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All aboard the Marrakech express

by Amar Grover

Monsieur, spices for the mind! Mon ami!" implored a reedy voice at my side. I was strolling out of the bus station towards Bab Doukkala, Doukkala gate, which pierces the pink crenellated walls of the Medina. The voice offered a room, another even cheaper room, girls and a final lingering pat on the arm. Here in Marrakech even the weariest hustler wants, briefly, to be your "friend".

Morocco's charm offensive takes many forms. Down the centuries Marrakech, its most famous city, has catered to all manner of tastes, from the lurid to the languid, lush and occasionally even lascivious. These strands survive and, depending on where one looks, it can be gracious and stylish or earthly and sensual. Backed by the snowcapped High Atlas Mountains, one last great barrier before the sub-Sahara, Marrakech remains one of the most intoxicating places in North Africa.

Knowing it well, I walked to my hotel. Within the Medina long winding lanes and alleys wriggled in all directions. Off these yawned dim archways, dark narrow tunnels and discreet leafy courtyards. The whiff of mint and the tang of charcoal braziers were old friends, less so the lines of goats' heads and hooves. I bore left on to Rue Ban Doukkala and further along a sharp right through an arch. Within minutes I was skirting the souks and emerging into the city's heart, the Djemaa el Fna or "place of the Dead".

This erstwhile execution ground is anything but dead. The usual trinkets, services and substances were dangled before me but what I really needed was a fresh orange juice. Thirty-odd juice stalls - an institution if not a landmark - lined up ahead and in the next few days I patronised almost all. Thirst quenched and hotel secured, I wandered off to scour the Medina and its souks in particular.

Marrakech is an ancient city: it boasted substantial walls in the 12th Century and the famous Koutoubia Minaret dates from this time. Sacked and rebuilt by spiteful, rival dynasties, by the time of France's Protectorate in 1912 it was looking rather neglected. Today Gueliz, the new town, seems distinctly neat and southern European whereas much of the medina is convoluted, cramped and more atmospheric.

Most of what draws visitors lies in the Medina, and the Djemaa el Fna acts as a fulcrum. To its south are palaces, royal tombs and museums, while the souks stretch north. There's nothing quite like total immersion, starting with pottery, dried fruit and textiles, cruising through wool and sheepskins and finally admitting you're lost amongst the babouches or leather slippers.

Initially the souks seem dense, even daunting. Labyrinthine lanes defy navigation while sunbeams filter through iron trellises. In reality, many crafts cluster together: the Souk Cherratin (leather) is near the slipper-makers off which straggles Souks Haddadine (blacksmiths), Chouari (carpenters) and Teinturiers (wool dyers).

Swanky spotlit emporia with credit card signs and quadrilingual salesmen line the main routes. They sell carpets and saddlebags, masks, lamps and marquetry. The deeper you go, the more frugal the boutiques. Shops become stalls, workshops and storerooms, little courtyards with auctions and men with hooded gowns, djellabas, vanishing round blind corners. It's a place shaded with many moods, where one can walk a hundred metres but back a century.

Some merchants' wares suggest another world rather than another age. Apothecary stalls are amongst the most bizarre and reflect a widespread belief in potions and spells, of black (and white) magic. Dried lizards, claws, skins and beaks hang amidst jars and vials of ... what exactly? Ducking beneath goat horns and fox pelts, I was beckoned into a pungent nook. Its proprietor winked and proposed libidinal "Spanish Fly" - dried beetles to be crushed and administered orally with honey - and another little something for the girlfriend so together we'd combust.

Around us bulged sacks of bark, dried flowers and leaves - the mystique of traditional herbalists. There was henna for hair and tattoos, kohl for eyes and pumice for the skin. We moved on to saffron (real and fake), olives stuffed with almonds or marinated in spices, and intriguing varieties of dates (from sticky and cloying to dry and fibrous). Tucked away here and there were bakeries or grocers where one could sip strong coffee over pains au chocolat or baguettes.

"This, my friend," insisted the shopkeeper, "is a bowl made with ancient techniques". Less confidently he added, "handed down by the Sultan's potters." It was a pleasing item but functional rather than decorative, uncommon but not unique. "This," I replied waving a 50 dirham banknote, "is my 500 dirham note". We grinned like boys, dropped the mumbo jumbo and haggled like adults. A tour group arrived as I left, a familiar voice imploring "carved by the Sultan's ancient carvers..."

For further information on travel in Africa, visit Travel Africa Magazine

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