieve and find it in the whitewashed fortified coastal town of Essaouira. The Unesco-listed town and fishing port has stunning ocean views and a warren of tiny shops and stands to explore. I resist a camel ride along its curved shore and instead make a beeline for the seafood market, haggling on a price for a plate of scampi, whiting and king prawns for a fiver. Simply slapped on the grill, it proves delicious.

I catch myself in a sun-slackened stupor, and wonder if it’s the sea breeze that has taken the edge off hawkers in Essaouira. But then, I’m offered weed six times in succession.Nothing may get wasted further north, but it seems down this way, doing just that is encouraged. I’d give my kingdom to escape on one of those rubber-soled donkeys from Fes now, but instead make do with my own feet, wondering which adventure I’ll bounce into next.