MY MARRAKECH EXPERIENCE (2014)

I stepped off the plane and breathed in my first breath of the foreign air. It smelt of humidity, and hot tarmac. My second breath brought the distant lingering scent of spices and cooking meats.

As a group we were led across the tarmac towards a small, red, plain-looking building, with no windows. Compared to Koh Samui airport in Thailand, which I had visited the previous year, Marrakech airport was the equivalent to a 5* resort. Having passed through security, a dingy corridor lead us to the main airport building which couldn’t have been more different to the initial building if it tried. It was grand, and so so spacious. With whitewashed walls, traditional blue patterned tiling on the floor, and a vast elegant ceiling which was carved out into isometric shapes, letting the warm Moroccan sun beam through. We collected our bags and excitedly exchanged our money into Dirhams.

We took a half hour mini-bus ride into the city, during which I was constantly glued to the window watching the landscape of this strange new country. There were dusty fields everywhere to be seen and pale pink concrete walls running alongside the roads, with uneven holes drilled out of them like a dot-to-dot drawing. We passed fields of corn; herds of animals – goats and cows were being lead along the pavements beside us; there were pottery shops on the road side every three miles; and motorbikes buzzed past us in all directions like an angry swarm of bees.

It was starting to get dark, and the scenery had changed and we were now passing parks, grand houses, and hotels. The streets were bustling with people, and the traffic was mayhem. There seemed to be no methodical direction whatsoever! The minivan pulled over beside a battered Toyota pick-up truck which was loaded with a stack of what must have been about 10 mattresses piled high. I grinned to myself – I was already loving this manic city. The van was met by four men on push bikes, each towing a small trailer. One man started immediately grabbing suitcases from the students when the tour guide worriedly ran over to double check they were the people we had booked! – This was one thing we had been warned about, Morocco’s nasty history of pickpocketing and thievery.

We followed the bikes down a barely lit narrow walkway, surrounded by the walls of the red clay houses, attempting to step around the donkey dung, and puddles, until we came into an open roadway. There were closed-up shops either side of us, some with people sat outside of their businesses which were run from their living rooms. Lantern shops, incense, clothing, jewellery, carpets, leather… there was everything. It was overwhelming trying to take it all in, the scents, the pathways, the living areas; the people. There were so many people. Calling us over in their broken English “come pretty lady, come try these.” I jumped a little as we passed one doorway where there was a hagged woman crouched with a toddler hovered between her knees begging for some spare change. These were not entirely foreign sights for me, having visited Bangkok – a city where I witnessed many shocking, and some disturbing sights similar to this one.

Ten minutes passed, and the tired group found ourselves yet again in a narrow pathway, the houses resting above us. We came to a dead end, with a giant wooden doorway, with peeling paint and a large knocker. We had at last arrived at the cool and calm hostel, which offered shelter from the chaos outside, and a place to rest our tired heads.