Winter News III 2004

Our not to be missed city was Marrakesh, which lies inland from the coast, at the foot of the High Atlas Mountains. Looking at our map we surmised that it would be fairly easy to reach via the Tiz’nTest Pass, the highest mountain pass in Morocco. We would drive to Taradante, then up the pass. We had waited purposefully for the weather to heat up, as Marrakesh is much cooler than the coast. The temperature in Agadir was 86ºF with 40% humidity the day we left for Taradante. As we drove out of Agadir, thousands of people dressed in costumes and playing instruments, and dancing and cheering, lined the streets, under the watchful eyes of what appeared to be an equal amount of security, army personnel and police. The King of Morocco was coming to spend some time at his palace, just close to where we had been camped and the security was for him. It all seemed rather over doing it for just one man, and I wondered if he realised just how much everybody’s daily lives were being put about, because he fancied spending a few days in his palace.

Taroudante.
Taroudante is said to be a mini Marrakesh, and one of the most elegant towns in Morocco. Encircled with red ochre walls, it is very well known for jewellery, in particular, silver. Our fist visit to a real souk and market square, was here. One thing I really like about ancient (or in modern thinking, Third World) countries, is the street food. I quickly became addicted to some street donuts, a sort of deep fried Yorkshire pudding, which could either be rolled in cinnamon and sugar, or left plain. I loved them plain. The loose, wet pastry was scooped out of a large bowl by hand, quickly fashioned into a ring, and dropped into a small wok-like deep fryer. A minute later, they were hot, puffed up and ready to eat. They were served with a piece of string tied around the middle, to facilitate holding and eating. They also came without any health warnings such as “Careful. This food is hot.” The Moroccans it seemed, accredited members of the public with a little more common sense, than did the Europeans, who feel that they have to produce warnings in writing of dangers that are obvious to a five year old.

In the market square, we encountered snake charmers, storytellers, medicine doctors and witch doctors, who would create an amulet whilst you waited, to the accompaniment of a strange but serious sounding chant. Just outside the city walls was a small working tannery. Tanneries are always placed away from the main souk and market places, due to their unclean nature and offensive smells. We had a guide to show us around and explain how the skins were put through the numerous steps to be cured and prepared. It looked a terribly disgusting job, with the workers getting a liberal plastering of mess and goo. Some of the skins were wolf, fox and rare cats, but most were of goat, sheep and cow. We left with two large sheepskins, which were for the front seats of Hansi.

Up the Tiz’n Test.
We had been fore warned that this was a very high and difficult road, mostly from other motorhomers who had not experienced it themselves, but had heard from others, who had heard from others. Being the eternal intrepid travellers, we ignored them all, deducing that it was a fairly easy road, with some stunning scenery on offer. The junction of the Tiz’n Test road, should have been an omen of what was in store. We ignored that too! Ahead lay a few hundred metres of visible road, and what should have been a clear view of the High Atlas Mountains at close range, was enveloped by a blanket of fog and mist. It was also raining hard. The drive sky-wards was narrow, twisting and in places rough. The tarmac was only really wide enough for Hansi our 608 Mercedes, but on the bright side, at least we had the mountainside on our side of the road. This meant that each time we had to pass another vehicle, neither of us had to change our knickers for being forced dangerously close to the edge of a sheer unprotected drop, into the oblivion of the increasingly thick grey soup that clung to the air. The drive up was uneventful and the views nil. Just a few kilometres from the summit at 2,100M, a vicious storm whipped. High winds, accompanied by horizontal rain, hail and snow battered against Hansi. It was time to take shelter. At the summit there was a café, which had a small sheltered car park. The owners welcomed us to park up and spend the night. Outside was bitterly cold, wet and positively miserable. As we settled for the night, the storm gathered speed, causing Hansi to rock. Then came the downpour. It was then we realised that Hansi had three leaks in the roof. Cups had to be positioned to catch the rain, and items had to be moved to keep them dry. We spent a fretful night with the fire on full.

The following morning, we were greeted by a blanket of snow 4 or 5 ins deep, covering our drive downhill, and the views were still covered with the thick grey soup. I had visions of us sliding down, though not always in the direction we wanted to go! Going down a hill, is always more dangerous than going up it. I was thankful that other vehicles had been up early and made tyre tracks in the snow that we could follow. At least we had a rough idea where the road was. Alan told me to stop flapping. Back on the road, we soon realised that the torrential rainfall had caused movement of boulders and rocks to come tumbling down, in parts blocking our progress. Alan was in the driving seat, whilst my job was to get out and lift or push the obstacles out of the way. At one point we pulled over to let another car pass, and got stuck in the snow. With much shunting backwards and forwards, Hansi eventually came free. By the time the mist had started to clear, and we were out of the snowline, the views that should have been, had disappointingly all but disappeared. At least it had stopped raining. Our leaks had stopped too! At the foot of the Atlas Mountains there were different problems to overcome. The torrential rainfall had caused swollen rivers, and flooding. One raging torrent had forced its way over the road, with queues of traffic at either side unable to pass. A large digger was working hard trying to smooth the roadway from rocks washed downhill by the torrent of water. As he cleared a path, the raging torrent of water covered his tracks again. He spent the whole time tooing and froing, driving over what seemed a very rough surface, with no one daring to cross. Cars had no hope of getting through, as it was far too deep and fast flowing. The water came a third of the way up the large digger wheels. Vans and buses had been towed through by the digger, and local crowds had gathered to watch the drama. Alan walked to the water’s edge to assess the situation. With an air of confidence, not shared by me, he deduced that if the digger could get through, then so could our Mercedes, Hansi. Locals told him, ‘Not possible.’ The digger man signed with hand signals, ‘Right, lets get you hooked up for a tow across.’ I just flapped. The digger man hooked us up. We lurched forward, the chain snapped. The digger man attached the chain again. We lurched forward again. The chain snapped again. If we couldn’t get through, the only alternative was to retrace our tracks, drive back up through the grey soup, wind, snow, hail and rain, some 200 kilometres back to the main road. The locals watched intently as we decided what to do. ‘Right, we are going to drive through.’ Said Alan. I started to do some serious flapping. What if we got stuck? What if we got washed away? We had driven through worst than this in Pakistan, in an old Sherpa van and thought nothing of it, yet I couldn’t help thinking that this was very dangerous. I sat myself in the passenger’s seat, camera in hand, while Alan geared Hansi up ready to make a run for it. I don’t remember much about the crossing, only that it was very rough and there was an awful sound of rushing water. I was too scared to take any photos. We reached the other side to the sound of cheering and chapping of hands. I shed a little tear of relief. We had made it, though not without some flood damage. The water was so deep that it flooded the steps, soaking the carpet, and flooding the bottom lockers. Alan said that when he repaints Hansi in the summer, an all-important plimsoll line and maybe even a snorkel, is to be added.

Magical Marrakesh.
‘You’ll either love it or hate it.’ We were warned of our impending visit to Marrakesh in Morocco, though you might be forgiven for thinking it was to be our first taste of Marmite.

The mythical red city of Marrakesh, is one of the great Islamic cities of North Africa and has been a trading post for centuries. Berber tribes from the Atlas Mountains, Magrebis from the plains, Nomads from the Sahara and many others from Senegal, Sudan and Timbuktu, all came to Marrakesh to trade their wares, of spices, slaves and salt, and all manner of goods, to spend their money and find gossip and entertainment.

The highlight of any visit to Marrakesh, whether a thousand years ago or today, is the forever busy main square, Djemaa El Fna, which means “Assembly of the dead,” a name said to have come from its macabre past. Until the 20th Century, criminals were executed in this square and their heads put out on display as a warning to others. Another reason to visit Marrakesh, is to shop in Morocco’s largest souk attached to the square, which unlike the executions and gruesome displays of the past, has survived and grown.

Our first visit to the Djemaa El Fna was during daylight hours, and the scene was relatively busy, with a number of fresh orange juice bars, waiting to offer us cool liquid refreshments. Arabs with finely dressed performing Barbary Apes on leads, milled amongst the pedestrians hoping to pose for a photograph and earn a Dirham or two. Some of the apes had been taught to perform backward somersaults and were repeatedly flipping over in a bid to capture someone’s attention. Snake charmers sat amidst a crowd, animating their cobras into action as they saw us approaching. There were also fortune-tellers, mostly old men or women, who sat beneath umbrellas, faded and torn from the effects of the sun, their cards and bones at their feet. The strangest of all, were the herb doctors, with their bizarre potions and lotions, arranged artfully before them. Foot of ostrich, bones of other animals, herbs, bark of tree, and dried unidentifiable animals. One old man lectured us in an incomprehensible language, on the wonderful properties of his cure-alls. Strange dark skinned men in long blue robes, wearing a simple hat, with a long tassel, wondered about, scanning the crowds. In their hands they held brass double ended cymbals, and leaped into action as soon as they saw us, jigging about in our path with a cheesy grin, whilst making lots of noise and spinning the tassel on their heads around. They stopped only on receiving a Dirham, and reminded me of a Duracell battery operated toy. They kept it up all day. Brightly coloured carriages, pulled by pairs of horses, picked up and dropped passengers, amongst cycle riders, mopeds, pedestrians and men pushing and pulling heavy carts. Cafes with roof top terraces surrounded the square, and provided an excellent place to sit and rest and watch the whole chaotic scene unfold over a glass of sweet mint tea.

The souk is a rabbit warren of covered alleyways, filled to capacity with all of manner of goods, with similar trades grouped together. Many of the shops are tiny, yet the walls, ceilings and floors are crammed with what ever is being sold, or in some cases made. Lanterns, pots, ornate mirrors, leather slippers, dresses, food, silver, gold, cooking pots, musical instruments, paintings, antiques, herbs, spices, medicine, whatever your desire, it can be found in the souk. Items that are unable to be squeezed into the shop, spill out onto the alleyway floor, and hang from overhead coverings. As you cautiously try to weave around the thousands of objects, at the same time as trying not to bump into other shoppers, moped riders, and the occasional donkey and cart, shopkeepers will invite you to purchase their wares.
‘Which country you from?’
‘You are welcome in Morocco.’
‘Come see my things, I have very nice things.’
‘Good price for you my friend. Which one you like?’
One particular salesman started his patter, ‘Which country you from?’ Being rather tired of answering the same questions, Alan told him, ‘Russia.’ Thinking such a far away country would stump him into silence. A string of incomprehensible Russian sounding words, flowed forth. All we could do was stand there, laughing at ourselves, admitting defeat. The salesman proudly told us that he could speak eight languages fluently! The souk was full of surprises.

One alleyway was full of medicine men, selling herbs, animal parts, spices and potions for any ailment Western medicine cared to mention. Backache, baldness, snoring, eczema, you name it and you will be told that a cure had been found centuries ago. Natural perfumes of amber and musk, and the smell of incense filled the air, mingling with the spices and herbs. Beautiful leopard, snake, civet cat, and other rare skins hung inside the shops, whilst outside were dried hedgehog, said to cure baldness, and dried vultures. In small birdcages were live kestrels alongside small tortoises. One strange animal caught my eye. On top of an arrangement of grey rocks, said to be good for your hair, was a tiny green chameleon. I stopped to take a closer look as the salesman, unceremoniously scooped the chameleon up and plonked it on a heap of nearby Berber tea.
‘It’s a chameleon.’ We were told.
‘Look, he will change colour.’
We looked and I’m sure I saw the tiny animal bob his head up, roll each eye independently and in a chameleon sort of way say, ‘Oh no. Not another tourist.’
A couple of minutes later, the chameleon was still green. Perhaps he was on strike, or feeling a little off colour. The salesman then lifted the animal onto Alan’s hand. It started to stir, and with eyes swivelling, moved with tentative, shall-I-shan’t-I steps.
‘People keep them as pets. They catch flies. Why don’t you take one back to England?’ It was time to move on.

We returned to Djemaa El Fna later that night, to find it transformed. The food stalls had set up and aromas of soup, barbequed meat, boiled goats heads, snails, spicy tea and tarjines, filled the square. Chefs beckoned us with morsels of their food to sit and eat at their tables, serving food for all tastes and pockets. Bright lights powered by noisy generators or hissing gaslights, illuminated a scene, which has survived for millennia. The 12th Century Koutubia mosque, lit up in the night sky, provided a fitting backdrop to this ancient, established square.

We squeezed our way through the large crowds to see storytellers, recounting fables of kings and maidens in classical Arabic, and comical boxers who spent more time talking than supplying any action. There were comedy acts that didn’t need to speak any language to understand their tomfoolery, and musicians played ancient instruments in mournful tones whilst a lone fire eater, stood beside an old plastic oil container full of some highly flammable liquid. Ominously, the crowds kept their distance. Lurking between the crowds were the smiling henna ladies, armed with syringes full of dark green goo, eager to squiggle intricate henna designs onto your hands or feet. The fortune-tellers were still there, amidst some beggars and one unusual stall. The tooth man, who had a large tray full of extracted human teeth, most of them ravaged with dental caries or else broken. Alongside his tray of teeth, was an array of used false teeth, presumably to recycle. I was impressed with this man’s resourcefulness, in a country with high unemployment.

But the most entertaining of all were the dancing ladies. They wore long dresses, with a sequined tie around their hips and a cover over their faces and heads, showing just their eyes. As their accompanying four piece band, a motley crew of old men, with ancient instruments which appeared to be made from old discarded wood and metal struck up, the ladies wiggled suggestively into action, shaking and gyrating their hips to the belly dancing beat. A few minutes into their act, one of them came up to Alan and asked in a false, but highly flirtatious tone, with a flutter of false eyelashes, for some coins. Their secret was out. They were men!

Most of the entertainment we realised, was not put on for the tourists, but was part of everyday life for the locals. We were merely witnesses to a rich culture, which has stood the test of time. Globalisation is ensuring that too many cities in the world have lost, and are losing their identity and are becoming boring and monotonous. Magical Marrakesh is different. We hope it never changes.

Locked away forever in my memories of travel, Marrakesh and her friendly people hold a special place.

We loved it, but of course you might hate it.

Next newsletter; Out of Morocco, through Portugal and a few days spent in Paris.