IN 1917 a French aerial survey of the Moroccan city of Marrakesh discovered anew the Saadian tombs. Here were buried the Saadian rulers, who reigned over Morocco from 1554 to 1669. When Sultan Moulay Ismail took over the city, he barred the entrances to the enclosure, and in time the tombs were forgotten.
After their rediscovery, the rooms of the mausoleums were excavated and inspected and studied. Now, the Saadian tombs are open to the public. They are close to the Kasbah, near the Bab Agnaou gate, and are poorly signed. A bored man in his own ticket office tomb takes a few dirhams from you and you guess your way down a narrow passage between high walls, uncertainly taking sharp lefts and rights, wondering if this is the right way.
And then suddenly it is the right way. You’re in a courtyard filled with brilliant light, coolly captured by thick walls, beneath a gleaming blue, empty sky. Intricately patterned tiles decorate the ground-level tombs, with the more important of the dead housed within rooms full of shade. Painstakingly carved wood covers the ceiling and crowds the arched entrances, and the floor is flooded with bright mosaic. It is both highly ornamented and plain, both rich and modest.
There are two halves to Marrakesh. The Ville Nouvelle was built by the French during their short period of colonisation, from around 1912 until Moroccan independence in 1956. It surrounds the Medina, the aged kernel of the city, the walls of which were first constructed in the 1100s.
The two halves have different beats. French influence is easily detected in the rues and prefectures and arrondissements, and in the language and euro the people will happily use when required, but the words and the money are easily exchanged for older ways which fit more comfortably.
I stayed in the Riad Assaada, towards the northern tip of the Medina. The taxi from the airport took me as close as the narrowing streets would allow, and then left me to be taken through the maze of alleyways by a couple of boys who led the rest of the way for a few euro. I had no idea if they would take me where I wanted to go, but had no choice other than to trust them.
They took me right. Down a dingy passageway, stooping through a low tunnel which was much higher before the building above it began sinking, behind an ordinary door, the Riad Assaada is a beautiful oasis. The elegant courtyard, open to the warmth of the day and cool of the night, is surrounded on all four sides by two storeys of simple, plain, comfortable rooms. I
t is run by an exile from Nantes who speaks no English and whose neck strains as she enunciates in precise French and whose eyes glisten with tears as she tells of the accident which took her husband’s life.
A riad is a traditional Moroccan guesthouse, and the Medina has many, some basic, some luxurious, most tucked down backstreets no wider than corridors, with shabby entrances that give no clue to the comfort and welcome that may lie within.
The souks – the street markets of Marrakesh – are in the north of the Medina. Spices, jewellery, clothes, medicines, pots, lanterns, fruits, breads, and carpets compete for custom beneath the slatted roofs that let in light and shade and air. The paths are disorienting, arteries scrawled by a child, labyrinths along which the rug makers stretch and comb their wool.
No map or compass can help navigation through these streets and when stallholders offer directions, it is always along a route to their shop. The calls urging you to stop and look come in French or English, phrases to make you smile. Have a butcher’s... have a gander... lovely-jubbly.
Although it can feel oppressive, in the heat and narrowness, the pressure is always gentle. Buy or not, it’s OK. Always we smile. And that seems the case. The labels on the powders and roots piled in tins are unequivocal: Turbo Viagra pour femmes. Romance and reality. A trader offers me something that’s good for jiggy-jiggy.
In the heart of the Medina is Jemaa el Fna, a large open space where slave auctions were once held. It is ringed now by cafes and restaurants, its centre filled with food and juice stalls and ladies at tables offering henna tattoos, and between the two tumblers and snake charmers and musicians move around, drawing attentive crowds.
As daylight leaves, the darkness intensifies the sights and sounds. Senses reign in Marrakesh. Aromas, scents, and stinks fill the nostrils; eyes are filled with vivid blues and yellows and reds and oranges. Tiled walls offer cooling touches.
The roads are like race circuits. Sleek Range Rovers and battered Mercedes, functional Dacias and barely functioning Renaults, push bikes, scooters that swarm and spread and weave, carts pulled by donkeys that have seen it all before. Spaces are measured in micro-millimetres, overtaking is compulsory, looking is optional, the loser is the one who brakes. And one hand must always be kept free to sound the horn.
On the streets, a grand palace may stand next to a grimy workshop. Throughout the day, there are the calls to prayer, and men in Manchester United shirts or long dishdashes make their way to the mosques, prayer mats folded and casually, respectfully carried.
The sounds never stop, but distance from them comes in the elegant Koutoubia Gardens, or, in the Ville Nouvelle, in Majorelle Garden, created by a French artist who came here in the 1920s and never left.
Out of the city, Essaouira offers cool sea breezes, and the Atlas Mountains are close enough to Marrakesh to provide escape and contrast.
I stopped briefly at La Mamounia Hotel, where I paid €30 for a sandwich and sat at a table next to a spy, who ordered salade Nicoise and mint tea while he waited for his contact. This hotel is a monied place, full of fantastic wealth and luxury. There was a woman there so rich and slim she ate only ice for lunch.
Marrakesh is a beautiful, invigorating city. Time speeds in the souks and streets, and stops completely in the steam baths of the hammams. It is a hot place where life is lived in the open but, behind nondescript doors, space and elegance and surprises are kept, and every door is worth trying.
FACT FILE
:: Ryanair fly to Marrakesh from Dublin twice weekly, with prices starting at £42.99 one way.
:: For accommodation, the best bet is to stay in a riad in the Medina. Prices vary according to facilities. One of the most highly recommended is the Riad Kniza (www.riadkniza.com). Riad Assaada offers excellent value, with prices starting as low as €300 for room and breakfast for a week.
:: The local currency is the Dirham. You cannot get dirhams outside Morocco. The best thing to do is take euros as they are accepted pretty much everywhere, and can also be exchanged for dirhams when there.
:: Don’t miss Jemaa el Fna at night-time. The Koutoubia Mosque is an architectural beauty, and the Ben Youssef Medersa contains some stunning tilework and wood carving.
:: A trip to Essaouira, either just for the day or an overnight stay, makes a refreshing break from the heat of the city.
