Marrakech is the shortest distance you can fly from the UK to feel like you’re in another world. Part boujee glamour, part squalor, it’s a fragrant city that’s on the hustle and isn’t going to give you an easy ride. As we leave the airport at night, a group of local men are shouting and gesticulating wildly over a taxi and everything smells like woodsmoke. ‘This is Africa’ grins our driver, as we pass the red, illuminated city walls and women in hijabs speed by on the backs of scooters.
I’m with my friend Paul to celebrate my 50th birthday in this very 90s of destinations and if you’re going to do it, you may as well do it in a Riad. We’re staying in the beautiful Riad Tizwa owned by PR legend Daniel Bee and his brother, Richard. Whilst it has graced the pages of Harpers’ Bazaar and other glossy magazines, it’s unpretentious and deeply comforting. I have my own scarlet four poster bed fit for a sultana, sheets of a sky-high thread count and a bathroom that’s bigger than my bedroom at home. It’s supplied with generous, spice-scented products, including the local black soap which goes on like slime, but leaves you feeling baby soft. Breakfast on the roof terrace is expansive and delicious and is shyly served by Mouad who thinks I look like the Moroccan princess Lalla Salma (I do a smidge). Not much to complain about so far.
Paul and I have holidayed together before and have a rule of only doing one specific thing a day. If you are visiting this frenetic city and don’t want to return home exhausted, I would recommend this advice. A good way to kick off is a tour using With Locals to get you orientated to the chaos. We did a 2-and-a-half-hour walkabout with the exuberant Adil who showed us the souks and introduced us to some local artisans. It’s worth noting that Morocco is the land of the tall story. Six-hundred-year-old antiques you could pick up on e-bay, creams to banish psoriasis forever and tinctures to miraculously clear diseased lungs. We bought an exorbitant amount of saffron and two bars of soap for 70 quid. I then haggled successfully for some jewelled slippers and got a great deal. Financially, Marrakech doesn’t make a lot of sense.
Jemaa-El-Fnaa is the main square in Marrakech and was a visual beacon throughout our trip, known simply as ‘crazy square’ due to the cacophony of drum beats and bustle. We tried our best to navigate by it using visual aids – ‘turn left by the tagines, past the lamb and onto kaftan alley until you get to crazy square’. It didn’t always work. A warning that if you’re an animal lover or of a squeamish disposition, you may need to look away here. Cobras sitting up pertly on the pavements, uniformed monkeys on chains, caged birds, marauding, skinny cats….and I won’t even go into the guy who looked like he had advanced leprosy.
Unfortunately, the Yves Saint Laurent Museum was closed for an exhibition fitout, but we saw the adjoining Le Jardin Majorelle which is Instagram heaven and you can channel your inner Patsy and Edina wafting around the palms and succulents. The Maison De La Photographie De Marrakech is also worth seeing if you love vintage black and white photography and there’s a lovely roof terrace café with views across the city. We sat there happily listening to the call to prayer and counting the mosques.
Two unmissable experiences fortuitously happened on my 50th and if you want to feel like a birthday princess too, start off with an Oriental hammam and massage at the Hamman de la Rose. Led around in paper pants, we were steamed, scrubbed and daubed with unctuous potions. This was followed by sweetened mint tea and the best massage I’ve ever had. I was so relaxed I started laughing through the hole.
In the evening we went to Le Tobsil for dinner, a real Arabian Night’s dream. If you book, you will be met on the main street by a towering man in a fez who’ll lead you down a labyrinth of back streets. (Worry not, you are safe). Inside the candlelit Riad, there is hypnotic live music, strewn rose petals, the scent of sandalwood and orange flower, and endless plates of colourful mezze. By the time you get to the tagine you won’t be able to move. It is one of the great dining experiences.
Continuing in the glamorous theme and being a doyen of style, Paul insisted we went to the legendary La Mamounia for our last evening. Beloved of Churchill who has a bar named after him, it is awash with billionaire’s daughters comparing facelifts. If you’re not a guest you won’t be allowed onto the terrace, but the sumptuous Bar Majorelle serves up perfect cocktails and I recommend the Martinez (‘Gin and It’ as my Great Aunt would have called it during the war). We pushed the boat out and split a £30 hamburger which even Bill Gates would have been happy with, and had a lobster roll chaser. It was divinely decadent.
Morocco is a lot, but I’m definitely going back. I never got to ride a camel…..
Some Practical Tips
Get to Marrakech airport early. Even if you have carry-on, you still need to get your boarding pass validated and will have to queue. We counted six different security checks between the Ryan Air desk and actually being allowed out of the country. I use the word ‘checks’ lightly – they were pretty cursory, but still involved lots of pointless who-ha.
You can’t take local currency in or out of Morocco so will need to exchange your money at the airport. There’s a Bureau de Change and a few ATMs in Arrivals.
Your phone will cost you a fortune, so either get a SIM card or just stick to using Wi-Fi and downloading maps before you head out into the mayhem.
Err on the side of caution about brushing your teeth in the tap-water and use bottled.
Whilst I assumed the biggest bugbear would be the hot-eyed salesmen in the souk, it is in fact the scooters. Be prepared to swerve on a moment-by-moment basis as they ruthlessly cut you up in the narrow medina streets. And please, if you have a Germanic attitude to the green man flashing, don’t visit Marrakech. Other than watching to see which local is prepared to risk it first, often there is no indicator at all when you might make a death-defying dash across the road.
There’s a big Carrefour just outside the city walls where you can buy alcohol. Lots of good French wines available (although the Moroccan wine we had was also good). The bonus of being in a Riad is you can drink there.
Be firm with anyone trying to get you lost in the souk. They’re not giving you directions out of the goodness of their hearts.
I didn’t see many solo women on the trip and whilst it’s probably OK, I wouldn’t recommend it. Moroccans don’t understand the concept of men and women being friends, so if you’re travelling in a platonic relationship and they call them your husband/wife, just roll with it.
