My alarm sounded two hours and forty-nine minutes after it was set. Moments later, Kris, Annie and I were at the bus stop, boarding a coach for Stansted. We filtered through security (after the redistribution of excess liquids and an unprompted bag search), glugged some coffee and boarded our plane.
The horizon was a streak of pink and gold, growing brighter as we journeyed south. Eventually we were skimming across a vast dun expanse. The earth was rumpled beneath us, bunching in smooth ripples, that gradually stretched out across the plain. A nervous system of dirt roads connected nodes of settlements as we descended, which gradually morphed into precise linear formations of olive and walnut trees.
After a lengthy queue at security, we were permitted on Moroccan soil. Our driver had been waiting for us dutifully with a hand-drawn sign bearing Annie’s name. We whizzed through ochre villages along the side of the meandering river, which was trickling with runoff from the snowy peaks. After a hairy section of sheer scree, we were deposited in Imlil and welcomed into Lahcen’s home. We climbed up some cool tiled steps and passed through a dim corridor on to the terrace.
We were face to face with the Atlas mountains. Toubkal loomed on the horizon, flanked by imposing peaks that iced the ridge of the valley. Lahcen lent me some authentic Berber clothing, and carefully coached me through a traditional tea ceremony. I warmed the pot, steeped a handful of green tea leaves, and infused this with sage, mint, absinthe and a block of sugar, before pouring from as grand a height as I dared. The result was dangerously addictive.
Revived, we planned a route through the villages that comprise Imlil, up to a waterfall near Aroumd, and back across the mountain. The valley was so unlike anything we’d seen before. Its rugged, understated majesty complementary to the apparent simplicity of people’s lives here. We paused briefly to listen to the call to prayer. The hypnotic echoes of competing muezzins reverberated through the valley in ethereal waves, gradually fading into silence. On the way back we were briefly invited into a woman’s home for tea. Her brew was laced more liberally with sage, giving it an earthy warmth. We thanked her for her kindness, offered a token of gratitude (gently refusing her requests for more money) and headed back to our home. Lahcen warmed us with more tea (I see a theme emerging), and fed us a delicious homemade tagine. We sank into a heavy slumber.
I woke up as the sun reached the top of the mountain. A flurry of starlings swooped past the window, as the light gradually trickled down the slope. The scene was so idyllic it was almost nauseating. We had a generous breakfast on the terrace, and reluctantly bid farewell to our wonderful host.
Two hours later, after a close encounter with an on-coming vehicle, we arrived in the melting-pot of Marrakesh. Street hawkers peddled carts bowing with tangerines, and people bustled through the uneven alleys laden with bags, deftly dodging puddles and donkeys. We tumbled through the maze of the medina. Minutes later, a heavy bolted door inscribed with a blue ‘nineten’ revealed a new world.
The courtyard of the riad opened before us, the blue sky visible above the canopy of deep jade palm leaves and jewelled oranges. A floral scent was draped in the air, surreptitiously emitted from a diffuser in the corner, next to a HiFi system and a trunk of CDs. We sank into a sofa, sipped some tea (which wasn’t quite sweet enough for our newly adjusted taste buds) and traced a route through the labyrinth as we planned our next steps.
With the infallible assistance of our innate sense of direction and Google maps, we found a stall on the edge of the souk selling chunks of slow roasted mechoui lamb and bread. We thoughtfully tore at the carcass from the terrace, appreciative of a brief respite from the swirling hoard below. We then turned south, and after a short wander, arrived at the stunning Bahia Palace. Perfect courtyards opened up in a calculated series. Delicate wood carvings and precise filigree painting ornamented the high ceilings, the effect of which Annie could only describe as “exquisite”. We slowly passed through the succession of gateways with arched necks, looking at the ground only briefly to greet a small tortoise.
From the palace we headed round towards the Koutoubia mosque. The peach brick of the muezzin extended high above the boulevard of palms that lead to its entrance. We curved past the tower and found the graveyard of exposed foundations, confirming the folk legend that the mosque had originally been misaligned to Mecca. After an inconsequential swindle involving some coconut macaroons, we turned into the main square of the city, Jemaa el-Fnaa, “Assembly of the Dead”. Stalls selling juice, nuts and figs framed the outside, leaving space for street performers and snake charmers in the centre. The squeal of oboes and the rumble of drums forcefully assaulted our ears, however from the terrace where we perched, the current of people seemed to flow naturally through the entertainers, with crowds concentrated at the loudest corner.
The sun slowly started to slip from the sky as we carved a course through the souks, nabbing a couple of (what we hoped were) bargains, before faultlessly navigating back home. We were presented with a three-course meal, the table groaning under the weight of the tagine. A toloused shih-tzu waited by our ankles, a fluffy ball of anticipation, who could barely contain himself when he saw that an entire chicken had been left untouched, and was being carried back to the kitchen. Rendered immobile by the amount we had eaten, we crawled up to our room and read “The Little Prince” aloud, dozing gently between turns to narrate.
Our final day in Morocco started with another basket of bread, and some aromatic spiced coffee. We emerged from the riad in to the shady medina, and after a few turns arrived at the Maison de la Photographie, which houses an impressive collection of images from Moroccan life in the twentieth century. We spent a couple of hours inventing stories about the subjects and musing on their lives. We then walked round to the historic Ben Youseff Madrasa; a centre of Islamic learning, where hundreds of students studied religion and law in preceding centuries. We explored the Spartan rooms and admired the ubiquitous carvings and geometric tiles before sunning ourselves in the central courtyard as we watched tourists file through portals to the inner rooms. We grabbed a quick lunch in the souk before throwing ourselves back into the winding alleys. After a couple of dead ends we emerged at the north end of the city, and found the Jardin Majorelle. We traced the plasticy red path through the groves of bamboo and palms, were distinctly unimpressed by the worn monolith signifying a memorial to Yves Saint Laurent, whose ashes were scattered in the garden upon his death in 2008. The Berber Museum was much more interesting, where we learnt about traditional life, customs and dress.
We then wandered towards the Nouvelle Ville, which boasted a huge shopping centre, Carrefour and Starbucks. We had a drink in a hotel, then floated back towards the old town. Somehow we seemed to have chosen a very local route; the small booths of the souk were selling herbs, meat, and washing products. The experience was much calmer than in the more touristic part of town; people assumed we didn’t want laundry detergent. We clung to the edge of the road to avoid careering mopeds, and soon wound into a spiralling alley which housed Dar Cherifa.
We knocked on the broad teak door, and were permitted entry into the oldest building of the medina, dating from the sixteenth century. The courtyard was dimly lit, centred around a small ornamental pool strewn with tealights and rose petals. We were the first guests of the evening, however over the next couple of hours the tables slowly filled. We savoured tender morsels of lamb, melt-in-the-mouth vegetable couscous and tangy ginger chicken. We also snaffled a crème brulee which was entirely heavenly. We rounded off this decadence with a brief trip to the rooftop, before winding back through the chaos of the square to a piano bar. We reclined into a peaceful sense of contentment over a mojito, bemused at how much we’d accomplished in a day. As a trio we’ve been extremely well-matched in terms of interests, stamina and pace, which has made everything so easy. I have been a fool to snub travel company for so long.
Morocco has been magical, unexpected and defiant of our expectations. The mountains froze our toes and warmed our souls, the souks and medina were not impossible to navigate (although credit to Google where it’s due), and the people have been entirely hospitable, helpful and welcoming. We never felt pressured or uneasy (although Kris is a broad man, maybe Annie and I would have had a different experience if we’d been alone). Photos couldn’t capture the healing breath of the mountains, or the aromatic spice of the city. Morocco is unlike anywhere we’d previously been (and between us we’ve covered a lot of ground), but its otherness is offset by its welcome; it is as refreshing, comforting and sweet as its tea.
nativeoyster 