marksabout

Greeted by a driver holding my name on a laminated sign, I was quickly and comfortably whisked away to my accommodation, an apartment in Gueliz, the (first) new part of Marrakech. Flight delayed half an hour, and effectively another hour due to the airline not miscalculating the time difference, I greeted my amazing host, Carol. We had time for a cup of tea and then straight bed it was.

Before departing for Morocco, several sources had told me to expect a place of contrasts. I was determined to find otherwise, but couldn’t. Abdullah my guide collected me early for a tour through the Medina of Marrakech – normally I would set off on my own (and on the second day I did, more later) but my personal tour took me through the Palais Bahia, Ben Youssef Madrasa, the Jemaa al Fna and deep into the souks. Photos below.

Having such a good guide, learning the history of Marrakech as I was bombarded with myriad minute stimulus at every turn lulled me into a false sense of security, and the following day I complacently decided to make my own walking tour of the fascinating souks, a warren of tangled pedestrian (and donkey) streets, each with its own specialist craftspeople. I confidently strode as far from the “touristy part” until hunger struck and I turned back, choosing a parallel street to the one set out on.

On my way back a friendly man told me I was going the wrong way (to get to where? my intention was to get lost). I ignored him but he persisted, informing me (in French) that “that street is closed.” I knew it wasn’t but he beckoned and I followed briefly before turning down another street. He stopped me again and with the help of a co-conspirator was coerced into following again. My objective was to lose myself in the Medina so I naively obliged. I followed as the westerners (tourists) dissipated, as there became fewer children, as there we no longer any women until it was just me and my unwanted guide on a quiet, dusty lane to what looked like nowhere. Finally we reached a shop where my guide introduced me to his brother, all was revealed: we were going to the tanneries because of the berbers, they only sell their hides today “you’ll miss it.”

Having conjured up enough French to explain (yell) that I didn’t want to see a tannery (why would anyone seek a stinking tannery?) I tried to find my way back to where I stared. The guide followed me for a while until I managed to eke out an “I want to walk alone” (in French).

I was lost for 3 hours in total, 1 hour more than was tolerable, and I had to donate a small fortune to several “helpful” lads to take me back to the square. One, who I couldn’t keep up with, asked for more than I gave him because “his foot was sore.” In the end I just asked a shopkeeper for the way out, and within 2 minutes, I was where I wanted to be.