Sleeping by Koutoubia, Marrakesh by Motorhome

Zagan the motorhome’s parked in sight of the 12th century Koutoubia Mosque, a famous landmark within the old walls of the Marrakesh medina (old town). We’re in the city’s official city-centre motorhome parking, a walled-in, guarded area which is incredibly close to the famous (infamous?) Djeema el-Fna square (N31.624023, W7.996325). It costs 80Dh per 24 hours to stay here, plus another 30Dh if you want electricity (there are tons of sockets, and we think it’s a 10A supply). All in, we’re paying roughly £10 a night, to stay in one of the world’s iconic cities.

Guarded motorhome parking in central Marrakech

The dawn call to prayer is sung out about 5:45am, after which we fell back to sleep

Parking ticket for Marrakesh motorhome aire

Last night Morocco beat favourites Ivory Coast in the African Nations Cup. We were walking across Djeema el-Fna when the winning goal (the only goal of the match) went in. A tsunami of a cheer went up, and we looked up in curiosity and a tiny bit of fear at the sight of men running through the palms towards a cafe. After quickly working out that nothing nefarious was afoot, we wandered over for a quick look at the game, being watched by umpteen sober men. Armed police stood to one side, diligently making sure they were up to date on the score. By the time the final whistle went we were back in the van, close enough to the square to hear the cheers and a good couple of hours of car and bike horns honking out hope and glory. I had a walk over to see maybe 20 policemen trying to keep the main route clear as, for a reason unclear, celebrating Moroccan men opted to show their cheer by standing in the middle of the road.

Koutoubia Mosque

The drive here wasn’t anything like as difficult as I’d built it up to be. We took the R304, and then the R210 from Ouzoud, both yellow-classification roads (one down from red). The obvious route on the map was to take the white classification road (one down from yellow, you following this?) up to the red N8, and use that to get into the city. We checked in with Paul and he confirmed the white road was tarred and passable for us, but that the N8 was a pig of a road, not scenic, busy with traffic and we would be much better off following the yellow. We took his advice and were rewarded with an easy drive in, on good quality and quiet roads, with the mountains of the Middle and High Atlas snow-white to our left.

Surely this has to class as ‘child labour’?

Not so sure about this?

Reaching the red road, much faster than we’d expected to, the adrenaline started to flow. Still a few miles from the outskirts of the city, the junction was busy with traffic and people, but quickly the road settled in to a wide, perfect-topped route. The traffic was fairly quiet, gradually building as we drove into the city. With each set of traffic lights and roundabout we awaited the van-beating beggars we’d encountered in Meknes, but none appeared. At this point I should try and explain something: in some countries traffic doesn’t really work like it usually does in Europe (except in Bucharest, or Paris!). Instead of vehicles proceeding in an orderly fashion, queuing and (generally) staying in lane, stopping for red lights etc, it kind of flows along, with cars, vans, buses, the odd motorhome and donkey, mopeds and bikes drifting around and squeezing into gaps where no gap exists. Some folks drive straight through the lights regardless of colour. Hold your arm out the window, your hand palm upwards, is seen as a way to stop an oncoming car from hitting you. It’s a sight to see, and a sensation to drive in.

Here we go, leaving the quiet and calm R210 and hitting the more frenetic N8

The N8 into Marrakesh

Marrakesh has its fair share of money, it seems. Apartments on this new gated complex start at €200,000

Or you can pick up a new Jag or Land Rover on your way into town. Very odd to see showrooms like this when folks in Ouzoud were getting around on £150 donkeys and mules

At one junction we could see ahead of us a few chaps holding their arms up to stop the traffic. A howl of horns went up until the message was gotten across by someone pointing into the cemetery: a funeral. As the spaces between the cars around us filled with mopeds, like sand in a jar of stones, the body was carried past us. No box for the deceased here: just a cloth. Despite the fact all we could make out was the movement of a corpse, the sight was engaging, a little shocking. Quickly the procession passed and more pressing concerns took over. Turning left at one point, our nose pointed into a single lane, flanked by four cars and several bikes. In cases like this it seem the done thing is just to drive, slowly, and through some process beyond me, we emerge on the other side scar-less.

Driving into central Marrakech

The parking here is weirdly close to the centre of town, and we rolled in through the gate with a sense of relief. Paying up for a single night (which we’re stretching to two), we’re planning on mixing up this place with one of the out-of-town campsites, of which Marrakech has one or two well-rated ones. The half marathon takes place on Sunday, and we need to pick up our numbers on Friday or Saturday from close to the parking here. The advantage of a campsite is, hopefully, peace and quiet. Two of the vans here have babies, which as babies do, scream loudly from time to time. The muezzin’s loudspeakers above us are just that: loud (but rather more enchanting than nipper-yelling). We’re sharing the parking area with cars (man rides in on a tired old Chinese two stroke moped and drives out in his large shiny BMW), so we get noise from those guys too.

The Maroc Telecom-sponsored cyber gardens near the parking here in Marrakech

Last time here I wrote that I found Marrakesh to be an unpleasant place. In the square men clutching snakes had turned nasty when our friend Chris refused to pay them 300Dh (£27) for a photo of him with their slithery captives. They’d accept no reasonable offer, and our first encounter with the city centre was with three men yelling obscenities at us and making like they would cut our throats using sharpened thumbs. Endless touts touted. Endless beggars begged. Someone nicked our bread while we ate in the evening. Our waiter failed to give us our change. The place felt like somewhere best never returned to.

Djeema el-Fna, Marrakech

Has it changed? Nope. It’s the same, but I’m not. We’re not, should I say. Since coming here we’ve spent almost 3 years on the road, including a formative six week stint driving around Tunisia during a state of emergency. The feeling of feeling bad at waving away beggars is, almost, gone. The ability to ignore anyone shouting anything at me has been, almost, perfected. I still feel bad when told ‘no photos’ though, as I feel I’ve intruded, which only happened once today when trying to snap one of the many boggle-eyed caged chameleons. All-in-all though, Marrakech’s fearful hold over me’s gone. I took Charlie for a walk around the square, the place known for madness across the world. I kept him clear of the chained monkeys and the evil-eyed snakemen, and he seemed unperturbed by the whole thing, as did I.

38p for a glass of fresh orange juice and a seat in Djeema el-Fna? Go on then. We had an average of five beggars each time we did this – some were children, some held children – it’s a way to sit and observe the square close-up, but not hassle-free

Last night we walked the 8 minutes over to the square to eat. This process isn’t as simple as it might sound. Although the square’s currently being done up, limiting the number of stalls which are re-installed each night, there are still a fair few to choose from. How to decide? Menu maybe? The option of live snails or sheep’s heads certainly dropped a few places from the list. After that, the locals have decided to be helpful by taking the decision away from you. Touts cling to you like a fast-flung toffee apple as soon as you enter the smoky, bright and noisy alleyways. Fending them off feels like a necessity: as though you can’t possibly let them decide which place you’ll eat at, so you can’t eat at any!

In the end Phil ran the vanguard and got us out the other side (video above). We’d given him the choice of where we’d eat. Number 25! was the answer (all stalls are numbered) before we’d even run the gauntlet of stalls, so in we went. Stall 25, although we didn’t know it at the time, had another layer of forcefulness over and above their army of touts: anyone looking even vaguely like they might eat there was cheered and clapped in like Morocco’s goal scorer last night. The look on people’s faces when they saw us all looking at them, some of us even joining in with the clapping, was simply beautiful.

Sweets and mint tea: sugar rush!

Being in the centre of town we’ve had much more time to wander Marrakech, and maybe that’s the key: just spend longer here. See the square a few times. Walk the boulevards away from the souks and the square where I see no hassle whatsoever. Whatever the reason, I’m enjoying my time in the city, this time around. Ask me the same question after 21km of running on Sunday, and you may get a different answer… More photos from Marrakesh below folks.

Cheers, Jay