I went to Africa! It was very exciting and happened very quickly, but basically, I ended up with two weeks off work and decided to go on an adventure. Destination: Marrakech. Marrakech has been on my list for a while, and reading Mary Russell books hasn't helped, and it seemed like too good of an opportunity to miss.
It was all booked very quickly, I bought a guide book and learnt how to say 'Hello' and 'No thanks' in Marrakechi Arabic and then I was off. I had a fake wedding and engagement ring to ward off any suitors, a selection of cardigans to keep the hot African sun from burning my shoulders and I also managed to wangle some last minute Typhoid and Hep A jabs. I was set!
I had no idea. None.
My first day started so well. I rose to the sound of birdsong echoing from the top of my open-roofed riad, descended the ornate staircase and tucked into a sumptuous breakfast. I fastened my headscarf and popped my sunglasses on and stepped out into Africa.
Turns out, Africa is hot.
I ran for cover in Cafe de France, a very famous institution right on the edge of the Jamaa El Fna. After a brief coffee and the chance to wop out my schoolgirl French, I bravely decided to venture forth.
If I had to describe Marrakech in one word, the word I would use is 'Chaos'. It's crowded and noisy, there are people on bikes and mopeds swerving around donkeys and pedestrians in the narrow, reed-roofed streets. People call out all the time, to friends, to family, to passers-by, greetings and attempts at sales and admonishments to young people on bikes. I very naively thought that because Easyjet flew there, it would be a standard tourist destination, if a little more exotic. It's not. At times it felt almost as though I'd wandered into a medieval scene, time-travelled instead of continent-hopped. None of what happens there is put on for tourists. You're much more likely to find a Moroccan seeking their fortune from a veiled lady with a deck of cards, or watching the snake charmers bait the snakes and play for them, than you are a tourist.
And it was overwhelming, especially because, as a white woman travelling alone, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I now have a good understanding of what it must be like to be a celebrity, how it feels to be pointed at, called out to, pulled at and followed. Thankfully, Marrakechi people are lovely, and as they were just as much of a curiosity to me as I was to them, we worked it out. I should have realised that in a country where so much effort is gone to to protect women from the eyes of strangers, me striding through the Medina in my cowboy boots would have been a little odd. It was probably also a bit naive of me to book a riad right in the old town, where Moroccans live, when so many tourists stay in the newer, European-ised Gueliz. But in hindsight, I wouldn't change it.
Then came the incident with the monkey.
Earlier in the day, I'd successfully avoided the snake charmers. I'd made a very special point of staying away from the chaps with the Barbary Apes, as a) I think it's cruel to keep them chained up and force them to pose with tourists and, b) I don't like apes. I really don't. Not a fan at all. I don't mind some monkeys, but there is something very sinister about apes, as far as I'm concerned.
So you can imagine my horror when I turn around after a tap to the shoulder and find an ape in my face.
I found a cafe and sat down, ordering (of all things) a cheese sandwich and a coffee. And then the people next to me spoke. They were BRITISH. I've never, ever sought out people from home when I've been away before, but after the strangeness of events so far, it was welcoming to know I wasn't as isolated as I thought. We chatted, met another lady called Rose and she, noticing my wide-eyed stare, asked me if I'd like to have dinner with her. Turns out, she's there all the time, she hops back and forth to source things for her shop. The four of us had dinner. Then we had tea and cake.
When I walked back to the riad on my own later that night, I felt a lot better.
When I woke up the next morning, I'd grown some balls. Not literally, it's not like the food was cursed and I woke up as a bloke. Metaphorical balls. I'd woman-ed up. I could do this. I could. I just had to play the game properly. I had to stop expecting it to be like Europe or America. I had to calm down and go with it.
On the Friday, I went, with a lady I'd known for about 24 hours, to a hammam, where we stripped to our knickers and sat and allowed a nice lady to oil us up, scrub us down, plaster us with mud and then clean us up before we submitted to what was actually my first ever massage. I'm a convert, even if I did get insanely giggly when the masseuse touched my feet. I was so zen after leaving that place, I probably could have flown. We had a phenomenal dinner at Terrase des epices, I had pastilla followed by tagine and it was one of the best meals I've ever eaten. We talked for hours, swapping stories about other places we'd been and it was amazing. I felt, quite suddenly, at home.
Saturday, I really got into my stride. I was haggling like a pro, arguing the price of almost everything down. I got a taxi out to the beautiful Majorelle Gardens and spent a lovely afternoon wandering around an oasis of bright blue walls and plants. I had dinner at the Grande Cafe de la Poste and wandered around Guilez for a bit before heading back to the riad and having endless cups of mint tea with Kudus on the roof terrace and talking about the world. He told me he was orginally from the mountains, and that he didn't know how old he was or when his birthday was, as they didn't record things much out there. He told me about all the good things their King has done, and was doing, for the country and about life when he was young. It was lovely, to sit out under the stars and just chat.
On my last day, I continued my BAMF-like bargaining for souvenirs and keepsakes for myself and my friends. and finally, finally sucked it up and got a taxi to see the tombs. They were beautiful and serene and everything I needed them to be. In the afternoon, I took another taxi out to the Menara gardens to wander in the olive groves, waiting for it to cool before I walked back into the Medina, past actual camels and palm trees. I had dinner at a restaurant, went to the only 'pub' I could find and had a beer (Morocco is a Muslim country and while drinking is forbidden to Muslims, foreigners can drink, but not within the sight of a mosque, and Marrakech has some beautiful mosques, so finding a drinking hole a tricky business), and then wandered back up to the Night Market for dessert and ginger tea. I watched a man do what appeared to be some voodoo forecasting, and a boxing match and went back to my riad to pack.
And I realised I didn't want to go home.
Earlier in the day, I'd haggled a shawl down from 300DH to 47DH, two antiseptic wipes and an insect-repellent wipe. I'd had more Berber tea with another shopkeeper. I'd seen a camel. I'd greeted someone in Arabic, had a conversation with another man in French. I was at home.
I'm so glad I went. And so glad I didn't chicken out and hide when things got a little overwhelming. I'm really, really proud of myself for that. And really, really grateful, because if I hadn't screwed my courage together I would have missed out on one of the most magical and untouched places I've ever been.
King Mohammed has great plans to bring Marrakech into the 21st century but I hope he allows a bit of it, Jemma El Fna at least, to remain exactly as it is.
Because it's already perfect, when you let go of your inhibitions and just give over to pleasure.
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