Storks nests at the Palace El Badi

On my last day in Marrakesh, I walked to the Palais el Badi, which is currently occupied only by storks. Their nests are balanced precariously on the top of the pink, sandstone walls. They sail over the courtyard like prehistoric pterodactyls, casting a menacing shadow as they go. The crumbling walls are surrounded by orange trees although they provided little shade from the piercing sun. I continued back to the darkness of the Medina.

Shopping in the Souks, Marrakesh

This afternoon in sunny Morocco it rained, large wet spots, as people scurried into doorways and merchants covered their stalls. This followed an overcast morning where I decided to take the Marrakesh tour bus around the city, hoping to see sights which I otherwise wouldn’t. It was a disappointment and turned out to be more a tour of the hotels and modern city than the old part that I was interested in. But I sat with the other tourists and listened to their opinions on the city. It always surprises me how clueless some people are on the culture of the country they are visiting.

I sat in my usual cafe, over looking the Djemaa el Fna square, with its orange juice stalls and crowds of tourists like insects, swarming around a honey pot. I ordered a dish of couscous accompanied by something else, the description was lost in translation, so I ordered, hopeful that it would be something nice. It turned out to be couscous covered by a selection of vegetables in an aromatic Moroccan sauce. It wasn't as good as last nights meal of Rabbit Tagine.

Deciding it was not a day for photography, it seemed like an oppertunity for shopping. I disappeared into the souks, to browse an endless assortment of dimly lit stalls with interesting objects and shiny silver jewlerry stalls. The sellers were friendly and I recieved the usual ‘Moroccan face’ comments. I did my best to play up to this and knew I was getting a good deal when the store holder put my chosen silver items on the scales to work out a good price for me. He told me I was getting English price not American, and I told him I was getting Moroccan price because I was an English friend. It helped that he had an older brother in Bristol and liked the English, but I came away with lots of pretty things. The glass lamps here are gorgeous, but the thought of carrying them back with all my other hand luggage doesn’t appeal. Instead I settled for taking photographs of them, glistening through their coloured panels in the darkness of the souk. I think I shall print them out big and stick them on my wall.

Henna in Marrakesh, Morocco

With the shutters closed and a bed covered in heavy blankets I managed to sleep for twelve hours. To the sound of chirping birds, I made me way to the roof terrace and ordered bread and jam. The mid morning sun felt intense as I sat there drinking orange juice.

Finally I gathered my camera gear with the intention of photographing the sand coloured architecture. I followed a long road through the medina, passing market stalls either side until I came to a court yard of palm trees opposite a dusty road.

Away from the touristy part of town, I wandered through the streets and found myself in the weekly berber market. At this point I met my first guide who took me to a friends spice stall, where I was introduced to various teas, herbs and incense. Despite telling them I had no money they were perfectly happy to continue telling me about the flavours they use in their cooking as we drank sweet mint tea. Eventually I left and made my way to the Jewish quarter where a young group of school boys offered to show me to the synagog and seemed bemused when I stopped to photograph a donkey eating grass. I chatted to a group of teenagers and told them we have no donkeys on the streets of London. They understood, but everyone laughed when I showed them the pictures.

The synagog was interesting but not very photogenic. The boys seemed proud to have taken me there. I wondered if they aspired to be tour guides when they were older and wanted to practise their English skills. I didn’t pass a single tourist while I was with them.

With so many alley ways I am always curious to see what appears around the next corner. Where I am seems to be residentual with a school and an old stone bakery. Children play in the street and older men lurk in doorways. A young man tells me there is nothing ‘this way’, and takes me through the souks to a Jewish cemetary. I meet another man who’s job it is to look after the cemetary and tells me some of its history. It consists of hundreds of raised mounds in the earth, stretched over a field sized piece of land.

My new guide tells me he is studying medicine and we begin to talk about life. He asks if I would like to drink tea with his brothers and sisters, so I accept. I remembered the tales of Summer, my tour leader from a previous visit, and her Moroccan ‘family’. We go through a small wooden doorway with a stone floored basement covered in diamond shaped tiles. In a typical style for Moroccan houses there is a narrow staircase which leads up to a courtyard, filtering off to the kitchen and living room. I am introduced to his sisters, brother and mother who sit on low down sofas watching tv. They seem completely relaxed at my presence and Braheim brings everyone mint tea. I photograph the silver tea pot and Braheim takes my photo with his little sister who wraps her arms around me and seems delighted to be photographed.

As we talk, my new friend asks if I have tried henna tattoos and I tell him I want to get one before I leave. He tells me he knows a berber woman who is very good and we set off to find her. As we walk through the streets, young boys kick a football around and a group of men are throwing playing cards into a circle. Women chatter amongst each other and teenagers hang around on bicycles. The pace here is slow, with much warmth and compassion for others. Braheim yells ‘Jamelia’ into several doorways and we walk up and down the street a few times before he asks an older woman who appears with a wild looking berber woman, with thick straight hair and fierce eyes.

I take the oppertunity for Jamelia to mix a solution of sugar, water and henna as Braheim tells her I want traditonal brown henna. This seems ideal as I sit in the woman’s home, under the recomendation of locals, feeling as if I am being accepted into their community. She is very good compared to the women that work in the heat of the main square. She probably takes half an hour and begins adorning my hands with swirls and petal shapes. While I wait for the henna to set, an older woman makes the four of us mint tea and we sit chatting, with music playing in the background.

They treat me as a friend and tell me I have a Moroccan face and look like ‘Fatima’. I find this amusing but it seems that they see me as one of them, and feel happy to talk to me and show me around without money. Apparently because I have ‘Moroccan face’ and ‘nice smile’. I shake hands and leave my new found friends to head back to the hotel. Everywhere I look people are generous, helpful and welcoming.

Marrakesh, Morocco

We left Harrow in the crisp night air to arrive at a nearly deserted Luton airport. By six am I was on the way to Marrakesh, not sure whether to sleep or stay awake. The night time seems a blur. I ended up repacking my bags as no liquids were aloud and managed to smear my kaftan in deodrant as I was too tired to realise I was wearing it under my fleece.

A few hours later I found myself chatting to a couple as we waited in line at passport control. They were heading to the Medina also, so after happily being reunited with my baggage we made our way to the taxi rank and haggled mildly over the fare.

Everything I had remembered about Marrakesh seemed emphasised. It was somehow brighter, more alive and even the architecture felt more intense. I felt welcomed once again to this Medieval city, flowing with character. This time, it is no longer Rammedan and people are going about their daily routines in a way that seems to have changed little over the centuries.

I paid a young boy to find my hotel, which turned out to be a beautifully ornate riad with Moorish archways adorned in blue tiles. We wove our way along narrow streets and dusty alleyways, passing donkeys carrying colourful woven bags and locals selling fresh mint leaves. The atmosphere is both magical, exciting and alluring, with souks to explore and old walls to photograph. Everywhere I look is paradise to my unfamiliar eyes.

Hotel Essaouira, Marrakesh.