Marrakech and Morocco
Arrival
At the airport we were met by one of the staff from our riad who drove us around the city walls, through the Bab Aylin city gate and then twisted round narrow streets in their 4x4. On looking at the map later on in the week, we realised that he had purposely driven round and round the streets, taking a (very) indirect route to the riad. But what an introduction to the city: from the car, we could have reached through the window and grabbed fish from market stalls set up on both sides to leave just enough gap for one car to pass through; children playing football in the street mingled with woman in headdresses sitting and chatting on concrete steps; motorcycles and mopeds came from all directions with no warning, fighting for space on the cobbles with pedestrians, other vehicles and stray cats. Sarah leaned over to me, eyes firmly fixed on her surroundings, and whispered in awe, “I'm so incredibly excited about this holiday.”
Riad
When we finally did get to the Riad Bellamane - which required a 3-minute walk due to the street being too narrow for cars, a culture shock and a heat shock after all the air-conditioning – we looked at the outside and thought, 'is this it?'. All we could see was one corner of the building, a solid wooden door at street level and no other windows. We should have known better: opening the door revealed first of all a long corridor leading to an office, with a massive blue-and-white tiled courtyard off to the left dominated by a central tree. Arranged around the courtyard, one story up, was a square balcony with five doors – the five individually-designed rooms we'd seen on their website and agonised over which one to book, eventually settling on the Design Suite. To the right was a plunge pool, the still, deep-blue water creating reflections across the whitewashed walls of its own separate courtyard. All around were Moroccan lanterns, sets of tables and chairs with intricate Islamic designs, and – perhaps most important of all – shade from the sun. Riads are designed to look out over a central internal courtyard, rather than external windows. This keeps the sun's heat out and creates extra privacy.
Sitting us down by the pool, our host bought us mint tea (twice – he forgot to put the tea in the first pot!) and we saw for the first time the art of pouring into a small glass from a high distance. We tried it for our second serving: The first one I couldn't get anywhere near as high, and for Sarah's glass I got higher but spilt it all over the table.
We were enjoying the mint tea, sitting down listening to the tinkling of the pool's filter system and the birds chirping high above us, when my bladder called. We hadn't been since Gatwick, but we hadn't yet been shown into our room. I asked the host where the toilet was.
“Toilet? There is no toilet.”
“Oh. Do you not have one near the pool?”
“No, sorry.”
“How about a staff one?”
“We don't have one either. Really sorry” (looking pitiful at this point)
“O...K... Well, can we go to the toilet in our room? We don't mind if the cleaner doesn't clean it again before we get there?”
“Sorry, there are no toilets here. Really very sorry.”
I turned and started heading back to the pool to give Sarah the bad, and puzzling news – when I heard a voice behind me.
“Joke! Joke! Only joke! We have toilet!”
I turned round and saw the biggest smile I've ever seen on anyone's face. His colleague in the background was sniggering loudly too. Realising I'd been 'had' I meekly followed and saw him open a door just inside the building. As he started pointing and saying “Here you go, it's here...” I said “Thank you very much...”, walking through the door to realise he'd shown me the inside of the boiler cupboard. Turning back again, smile now even bigger, I couldn't help but laugh out loud at the Moroccan humour.
Orientation
The first task for us was to find a cash machine. Moroccan Dirhams are not allowed to be imported or exported, meaning you either have to bring cash (in pounds, US dollars or Euros) and convert it in the country, or just use your debit card to withdraw cash from ATMs – the method we chose. We'd clocked that, next to the Jemaa el-Fnaa (more later), was a road called “Bank Street”. Figuring (correctly, as it turned out) that would be the best bet for an ATM, we asked the riad for a hand-drawn map of how to get to the square.
Now, what you have to understand about Marrakech is that no map in the world will be able to help you – let alone a back-of-a-fag-packet one, even drawn by a local. But we were yet to realise this. Following the simple instructions of 'turn left, turn left, turn right and straight on', we ended up on a random street facing the opposite way to where we needed, and being asked by a man in a baseball cap if we were looking for the “big square”. Yes, we were. Could he point the way? Indeed he could offer more than that – he could take us there! We followed until we realised that (a) he would want paying for this, we had no money and when we did we would have to give away a fresh note instead of low-value coins; and (b) we saw signs to the Jemaa el-Fnaa – pointing the opposite way to the way he was leading us. We tried twice to lose him – he was walking quite far ahead of us, but kept looking round to check we were still there, and came back to find us when we weren't. Eventually we indicated the signs pointing the way, told him firmly we didn't have any money and walked away. Then we made the mistake of following the sign.
As you can see from the photo, the signs in Marrakech are... err... confusing, to say the least. Coupled with the lack of any decent published map (the one we decided was the best out of the three guidebooks didn't actually have the road our riad was on) and the narrow streets lined with solid buildings, it's very difficult to get lost. We learned after a few days that this was the best way to experience the city – new experiences around every corner – and we eventually worked out the quickest route to the centre. On that first time, though, in the heat, still with no money, we were absolutely flustered.
Jemaa el-Fnaa
We walked around trying to find the 'big square' unsuccessfully. I laughed at Sarah's suggestion that we had walked through it already and not realised – until I showed her photos of it from the guide books, and she decided that we definitely hadn't. In the end, we stumbled across it almost accidentally, Jemaa el-Fnaa suddenly emerging in front of us at the end of a street filled with market stalls. Immediately the senses came alive: snake charmers, monkey-men, water-sellers in their extravagant costumes, the ubiquitous market stall-owners with their wares spread out on a rug on the floor, groups of people surrounding a single person telling a story in Arabic, line after line of caravans selling fresh orange juice and only fresh orange juice, and tourists with eyes either popping out of their sockets or fixed to a viewfinder. Everything about the 'big square' seems infinitely foreign yet friendly, exotic yet somehow familiar. It's a curious place – unique in the world, as UNESCO recognised by granting it the world's only “Masterpiece of the oral and intangible history of humanity” protected status.
Once we had done a few circles of the square, we noticed that the stalls were changing. The market traders were packing up, and in their place donkeys were appearing with carts laden with poles, chairs, wooden boards and cooking equipment. Diving into a nearby café for a mint tea, we watched as gradually make-shift marquees were erected, filled with long tables, lined with chairs, and with grills in one corner sending off steam as a range of meat started browning on them. This was the infamous Jemaa el-Fnaa food market, to which we would return later in the week. But tonight we had booked a meal at the riad, and looking at our watches we realised that if we were to ever find it again, we needed to leave now to guarantee we would be on time for our reservation, a whole two hours away. You won't be surprised to learn we did get lost – but arrived back (just) in time to enjoy a delicious chicken tagine, sitting in candlelight by the pool enjoying a bottle of Morocco's finest (only?) whites (surprisingly very good – we had more in Essaouira).
Koutoubia Mosque
The next day we planned to again visit the Jemaa el-Fnaa during the day. But, once again, we got lost trying to find it (we eventually realised the day after that we had been taking just one wrong turning, missing a vital left turn and walking straight on instead) and ended up back in the Jewish area, where we had been searching for the square the day before. At least we knew where to go from there! During the day the 'big square' is too hot for most people to hassle you, so we walked through relatively unbothered – until a monkey man came and plonked one of his animals on our heads. A good photo – but probably not worth the £7 we paid for it, and certainly not the double they wanted. Our next stop was the Koutoubia mosque, from where we had heard the call to prayer a few times but hadn't seen up-close. To get there we had to cross a very busy street at what was in theory a pedestrian crossing but in practice gave 5 seconds to cross before turning the traffic lights back to green (tip – walk down-traffic of the locals; if they start running, copy them!). That plonked us in the Koutoubia Gardens, a pretty green area surrounding three sides of the mosque – which would have been much prettier if the fountains and pools weren't drained of water. Non-Muslims are not allowed into the building, but we waited in the gardens for the lunchtime call to prayer, sat on a shady bench listening to the birds and reflecting on how, when it comes down to it, human beings are all the same regardless of colour, religion or background.
Lunch was up next, and we braved the main souks for the first time, looking for Café Arabe as recommended by all three of our guide books. Partly because of us getting lost over and over again in the souks, and partly because we were constantly stopping to take in the scene in front, behind, above and around us, we didn't arrive until about 3pm. Unfortunately Sarah's already-kaput immune system had failed her again, and the first thing she did was head to the loo, while I took in the view from the rooftop terrace over the city. We only stayed for a drink or two as we had left all the medicine in the riad, but promised to ourselves to come back for something to eat before we left the city. We spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing by the pool, Sarah frequently popping off to the toilet but coming back pleased with the quick response of the medicine (“it's more solid than last time!”), before declaring she was well enough to eat again that evening. Guidebooks out, restaurant selected, we tried once again to follow the instructions to the square – and this time we got it! Through the square, then heading due south from it along yet another street lined with market traders, the street names suddenly changed to Arabic script. Using all my concentration to (slowly) read each street name, we came across “Derb Ben Amrane”. I slowly translated it out loud. “Hey, isn't this the one we're looking for?” I asked Sarah while turning back to look at her – but there was no-one there. She had already found the restaurant – signs in English and very, very big and bright – and was standing in the entrance laughing at me. Yes, this was the one! The Dar Mimoun restaurant was set in a riad's courtyard with lots of mature trees, birds flitting around. Apart from a French couple with a young child playing with toys on the floor, we were the only ones there. The tajines were acceptable, prices acceptable, service a little slow, toilets need improving. On balance, probably not worth it: when we left there were only two extra tables occupied.
Saadian Tombs
The next day, we planned to head south of the city to the Saadian Tombs and the El Badi Palace. Unfortunately the palace was closed for maintenance the week we were there, and was only opening the day we were due to go to Essaouria. We really wanted to see this from our pre-holiday planning, so were on a bit of a downer until we entered the Saadian Tombs (after the usual charade of walking around, looking at a map, burning the map in frustration and then walking around a bit more). The tombs are in a tiny, packed site and were sealed until 1917, before a French aerial survey re-discovered the treasures inside: quite literally, tombs – but tombs in beautiful, preserved buildings with Islamic tiling and decoration, dating back over 500 years. Be careful of the opening times: they are only open for two hours in the morning and a few more in the afternoon, closing for the hottest part of the day.
We headed into the nearby Kosybar for a drink to re-align our bearings and mentally prepare ourselves to head back into the souks and do some bartering for gifts. Kosybar is spread over three levels, the highest terrace overlooking the Baadi Palace and the hundreds of storks nesting on its walls, with a view of the Moroccan countryside and Atlas mountains providing the backdrop. Moving on back to the north of the city and the souks, back through the 'big square', we accidentally walked past Cafe Arabe (we would never have found it again if we were actually trying to!). Seizing the opportunity to fulfil our promise, we went inside for lunch, perching again on the same seats as before with a view over the city towards the Atlas, the mists of cool water in pipes above our heads providing refreshment from the midday heat. Lunch was good – they specialise in Italian and colonial food, so just not having a tajine was nice!
Bartering
Our first attempt at bartering was shameful: Sarah suggested a price, the seller doubled it, the deal was done. As the afternoon wore on, we got much better to the point where we had a shoe seller following us through the souks dropping his price until he matched what we'd offered him in the first place. By the end we had two pairs of shoes, some patterned tiles now being used as table mats at home, two Hand of Fatima necklaces, a cushion, some mint tea and an accompanying teapot. The best thing we learned along the way (and it shouldn't be a surprise as all the guide books say exactly this, the only surprise is how hard it is) is to pretend you're not interested until the price is right, even to the point of walking away if necessary. If, unlike us, the seller doesn't stalk you through the souks dropping the price, you can always come back later. Pleased with our purchases (but unsure how we would fit them in our luggage!) we returned to the riad for a well-deserved rest, of both our legs and the mathematical part of our brains!
Medersa Ben Youssef
Tucked away on the northern outskirts of the souks is Medersa Ben Youssef, an old school house now open for public tours. You can see inside the dormitories, bathrooms, corridors and classrooms which all overlook a massive internal courtyard (although 'square' better describes its size). Arabic inscriptions run the length of the walls and the run-down look of the place seems to fit this chaotic city.
As we were nearby, we popped into Terrace de les Epices for lunch – this colonial-era restaurant in the heart of the souks is hard to find but is worth it – entering through a working Dar, you can see residents hand-making goods and displaying them for sale. Walking up a staircase and into the restaurant's flat terrace featuring comfortable 'booths' around the side, your menu is presented on a blackboard placed outside your booth. Read it quickly (or take a photo) before it is taken to be displayed to another party! This place also accepts credit and debit cards – the only restaurant we found that did.
Jardin Majorelle
We knew we wanted to visit the Jardin Majorelle, gardens which were once the home to Yves St Laurent, but there was a problem: it was far outside the city walls, certainly not walking distance in the summer heat, so we would have to get a taxi there. We'd been checking them out all week: all of them banged-up banger bang-mobiles with a taxi sign plonked on top. Hardly reassuring: but we plucked up the courage and enquired for a price. Agreed, in we got, quickly pulling over the seatbelts and looking skywards. We had nothing to worry about – he took us there, charged us the correct price, gave us the correct change, and didn't kill us.
The moment you walk into the gardens it's like being transported to a different place: a place with no hot sun beating down, no bartering, and no strangers offering to show you the way to the big square. It's a small segment of peace and tranquillity in a city that is everything but. Huge, centuries-old trees shade the entire place and protect their smaller siblings, in a park with water trickling and paths winding through it. Deeper inside, multiple ponds and water features surround the studio that Yves himself worked in. Part of the building is now the Berber museum, entry to which is included in the price, containing jewellery, tools, money, clothes and other artefacts found around the foothills of the High Atlas.
In the evening we braved the food stalls of the Jemaa el-Fnaa. The smoke and smells permeate every inch of the square in the evening, with camping-style tables and chairs lined up in each semi-covered marquee. Whole families eat out here as a treat, and the trick to get the best experience is to locate the ones where locals are eating. This advice led us into... the one with the best English sales patter-cum-Moroccan humour (“We have Michelin star! Air conditioning inside! Diarrhoea-free food guaranteed!”) and thus only tourists inside. Result! Actually the food (simple kebabs with salad) was very good, and the guidebook advice to eat with your bread or fingers to avoid the knives and forks - which cannot be satisfactorily washed between customers in the middle of a public square - is definitely sensible.
Leaving Marrakech
It was our last full day in the city, which we spent mainly chilling in the riad swimming pool, reading on our balcony, sunning ourselves on the riad roof terrace looking back through photos, and drinking mint tea. For our last-night meal we went early to Chez Chegrouni restaurant, towering above Jemaa el-Fnaa square, and got a different view to last night's culinary experience: looking down on the smoke rising from the food stalls. As we ordered, the dusk call to prayer began from the Koutoubia, at the same time as the call to prayer from the smaller mosque right opposite the restaurant. As this most important religious pillar took place, we watched as local market stall owners far down below us continued to sell their wares to local women, local families continued to eat their kebabs at the food stall with local waiting staff rushing about around them. Our own waiter bought us our drinks just as the call to prayer ended, and life in Marrakech continued as normal.
We'd asked the riad to take us back to the airport on our last day at 10:00 so that we could pick up the hire car (we always say that, next holiday, we won't hire a car as it's too much hassle. It never works out...). At 8:45 we arrived for breakfast, planning to have a leisurely meal on the roof terrace (we asked especially, as they'd said in the tour we could have it anywhere but we'd had it in the courtyard on the ground floor all week, conveniently near to the kitchen) before packing up the last of our belongings and then getting into the car. After he had been up and down three flights of stairs for the second time, we asked if he needed any assistance – we were happy to come down and collect and bring it up ourselves. In broken English, he explained his colleague wasn't there - so we assumed he wasn't at work due to sickness. After breakfast, we took everything back downstairs for them and only then they asked if we were ready to leave. I looked at the time on my phone and reminded them that we still had 45 minutes until we had booked the car. He then pointed at his own watch, which read 10:15. We should have already been near the airport – and his colleague wasn't sick, he was waiting in the car outside for us! We quickly gathered up our belongings, said rushed thankyous and goodbyes, and were then whisked back to the airport.
Marrakech is definitely the same time zone as the UK all year round, as confirmed by our guidebooks, the pilot on the inbound flight, and (while writing this guide) by Google. So here's my theory as to why we were an hour behind the real time all week: My Android phone is set to automatically pick up the time from whichever mobile mast it is connected to, and the time zone is also set to be picked automatically. This is fine in the UK – when the clocks change to BST, and back to GMT, the mobile operators also make this change, so my phone updates both the time, and the timezone, automatically. I suspect in Morocco, while this system does exist, the mobile phone operators do not actually update the time when the clocks change, instead relying on their users to change the timezone on their devices – in other words, the mobile masts always have an accurate time, but it is set to GMT year-round, which means in the summer (actual time GMT+1) the phone does the work of adding the hour. This mean my phone, because it couldn't read a timezone from the mobile mast, defaulted back to GMT, i.e. an hour behind real time. Solution: Take a non-radio-controlled watch, or ask a local on arrival into the country for the time, then turn off any automatic updating on your phone!
Atlas Drive
We were sad to leave this lovely city, but excited about what lay ahead. We still had three nights in Essaouira, a town previously known for its hippie lifestyle on the Atlantic coast, but before that – in true Pinfold-holiday style, we had decided to rent a car and drive up into the Atlas mountains. What else?!
After having our riad host drop us off at their airport – and paying the obligatory fee to have someone wheel our bags the two minutes' walk from the car-park to their airport – we can do it ourselves, honestly! – we arrived at the Avis desk and handed over our pre-paid voucher. He looked at it without saying a word, got up and left the little booth, wandering off into the ether. Assuming he had little English and that he had gone to fetch our keys, we waited. And waited. I went to the loo while Sarah looked after our bags, came back and waited. She went to the loo, I looked after the bags, waiting, forever waiting, nothing. Eventually he came back – crumbs around his mouth and nothing in his hands – and in almost impeccable English apologised for the delay, before proceeding to pull out our documents and car keys which had always been in the filing cabinet behind him. He then tried to put the refundable deposit for damages onto Sarah's credit card which was declined. It was only when we worked out how much he had tried to process – the equivalent of about £3,500 – that we realised it was never going to work unless we reduced the amount. So we then went through the rigmarole of trying to put through ever-decreasing amounts on a credit card - £3,000; £2,750; £2,000... until we found an amount that worked. It's no wonder Sarah received a fraud alert check to her mobile phone! “Yes, someone really did try to genuinely process more than our total credit limit on multiple occasions from an African country. No, this wasn't fraudulent. Very sorry, Lloyds TSB. Please can you not disable my credit card? Cheers.”
Keys given, SatNav sorted out and programmed by the Avis representative to Imlil (“No, it shouldn't take nearly 3 hours to drive there as this display says – it should be half that – but I'm sure it will be fine. Have a good trip!”), the last challenge was to leave the airport car-park via a ticket which was pre-paid to let us exit. No problems there, but while we were driving round the car-park, as we normally do to get a feel for the car and get used to driving on the wrong side again, Mr Avis went to the ticket booth to chat to his mate in it. When we pulled up, matey-boy said “So you're going to Imlil, are you?” “Yes”. “OK, well you turn left...” With impeccable timing, he pressed the button to open the gate and pretended to be shocked. “Oh, he said, err – pull through before the gate closes again and I'll tell you the rest on the other side”. Obeying, we realised too late he had already jumped on his moped and – passing us – gave the internationally-recognised “follow me!” sign. Well, we knew where we going to leave the airport anyway – the SatNav told us, and we had written directions to the Atlas on hard-copy which couldn't fail. So, despite everything that had happened so far in Marrakech with people “showing us the way as a favour”, I followed.
“He's not taking us the right way – the SatNav says to go straight on!” squawked Sarah, already lost from the written instructions due to previous unexpected turns. Eventually he pulled into a layby, gave another internally-recognised gesture – this time “wind down your window” and told us to just turn right here (pointing) and keep going. Oh, and could he have some money for the petrol? No, he couldn't, this time we were able to go faster than he could and that's exactly what we did after winding the window back up to his protestations. Whether or not he gave a third well-known gesture to us we'll never know. But we still had a problem: Matey-boy told us to turn right, Victoria the SatNav woman was insisting that left was the way to go. As he was still in watching range, we decided to turn right – no hard feelings and all that – and did a 180 at the next available layby. Now we were on the right track, according to SatNav Victoria. But the journey time just wasn't right. Looking at the journey map view, we realised Avis man had somehow programmed it for a different Imlil which was about 110 degrees in the wrong direction away from Marrakech. We programmed it for a town next to (the correct) Imlil instead, did another 180 and followed matey-boy's direction. Apologies to him; you're the one we should have paid our tip to, not Avis-man.
Once out the city, driving in Morocco is surprisingly easy. Signs were in both Arabic and Latin characters, the highways were relatively traffic-free with good-quality surfaces and well-marked lanes. The only real problem were in the towns on the way, which the highways seemed to cut right through. Here, you are normally greeted with crowds of people checking out the market stalls on both sides of the road; donkeys, bikes and pedestrians appearing from all directions and police with radar speed guns. With the High Atlas in front of us all the time, growing ever larger and Imlil getting ever closer, we realised the time. Due to the cock-up over the clocks that morning and the delay with Avis, we were well behind our schedule. We had hoped to drive straight to Imlil, check out the mountain views for an hour or so in the town, and then on the way back stop at Richard Branson's Kasbah Tamadot for our 1 o'clock lunch reservation before continuing the journey to Essaouira. We quickly realised that we would already be passing Kasbah Tamadot late on the way to Imlil, so we went straight there and arrived just a few minutes past our reservation.
Upon entering we knew straight away we had come to somewhere special. Passing through numerous courtyards, and past multiple swimming pools, we were overwhelmed at the size of the gardens. A massive swimming pool sat in the middle, with sunbeds and parasols dotted around. The main bulk of the kasbah itself housed the main hotel and restaurant, attached to which was the terrace we were shown to with a panoramic view over the Atlas valleys. On the other side a pretty little town clung to the mountain, its small mosque just kicking off its lunchtime call to prayer. At the base of the valley, a group of kids played in the clear stream, splashing water over each other. Nearby, an elderly woman sat with her herd of three cows, presumably taking a rest from the midday sun. A bit further on, a family were having a picnic on a rug. Looking skywards, the snow-crested Toubkal mountain, the tallest in northern Africa, overlooked the rest of Mr Branson's estate: mock-Berber tents (available to stay in at a very hefty price) commanded a view down the valley, while the even more exclusive three-story Master Suite tower, also available to stay in, must have had an entire 360-degree view from the top floor. The food was good, too – if, as anticipated, a little on the pricey side. In the end we decided not to bother with Imlil itself, as we figured we probably wouldn't get any better views of the Atlas range than we'd had while eating. However we did drive a little further up the road, where we saw a message carved out of the chalk mountainside saying “Allah, Al-Watan, Al-Malik” (“God, Country and King”) in Arabic.
It was then time to start the longest drive of the holiday – at about 3-and-a-half hours – from the Atlas to Essaouira. Arriving back on the outskirts of Marrakech, Sarah decided she needed to go to the loo and told me to pull into the next petrol station I saw, which I duly did. I gave her my wallet so she could also buy some bottles of water and in case she needed to pay for the toilet, while I stayed in the car. She came back and told me sternly that, no, I couldn't get out and go to the loo as well. But would I like some water instead? I managed to get out of her, slowly, that it was a squat toilet – and in her haste to get out, she had paid for the water not with a 20 Dirham note (about £1.50) but a 20 Euro note (about £17.30). Whoops.
Skirting round Marrakech, and onto the new, modern highway connecting the city with the coast, we had our first – and only – road-sign issue. The signs indicated Essaouira was one way while the SatNav said we should be going the opposite direction. We'd had history with both Moroccan directional signs, but also with the SatNav, so didn't know which one to trust. Having to make a snap decision we went with the signs (it looked on physical inspection of the road to be the most likely) and were rewarded with the SatNav admitting its mistake and re-planning its route. In no time we were driving through the desert, the bulk of the journey – plain, raw, yellow, duney desert – almost alone on the road and feeling like we were on Route 66 from 50 years ago. The landscape gradually changed, getting more and more green until we crested the top of a hill and, laid before us, was the Atlantic sea fringed by the port town of Essaouira, known in its heyday as the hippie capital of Morocco, but now famed for its watersports, utilising the gusts which are responsible for its guise “Windy City of Africa”.
Essaouira
We had booked into the posh Thalassa Spa hotel on the seafront just outside the city walls, which was easy to find and even easier to hand over the keys – after the 3-and-a-half-hour drive – to a waiting porter. We walked into the reception to the inevitable form-filling (Arriving from – check. Going to – check. Passport number – check. Oh, and can we take a copy of your credit card in case you take anything from the minibar and don't admit it? - check). And were then let down gently from our original request for an ocean view room. “We have room 206 for you, it's a gorgeous room, lots of sun inside and on the balcony... and it has a lovely, cough, pool, cough, view”. To be fair it was only a request (the class of room we were in was available with either view for the same price) – but as we were walking round the corridor, peeking out the various windows to the ocean that we were going to miss out on, we noticed something: a whistling sound. Not constant, certainly not high pitched. More like... wind whistling through the (closed) windows and patio doors onto public balconies. In a moment, we had gone off the idea of an ocean view room if we would have to put up with that all night. Arriving into our (whistle-free) room, the sun was shining, as promised, into the room and on the balcony, where after dumping our stuff we laid on the cushions and almost fell asleep.
It was fairly late in the afternoon by then, so we decided to unpack, have a shower then head to one of the hotel's restaurants before retiring to bed, ready to wake up fresh the next day and explore the town. The restaurant was OK, nothing special except the price, with a fairly bored-looking two-man band strumming guitars and singing in Arabic, one of which we saw a few days later in the town accompanied by a much livelier band.
The next morning, walking into the town through Bab Sba, cash re-stocked from the bank en route, we realised what a difference this was to Marrakech. There was no-one coming up to us offering to take us anywhere we wanted (via his brother's carpet shop, an exclusive tour free of charge to you!), shouting “Allo, allo, you wan' buy?” from their market stalls, or street beggars. The atmosphere – with the exception of the fish market – reminded us of a Mediterranean town in Italy or Spain. Whitewashed walls with that very specific shade of blue paint that signifies 'holiday'. Restaurants and bars spilling out onto the promenade. Seagulls and ice-creams. All in a relaxed pace of life. It really is the antithesis to a Marrakech souk – which was exactly what we needed.
We walked out to the port where fish hauls were being landed every 10 minutes or so from a newly-returned boat, where it was met with traders waiting to gut them in public view, before displaying them in the sun on a rug or sometimes directly on the ground. Tourists wielding cameras - and restaurateurs desperate to get cheap fish in the auction further down – were treading all over broken fishing nets spread the full width of the path, young men working to repair them before being hauled back onto departing boats.
It was time for breakfast and we scoured out the Cafe de France for pastries and orange juice, watching two bearded men engrossed in a game of chess. We think we saw them take about three moves each in the half-hour we were there. Onto the Skala du Port, a public terrace lined by ornamental canons pointing out towards the Canary Islands and America. Back through the market and returning to where we started, we checked out the beach and had a little dip to cool off our blistering feet, watching a veiled woman struggling to keep the material wrapped around her head and face from the high winds while also trying to entertain her three young children and the family dog.
As this was supposed to be the 'relaxing' part of our trip, we were conscious we had to strike the right balance between chilling around the hotel pool and/or on the beach, and not feeling like we'd come to a town, stayed for three days but not explored it. With that in mind, we decided to spend that afternoon and most of the next day by the pool, going out only to eat, and spend most of the third – and last – day in the town before heading back to Marrakech for the flight home that evening.
The pool was cold, too cold to swim in for long, but the book on the Kindle was engrossing and funny – and before we knew it we were the only ones still around the pool, giggling out loud to the book, and realising it was time to go out to eat. We'd already pre-selected a place we'd spotted while out earlier: Taros restaurant, with a high balcony with an almost 360-degree view across the town and sea. We figured if we could get the right seat and time it right, we could be served our meal just as the sun was setting into the Atlantic. We did get the right seat (the last remaining table on the highest part of the terrace – bettered only when our neighbours left and we jumped into their grave, meaning there was no-one between us and our view of the sea!). And we did get the right time, started enjoying another bottle of Moroccan rosé, and waited for our meal. By the time it was delivered to our table, it was too dark to even tell if they had our order correct. Gulping it down, skipping desert, and neglecting to leave a tip, we stumbled back down the dark stairs past other tables still waiting for their food and back to the hotel. Excellent view, fantastic for photographs; average food, appalling service. Probably recommended for drinks on the terrace only. On the way back, we spotted a good-looking bakery and decided to check it out the next morning.
As it turned out, the Driss Bakery was also in our guidebook and lived up to its excellent review: Fresh orange juice and coffee, fresh pastries and fresh fruit, for a very good price. We even went back the next day for more. More Kindle-reading, a little more swimming, more sun-bathing and more expensive poolside drinks and a lunch during the day. A new restaurant that evening: Cote Plage, owned by the hotel but located on the beachfront, specialising in fish. Very nice food in a candle-lit conservatory-style building watching the boats going in and out of the harbour and the waves splashing against the sand and the two islands that are almost within touching distance, but are strictly out of bounds – permanently closed for the exclusive use of the falcons.
We had read that camel- and donkey-riding was available at the far end of the beach, away from the town, so we headed there – not to ride the animals, just to see them and the surfers, windsurfers and kitesurfers with whom they shared that part of the beach. There, we found a collection of chilled-out beach-shack cafes and opted for Ocean Vagabond, which had a garden we could use for protection to take photos without demands for payment. The food was pretty good too – in fact, we went back the next day for our final lunch in Essaouira.
Home, Sweet Home... Slowly
The drive back to Marrakech for our flight home was as yellow as it was on the way: mile after mile of sand, as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by electrical pylons, small farmsteads (although we couldn't work out what they could possibly be growing) and occasional glimpses of the sea or another part of the Atlas range. Avis drop-off was uneventful, Matey-boy on the moped was nowhere to be seen, and check-in was smooth. But we had made that classic error of leaving too much time for the drive “just in case”, and now somehow had to kill two hours before our gate even opened. As the line from The Terminal so neatly surmises, “there's only one thing you can do in an airport. Shop.” So we did – very expensive cans of drink, a few extra presents for the family, and a reasonably-priced sandwich meal with our remaining Dirhams in a little cafe tucked away in the corner of the terminal, overlooking the runway. Why everyone else was queuing for the over-priced, shrivelled-up sandwiches in cafes where you had a lovely view of more people queuing we couldn't explain.
And so on the flight, the customary two glasses of wine for £8 easyJet offer later, we arrived into Stansted on time at 12:45am. We had booked a room in the Premier Inn and a National Express bus back to Luton for midday. We hadn't counted, though, on how far away the hotel was from the airport, and a very rude bus driver. Our instructions said to take the Premier Inn bus from the bus station to be taken straight to the hotel. Only problem was that bus had stopped running half-an-hour ago. We asked at the taxi booking office, who advised there was a 45 minute wait, but that the hotel was close to the Long-Stay Car Park, and perhaps we could get a bus driver who was going that way anyway to drop us off there? An excellent idea, we agreed, and went to scour out the bus to the car parks. By now 1:30am back in the drizzly UK, we just wanted to plop into bed. So it was no surprise that the driver of the bus – probably wanting to do the same – rudely told us that “we don't go there”. We know, we explained, but we've been told it's on the way. Could you just stop for 10 seconds outside and let us off? “I said, we don't stop there”. We heard you the first time, we've never been to this airport before, don't know where the hotel is, and it's dark. Maybe instead you could drop us at the nearest official stop and point us in the right direction? Yes, he could drop us at an official stop, we needed to alight at N15. That meant nothing to us, but we got on anyway. Turns out N15 was the furthest away from the terminal and – at first glance – furthest away from the Premier Inn as well. In fact N15 looked like it was in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Suddenly we saw green neon in the distance – across a roundabout and through an industrial estate – bingo!
We slept like logs (certainly no need to claim under Premier Inn's Great Night's Sleep Guaranteed guarantee!), awaking at around 10:30 just in time to have a shower, head back to the airport, grab a Full English and onto the bus. Oh, the bus. At first impressive – leather seats, free wi-fi, even working seatbelts! – but half-hour in, downright disturbing how little distance we had covered. It wound all through little villages, the main Hertfordshire towns, eventually on to Luton Airport where it took half-an-hour to load new passengers, and finally into Luton town. We then needed to walk to Luton train station, where we had just missed a train by two minutes. The 14-minute journey back to Flitwick, and then a taxi home. From boarding the bus at Stansted Airport to walking through our front door took nearly three hours – only 20 minutes or so short of the flight from Marrakech.
Once again, we made our annual post-holiday pact to only ever use Luton Airport in the future. Let's see how that one works out...
Map
Photo Gallery
There are many, many more photos in the gallery "A week in Marrakech and Essaouira".
Date and Updates
Originally written in August 2013.
Added map, web links and corrected minor typos in October 2013.
