Saffron [a Moroccan travel diary, pt. I: Marrakech]

Before the pandemic hit I had a flight booked for Marrakech. I remember going for it mostly because it didn’t cost that much. 2020 was a wild year and we all learned that we couldn’t really rely on our plans. In my case the trip got canceled one day prior the flight, which turned out to be for the best since lots of European tourists were not allowed back into their countries due to lockdown ever-changing rules.

I embraced it and thought it was simply not meant to happen.

After a couple turbulent years and a bunch of other trips, in September 2023, on the verge of a burnout mostly due to the little amount of days I had taken off up to that point, I sat down at my laptop determined to book a two weeks holiday. I looked up for a few of the options I had in mind and had to dismiss them for how expensive the flights were. After one hour or so of failed attempts, I noticed the stack of Lonely Planets at the side of my desk. On the top there was the one I bought in 2020 for Morocco, the only one that was still immaculate. Maybe this was the right time? Indeed it was! Surprisingly the flight options were affordable and in a matter of ten minutes I had booked an outbound flight to Marrakech and a return one from Tangier. 17 days in total.

Did I plan much before that? Quite the opposite.

Somehow I was so sucked into my hectic schedule that I started to embrace the thought of the trip only a couple of days before flying in.

And in those couple of days I seemed to be able to focus only on the sudden and unmotivated fear that it might have been dangerous for a solo traveler. Paranoia at its best.

I packed the night before my flight and left more relieved to finally have some days off rather than actually excited for the journey.

And as it happens when the bar is set very low, things can develop into being the sweetest surprise

MARRAKECH (10-13.11.23)

I made it to Morocco on a three hours delayed flight which gave me enough time to get in the mood by reading Tahir Shah’s “In Arabian Nights”, a book focused on Moroccan storytelling folklore. As the plane landed, all I could see out of the porthole was painted in terracotta: a barren landscape made of flatlands and the Atlas Mountains on the horizon, dotted with villages and cities of the same colour. For a while I thought this was basically what the country was about, but the days to come would prove me wrong.

The air was warm and dry, and my Berlin multilayered outfit felt incredibly wrong. I had arranged a taxi from the airport for an amount of money (20 euro) that felt fair before the trip, but appeared more and more of a ripoff as I got accustomed with the local prices. Still, I wanted to make things easy for me to start with. During that ride I was eagerly observing the surroundings, unconsciously taking in as much as I could. From the car’s windows I could appreciate three main colours (terracotta, blue and green), an impressive amount of traffic and how tidy and polished the outskirts looked. I pointed that out to the taxi driver and felt immediately bad for being prejudiced. I got dropped at the entrance of the Medina, and appointed to a wrinkly toothless old man, whose task was to guide me to the hostel. It felt like plunging in a new exotic world. As my feet struggled to keep up with him through the maze of the Medina, and doing my very best not to get run over by a motorbike or a donkey cart or to crush into some ceramics with my backpack, my brain was overloaded, trying to take in the thousand of things that were happening all around me. So many people, goods of every sort, colours, noises and smells, and everything at the fastest of paces in the most compact of spaces. One of the first impressions I get of a place is linked to my sense of smell. Morocco has a very unique one: a mix of incense, grilled meat, mint, cat piss and spices.

I found myself thinking that it looked like an India for beginners after all. I guess my first impression would have been different and I would have been more overwhelmed if I hadn’t visited a muslim country before. Eventually the guy took a deviation through some more narrow alleys that looked like the ones I had learned to mistrust in previous journeys. I feel a bit ashamed to say that in that moment I double checked on MapsMe if he was really guiding me to the hostel. Thankfully, not so long after that, I started feeling very safe around. Backpacking and all the stories you’re bombarded with, somehow teach you to be a little bit too careful and wary. Then it’s up to you to assess the place and understand what is safe and what is not. Morocco felt, with the exception of a couple episodes, extremely safe for me in general. I never held back from exploring on my own, from venturing dodgy alleys and walking with both of my cameras on each shoulder.

The hostel I checked in to, Equity Point, felt too good to be true: bed in a dorm in a picture perfect Riad in the middle of the Medina for less than 20 euro a night (soon I realised that that was the standard price). I got rid of most of my clothes (still keeping it respectful) and went straight to the main square, Jeema El-Fna, defined by many as the pulsing heart of Morocco. It was pure chaos, with everyone calling you “hey skinny!” and trying to convince you to eat at their stand. Berber dancers and musicians, African drums-fuelled beats, Arabic violin-fuelled melodies, fortune tellers, henna artists, unusual performances (a guy drinking boiling hot tea directly from a burning teapot without flinching caught my attention), snake charmers… The problem was, as soon as you looked, they expect you immediately to pay something, so, quite predictably, you never really linger anywhere. I gave in to one of the several food stalls and had my first dinner which consisted of a very flavourless cous cous (one of the biggest disappointments of this trip. Wasn’t it meant to be the best in the whole world?), mouton tagine with figs, dates and nuts (the first of a long series, which was served as it sizzled in boiling oil), and Moroccan salad (onions, peppers and tomatoes with grilled beans and aubergines). All flushed down by the best mint tea I’ve ever had (another constant of this journey). The food was decent for its cheap price but I was far from being blown away. After a whole round of the square and my first pomegranate juice, drained from the amount of times I had to justify myself for not wanting any more food, I made my way back to the hostel.

That night I learned a very valuable lesson: never promise anything to anyone because they’ll remember and they’ll be upset. Apparently, in an attempt to set myself free from his pushiness, I had said to one of the many food stalls guys that I would have returned. As I was leaving the square I walked past him, he recognised me and asked me if I was ready for dinner. I told him I had picked another stall and, before he turned his back on me, he looked at me with extremely disappointed and reprimanding eyes saying “but you promised!”.

At the hostel’s pool I had a quick chat with some other backpackers before making it to my bunk bed, happy and ready to start early on the following morning.

That night I slept a bit restlessly, probably out of the excitement and FOMO that had taken over me since I walked around the busy alleys of the Medina.

The 6 AM call to prayer from the nearest mosques woke me up and startled me. I guess I had to get used to that again.

After a very quick and average breakfast on the rooftop of the hostel (I literally lost hope when I saw them heating up a crepe in the the microwave), I walked to the meeting point of the free walking tour I decided to take part of. Very touristy of me, I know, but I don’t mind to get a good introduction on a county/city I’m visiting before exploring it on my own.

We plunged deep in the Medina and, as we did it, we got explained some interesting facts.

Here are a few:

The guide claimed that women’s role in society had improved a lot in the recent years: allegedly the major of Marrakech is a woman (somehow it doesn’t quite match my impression, since it feels like men are running every single business in town).
locals are taught arabic, French and berber in school (three different alphabets). The new generations are pushing for English to replace French.
the social role of hammam, the public baths: they are separated by genders (of course!) and get particularly busy before Fridays, the muslim equivalent of our Sundays, and before weddings. The aim is to purify yourself by scraping off the layers of dead skin on your body and soaping it up with the omnipresent black soap. If you are alone you can either pay someone to do this or you can find a mate that will exchange the favour. Mmmh sounds like a lot of intimate and close physical contact between strangers (latent homosexuality anyone?). Nudity is still not welcome even between the same gender.
Locals serve mint tea each time they welcome a host at their place (and this works in hospitality too). It’s green tea with fresh mint leaves and stems and it’s traditionally poured from a much higher level in order to make it foamy. A tea without foam is not worth drinking, says the tradition…
The government has a big role into helping businesses taking care of their studios and preserving the charm of the Medina. Also, the post earthquake issues (October 2023) have been dealt with promptly and efficiently, to the point it’s hard to think it even happened since the city looks mostly flawless.
Poor people are “forced” to live in the Medina because it’s far cheaper than the new/modern part of town. These low prices are an incentive for foreigners to buy riads for private use or for setting up businesses. The government is supportive of this trend because it’s an extra push for the economy of the county. Apparently it costs less to get a freshly renovated and traditionally furnished riad in Marrakech’s Medina than buying a 40 sqm flat in Berlin…
Riads are the traditional villas, on different floors with windows opening on a courtyard, which normally hosts a fountain (pools are to be found mostly in riads made for tourists). Houses in Morocco don’t have balconies because people are very jealous of their privacy (and women).

As I listened to all of this and missed much more (because of being left behind as I took my good time to take pictures) we visited the leather souk and the goldsmith’s one. Even more of a labyrinth, even more narrow, darker and louder if it’s possible.

By the end of the three hours tour I felt quite exhausted. Shooting has also proved not to be as easy as I had imagined it: first, everything moves a bit too fast and I suck at street photography (eheh), second, the light is super tricky because you have to come to terms with frames where an almost blinding light clashes with gloomy dark corners, making it very confusing for me to pick the right settings.

I went back to the hostel to catch my breath and, on the way, I grabbed another pomegranate juice at the stall of a young and attractive vendor that the previous night had given away some queer vibes (you know when someone looks at you in the eyes for that extra second and the hint of a smile follows?). The guy was there, but in the current more hectic time of the day, the gay vibes were gone. It made me really question how hard it must be like to be queer in a country where homosexuality is illegal. A question that I regret never feeling brave enough to bring up as I took part in other walking tours.

I spent the afternoon falling in love with the Medina, its buzz and explosion of life never ceased to amaze me and it pushed me to discover more and more of it. I could potentially buy everything: carpets, pillows, plates and cups, lampshades, teapots, spices, leather bags… the amount of products in the souks is far beyond the capacity and need of any tourist or local, but it’s such a treat for the eyes!

Being forced to take part into very cultural holidays as a kid and teenager resulted in a scarce hunger for historical sites while I’m traveling as an adult. I prefer to get lost for hours, talk to people, find out the locals’ favourite restaurants and experience what their traditions are. I do have my touristy moments though, can’t deny it… The Mederssa Ben Youssef, a Quran school that used to be home to hundreds of young students, served as the next stop on my agenda. A stunning maze of small rooms and courtyards, that open onto a spectacular inner courtyard adorned with mosaics, stucco carvings and a calming water basin.

My late lunch/early dinner consisted of tangia Marrakchi (pulled beef, slow cooked in a specific clay pot, a traditional speciality of Marrakech) and mint tea at the locals favourite Chez Lamine Hadj. Probably one of my favourite meals in the whole holiday, which I approached without cutlery, copying what the locals were doing. I quite predictably ended up covering my face and hands in grease and absolutely rolling with it.

With a very full stomach I allowed myself to get lost again and happened to come across the spices souk and the textile one which was made special by skeins of wool of every colour hung over the heads of passersby. Suddenly I felt the need to take a shower and spent two hours miserably failing at finding my way back to the hostel.

I eventually made it back as the sun went down, plunged into the icy pool for literally 5 seconds (why so cold?! It explained why I still hadn’t seen anybody swimming…), showered and went out with Andre and Charlie, two fellow Berliners whom I had just met, to meet some other backpackers. The evening ended with beers on the rooftop (something not so easy to get hold of in a muslim country) and my decision not to set an alarm for the following morning.

On the previous day I had walked more than 20k steps and took in as much as I could to get a good idea of the city. I realised I could allow myself to slow down and flow without pressure. I waited for Charlie and Andre to get ready and we picked a nearby place for breakfast. 5,50 euro for a traditional breakfast consisting of Moroccan pancakes, semolina cake, eggs, olives, fresh goat cheese, honey and amlu (a dip made of honey, almond butter and argan oil). I said goodbye to the guys to check out a place I had on my to do list: the Bahia palace, a very eye-candy landmark and a instagram couples favourite. To make it there I walked along a side of town that I hadn’t explored yet, which felt a bit less manic than the twisted maze of the Medina. Mapsme made me take a shortcut that actually led me to a quite dodgy dead-end, where a bunch of young locals were lazying around and kinda following each steps I made. I felt very relieved when I bumped into two other tourists that obviously had been led astray from the app.

The Bahia palace was indeed pretty, but way too touristic and its vibe got killed by the dozens of instacouples improvising cringy photoshoots in front of everybody. Also the information boards and its length and amount of never heard before names made me question if I had ADHD since, after being done with them, I couldn’t’ remember a single fact…

It was incredibly hot and I had chosen to wear long trousers, Birkenstock and an oversized shirt. Somehow it felt very wrong showing too much skin and the only people doing so were some British girls with Ibiza’s worth-it attires.

I grabbed a delicious sugar cane juice from a street vendor and made it back to the hostel to cool off and meet with the guys.

Our plan was to go all together to the Jardine Majorelle, a twentieth century botanical garden and cubist villa, designed by a French architect who had a quite clear soft spot for the colour blue and yellow. The way to get there, a 40 minutes walk from the Medina, was probably the most interesting thing about the whole experience. Dusty, messy and not necessarily pretty, the part of town out of the Medina offered me another perspective on the city. The garden itself was in my opinion overrated, I was actually surprised that so many people had recommended me to go there. It felt a bit pretentious, especially in contrast with that side of town, and I found myself struggling to take good pictures. Another insta friendly location with several people trying to take the perfect selfie while getting in each other’s way. And here I’m guilty too.

Sunset came very suddenly as we made our way back in the chaos of a local fruit market. We had shawarma and a persimmon juice for less than 3 euro at a dusty shack right at the city’s entrance doors. And we took it in in all its glorious haziness as donkeys were waiting with their carts right next to us. When it gets dark in Morocco you have the impression that it’s way later than the actual time. Everthing gets so incredibly gloomy and the street lighting is a luxury that only few part of the Medina are allowed to have. I thought I was going for an early night but the ease and spontaneity the evening took as we kept on meeting and connecting with new people at the hostel made me change my mind and forget about how tired I felt. We all made it to a rooftop bar with a panoramic view on Jeema El-Fna (Cafe l’Adresse) and cheered with mint tea and French patisserie as a berber band put on a show. At 2 AM, after a henna scam in the main square, witnessing locals courting the girls in the group with outdated pickup lines and a lengthy and wholesome rooftop chat with Megan, whom I had met at the lounge area of the hostel after she got scammed and paid 15 euro for a pack of cigarettes, i finally made it to bed.

The Atlantic coast was waiting for me on the following day.