Feb 3rd

The day starts earlier than we had wished or indeed anticipated. Now I know that it’s every Muslim’s sacred duty to pray fie times a day, but I had no inkling that Allah’s remit extended so deep into the early hours. I have no idea what time it is when I hear the first wail, amplified a thousand times through the minaret’s boom box, but it is soon joined by at least five others and seems to go on for ever and a day. I decide to take my chance on eternal damnation and go for an extra couple of hour kip, which I am just about to sink back into when the cacophony starts again. Does Allah have a self belief problem or something? Apparently there’s a dawn prayer followed by a sunrise prayer. I had never thought there was a difference between thee two, but I suppose now it is characterised by the length of time necessary to just be getting back to kip after the first one, when the seond comes along.
The second set of wails does for my kipping ambitions, and soon after I hear fotsteps and the sounds of Sofian, presumably tearing himself from his pious devotions and getting down to the important business of brekkie.
The meal turns out to be splendid. Freshly squeezed orange juice, a hard boiled egg, a loaf (little more than a roll) of the excellent, crispy, aereated and tasty local bread, a selection of jams and honey, a delicious bubbly crepe, which combines the delights of a pancake and an aero bar, and a full cafetiere of cafe to be mixed with a generous helping of warm milk. It keeps us going throughout the day.
There’s no real plan in mind. We consider the taxi driver’s offer of a guided tour, but decide against. Time is limited and we opt to explore on foot.
Heading out into the "Derb" we are greeted with more"bonjours" from the local urchin population, and then turn out into the main drag. It is five times as busy as last nght, which would not have seemed possible. The increase is due to the fact tat all, as opposed to a majority of the shops are now open. The first culture shock comes at the butche’s shop. Six wonderful white chicken afre clucking away in the window. I suddenly realise that they are in fact tied together by their feet. Suddenly a hand appears from the darkness and grabs hold of them. The individual, sentient life forms are stuck on a set of scales, where they suddenly become a single commodity. I wouldn’t like to be their life assurance salesman! On closer examination there are three or four other chicken bunches stuffed into tiny wooden crates. A slim western blonde scoots in front of me in her tight arsed combats, and points a sophisticated camera into the shop. The butcher reacts angrily to both she and me, motioning us away with his arms.
The street is absolutely chock a block with donkey carts pulling every conceivable human supply in their carts. The donkeys are the saddest, mangiest creatures imaginable, with the possible exception of their masters, who to a man are aged, wrinkled, dried out by the sun and bent double by the efforts of their lifetime’s labours.
One step down the social hierarchy from the donkey carters are those who use the same carts, but are without donkey. Their tiny frames hauling huge piles of the unlikeliest supplies hither and thither, all the time vyeing for space with their four legged rivals, and of course, the never ending stream of mopeds weaving between them all.
We stroll through the melee, each corner providing a new surprise, until eventually the great minaret comes into view. We do the touristy thing, take our photos from many angles, and consider a coffee at an elegant looking cafe which lies in the shadow of the tower.
Before we can sit though, we are drawn to the palm fringed gardens over the road, and spend a lazy hour exploring. They are immaculately set out, consisting princcipally of vast palms reaching 50 or 60 feet into the sky, and neat rows of orange treees, trimmed into symmetrical shapes, and lined up as neat as soldiers. The gardens are a real oasis after the manic street, and the locals here adopt a more relaxed approach, taking a gentle stroll in the winter sunshine, which is growing in strength by the minnute.
After the gardens we wander aimlessly and soon chance upon a bus terminus. There is no real building, and no real bus stops, but great crowds mill around expectantly, all seemingly making sense of the system. Here real black faces convince us that we truly are on the dark continent, although Arab is still the dominant influence.
We wander through gates and notice huge stalks nesting atop turrets and even mobile phone masts. Each gate takes us into a tighter set of streets, and we seem to become more and more conspicous. Certainly would be guides are aware of us, but our growing sense of annoyance allows us to adopt the thick skinned rudeness required to persuade them to seek easier pray. As we delve deeper and deeper into the maze their attentions become tiring. The sun is now starting to make us uncomfortble, dresssed as we are in sweaters and coats, and we’d like to sit down, ideally for a beer (not likely), or at least for a tea or coffee. The only hosteleries are the dingy, men only little barlets that appear at regular intervals, but which do nothing to invite us inside.
The roads become so narrow that we are pressing into others simply to move forward. I feel vulnerable dressed as I am and carrying a camcorder, though in fairness no one ever presents a threat.
Suddenly we realise we have company. A young lad has latched onto us, and has apparently become our friend. He is impervious to all rudeness, and deals with it all with a friendly smile. We hold back, but again, he is fitted with radar and has no intention of letting us out of his site. After a while we are getting to the stage that we want to get back to the hotel to offload excess clothing. We have no idea from here how we would get back, so I buckle, and ask Mohammed, for it is he!, to take us to the Koutouba mosque.
We are now his, and this turns out to have benefits, as from this moment we are not hassled by another soul. The etiquette seems to dictate that he is in fact not just our guide, but our protection from all other guides.
We want to get the Koutouba, but M wants as much of us as he can get, and takes us around the royal palace (in truth all we can see of it are the exterior walls, and a gate which we are strictly forbidden to photograph)
Mohammed jokes with the royal guards and armed to the teeth police around the palace, but lives in mortal fear of the tourist police, who will curtail his guiding immediately, and more besides it seems.
After an hour of his company, he has won us over. We come across a pleasant square, and an attractive cafe. We say we are stopping for coffee, and we invite him to frink with us. This though, is not possible, "a cause de la police" and he waits patiently, just out of our line of sight, but never far enough to loose us.
What should we pay him? Well. At the start of our adoption, he made it quite clear that he sought no monetary gain, and so I suppose we could stick to that. I question another couple. They say agree a rate beforehand, or you will be rooked, but at the end of the day, he can scarcely physically demand cash.
I form a plan. He can take us to the mosque where I will tell him we are going back to the hotel, by bye, au revoir. I’ll pay him 5 euros for the time he has spent with us, take it or leave it.
But first, we must, surprise, surprise, visit his brother’s shop! This turns out to be some kind of apothecaries store, the spices attractively displayed on the pavement outside in the vast drums I had seen many times in the guide books. There were spices and potions and pumice stones and fossils, all colourful, all sweet smelling, all endowed with mysterious healing powers, and all of it totally fucking useless to us. Even Heather said so, and she is a sucker for this crap! I cowardly leave her to the tour round the shop and hang around on the street corner, under the watchful eye of our guide. Eventually boredom sends me inside, and we say a thick skinned goodbye without parting with a penny. To our shame the shopkeepers are pleasant and courteous as we take our leave.
Mohammed gets us to the mosque. He has more things to show us, but again I am firm. I hand him the 5 euros
"Mais, c’est rien monsieur"
I am in no mood for a fight and offer him a further 10 dirhams, which to my amazement he accepts happily, and goes on his way. Within a minute another guide is on our case, and I begin to miss young Mohammed.
We stop at the hotel from last night and anjoy a beer in the shade of the sun. The sun loungers are filling up around the pool and the hotel looks welcoming indeed, as does the beautiful pool. The staff are impeccably poite, if a little too bellhoppish in their uniform for my taste. It has a very colonial feel to it. The beers in this place don’t come cheap by the way and are expensive even by western standards. Apparently until recently it used to be relatively easy to get a cheap beer in the cafes frequented by the local Morrocan’s, but with the onward march of Islamic zealotary this is no longer the case. I am starting to sound like a stereotypiocal brit abroad I know.
We make it back to the Alaka with no further alarms. Time is running out for us as the flight leaves early tomorrow and in discussion with Sofian he suggests a 7:30 getaway is advisable. In view of the problems we had getting into Morroco it is hard to disagree, so the taxi is ordered.
We read through the guide books and lounge outside on the sun terrace. The sun now is blissfully warm when directly in line. It would be a pleasnat english summer’s day. After a few hours of lazing and dozing the decision is made to visit the new town, built by the French at some stage in the last century.
As we walk the long boulevards, the place has a less manic, more cosmopolitan feel to it, as evidenced principally by the Golden arches of Macvomits. We walk for hours, too long in fact, and see not much in particular. Theree are some reasonable looking restaurants, though all attached to business style hotels, and all absurdly expensive for a third world location. The place is undergoing a building boom, but so much seems unfinished, including the cobbled pavements, which always end in an enormous, life threatening pothole, or a simple pile of rubble. Skips stand by the side of the road on almost every corner, and men, almost 100% men, gaze out from European style cafes which still don’t offer the tantalising promise of the forbidden booze.
We enter a wonderful half built domed affair only to be greeted by someone who introduces himself as "le gardien du theatre" At once he is taking us on a guided tour and far too late do we realise that he will expect recompense at the end of it. He shows us nothing and tells us nothing that we would not have seen for ourselves, but nonetheless the implication is on parting that he should be rewarded. 20 dirhams (excusez moi, c’est tout que j’aie") seems to please him sufficiently. Who knows if he really was the guardien?
We walk for miles past endless identical pink modern buildings, with just the occasional municipal effort to break the monotony. It is becoming irksome and we discuss the possibility of jumping into a "petit taxi" or even one of the horse drawn carriges to take us back to the medina. But we are only here a day, haven’t learned the system, only now have large notes, and are worried about getting fleeced, so we walk, and walk and walk.
As the legs are about to succumb we turn a corner, and see the Koutouba mosque shining bright yellow light into the late evening, as impressive in the distance as from nearby. It’s a bloody way off, but at least we have something to set our sights on.
We trudge along a wide boulevard with a central walkway. It is impressive in scale, but there is a monotony to the arrangements of palms and topiaried bushes. People are out for an evening walk. Occasionally there a mixed groups of kids in western dress, but by and large they are segregated after 11 or 12. It all seems very joyless, though we detect the occasional chuckle from the family groups. It just all seems too well ordered and pre ordained to approach anything ressembling fun.
We are seriously tired now and trudge languidly towards the minaret. For a while it never seems to get closer, but after another half hour we spy the walls of the Medina. Even now we are thwarted. The entance gate leads only to a casino, and although inside now, we are diverted away from the mosque, and round a ring road. A million scooters blast round leaving the air a heavy soup of two stroke fumes. It is a vile experience. We totter atop an absurdly high kerb breathing in lunggfuls of the noxious mixture. H covers her face with her scarf. Very Morrocan!
After an eternity we are back to the mosque and in need of a drink. We look for somewhere else. We had discovered the "Narwama", ostensibly a Thai restaurant cum bar, earlier in the day.
To gain access we peer throught the obligatory wooden door into total darkness. I fumble and feel a large heavy black curtain. I peel it backwards and poke my head around. All looks well and I barge through and am shortly greeted by a gorgeous, dark haired youngster in a crisp white blouse and tight black trousers.
The place is dark, of course, but on a grand style, and flickering candles invite our gaze into it’s mysterious corners. We are led to the usual not quite comfy assortment of sofa and pillows, and presented with an ostentatious drinks menu with prices to match.
The staff are formal, but not unfriendly, and the restaurant looks grand in scale and presentation. We have no idea as to where we would like to eat. A return to La Place is immediately ruled out, and we have really seen nothing much to invite us, and so we decide to eat here.
The menu is a sad mixture of Thai standards and the two Morrocan standbys, viz Couscous and Tagine. It is overpriced and offers none of the anticipation, of say, Chiang Mai in Oxford.
Heather decides to try the Tagine and I go for John Dory in sweet and sour sauce. We order a bouteille of da wine!!!
The food is insipid in the extreme. The fish is dry and flavourless, the sauce could be puchased in a tin in any UK supermarket, and in addition it is not especially warm. It is well enough served, though without much warmth, and the only consolation to be had is the impressive surroundings, again under winter temporary roof. The centrepiece is a spectacular blaze of colour based on a fountain fused with a fire feature.
We leave, writing the place off to experience and head for La Place. It is noticeably calmer than the night before. Obviously Saturday is the big night in Marrakech as with chez nous. We are looking for gifts for the kids, but in truth there is not a lot on offer. I buy a couple of silly hats for Dan, bargaining from 400 dirhams to 35, and probably still paying too much. Heather torments some poor guy from the jewelry souk and eventually comes away wih a couple of pieces of tat for the girls. And that’s it really, back to the hotel, tired, and whilst it was fun, I won’t be shedding a tear for Marrakech to my departure.
We get tidied up on our return, in readiness for tomorrow’s early off, and hit the pillows, newly adorned with rose petals, hoping to sleep throught the first of tomorrows rallying calls for Allah.