marakech,morocco

Having, as a result of my own stupid behaviour, just become homeless it seemed like the perfect opportunity to take in a bit of sunshine, particularly apt given the utterly feeble excuse for a summer that were June, July and August 2007. Marrakech, just 3 hours from London, seemed the perfect location. Frankly, I was right: a rare occurrence.

A brief stop in Casablanca and we were just about landed in Marrakech, I’m sure the pilot almost overshot the runway! Politely declining an invitation to join an Interpol conference whilst navigating passport control and welcome to Marrakech. It would not be long before we were to experience the first of our true Moroccan delights: being screwed over by taxi drivers. In a country where the average annual wage is $1520 (cheers lonely planet), paying 20 quid for a 15 minute taxi ride was excessive. However, there’s a time to haggle and a time to bend over: this was one of the latter.

Despite being well dated, Riad Mogador represented excellent value for money, just a 15 minute walk (or roll) to the souks that form the heart of the Medina. Not the worst stroll in the world either, particularly given a temperature of 28c in the first week of November. Once at the Medina it was easy to get lost in the colours, noise and smells (not always pleasant) of the souks. They will try and sell you everything! However, with a strong head and an empty wallet temptation can be avoided. Whilst undoubtedly some bargains exist, the missionary position is once again more likely to be explored. The cafes situated around the edge of Djemaa-el-fna provide an excellent location for lunch, and as a kebab eating chav from Essex I was well catered for. Though being a Muslim country, the alcoholic tendencies were more difficult to accommodate.

The second day of our trip included a trip to Seti Fatma, a small village in the Ourika valley, accessible by grand taxi from Bab er-Rob at a price of about 2 to 3 quid per person. Expect to share the 4 pasenger seats with half-a-dozen intimate friends. With the wheelchair providing a convenient excuse for the avoidance of such intimacy, a private return taxi was arranged. Our driver, undoubtedly not lacking in initiative, helpfully ensured my wheelchair WOULD fit in the back of his car. This initiative, however, extended to most literally taking us to the top of a mountain and then buggering off for a cup of tea with his mates, despite previous promises of a personal tour. Seti Fatma is undoubtedly naturally beautiful. However, like many such locations, it had become a dump. A combination of excessive tourism and locals who appeared to care little for the environment that earned their crust. I would not recommend it.

The final day was undoubtedly the highlight, brought about by an enabler who actually reads the guidebooks and a guide (Aziz) with more rabbit than Sainsbury’s and an unsurpassable local knowledge. As a Berber, the local peoples of the Atlas mountains, Aziz provided an utterly genuine insight to the remote world of the Atlas mountains: a rarity for most tourists. Having decided to hire a taxi for the day to take us to the mountains, we wandered out of our hotel to be confronted by a gaggle of taxi drivers on the lookout for some unsuspecting tourist. Unknowingly, we got lucky. Having haggled the price down from 1200 to 1000 dhiram we set off on the 100km drive up the Tizi N’Test to Tin Mal, an unexpected, incredibly beautiful and remarkably isolated mosque in the mountains. En route we stopped at a café for mint tea, before heading on to a market to buy the meat that would ultimately make our lunch. As the highlight of my trip, the market was a windswept flatland in the high Atlas, you won’t find this in Lonely Planet. I’m used to a bit of extra attention being in a wheelchair, but I would suggest the complete apathy of all those around us to our presence demonstrated the normality of the place. Entrepreneurial spirit in this bleak and dusty market was far more important than the stupid foreigners. Being led round the back of a row of huts was mildly unnerving, but the local butcher appeared to be good friends with our guide. We had, however, previously been warned to keep quiet! Leaving the market, we finally arrived at Tin Mal, a mosque in the process of restoration, halfway up a picturesque valley. Met by the guardian of the mosque, we were provided with a tour of this stunning 10th century building, including resident owl.

On leaving the mosque we headed back to the café at which we had previously had mint tea, where our meat was turned into delightful kebabs, shared with Aziz and the cook. The only charge was 80 Dh, which had been the cost of the meat (we were there on purchase). Arriving back to Marrakech, we parted with our 1000 Dh, plus a suitable 200 tip. It’s not all about the sex.