Marrakech

The Jemma El Fna is the main square of Marrakech which turns into a carnival each evening.

It's full of hundreds of people circulating between performances by snake charmers, storytellers and African bongo players. There are acrobats and as well as a few unsavoury exhibitions involving men swallowing and regurgitating scorpions, trained monkeys taking photos - I wonder how well? - while vultures perch on shoulders of passersby for a few dirham.

The myriad greasy food stalls send smoke spiralling into the dark night, the police patrol for pick pockets and tourists sit high up on cafe terraces overlooking the square and take in the view of this nightly madness.

The excitement of the crowds is electric but we find ourselves keeping to the edges not wanting to enter the hysterical maelstrom of sound, colour and smell. I have a fear that if we enter the epicentre we may never get out.

We retreat to the less frenetic lane way, where our hotel is situated.

Amongst all the buying and selling in this city there are islands of peace and normality along the Rue Zitoun El Khedim.

There's an entrancing luminescence at night. I wait in line with the locals to buy merguez sausage sandwiches at a street stall. I chat with two nice women about some of the other items on the menu - deep fried brains, pancreas and other offal. They're surprised we don't have this kind of take away in Australia!

There's a tiny tailor's shop where a man sews quietly by hand, a butcher's stall on the street with a big white tiled counter trickling with blood, carcasses of goat hang by hooks, sheeps heads are out on display.

Cats scurry through the crowds with chicken heads in their mouths, there are men pushing barrows of mandarins and sticky sweets. Ironmongers, dingy hammams, hole in the wall launderers are packed side by side along the lane. A rug thrown down on the dirty brick road is used to sell old shoes. The barbers are doing brisk business in hair cuts and nasal hair removal.

One morning we walk to the end of Zitoun El Khedim and make our way along the edge of the mellah. We spot what we suspect are a few faux-Hasidic Jews making money from tourists wanting photos.

We visit the Badi Palace not so much for the architecture or for its historical importance but for its other draw card - the storks which have made their nests along the walls and in crumbling towers, even on top of nearby minarets which blast their call to prayer through loudspeakers five times a day.

There's something other worldly about these birds. The morning is full of their clacking. They feed and fuss over their chicks hidden deep in the tangle of branches and twigs which make up their highly visible, well constructed nests.

The storks squabble with their neighbours and even mount one another while we are there.

A picture of conjugal bliss.

And we make our way back to our own nest, the equally comfortable, attractive sanctuary of Hotel Sherazade.

 

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A Timely Exit

The radiator has sprung a leak. What in the hell are you meant to do? There's just a day left on the rental of the car and there's no way I'm going to fork out hundreds of dirham to some greedy mechanic.

How on Earth am I going to get this bomb back to Ourazazate tomorrow?

I let the engine cool and top up the radiator with what's left of our mineral water. This brings down the temperature gauge on the dashboard by a couple of rungs but I'm still concerned. We manage to get to our hotel however and that night I tell the friendly owner about my predicament.

"I can fix that, no problem," he tells me looking under the hood a little while later

He disappears and returns with a cup of some strange looking powder and a teaspoon. He gets me to turn on the engine, adds a few tablespoons of the yellow powder to the pissing radiator. I have visions of the engine seizing up entirely, of being left with some astronomical repair bill by the irrate local rental car man.

In five minutes or so the stream of water is reduced to a dribble and five minute after that it completely dries up. The temperature gauge drops remarkably. A miracle?

"Ginger powder, straight from the kitchen, that's what we Moroccans use to plug up a leaking radiator. You'll have no problems getting back to Ouaurzazate tomorrow, I guarantee it."

And he is right. The temperature gauge hovers at a normal level for the whole of the 50kms back to Ouarazazate. I return the car to the who is delighted to have the balance on the vehicle, so much so that he even offers to drive us to the bus station where we will make a well timed exit to Marrakech.

We had had no choice but to take the car at an inflated price due to the Christmas/ New Year holiday rush on rent a cars by the droves of Europeans who have come to Morocco for the brief but busy holiday period. There were no credit cards involved, just payment in cold, hard cash and no indication that there would be any assistance in the case of an accident or break down. We decided to take a chance.

According to my mechanical minded saviour I had been rented a lemon and should feel no guilt, especially considering how much we have had to pay. He tells me it looks as if the radiator and its very worn tubes needed replacing a long time ago.

We have amazingly made it through vast desert landscapes, up and down mountain ranges, driven lonely roads with not a soul around for hours at a time.

Now we are on the bus to Marrakech slowly but steadily climbing the massive mountain ranges of the High Atlas. We soar down into valleys which dramatically change shape and colour.

This is the Tizi n' Tichka - the N9 on the road map which will land us in Morocco's second largest city. It may well be the most awesome road I have ever travelled on, and we are glad and relieved to be doing it, not by car, but as passengers on a local bus!

All photos are of the Tizi n' Tichka on the N9 which connects Ourazazate and Marrakech

 

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