Kalaa des Mgouna to Marrakesh, Morocco, Monday January 12th

We rose early to find that the lights were not working. The power point worked but not the lights. Nevertheless we groped our way around and packed up our bags. Just before we left, the lights came on. It was still dark outside as we crept past the house so as not to wake Youssef up. It wasn’t far to the road. We took off our bags and Keith walked up and down to keep warm. No one stirred. We heard a vehicle in the distance but it turned out to be a laden utility and it didn’t stop for us. Silence again, save for Keith’s footsteps. At last we had to admit that our get away plan had failed due to the early hour and the remote place.

We started walking back to the house. Before we got there, we heard the car start up as Youssef backed out of his drive. When we reached him, he began to ask us what we were doing, but then settled for telling us to get in. I sat in the back with the bags and Keith sat in the front. Youssef asked me if I had slept well. I said that I hadn’t because I had been worried because of the difficult time he had given us the night before. He said, ‘No problems,’ and in French, he apologised for upsetting me. He later apologised to Keith as well. Maybe for him that wiped the slate clean, but for us, we knew that he could be dishonest and unscrupulous, so we would not ever recommend him as a guide to others.

We were glad to be on the bus and away. It was a large bus with less than a dozen passengers, which meant that reserving seats the previous night had been unnecessary.

The sun rose, creating pink and mauve lines above the distant snowy mountains. We were both exhausted so we slept for a while, waking to find ourselves in snow covered mountains, the High Atlas, being driven along narrow switch back roads. Little stalls selling brightly coloured ceramics were set up in freezing spots along the way. For once we had invested in a bus with heating, and we were glad that we had. After we had crossed the highest mountains, the views were just as spectacular of valleys with rivers winding through them and every available bit of fertile land farmed. The run up to Marrakesh was a mix of towns and farmlands, and even in Marrakesh, where there is an incredible amount of traffic, donkeys and horses are still used for transport. There is so much traffic that a haze of exhaust hung over the streets in the still afternoon air.

It was a bit of a walk to the tourist office but, since they were supposed to have a list of hotels and could give us a map, we thought it would be worthwhile. The map bit was, but the hotel advice was a circle drawn on the map to show where we could look for cheap hotels. Burnt out, but polite, is how I would describe the man who served us, and we saw so many tourists here in what is the off season, that I had some sympathy for him. We took a bus to the area he had indicated, near the main square – the Djemma El Fna. We followed our guide book’s map towards one of the cheap hotels it recommended but were made offers for rooms as we walked along. One sounded fine so I went up to have a look while Keith minded the bags. The man dropped the already cheap price without me doing any haggling and after I said that I thought that we would take it. It was a pleasant moment to counteract our bad feelings of last night. We do have to remember that we have met many kind and helpful Moroccans in the tourist industry, and to keep a balanced view.

As soon as we had unloaded our bags we set out to enjoy the afternoon and Marrakesh in the sunshine. The Djemma El Fna is an enormous open square with no infrastructure in it. It is just an empty paved space which is the greatest venue for buskers Moroccan style. It was already reasonably busy. Snake charmers played their pipes while cobras rose up, and just as quickly were squashed down under a hat if someone appeared to be taking a photo without paying. I don’t know how snake charmers made money before cameras were invented, but now they seem to live on photography payments, with an assistant who wanders around with snakes to drape over tourist’s shoulders for more photo opportunities. Bundles of snakes lay on the ground with sometimes no-one even watching to see that they didn’t make off. One charmer, taking a break, was bitten by a young snake that he was carelessly ‘doodling’ with, and just shook his hand a few times and sucked it. Water sellers in traditional costumes posed with tourists and also cashed in on the craze for photos of every moment.

Women sat on stools, calling out to women and waving patterns for henna hand and face paintings. Other women told fortunes with cards, although I don’t know how the customers would have understood if they didn’t speak Arabic. There were games to try such as fishing for soft drink bottles and a card game in which the customer had to say where a particular card was. A dispute arose from that one, at the same time that a man with a snake chased a female tourist who had taken a photo and not paid enough. Circles of men indicated something of interest in the middle, and these varied from acrobatics, comedy routines, men doing belly dancing, story telling with a few props and readings from an illustrated Koran. Unlike western buskers, who tend to be young and travelling, most of these buskers were middle aged or older, and many were very serious. It was such a pity to not be able to understand what was being said, although we could enjoy the musicians who performed for circles of listeners or who moved across the square playing their instruments. Payments were made voluntarily by listeners and onlookers, sometimes to encourage the next part of the act and sometimes at the end. As many as a hundred and fifty people would be crowded around a performer.

There were rows and rows of stalls selling freshly squeezed juice, with pyramids of oranges and grapefruits. Others sold all kinds of dried fruits and their displays were immaculate works of art, with every kind neatly in its own section. Some more stalls on the ground had items for treatment of ailments and for making spells. Different herbs and compounds were displayed amongst parts of animals, such as horns, skins and testicles, and roots and bark of different plants.

What was truly amazing was that on a Monday afternoon there were so many people with the time to go to the square and listen. While there were some tourists, the vast majority were Moroccans and nearly all men, completely absorbed by what they were watching.

We stayed watching the entertainments for a while, and then walked to some seats opposite the treed Foucault Square to eat our lunch. It was a good choice since we could observe everyone passing by and a bad choice because all the horse drawn carriages were just opposite and the smell of manure and urine, despite the nifty arrangement hanging below the horses’ tails, was pretty overpowering. It was just lovely to be relaxing in the sun anyway, with no arrangements to rush to fulfil and nowhere we had to be. It was just lovely to be warm. The motor bike has gone crazy here in Marrakesh, with so many rushing back and forth without regard to any road rules that there is quite a bit of noise pollution as well as exhaust pollution from them. Women ride them as well as men here. There is a wide range of dressing among Moroccan women, from the traditional to the modern for all ages. The tourists are very interesting to observe, with the majority seeming to be our age or older. Of course there are lots of young people too. Today we were noting how couples looked like each other, and how if they were old hippies, they would both be old hippies, and if one wore a lot of gold jewellery, the other would too.

A little girl of about eight with a very runny nose was trying to sell a tray of biscuits. Her younger brother, about five, came along with a couple of packets of tissues for sale. Keith said ‘Non, merci,’ (No, thank you,) but instead of moving on the little boy just propped in front of Keith repeating ‘Non, merci, non, merci’. Presumably someone has taught him not to take ‘no’ for an answer and to wear the customer down. Keith just ignored him and eventually he moved off, with a very firm, ‘Well fuck you!’ Such are the life lessons for some five year olds here. His approach was successful further on when a tourist gave in and took the two packets and gave him a coin. He grabbed a packet back, so he obviously knew what his goods were worth.

Moving on again, it was a pleasure to see the Koutoubia minaret, built in 1150. It is an aesthetically very pleasing minaret, nearly seventy metres high, in soft apricot stone with bands of green tiles, and turrets like stepped pyramids. It has been recently restored, but not to its original state, which would have been painted plaster. The original mosque on the site can be seen as excavated ruins. They show the costly mistake which was made by someone who did not line it up properly with Mecca. It looks to have been about ten degrees out. It was demolished and a new mosque was built beside it.

We strolled in the loveliest gardens behind the mosque, with roses still in flower providing a lovely perfume. They are in a formal style, with a central fountain and paths around beds of orange trees, palms and flowers. There are numerous seats, and all were being sat on. We were not the only ones to be taking a day to relax and enjoy the weather. I noticed an elderly French couple, walking along arm in arm and making it from one resting spot to the next around the gardens. Their appearance was timeless, and made no concession to modern travel wear or comfortable shoes. Their faces were marked by joy, and their expressions were sweet and benign. I hope that we can be as happy to be in the moment in our later years, and that we are still visiting gardens in exotic places too.

Suddenly I was very tired and so we walked back to the hotel. I didn’t even last to have any dinner, since I was fast asleep by 5.30. Keith went out to the internet café. I didn’t wake to find his note telling me when he would be back. I didn’t wake until fourteen and a half hours later.

Below: views of Marrakesh's main square in the late afternoonThe two seller above has all kinds of animal parts, one presumes to be illegally obtained, such as python skins.

A roadside food stall in a mountain village with the snack meals prepared in traditional pottery tajines, with a small charcoal fire in the pot underneath.

In Fes motor vehicles are banned from the medina. In the narrow market streets of Marrakesh we found the constant speedy motor scooters a noisy, smelly, hazardous nuisance, making the area unpleasant to be in. In the still air the exhaust fumes hang in the air and it must be a very unhealthy environment for those who work there.