Morocco

Having cruised over a very mountainous Spain, the Med drifts by below us, and African landfall is but minutes away. Our magnificently upper class English pilot informs us that it’s 19 degrees in Marrakech, which is rather better than I’d expected, since everything I’ve read seems to indicate that Morocco in winter is some kind of sub-Arctic nightmare. We cross the coast and pass over hills, sand, and farmland - but mostly sand. It all draws the eye away to the High Atlas Mountains in the distance, and everything is bathed in the deep, golden light of dusk.  This is one of the best parts of any trip; the first glimpse of a new country, and all the expectation of what’s to come after touchdown.  In this case unfortunately, what’s to come is an unfeasibly long wait to clear passport control, all attributable to the fact that we succeed in joining a queue leading to an officer who processes one person for every four dealt with by the woman in the next booth. So much for the golden light of dusk – it’s dark by the time we get out of the airport, and here the taxi-bargaining begins.  I have it on good authority that a cab into the Medina (the old part of the city) should be no more than 60 Dirhams. The first three guys we talk to are having no less than 80, but as one of them passionately asserts that this is to cover the parking price at the airport, another driver glides up and steals us away by agreeing to 60 immediately.  This seems to rather peeve his rival, and a heated discourse takes place before we are installed, and on the way to the Djemaa el-Fna, Marrakech’s main square, and by all accounts the focal point of life in the Medina.

Once inside the old city walls, we secure a room and head out for a wander.  Djemaa el-Fna is only about five minutes from the hotel, and I can’t wait to lay eyes on it.  In fact, I hear it long before I see it. There emanates from Djemaa, a truly evocative hubbub of drums, music, chatter, and the sound of a few thousand people doing whatever they are doing. Once the visuals kick in, it’s a sensory feast of magnificent proportions.  As we make our way into the crowd, a grinning man sidles up and begins to assault us with a Barbary Macaque. An attempt to escape, sees us narrowly avoid treading on a fortuneteller, and then a couple of cobras, coiled languidly in front of a group of guys with wind instruments. They don’t seem to mind.  Aside from the snake charmers, there are also storytellers, musicians, street kids, orange juice salesmen, beggars, and a wide variety of people selling an even wider variety of stuff.  All this surrounds hundreds of brightly-lit food stalls, from which rises a pall of aromatic smoke, and continuous, impassioned pleas for custom. Some use in-your-face hassle (followed in one case, after our polite refusal, by verbal abuse), while the more astute employ wit and humour. The guy at whose stall we eventually elect to eat, has chosen the bizarre tactic of memorizing the name of practically every British TV chef since the advent of television.  The food, a vegetable tagine, is filling, but his culinary skill is not as impressive as his memory. Still, we’re eating in the Djemaa el-Fna, in Marrakech, as the final call to prayer echoes out from the Koutubia Mosque, across this ancient and fabulous city.      

I get an unprecedented eleven hour’s sleep.  This I think is mainly due to the general absence of alcohol in Islamic society.  Once evening descends, and dinner has been taken, the options are really go for a drink, or go to bed.  Having slumbered long and deeply, what I really need is an invigorating shower.  The hotel prefers to provide a lukewarm dribble, but I have to concentrate so carefully on positioning myself under the one effective hole in the nozzle, that I am quite awake by the time I’ve finished.  We have breakfast on what proves to be the first in a long succession of roof terraces; this particular one commanding wonderful views across the city, past the minaret of the Koutubia Mosque, and out to the High Atlas, which break the sky in a jagged line far off in the distance.  It’s a warm, pleasant morning, ideal for wandering and getting lost on purpose. This is precisely what we elect to do.

Marrakech is amazing.  Never before have I been anywhere so thoroughly atmospheric.  Often the only thing to betray our presence in the 21^st century is a passing moped.  Throughout the Medina, labyrinthine streets lead off in an impossibly complex arrangement, and along them wander people dressed in clothing that probably hasn’t changed noticeably in the last thousand years. Ancient trades are still plied from tiny shop fronts, and everything is photogenic to the point of distraction.  I have the inescapable feeling that I have somehow fallen into a story from the Thousand and One Nights.  We spend a few hours simply strolling through it all, often taking the narrowest, darkest, and most obscure alleyways, purely for the joy of discovering what may be through the next arch, or around the next corner.  In one mildly bustling street, close to the present day Royal Palace, a man on a bicycle rides up and greets us.  His English is excellent, and he introduces himself as Abdul, a Berber.  After the briefest of conversations, he invites us back to his house for tea.  It’s an invitation we cannot refuse.  A few minutes later we are being ushered into a sunny courtyard and then up to the first floor, where we are introduced to Abdul’s mother, a small, pensive, and yet mildly intimidating woman who looks to be in her late sixties.  The living room is simple, with floor cushions around a low table, and Koranic verse hanging on the walls.  I’m just taking in the atmosphere, when catapulting itself incongruously into the mix comes Honkey Tonk Women by the Rolling Stones.  Apparently Abdul likes western music.  As his mother prepares the tea, he talks voluminously about all manner of things.  We learn that he is a nocturnal gardener. That may sound like a euphemism, but it is in fact the literal truth. His job is irrigation, which can only be done at night, when the sun isn’t there to evaporate everything immediately.  He was on his way home when we bumped into him.  After a few minutes his mother appears with a large glass teapot, full of a greenish concoction of tea and various herbs.  It’s very aromatic, and Abdul makes great ritual of allowing us to smell it before he starts to pour, which is done in the Berber style.  The first cup is poured back into the teapot to help the cooling process.  Tea is then poured from as high above the cup as possible without spilling anything.  The brew itself is delicious; tangy yet sweet.  Apparently the herbs are rather bitter, so unhealthy amounts of sugar have to be added to make it drinkable.  Nonetheless, Abdul is very keen to draw attention to the numerous, indeed some might say miraculous, health benefits of Berber tea.  “If you have stomach problems, you take this tea and you will be fine…If you have a headache, this will get rid of it…Berber tea is excellent for curing Sciatica…People with skin problems can drink this and they will be cured.”  Lastly, and perhaps most intriguingly, he informs us that the tea contains what he refers to as Berber Viagra. He looks at my wife, and in conspiratorial tones assures her that, “You must know that tonight,” he gestures towards me, “he will not let you sleep. Very powerful.”  I don’t think either of us are entirely convinced by these panacean claims, but we like the tea, so when Abdul offers to pop out and buy some for us, we don’t object.  He returns a few minutes later with a veritable allotment of fresh herbs. Hopefully once they’re dried out we may actually have some chance of fitting them into our luggage.

After Abdul’s, it’s time for a bit of sightseeing.  Close by is the Palais el-Badi, the now ruined former residence of Ahmed el-Mansour, the sixth of the great Saadian Kings of Morocco, whose dynasty lasted from 1509-1659.  The name of the palace means the Incomparable, which is apparently what it was when completed in 1602.  These days a better name might be the Unfindable. Despite essentially being right next to it, getting in is no small task.  We are only able to locate the entrance by following a couple who have been latched onto by a ‘guide’. The way leads down winding alleys, through and under a carpet shop, and across a couple of courtyards, before finally we see the imposing doors of the palace itself. What used to be Incomparable, is now gently crumbling in the sunshine.  It’s still an impressive sight however. The High walls are crowned with storks’ nests, and surround a huge courtyard containing four sunken orange groves, with a 90 x 20 metre pool at their centre. Beneath all this is a system of tunnels and chambers, which we are busily exploring when a tiny, and this might sound uncharitable, but prune-like old man shuffles over to inform us that it’s closing time.  Having been expelled from the royal palace, we seek solace in lunch and a bottle of wine, taken on a nearby roof terrace.  It’s a fantastic spot for people watching, and as always seems to happen whenever I am in a moment of contemplation in the Islamic world, the Muezzin, or call to prayer, begins to echo across the city, such that I am once more taken by the atmosphere of this exotic place. 

In this happy mood, we consider our next move.  If the map in the guidebook is to be believed (and it probably shouldn’t be) we are a stone’s throw from the Mellah, Marrakech’s Jewish quarter, which apparently has a striking cemetery. We decide to check it out.  No sooner have we left the roof terrace, than we find ourselves on a long, walled street.  This is where guidebook maps and reality diverge.  There are no turnings, and once we’ve gone a certain distance, the only sensible thing to do is keep going.  Unfortunately, this road to nowhere proves to be exactly that. We are obviously miles away from the Mellah when an off-road finally materializes.  Indeed, I would happily venture that we are miles away from pretty much anything.  The mission now, having given upon the cemetery, is simply to find our way back to the main square.  Working on intuition, and the occasional advice of helpful passers-by, we progress slowly in what we hope is the right direction. A guy from whom we buy some oranges helps out to, and after a long walk, we find ourselves in the souks.  This is good, because the souks are near the Djemaa el-Fna, but it’s bad, because the souks themselves are mostly akin to an inescapable labyrinth, every part of which looks largely identical.  Still, they are alive with atmosphere, so being lost in them is hardly anything to complain about.  As we are ambling around, an old guy with bloodshot eyes, a pronounced stagger, and a disturbing tendency to accompany all his words with liberal amounts of saliva approaches us and begins to explain (moistly) the virtues of a small rock he is in possession of.  Apparently it’s a natural deodorant.  What’s more, he only wants ten Dirhams for it.  I’m not really in the market for a small stone, even if it does have miraculous freshening qualities, so remaining as I always do, polite and friendly, I decline his offer. Quite without warning, and in a rather ungentlemanly manner, he suddenly launches into a tirade of abuse, focusing mainly on the expressions, “Get lost,” and “Fuck off.”  Somewhat affronted, I inform him that he should probably do the same, and as we walk away, I can hear all the nearby shop owners shouting at him too.  They have obviously realized that he’s being a bit off, and seem to rally to our defence. It’s actually quite touching.

In the early evening, we find ourselves once more in the Djemaa el-Fna.  The snake charmers are out in force, and Barbary Macaque man is still busily occupied thrusting his primate at unsuspecting tourists.  We get a drink in one of the roof terrace cafes, and are rewarded with spectacular panoramic views of the square.  At dusk, it is at its most vibrant and frenetic; kind of like Red Square on acid.  There is a large screen on the left hand side, which seems to be showing a movie, although from somewhere not too far away from it, very loud techno is being played, so how anyone can hear any of the dialogue is beyond me.  Continuing to the right, next come the storytellers, all of whom (well, possibly only the entertaining ones) are surrounded by large and attentive crowds.  Near them, are the fortune tellers, the snake charmers and a variety of musicians and other performers, adding their more traditional sounds to those of the techno fifty yards to the left of them.  In the centre are the food stalls, all bright and steaming, and on the right of the square are lines of orange juice stalls, at which the freshly-squeezed product is made and delivered before your eyes in about fifteen seconds flat. Around the very edges, where the square gives way to the souks, are a collection of stalls, purveying everything from spices to hats to incense to silverware to water pipes.  All across the square, through the very much predominantly local crowd, work the street children, the beggars, the hustlers, and the pickpockets.  Add a liberal sprinkling of tourists, and the Djemaa cocktail is complete.   Speaking of cocktails, I could really go for one, but unfortunately I have to settle for a can of non-alcoholic beer, that tastes like fermented Ovaltine.  I think I’ll stick to orange juice.

This morning sees us attempting some optimistic navigation.  Our goal is the Ali ben Youssef Mosque, the Medersa (Koranic school) and the Marrakesh Museum.  Between us and them lies about a mile of Souk.  We have, somehow, to find our way through it.  On paper it looks relatively simple – a few turns, but mostly straight.  Still, I begin the venture with low hopes of success, especially in the light of my general, international propensity for getting lost.  Almost unbelievably, bar one slight bit of backtracking, we manage to get there with almost total ease.  So much so, that the museum hasn’t even opened fully by the time we arrive.  A cleaner is still busily mopping the floors as we begin to stroll round, and we are the only people here. The Marrakech museum is, it has to be said, unremarkable as museums go. Some photos hang on the walls, and there are a few exhibits of clothing and textiles.  It is however, a beautiful building, and a fine example of Islamic design and architecture. The same is also true of the Medersa, which lies next door.  This Koranic school, or theological college, depending on who you ask, was founded in the 14^th century.  The Saadians later restored it, so making it the largest in the Maghreb.  A beautiful courtyard, with fine stucco decoration topped with carved cedar, is the centrepiece, and around this are the 132 student study rooms.  These are very reminiscent of cells.  The majority are small and stark, and many have only tiny windows, high on the walls.   We are forced to explore these with some haste, in order to escape a coach party who arrive noisily during our visit.

Once outside, we head off into the souk, in the general direction of a traffic-accessible road, in order to get a taxi out to the Ville Nouvelle, or New Town, which lies outside the protective walls of the Medina.  There isn’t a great deal to draw us out there, but it does have one major attraction – the Jardin Majorelle, an ornamental, sub-tropical garden, nestled among the apartment buildings of new Marrakech.  We’re aiming to pay twenty Dirhams for the cab, but the first driver refuses outright, going no lower than thirty five.  The second one we try does exactly the same, and eventually pulls the passenger door shut, which succeeds in trapping my fingers in the door frame.  This proves, oddly, to be a rather fortunate occurrence.  Not only is the entire experience completely pain free (on account of the door not being particularly flush), but it also racks the driver with such profound feelings of guilt, that he immediately capitulates, resulting in an apology-ridden taxi ride, for twenty Dirhams.

The Ville Nouvelle is much more like the bustling 20^th century city, and reminds me immediately of Cairo.  Here, the donkey is replaced by the smoke belching car, and the chatter of birds gives way to endless horn honking.  It all seems terribly sterile and anonymous, compared to the atmosphere of the Medina. I’m relieved when we find ourselves being driven down a quiet, tree-lined, residential avenue, and we are soon deposited outside the very modest entrance to the Majorelle Garden.  Once inside, I am immediately taken by the peace, beauty, and tranquillity of the place.  Lush vegetation lines the small pathways; cacti, palms, roses, ferns, banana trees, and a host of others.  Within and among these are pools, fountains, gazebos, bridges, and ceramics, all painted in vivid yellow and dark blue, a combination that compliments the greens of the vegetation perfectly, and simultaneously evokes North Africa, the Mediterranean, and the Middle East. The garden was designed by French painter Jacques Majorelle, who lived here for some forty years. It’s the kind of place one could happily spend an entire day, simply reclined in the sunshine, with the sound of birds, and the breeze gently whispering through the leaves.

Having killed the rest of yesterday in leisure, on an assortment of roof terraces, and with an assortment of wines, this morning we are organizing. Originally we had planned to go to Essaouira, on the Atlantic coast, but this being winter, and Essaouira apparently being very windy indeed, a beach town seems a little pointless. We have therefore decided to head west, across the High Atlas, and down into the desert.  All we need is someone to take us there, oh – and preferably bring us back again. 

To this end we make a few visits to tour agencies after breakfast.  The first is located in a dingy office not far from the hotel. It seems to be deserted, but eventually a pensive-looking man emerges and greets us, umm, pensively. When we explain our needs he ands us a small flyer, with details of the trips they run, and then doesn’t say anything.  I’m waiting for something further, but that seems to be it.  Even when another guy arrives, we are given no more assistance. Uninspired by this near total lack of customer service, we depart. I’m not going into the desert with a company who can’t even get it together to talk to its customers! The next place we try is much more agreeable. In the office we meet a very friendly and good-humoured man called Shakir. He explains all the options, routes, prices, and details, and then chats engagingly to us for about fifteen minutes. Basically our choice is a two night, three day trip, or a slightly cheaper, but slightly less cool, one night, two day trip. Everything depends on whether any other travellers sign up; more people equals less money each. We decide to go back this evening and commit to whatever is most economically viable.

This afternoon finds us once more in the souks. We are busily getting lost, when a small boy with his arm in a sling latches onto us and starts trying to direct us to the Tanneries. We hadn’t really planned to go there, and indeed we still don’t, but the fact that we are, coincidentally, walking in their general direction, is taken by young Kamal as proof positive that he has now found his prey for the day.  Try as we might, he is unshakeable, and we resign ourselves to the inevitable. Kamal leads us into a quiet, residential area of the medina.  Here for some reason, the kinds of looks we get from people are subtly different from elsewhere. There seems to be a tinge of suspicion, on top of the usual curiosity.  I have no idea why.  As the streets get quieter, I’m just beginning to think that this would be the perfect place to kidnap tourists, when my nostrils are greeted with the most unpleasant odour. We have arrived at the tanneries.

As soon as we enter, a middle-aged man with wrinkles an octogenarian would be proud of, hands us each a sprig of mint with the words, “Moroccan gasmask.”  He then begins to show us around. The tannery apparently treats all manner of skins, ranging in size from sheep and goat, all the way up to camel. Each one is treated in a number of different pools, most of which smell very bad indeed. There’s lime, bleach, and cobalt among others, but perhaps the most unappealing aroma emanates from what our guide bluntly refers to as the, “Pigeon shit” pool, a kind of dark green, fetid morass, and the sort of thing that if you fell into it would cause waking nightmares for the rest of your life. All throughout the tour, the guide lays on a thick paste of emotional blackmail, peppering his explanation with phrases such as, “Very hard work,” and ,”Seventy families…very, very hard work…little money.” The end of the tannery experience is, unsurprisingly, a shop containing the finished items.  Here we feast our eyes on such wonders as camel neck-skin slippers, and goat skin handbags. Since I’m not really into decorating my home with parts of dead camels, or indeed any other animal, we have to decline.  Outside the guide hits us for a tip, and I give him what little change I have.  I feel bad, but my only other cash right now is a one hundred Dirham note. When I hand the change over he says, “What’s this?  This is nothing!  Seventy families!” I respond politely that I literally have nothing else, but when he asks to look in my wallet, I decide that he has gone a little bit too far, and begin to look upon him less charitably. Eventually I give him a pen, which he asks for on account of his children being at school.  We begin to leave, and suddenly Kamal reappears, asking for his cut. There’s nothing I can do for him unfortunately, since the tannery guy has cleaned me out.

After a drink overlooking the square, we are back in the tour agency. No-one has signed up for the two night, three day option, but there are two other people for the one night, two day trip, and thus our course is decided. We will head out across the High Atlas mountains to Ait Benhaddou, and then on to Ouarzazate, before crossing the Draa Valley into Zagora, from where it is by camel into the Sahara. We retire early, for tomorrow, the mountains and desert await!

A new day begins with one of the most startlingly beautiful sunrises I have ever seen. Huge swathes of the sky are illuminated as the wispy clouds transform from grey, to purple, to pink, to red, to gold, and the High Atlas, across which we are soon to travel, burn a rich, earthy red as the sun emerges from beyond them. There’s something very special about sunrises. I think it’s the fact that the average person doesn’t actually see them very often. Watching one is having a privileged view to something that most people are simply sleeping through. It somehow makes them all the more remarkable. Actually, I think they are rather neglected, coming a poor second to sunsets.  After all how often do you hear of anyone sailing off into the sunrise?

We are due to depart Marrakech at 7.30am.  Unfortunately this leaves us no window for breakfast, which doesn’t start until 8 o’clock. With this in mind, we asked the hotel last night if they could possibly prepare us something packed.  Firm and definite assurances abounded.  This morning, all that abounds is confusion. “We have to leave now.” “Yes” “But you said you would give us breakfast.” “Yes, on the roof terrace, 8 o’clock.” “No, we have to leave now.”  “Yes.”  This is obviously going nowhere, so we head up to the terrace to see if we can persuade the breakfast ladies to give us a few croissants to go. We each end up with a bread roll and a pain au chocolat in a cellophane bag, and are offered the chance to down a glass of semi-frozen orange juice on the spot, thereby causing that brain-ache feeling one gets from consuming something too cold.

We rendezvous with our vehicle at the end of the street, and I am a little dismayed to see that it’s a white Land Rover. Not that I have anything against Land Rovers, or indeed whiteness. No, the problem occurs only when the two are combined.  In my modest experience, white Land Rovers are trouble. A door that swung open without warning at high speed, a wheel that almost fell off, and brakes that failed halfway down the side of a 600m crater. All have happened to me, and all happened in white Land Rovers.  It is with a feeling of impending disaster and dread therefore that I climb in through the back door, noticing as I do so, that there isn’t a spare tyre. It’s a long way to the desert.

Concerns aside, all is going well as we leave the outskirts of Marrakech and drive onwards and upwards through the Moroccan countryside.  Before very long we are beginning to reach steeper gradients, as the Atlas foothills rise up before us. The distant, snow-capped peaks visible from Marrakech now loom large and imposing above, and the road becomes narrower, more serpentine, and very much more precipitous. It’s now perceptibly colder, and where the hot plain below was dominated by palms, the mountain passes support conifers and stunted, alpine plants.  At a particularly impressive vista the driver, called with a certain inevitability, Abdul, stops and we get out to take photos. There is no sign of other human life anywhere to be seen in this mountain wilderness, and yet this doesn’t prevent a teenage boy with a basketful of crystals from materializing out of nowhere with the hard sell. 

An hour or so later, we reach the top of the pass at a place called Col Du Tichka, where a sign gives the altitude as 2260 metres (7414 feet), though the peaks surrounding us are much higher. From here it’s possible to look down on the hairpinning road we have just used to get up the western side of the mountains. It looks scarier from this vantage, although having said that, if I were one of the people sitting in the large coach that is currently labouring round a particularly tight corner some way below us, I might have to re-evaluate that position.

Descending the eastern side of the High Atlas, we pass through more spectacular and stirring scenery, on more of the same high, snakelike roads. To his credit, Abdul seems thus far to be a skilled and careful driver, which in this kind of place makes all the difference between enjoyment and terror. It’s hard to reconcile this cold, mountainous environment with being in Morocco, and it’s only when we once more reach the dry, baked plain, that North Africa reasserts itself.

Not long after leaving the mountains, Abdul suddenly makes a sharp left, going off-road.  As I’m thrown to one side of the vehicle, I catch sight of a sign bearing the words ‘Ait Benhaddou – 6km’. After a mere twenty metres on this new ‘road’ I have serious doubts that even a Land Rover could survive six kilometres of it. When we are not being bounced out of our seats, we are being hurled to one side as we drive at a fifty degree angle. More than once, toppling sideways seems inevitable.  No surprise then that the whole thing is massive fun, although it’s probably fortunate for the suspension if nothing else, that we prove not to be doing the full six kilometres to the settlement.  Instead we stop after a kilometre or so, at a lookout spot commanding grand views across the valley, to the Kasbah of Ait Benhaddou.

Only a small number of families still dwell in this UNESCO World Heritage Site, most having moved to a more modern settlement nearby. The town itself lies on the former caravan route from the desert to Marrakech, although these days it has found a new role as a prime location for Hollywood filmmakers. Among many big-budget films shot in Ait Benhaddou, are Gladiator, Kundun, Alexander, Lawrence of Arabia, The Mummy, and The Last Temptation of Christ.  It’s easy to see why it’s so popular.  Looking down on Ait Benhaddou, one could easily be looking straight into ancient history, and nothing in the tightly-packed, mud-brick dwellings betrays any kind of modernity. When the time comes, I’m a little sad to leave such an atmospheric place, but my solace is that other delights await on the road ahead.

 From Ait Benhaddou, we continue on long, open, dusty, and often epic roads. As we coast along, I look to my left and see a long wall, punctuated along its length by Egyptian style statuary. Whatever the wall surrounds, it’s very big. We stop just ahead for a closer look. This vast compound in the desert transpires to be Atlas Film Studios, by all accounts one of the largest in the world. Clearly it isn’t only Ait Benhaddou that has its finger in the pie. Atlas Studios lie just outside the second very cool name of the day.  It’s lunchtime when we pull into Ouarzazate.

This town, a former French garrison, is best known for its enormous 4^th Century mud Kasbah, which still stands imposingly in the middle of town. It’s a wonderful building, imbued with the same exotic romance that blesses much of the architecture in Morocco, and it’s also easy to see how powerful a symbol it would have been in its day, rising proudly out of the desert sands, and visible for miles around.

After overpriced lunch that is entirely unremarkable except for the fact that the restaurant terrace commands amazing views of the Ksbah, we are once more on the move.  The theme of exotic place names continues in earnest, as we pass through the small town of Agdz, (which appears to be largely populated by children) and then continue on to the spectacular Draa Valley, where Berber villages cling to the hillsides, and deep canyons wind off into the distant hills. Rather irritatingly in light of all this stunning scenery, I choose this section of the journey in which to fall asleep.

I wake up to find the sun sitting low and lazy in the western sky. We were scheduled to be on camels by now, in order to get out to our desert camp by sunset, but we have still not arrived at the rendezvous town of Zagora, and the sun is sinking lower with each passing mile. It’s not long before dusk when we do finally reach our destination.  We pull up next to a dusty lay by, and there the bad-tempered beasts await. A group of Berbers lounging lazily on the front steps of a craft store across the street slowly come to life as we climb out of the Land Rover, and stroll casually across to greet us. We’re told to take only what we’ll need for the night, as well as whatever water we want to carry. The camels, so far remarkably well-mannered and not nearly so obnoxious as some I’ve encountered in the past, are loaded up and then saddled, although this may be misleading since what we’ll be sitting on is more a collection of coarse rugs attached a metal handle, than a saddle.  Once all that is in place, it’s time to install ourselves. Camels are mounted while they are in a sitting position. They then get up onto their back legs first, so that one is tipped forwards, and has to lean back in order not to go barreling over the beast’s head. Once standing, the ship of the desert is ready to carry the intrepid cameleer wherever he or she wishes to go.

The journey begins, a little unromantically, on tarmac. An empty road leads out of Zagora towards the desert, and we plod along it for about thirty minutes.  For some reason, this camel is a particularly uncomfortable one, and no matter how much I adjust myself, certain delicate parts of my anatomy seem destined to be relentlessly battered, especially on those occasions when the animal chooses to start trotting – a course I seem entirely unable to dissuade it from.  Still, despite losing the ability to reproduce, it’s a fun ride, and becomes really quite tranquil as the last remnants of the lingering sunset give way to the blackness of the desert night.  We’ve moved onto the sand now, which is marginally more comfortable, and much more atmospheric. Our guide, a young Berber called Mahmoud, leads us across largely featureless terrain, with only the moonlight to illuminate the scene.  How he is able to navigate these endless tracts of sand is beyond me, and I find myself hoping that this isn’t his first day on the job.

We’ve been camel-trekking by moonlight for an hour or so, and I’m feeling very much like Lawrence of Arabia, when I begin to make out a few dark outlines in the distance.  Mahmoud seems to be guiding us in their direction, and soon enough we are able to make out the dim flicker of a few kerosene lamps, and the distinctive shapes of the tents. We have arrived at the camp.  The staff give us an enthusiastic welcome, but what all of us really want to know is what’s on the menu for dinner.  The camel trek, while it may have caused irreparable damage to my sensitive parts, also worked up a hearty appetite.  We are directed to a tent, inside which is a table, a few chairs, and a large collection of musical instruments, predominantly drums. Tea is served shortly afterwards, followed by lentil soup, and then tagine.  By the time we’re done eating, I am exhausted, and we head to the tent next door, where sleep wastes no time in coming.

The next morning, I discover from Nicole and Clarissa that the Berbers put on a modest musical performance last night. I’m momentarily disappointed to have missed this cultural spectacle, but then they continue to say that everyone in the audience was then forced to perform a song from their own culture, and suddenly my decision to go to bed is once more ringed with the bright halo of wisdom. I’m from Britain, we don’t have a culture.

Breakfast is an unspectacular affair, consisting of poor quality coffee, bread, and jam.  It doesn’t so much fill the hole, as drop something small into the bottom of it.  Nonetheless, its brevity does, if nothing else, give us some time to explore the area.  Our camp is located beside some modest dunes, and is surrounded by rugged hills. It’s not the most beautiful bit of desert I’ve ever seen, but it’ll do.  Prior to the emergence of the sun from behind the hills, Jung-Ok and I play around on the dunes like big children; rolling down their faces and running up and down them. It’s a simple joy, tempered only by the fact that I can’t quite remember exactly where on the dune I relieved myself last night.  I love the desert.  There’s a grand beauty to it that is only made more profound by the endless views, the near total silence, and the knowledge that life here, particularly human life, survives on the narrowest of knife edges. It’s a humbling, yet also inspiring landscape, and one that it is impossible not to be affected by.  There is simplicity and clarity in the desert, unlike that I have found anywhere else.  On a less poetic note, I would also advise everyone, at least once in life, to experience the sensation of running down a sand dune in bare feet.

It’s a shame to be leaving after so short a time, but that’s the price of short trips, and thus one we must accept. Just after 8am, Mahmoud begins harnessing the beasts once more, and we are on our way, out of the sands. I’m still alarmingly saddle-sore, and to compound matters, I feel like I have a cold coming on.  I am therefore relieved in no short measure, after only fifteen minutes on camel back, to discover that the Land Rover has come into the desert to meet us, and that my nether regions will not be forced to endure another ninety minutes of battery this morning.

We are speeding through the hairpins of the Draa Valley sometime later, when we are greeted by the sight of what can only be described as a tragedy. A large truck, whether by brake failure, or by driver error, has ploughed full force into the side of the cliff.  The cab is flattened, literally, such that the chances of the driver having survived can only be zero. The accident must have happened mere minutes ago, as steam is still rising from where the vehicle’s radiator used to be, and its cargo is still spilling out onto the highway. It’s a sobering sight, which makes me appreciate Abdul’s careful driving even more. He calls the emergency services, but doesn’t stop. Sadly, however long they take to arrive, I think medical help will be academic.

 

Back at Ouarzazate, we stop for lunch in the same place as yesterday. Jung-Ok and I elect to forego their meagre and overpriced fare, opting instead to dine on oranges on the steps overlooking the Kasbah. I use the opportunity to catch up with my journal, and get some sunshine.  It is generally a very pleasant hour or so, aside from the persistent attentions of a number of very sniffly children, one of whom seems to be trying to broker some kind of business transaction involving an orange.  I assume he wants one, but when I offer, he refuses. He keeps pointing at the one I’m eating, so I try offering him that, but again he shakes his head. I never do figure out what he wants.

The journey back through the High Atlas seems even more spectacular than it did on the way out yesterday.  The views are magnificent, and the road is nerve-jangling. Abdul does us proud once more, enduring with seeming ease, over two hours of endless hairpin bends, flanking disconcerting amounts of empty vertical space.  Only once does he try to overtake on a blind corner, and the fact that I am here to write this is testament to the fact that we survive the manoeuvre. Winding out of the mountains, the precipices become slopes, and the sightings of mangled crash barriers become less frequent.  Oddly, it also starts to rain. I’m hoping this is merely an effect of the montane microclimate, since rain in Marrakech would really put a downer on things.

It’s well after dark when we finally negotiate our way through the traffic, to pull up where we began, a stone’s throw from the Djemma.  Bar my increasingly offensive cold, I am unscathed, despite the mountain passes, the fatal road accidents, and the occasional madness of Moroccan drivers.  We secure a room back at the hotel Assia, and head out to Café Arabe for some food.  In my condition, a bottle of wine is probably ill-advised, but we feel we deserve it after the desert adventure, so we indulge nonetheless. By the time dinner is over, I am definitely on the express route to feeling rotten, such that I am even unable to enjoy the heaving Saturday evening atmosphere of the Djemma.  I’m in bed by just after 8pm, but sleep terribly due the combination of a very sore throat, and the feeling that someone is hitting the back of my eyeballs with a claw hammer.  To add to my discomfort, the small hours find my stomach beginning to churn, such that I am forced into the bathroom on a number of occasions. I suppose at least, that if all this must happen, at least it’s at the end of the trip, rather than the beginning.

This morning my cold, in the usual form is running around trying to avoid my immune system. The sore throat turns into a blocked nose, then a blocked head, and by breakfast it is migrating back to my throat, with the intention of becoming a hacking cough.  I must not let it get the better of me however, for today I must gird my loins for shopping in the souk, an enterprise that will require no small amount of energy, friendliness, gusto, and determination.

Wandering the maze-like alleys of the souk is an incredible feast for the senses. The atmosphere is at once exotic and frenetic, and one is bombarded with colour, movement, smell, sound, and energy. Since we first ventured into this vast consumer labyrinth, I’ve had my eye on a half-length jellabah, and it isn’t long before I find one to my taste. The proprietor of the tiny, box-like shop is very friendly, and we haggle good-humouredly. T one point, perhaps beginning to realise that I’m not going to capitulate easily, he says, “Do you bargain like this in your country?”  Having sealed the deal to my satisfaction, we head off in search of cushion covers. We visit about six shops, but although I could happily have bought covers in each of them, Jung-Ok has something more specific in mind.  It’s only when we are shown by one shop owner, to his brother’s place, that we locate what she had in mind. Her haggling skill has clearly not deteriorated, and another bargain is secured.  Finally, we buy a wooden mask, and manage not only to get a sizeable discount off the asking price, but also to get a hairpin thrown in for free.

After an early dinner, with a final bottle of wine taken to the sound of the muezzin, and the sight of a glorious sunset, we make our way back through the souks, and spend the very last of our cash on a teapot and a candlestick.  I know as we leave the Djemma for the last time, that I shall miss this most exotic of cities a great deal. It has been incomparably atmospheric, and feels much like another world, as if the city exists only in a legend or a fable, not in mundane reality. Tomorrow, that reality will return, as we leave Marrakech, and Morocco behind us…Insha Allah.