Guéliz - the old and the new

I went to visit a friend’s flat in Guéliz, the so-called ‘Nouvelle Ville’ of Marrakech: called this originally by the French when they built it in order to provide a modern alternative to the old medina (they did this in most Moroccan cities). One of their first constructions was a Catholic church and the story goes that ‘Guéliz’ is a Moroccan corruption of the French for that – ie, église.  Nowadays, Guéliz is only modern in a few choice areas, with some shiny cafés and boutiques and a couple of malls, but most of it now is not so very modern … and many of its attractive 1930s buildings are falling into complete disrepair (an old cinema going this way really grieves me - see below, the cinema and an artist's imagined queue).

Anyway, my friend told me to take a taxi to ‘Victor Hugo’, and this turned out to be a large grammar school which lies at the end of the long and busy Avenue Mohammed V.  It was quite a new area for me and I phoned her for more directions when I arrived, but struggled to hear what she was saying as suddenly I was surrounded by a seemingly non-stop stream of kids pouring out of this school, screaming and shouting at each other, revving up noisy scooters or heading for fancy cars.

From her sunny balcony on the fifth floor we gazed down at the corner opposite the school, full of inviting-looking salad bars and patisseries. My friend explained that it is the city’s rich kids who go to Lycée Victor Hugo, the only purely French-speaking school in Marrakech, private and expensive. And as these kids are all free between 12 and 2 – no lunch is offered on the school premises – many pour across the road to the salad bars to spend up to 10 euros a day on their lunches … quite a lot for a school lunch! If they do NOT stop in the zone for lunch, they are picked up by mums or drivers in expensive Range Rovers and the like.

Then I found out that the flat actually sits between TWO large secondary schools – one the exclusive Victor Hugo, and the other a big state school called College la Princesse Lalla Meriem (Lalla Meriem is the King’s big sister). So there is quite the event at midday each day when a huge, noisy outpouring of youth emerges from both these two establishments for lunch. The rich kids are either collected in 4x4s blocking the road and blaring their horns, or they leave on motos and scooters. Meanwhile the state school kids emerge on bicycles (two on each) or run down the main boulevard in the traffic. Others hang onto the back of trucks (which they grab at the traffic lights) in order to get a dangerous but free ride down to the military zone where most of them live – my friend said that in many cases their parents were probably not from Marrakech originally. The area where they go is called Camp el Ghaoul, which was an old military encampment even before the French built on it.

So, the state kids make their chaotic way down the road as rich kids make their way up it, but – and here’s the weird thing – my friend commented that although both groups often fight amongst themselves, they NEVER clash with the other set.

It as though, coming from two completely different worlds, they just do not see each other.

And this dichotomy is repeated in the eating situation in the area. As I said, many rich kids sit eating in the fancy salad bars, but the state kids head for home. Meanwhile, a mere two streets up – where the situation changes dramatically and there are many smaller older cafés and stalls – tables are full to bursting with workers from offices and building sites nearby. And here you can buy a tasty tagine for just 20 dirham (2 euros).

But we went to eat in one of the trendy salad places near my friend’s home, fighting our way through the neon-coloured backpacks and roaring motos. You could hear some of these kids deliberately speaking French to each other – a type of status symbol, as Moroccan Arabic is almost certainly bound to be their mother tongue.

‘In this part of Marrakech,’ said my friend dryly, ‘it is all “regardez mon Range Rover” … but you don’t have to move far before you get back to the “donnez moi un dirham” …

This is Marrakech today. I think I fancy a 20 dirham tagine.

A dream for our children

There is a place I like to go in Marrakech of an evening to have a glass of wine. I have been going there for years now and I know all the people (all men!) who work there well. Over the years some of them have got married, had children, been to places we have talked about, shared stories about the pink city with me – we always have stuff to talk about. And I have learnt most of my more colourful Arabic expressions from them too …

One night I was there after visiting a Book Fair in Marrakech with my friend from the Musée de la Femme. We had been looking specifically for books by Fatima Mernissi – as an ‘Islamic feminist’ in the early days of Morocco’s independence, she lectured in sociology at the Mohammed V university in Rabat and cut quite a controversial figure, analysing the role of women in Islam, through history and on the contemporary stage.

But that night I took one of her ‘lighter’ books to the bar, a memoir of her childhood spent in a harem in Fez, during the early days of the French protectorate. The book is called ‘Rêves de femmes – Une enfance au harem’ (‘Women’s Dreams – A childhood in the harem’ … but actually translated in the English version as ‘Dreams of Trespass’). This book, in addition to having a beautiful cover of three women in the inner recesses of the palace where they live, also contains a wonderful quotation, which you can see on the wall of entrance to the Musée de la Femme:

‘Dignity is having a dream, a strong dream that gives you a vision, a world where you have a place, where your participation, as minimal as it may be, will change something.’

I show the guys at the bar the book, and then the quotation – and I ask Fta, the barman, what his dream is, how he hopes he will change something. His answer comes so quickly it seems he has already given it a lot of thought. He says he dreams only for his children, that they will grow up to be intelligent like me. 

Like ME? I say, but I am just a useless woman who comes and drinks WINE here every evening …

No, says Yusuf (one of a trio of friends I call the Three Musketeers), ‘the wine is not important and for us you are more than that. We were just talking about you when we started work today, saying that every time you come here you bring bits of outside knowledge and interesting information for us, photos and books and stories about history and people – and things you have noticed about our language and yours – you know so much about the outside world and we want our children to grow up like you.’

Ooooohhhh, I say I think I am gonna cry – only I actually say ‘I think I am going to rain’, because I am talking in my terrible French and I mix up the verbs for rain and cry … they will NOT want their children to grow up talking languages like I do!

Football in the heart of the Mellah

It has been wonderful but terrible watching Morocco play in the World Cup … because their team, the Atlas Lions, are soo good, but they have had such bad luck: in their opening game an own goal in the last minute allowed Iran to beat them, a jammy goal did the same for Portugal and in their last – simply fantastic – encounter, it looked like the Lions were up against VAR instead of Spain. They ended on a 2-2 draw, but were definitely the better side. Awful bad luck.

Yes, the Atlas Lions are fantastic players, but I wonder how good conditions are for aspirational football players in Marrakech?

Recently, I came across a revealing scene that said a lot about football in this city. There have been several ‘improvements’ made to the Medina in the last few years (although many complain that this is all done to make the place look better for tourism, with very few benefits for the locals) and one particular area – the Mellah – has seen some quite drastic changes.

My favourite bar lies concealed in a corner of Place des Ferblantiers – a square right in the heart of the Mellah. Once this was a charming little square, shaded by palm trees, and punctuated by the sound of metal workers hammering away at their lanterns as they sat outside their shops around the square. A lovely fountain stood in the middle.

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But now the Place des Ferblantiers has become a large open rectangle with very little in the way of charm. Most of the metal workers – ferblantiers – have been persuaded to leave their shops and offered new premises across the road. The square has been enlarged considerably, the fountain destroyed, and most of the palms also removed. God knows why. Some architect will have convinced the authorities that it is a ‘cleaner’ look.

For me, all one can do now with this large open space is cross it to the bar. But during the daytime and early evening it has attracted some groups of smallish children, who run after each other and play games there. 

I generally arrive after 10 for my glass of something relaxing – I go to the top floor and gaze out over the huge eucalyptus tree (they have not dared cut that down as it has been there for ever) to the high walls of the neighbouring Palais Badi and to the lights of the medina in the distance.

At this hour there are still children screaming and scurrying around the square, with their parents probably now employed by the new restaurants and tourists shops across the road from the square.

But as I was leaving the bar the other night after midnight, I found that the dynamics of the square were quite dramatically different. Out there in the square, I was amazed to discover two fully formed adult teams playing football in that large rectangle – and playing it very seriously indeed.

I asked my friend on reception what they were doing there – why so late and do they not have a better place to train? And she told me that these are football teams from a club who have given up waiting for a pitch they were promised out by the Akbal gardens. They waited months and months for the authorities to build them a decent ground … and finally gave up.

My friend said these teams sometimes play until 3 in the morning! For in the cool and peace of the Place des Ferblantiers at night, they have found an excellent use for that large gaping rectangle.

Madame this is a hotel, not a toilet

(Written on January 28)

I was running nervously down the long road to the start of the Marrakech marathon (well, half marathon in my case, but it's the same start place) when I felt unnerving twinges in the nether regions. I had been suffering from erratic bowel behaviour in the whole build-up to the race, and now it looked like boiled eggs and bananas were already making their presence felt in my colon ...

At this point I am passing the Mamounia Hotel - probably the loftiest and oldest and finest in Marrakech (there are many more now which are more ostentatiously luxurious, but nothing quite with its class). Winston Churchill used to stay and paint there. And nowadays people like Nicole Kidman and Joanna Lumley (not together obviously - somehow they would make an odd combination).

So, I know I cannot last much longer ... and right ahead through the old city gate (incongruously known as Bab Jdid - or New Gate) after the roundabout lies ... the Start of the Race.

There is heavy security presence in the Mamounia entrance. And when I say heavy I mean one of them must weigh about 100 kg. But I choose him. 'Excuse me please, but I am taking part in the marathon and my stomach is very upset - could I please enter and use the toilet here?'

Mr Big looks me up and down with the faintest of disdain. 'Madame this is a hotel not a toilet. There is a public toilet.' And he takes me outside to point back down the long road from whence I have come ... a long long way back.

'I know it is a hotel and a very beautiful place it is too - I have visited several times. But if you are kind you will allow me in because I am a little sick and it is urgent NOW please', I plead desperately.

He sighs. 'OK, please wait a moment madame', and he makes a telephone call.

I wait on tenterhooks and then he puts the phone down and motions me ... IN! I am exultant! I know exactly where the wonderful toilet is and am ready to make a run for it when ... he takes me gently by the arm ... and leads me to a tiny toilet concealed behind the grand entrance.

Inside there is no light, no flush. I perform urgently by mobile torchlight and then search in vain for the means to dispose of the, er, proceeds. Nothing. And no time and not enough Arabic to explain to another man who is washing in the sink.

I rush out, thank Mr Big profusely, and ask God to bless him. Then makes off as rapidly as possible.

It will be a bit of a while before I dare to show my face there again.

They never forget you

The kindness of the leather repair man

My handbag - of beautiful soft camel leather bought in the Marrakech souks - was coming apart a little at one seam, so I decided to take it along for a stitching job to the general leather repair man, who also doubles up as the shoeshine man. He sits at a street corner next to the news stand and I knew where he was because I had been to see him before with a sandal to repair. And as soon as I began with my painful Arabic - salaam a lekuum and afak, can you fix my bag - he remembered me. He took my bag, looked at what needed to be done and reached for his needle and thread. 

I said I could come back later but no, 'bilati, blati' (wait) he said and offered me a stool next to him, from where I could watch the street life go by.

He sewed away cheerfully and generally tidied up my bag, trimming off odd pieces of thread elsewhere. When he'd finished I asked him how much? But he just smiled and motioned me away. Nothing?! No, no, I could not believe it, but he just smiled at me again. I left something anyway and then we both asked Allah for mutual blessings.

I told a Moroccan friend this lovely story and he said it is quite common for repair men like this to remember you and take to you if you have made an effort in their language. 

I love this type of genuine warmth and generosity that I find in Morocco.

Mouslim! Mouslim!

I have a friend who lives way out in the suburbs of Marrakech and to get there the only option is to take a grand taxi, usually an ancient beige-coloured Mercedes – all taxis in Marrakech are beige, in Essaouira blue and white, and in Rabat white: they go with their city's decor.

A lot of these grand taxis leave from one particular street and if you want to go to Imam Mouslim (which I do, cos my friend lives there), you have to walk into this street into a melée of taxis, bikes and people, and begin to enquire from every driver you see ‘Mouslim?’ … and he will direct you to the part of the street from where Mouslim taxis will depart today.

Once you have found a Mouslim taxi, you have to wait until the car is filled before he goes – four in the back and two in the front next to him – and delicately he will try to ensure that women – as far as possible – are separated from men. NOT a good idea to get inside on a hot summer’s day until the last possible moment as you will bake to death.

‘Mouslim! Mouslim!’ he stands in the street shouting and – once we are all stuffed inside – off  we go – edging past all the other waiting taxis and then out past the King´s new palace, through a gate in the city walls, and on up to the Menara gardens before turning and heading for the airport road and freedom …

Inside, I am gently trying to edge myself into a position where my protuberances are not coming into contact with my neighbour on every turn or braking instance. Always in the back (I have never succeeded in making it to the front), I try and make myself as diminutive as possible, and limit myself to muttered choukrans for change when I hand the money over (it’s 5 dirhams/40p for the journey), and tentative smiles in the directions of my neighbours, who are often quite bulky women wearing thick fleecy-type djellabas, even in the summer and carrying large shopping bags. Sweat pours down … and of course the window winders never work. I can’t even reach my phone to let my friend know I’m coming.

It’s another thing at night. Now workers who have finished their shifts are in a mad hurry to get home, and you must locate your taxi and firmly establish your place in it! And it is DARK.

So one night I am squashed into the outside place in the back by the door, four of us already there, when the door opens again – and not one but TWO young men try to get in on top of me. ‘Amara, amara!’ (it’s full) says the woman next to me as I try desperately not to give way and also to shove them out. Mercifully I also look down at this point … and see that one of them has his hand in my bag. I snatch it away from him, and he backs off, but the woman next to me has seen – ‘hchoma’ (shame) she shrieks at him, then yells at the driver about what has happened.

The whole taxi is convulsed with concern for me. ‘Nti bikher?’ (are you OK) they ask, and they mutter angrily about how things have changed, the medina never used to be like this but now there are thieves all over the place etc etc. The women in the back keep up a non-stop flow of enraged commentary and apologies, despite my repeated ‘makein mushkil’ (no problem) and one offers me water, another a little packet of biscuits. Aw.

By the time I near my stop I have been so flooded with attention that I have not yet paid the driver. So, ‘hna’ (here) I say, and ‘hak’ (take) the money, and I hand over my 5 dirham coin. No, no, madam, he says, we cannot accept your money after such an outrage. And he stops and gets out to open my door (never usually done), helps me out, looks carefully around, and sends me off with an ‘aandek’ (be careful).

These are the people I like to be with.

What I learnt about ‘prettyness’ from my new friend Fati

I turn up at my usual sandwich bar for lunch : there is a new girl working there who has noticed me the last three days. She likes that I try to order in Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, and we all have a laugh with my pronunciation. Today she tells me that I am very zwina (pretty) … NO! say I, YOU are very pretty, ‘ana chibaniya ou haiba’ (I am old and ugly). Today I am feeling very weary ...

She laughs and says that I am completely wrong: ‘In Morocco when we say pretty, we mean the eyes, the nose, the expression on the face – we are not worried about the SKIN!’

(They don´t have to be worried about it of course – they all have wonderful skin, the result of hammams and great diet and SUN).

Then she asks me if I have any friends, or any children (!) in Morocco. I say some to the former, and no to the latter. She says that foreigners don´t seem to mix very much with Moroccans and she thinks it’s a shame. She suggests she could be just a shweeeeeeeya (small) friend of mine. Her name is Fatima, she says, but her friends call her Fati and so I can too now.

My takeaway salad arrives (everyone rushing to make sure I have what I need, filling little paper bags with salt and pepper, and a tiny plastic container with harissa sauce, which I like on everything). 

‘Bslema (bye) Fati’, I say, and walk jauntily away down the road thinking that my new young friend has taught me a thing or two now about what ‘pretty’ is. I feel almost confident!

Are good men boring? A Marrakech policeman's view ...

I am sitting in my favourite café – which has recently become even more favourite with the efforts of an attentive new waiter  –  and enjoying a nuss nuss (café au lait)when two smart, dark-clothed men arrive and sit down at the table opposite me. My attention is alerted to them even more when one of them places a pair of handcuffs on the table in front of him.

This gives me my opener into the conversation: ‘Salaam aleikum’, I say peaceably enough, ‘shorta?’ (police)?

They look briefly surprised, then nod and then one of them asks what I do?

‘Ana brrgaga’ (I´m a spy) I reply, because it’s always good for a laugh and an intro – especially with policemen. Again there is a moment of taken-abackness, and then they both laugh and the same one (a cheekier one) says I can help them with their work then …

Between French and Darija we manage some limited discussion on our relative lines of work, where I live, what I am doing there. Then comes the inevitable question: ‘chhal f sa3a’ (how old are you)?’

Ninety-five, I say. No! you only look 65, says the cheeky one. I am crushed. But my new waiter friend in the café rushes to buoy me up: ‘No! you are only 35!’.

You´re a lovely man I say to him, and ‘nta drif bissef’ (you are very polite) too.

He´s a liar, says Mr Cheeky Policeman. ‘But of course you like him because liars are sexy’ …

I find this an interesting thought and say so. ‘It’s TRUE’, he insists. ‘Women don´t like good men – they’re too boring.’

Coming from a policeman I find this a very interesting comment indeed …

And I decide that I am not going to tell them whether I agree with them or not.

Swimming in Marrakech

On a hot day, the idea of a swimming pool is a most attractive one … and there are lots of hot days in this baking city, so I have made it my business to find out where to go.

But it is not easy, for swimming is not cheap here. A lot of people go to la-di-da hotels and agree to a fee of about 30 euro and lunch there in order to have access to their sumptuous poolsides … but in what is rather a clinical, posy environment I often find. There are also fancy clubs right outside the city boasting more attractive surrounds, but these also cost an arm and a leg, not to mention the taxi fare. Or one can go to Oasiria, a huge water wonderland, and ride the churning waves and slide down the shutes with the best of Moroccan children.

But, strangely enough, by the side of the steaming, traffic-filled road to the airport, one has a choice of two more ‘normal’ pools – Myah Bay and Beach Garden. The former is again quite slick, with bodyguards in sunnys and suits at the gate – even if you just want to take a look there, you must leave your water outside that gate. Inside you have a huge infinity pool and very impressive it is too, with stylish black and white sunloungers, healthy looking bronzed types baring their biceps … and rather loud contemporary music blaring from the loudspeakers. But perfectly Ok if you like that type of thing, and don´t mind paying  about 25 euros for the pleasure … still a bit steep in my opinion (although the price seems to fluctuate, depending on how much they need the business I guess … or maybe how much they want the particular customer!)

What the pool looked like on the first visit

However, further down the road you have the Beach Garden. ‘This is more my type of place’, I thought when I entered the first time, following a path through a pleasant garden and turning to find an Olympic-sized pool, complete with lanes and some useful swimmers ploughing up and down. A little café in one corner, some fairly decent changing rooms, and the music bearable.  More cosy than posey, I thought happily.

That was my impression on my inspection visit. So, the next time I went there in earnest – a stinking hot day and I had to cool down. Couldn’t wait to get in that water. Took a taxi along that churning road, risked my life crossing it, and paid my 100 dirham (10 euros) to the delight of the gatekeeper, who had been crestfallen when I did not go in the first time, offering me tea and begging me to stay.

I turned that same corner on that steaming hot day and … the pool was full of, but full of, and surrounded by, the youth of Marrakech. And when I say the youth, I mean of the 16-21 variety. They were everywhere and they were mostly masculine. They preened and they dived and they divebombed and they splashed. There were a few young women – maybe three in bikinis, the rest in burkinis (very elegant actually).

I emerged from the changing room in my Speedo and a tee-shirt and a towel and walked timidly through groups of young men but hey, they weren´t going to take any notice of me anyway. So now the question was where am I going to leave my stuff? I approached a young man who was not preening at that particular moment, or covered in headphones, or staring at his phone; I asked him in my best Arabic  if I could leave my bag there (it was all of three words – ‘ mika dyali hna’ – literally, ‘my bag here’?). He looked disdainful, pained by my poor attempt in Darija, and faintly nodded. I took my towel and t-shirt off, left my hat on top as a marker and  quickly dived in before anyone could spot me in my shrinking Speedo.

There were too many people in the pool to do lengths and so I chose a relatively free space – where I could also keep an eye on my hat – and crossed the width.  A few of these and I started getting into my stride … thump up and down, up and down. I noticed people clearing out of the way after a bit as I came crashing through … and then a little while after that I noticed something else: some representatives of the Marrakech youth had begun to race with me!

This really began to be fun as, growing up in Kenya, I had a privileged swimming existence and a definite advantage over these boys – in style if not speed. Swimming is the only sport I have ever been any good at, and now we raced!

I will not say I won every time, but I think I did myself proud. And when I decided enough was enough, I noticed I commanded just a tiny bit more attention than before …

What is that shiny red bus doing in the old medina?

It is a spring morning in Marrakech and I am sitting having my breakfast and reading my mails, while outside the usual maelstrom of traffic goes by in one continuous madness of honks and neighs and motorbike roars and bicycles and donkeys and taxis and old ALSA beige-coloured buses.

Yes, beige-coloured, in keeping with the taxis of Marrakech - if you go to the blue-and-white town of Essaouira, the taxis are blue and white, if you go to white imperial Rabat, the taxis are white - and so on and so on, one gets the picture and all is colour-coded and matching and soothing and as it should be.

The bus, with beige taxi reflected in its windows

But this morning for some reason I look up and there through the door to that crazy outside world I see a very new and very modern and very shiny RED bus. It does not look right at all.

It makes me a little sad about my beloved Marrakech. 'They' have already wrecked the old Mellah area, turning it into a vast open square with a very modern traffic system and neat, sanitised shops running around the edges. There are other developments afoot all over the medina. What will it become?

I step outside into the street to take in the enormity of this new monstrosity. It is a 'bendy' bus, with a rubberised concertina-like arrangement in the middle to help its extra length to bend around roundabouts and difficult turns. They tried these out in London and they didn't work amidst all that traffic. I am not sure how it will bend here around horses and caleches, and donkeys and carts and thousands upon thousands of motorbikes with families on top. They will all be stopped, I think sadly.

But as I watch I see that the normal world of Marrakech begin to pass by regardless ... and all the elements of this world are just the same and they take absolutely no notice at all of the shiny monster. It is just as if it isn't there. First comes a man rushing by with two large wheat sacks on his shoulders. Then some ponies tugging on a caleche. Then motorbikes scream by. And the red bus just sits there. Maybe it is more frightened of the rest of the traffic than the rest of the traffic is of it!

For it seems that the old Marrakech always re-asserts itself - after all, it has been assaulted by tourism since the Fifties ... and still so much is just the same. Enter the souks and you enter a world you are unlikely to see anywhere else in the world (especially now that the souks of Syria have been destroyed). Oh there is Fez of course - but Fez is ALL souks. Fez has nothing of the mad mixture of Marrakech ... and that madness is what makes Marrakech and, it seems, it will always do so. Incha'allah.

Sage tea in the Marrakech furnace of summer

The temperature was 44 degrees in Marrakech today and although I had bought a hat I was feeling the heat somewhat as I passed a group of men sitting on the ground and happily drinking glasses of tea. 

'Le chaleur, le chaleur (the heat, the heat' , I commented. 

Immediately one of them offered me a little glass of his tea! And it was mercifully NOT the usual mint tea, but 'atay ble selmia' - tea with sage leaves. A few sips of this has a fantastic cooling effect: I felt much better and I was very grateful and told them - in my limited moroccan arabic - that they were lovely people and that the tea had helped me considerably with my heat problems. 

A complicated conversation then ensued, involving a lot of advice about how good tea was for the santé and so on. 

It went on and on and I was getting a bit lost as my Arabic vocabulary failed me. So the main man resorted to a lot of gesticulating, with some help from his friends.

 ... and finally I got it. They were pointing to a drinking place in the square behind me and they were emphasising the benefits of tea as opposed to, erm, things like WINE. 

I began to feel even more hot and bothered than I had felt before the tea: I fear these men have seen me entering that very same dark place of an evening, on many an occasion ...

Marrakech marathon 2016 - a riot of colour

I came to Marrakech full of anxiety about running the half marathon. My glutes, hams and knees had been giving me hell during the training, and lately even my toes were playing up.  Combine this with an irritation in the eyes and a persistent mouth ulcer, and you have a very sorry me.

The day I arrived I stupidly made it all worse by going out on a run and deciding to have a race with a caleche (horse-drawn carriage): I went too fast and so the next day my hams were worse than ever.

But Marrakech is really the place to sort all these things out. I went to the pharmacy about my mouth and they gave me a very homeopathic-looking spray containing bee pollen and cloves and cinnamon and eucalyptus. I told them about my aching legs and said should I go for a cream or a massage. A massage the two men said without hesitation.

In Morocco massages are everywhere. You can go to a hammam (public bath place) for the complete treatment or you can go to a centre for ´remise en forme´ (putting you back into shape).

As I said, hammams are all over the place in Morocco – all Moroccans pay them a visit at least once a week and I am sure that is why they have such fantastic skin and hair. Treatment consists of steaming first in a sauna, then being scrubbed and exfoliated (could not quite believe the amount of skin coming off my legs the first time I went) and washed with chunky bars of olive oil soap. The finale and the best part is the massage: lying on a stone slab, bit by bit your body is dealt with in a series of wonderful strokes and pummellings, using a combination of sweet-smelling oils (rose and argan seem to be predominant). You come out feeling 25 years younger.

This time, however, I decided I needed some putting back into shape, so went to have my legs attended to by Leila: she told me they were too hard and I did not leave until she had completed the job of softening them up.  It was so wonderfully relaxing I almost fell asleep on the table.

The morning of the marathon loomed and I was up bright and early and having my hot chocolate when the next crisis occurred.  Aziz, who was coming with me to the 9.15 start, rang at 8 and said the race was starting in 15 minutes! Aaaargh, I threw down my croissant and RAN out the door, past the Koutoubia and through the park to Bab Jdid (the New Gate) where I found him waiting with Hicham, his friend who was running and who confirmed that I was right and the race was starting at 9.15 after all.

(Hicham is young and fit and last year ran the race in 1 hour 35 minutes. This year he knew he had to equal that time, because his shift in a restaurant was to begin at 11!)

The start, on the Avenue de la Menara, was an impressive sight. This year there were over 10,000 runners, seemingly from every nation under the sun. Huge silky red Moroccan flags unfurled in the crowd, while drummers dressed in the green and red of the flag thundered away, stirring the crowd of dancers, stretchers and chatterers. I was surrounded by Arabic, French and Italian commentaries as people bent and jumped and generally tried out their muscles in every way.

The mass moved slowly over the line as the start gun went off at 9.15 and we headed down a leafy avenue through Hivernage (the hotel area) into Gueliz, the ´nouvelle ville´, turning away from the huge new railway station to plunge down a route of back streets which finally emerged into the olive groves of the Menara Gardens.

The Marrakech marathon really has to be one of the most stunning marathon routes in the entire world. After we left the Menara´s olive groves, we ran down the main airport road (traffic blocked to allow our progress – I was wondering about people missing flights!) and then turned right to face the sun, with the pink city walls on our left and the towering snow-capped peaks of the Atlas mountains ahead. The sun in my face felt good at that point (too early to be hot) and helped pass a good 5k in this direction before we turned again to run in some welcome shade past yet more olive and orange groves, this time the Agdal Gardens.

Another 2k and this time the turn was to the left, and now we had the sun behind us, bleached city walls on the left and vast stretches of desert on the right – a real sense of northern Africa.

Every so often there would be pockets of people cheering and clapping – ´bonne courage madame´, some said kindly to me. Happy kids held out their hands for a high five – having fun with them like this gave me bursts of renewed energy and off I would go again.

There were thousands ahead of me of course, so every 5 km or so I came across a section of the road both soaked and covered in orange peel … and then a little further on there would be a rainbow of sponges littering my way – a bit of a slithery hazard, but you need your water and the sugar-fruit boost on runs like this.

We were back into the city for the last punishing 5 km or so, and this really tested my reserves. It also tested the patience of the traffic being held back by policemen – at one point a bike just in front of me tried to break through, but a furious gendarme had got to him before he had any chance of getting to me. Those bikes revved and roared in frustration, but the police (and army, actually) were having none of it.

A final lung-choking sprint to the line, and then there really was a bit of Moroccan (or French, as race organized by French) chaos, as after medals were handed out we were all squashed into one long narrow corridor on the road in the sun, queueing, shoving, pushing, to get out past the barriers and be given a precious bottle of water. People unable to wait – a woman by me nearly fainted – were screaming out ´lma! lma!´(water) and race officials were torn between compassion and duty...

I was too dazed to be able to focus on anything. I had crossed the line after about 2 hours (still awaiting official results) and could scarcely believe that the legs had held up. I copied a ring of runners doing stretch exercises and then sat on the pavement and felt hot and hungry and wished I had some money to buy a sesame bun from the man offering them to me. He can´t have done much business as most runners were like me and had nothing with them (except their phones of course!).

And Hicham? Again he achieved 1 hour 35, which meant he finished the race at 10.50 and ran over to the restaurant where he works to start at 11. A 22-km run before a 12-hour working day: that is what I call impressive.

I walked slowly back home wearing my T-shirt and medal, and street sellers and taxi drivers and people everywhere called out: ´Felicitations six thousand three hundred and thirty three!´ (6333, my number, but everyone spelt it out in full). They made me feel great. Would people in England have called out to me like that? I wonder.

En route to my favourite café, I stopped to look in a shop. Seeing my T-shirt, the shopkeeper asked if I had won. Not exactly I say. He asked to see my medal: ´oh it´s a gold one!´, he said, ´you are the winner! You must have won a lot of money!´

I explain sadly that apart from the medal I won walu (nothing). But no, he corrected me, ´you have won sport – vous avez gagné le sport – and with this you have won your health´.

Oh they are so good at making the most of a situation these Moroccans.

The policeman sandwich

The policeman sandwich

Now more than ever I get asked the question: “Is it safe to go to Morocco?”

I can´t of course pretend to be a security expert and offer complete 100% assurances that all is safe there. But as I am there a lot and I observe a lot, I can at least offer the following:

It was in January this year when I first noticed the appearance of the ´policeman sandwiches´ on the streets of Marrakech. This is what the locals call the security trio/triplet, which consists of one policeman flanked by two camouflaged soldiers carrying machine guns – and this is a trio which is repeated all over the city, and which strikes me as a clever way of subtly monitoring and ensuring the security situation.

You will note these trios standing outside banks, the bigger hotels and companies … and not far away from most tourist attractions, if not all of them. Also outside some of the bigger restaurants.

They are very subtle these trios and have clearly been told not to make themselves look too obvious. One morning I was photographing some beautifully carved trees down the far end of Boulevard Mohammed V, near a military barracks and near the French Institute. One moment I noticed one of these trios, the next they had disappeared behind a tree. They clearly do not want to be photographed.

But I have also seen tourists approach them and ask them who they are, what are they doing? Always smiling and courteous, and speaking in either a beautiful French (those Moroccans who learn French speak it exquisitely, with an enviable Gallic accent) or an English which is not so bad, they explain that they are there to keep the peace.

To keep the peace. And thus far so has Morocco remained. In peace. The king, a clever and thoughtful man, maintains the country in a peaceful state – of course it is not perfect, but you will find that the overwhelming majority of Moroccans you meet love their king and believe devoutly in their faith. In the past, the King has even arranged to send some of the Moroccan imams, famed for their moderation, to countries like Mauritania and Mali to help them to preach tolerance. And in September it was announced that French imams are to be sent for training in Morocco as part of a new programme that aims to promote “an Islam with the right balance” that conforms to “values of openness and tolerance” (I have no update as to whether this has begun yet).

Furthermore, this wise King, like the Queen in England, is head of the faith! So who would rise up against him in the name of Islam? 

The difference between a bus in Marrakech and a bus in London

I leave my friends in Marrakech a little late and see the airport bus at the stop ahead of me, 100 metres down the road. Aaaargh, I have the time wrong again. I start running, dragging suitcase behind, and yelling 'Bilati, bilati!' (Wait!)

As I draw near, the bus is still there, but then it pulls out into the road - the driver hasn't noticed me. But plenty of other people have ... a taxi, of all things, starts honking loudly at the bus, a man shouts at the driver, and then people on the pavement alert the attention of a bus official. 'Aeroport madame?' he says, and 'Yes!' I pant and he ... blows his whistle and runs at the bus and bangs on the back of it.

And the bus, which by now has entered into a lane of manic traffic, screeches to a halt and unbelievably starts to turn back into the stop, while all the while preventing any other traffic behind it from moving forward. He comes back to the side of the road, and opens the door, and I hurl myself inside with a 'chukran bisef' (thank you very much) and 'smahali smahali' (sorry). The driver says nothing and just stares at me. 'I'm sorry', I repeat. 'Are you angry?'

He looks again and then ... bursts out laughing, as do the other passengers, all Moroccans. They grin at me as the bus shoots away and I stumble along with my unwieldy suitcase. It's all sooo friendly.
................................................................................................................................................................

I arrive back at Gatwick airport at 11.40pm and there is the usual ridiculous queue for customs, which takes 40 minutes to get through and means I miss any chance of taking a train all the way home. I have to get out at East Croydon and look for the dreaded night bus. There are two stops for the same number bus, one with the destination South Croydon and one West Croydon. I want to go to West Norwood which lies roughly north of both of those places, so I am none the wiser.

I am waiting by one when I see the bus draw up at the other. I RUN back to it and ask the driver - a snippy-faced woman - if she is going to West Norwood? 'Yes obviously', she says. 'Can't you see it says West Croydon up there?'

I explain that I don't have a clear geographical idea of how West and South Croydon relate to West Norwood and she snaps that there is a list and a timetable on the post. I say I saw West Norwood on that at the other stop and she looks witheringly at me and says you have to look at the direction.

'Well it's very late and I'm tired', I say, 'but can you wait while I run and get my luggage from the other stop?' There is a deep impatient sigh. 'I have to keep to the timetable', she says.

So I run like mad for the case and run back ... and enter a bus full of cold stony-faced people: never mind about helping me home at 1.20 in the morning, they have been held up ...

I tell you, give me Marrakech any day.

Dinner with Muhammad's family

Muhammed, the loom worker, is my friend and one of the smiliest people I have ever met. He has a wonderful smile, lighting up his face and lighting up my spirit. He is also one of the most Muslim of Moroccans, climbing out from under the loom to don his djellaba and rush off to the nearby mosque at every call to prayer. He also delicately asked one day if we could cut the music off the laptops – the ‘boys’ in the shop were showing me some local singers – as there were special sung prayers going on at the mosque, all the while apologizing profusely.

He sits there working that loom all day, from 9 to about 6, with a short break for lunch – sitting on the floor of the shop at the back – and even shorter breaks for the mosque runs. One whole day’s work results in one shawl or scarf (though they are quite large) – and he has to concentrate quite hard on the fine threads, although is often looking up and flashing me one of his smiles to reassure me.

We communicate largely by smiles, as Muhammed has no English or French and until recently my Arabic was limited to greetings and asking how much? (so I got quite good with the numbers too).

I have another friend in the shop – Mustafa – who speaks very good English, and so he generally does the translating when Muhammed and I want to get on to anything more complex than enquiring after each other’s health.

It was quite of a challenge, then, when Muhammed asked me to his house for dinner, to meet his wife and children. He told me (through Mustafa) that his home was about 3km away and that we could walk there, and we agree to go at 6 that day (like all Moroccans, Muhammad has a fancy mobile, so I presume he phoned to warn his wife).

Muhammad has a bicycle and the ‘walk’ home turns out to be a 45-minute canter, charging across busy roads and weaving through people and donkeys and carts and bikes as the sun goes down. We slow down when we get to an area where the streets are just teeming with activity, every shop a fascinating display for me, but no time to stop and look …

Finally we are heading down an alley and ‘dar’ (home) is at the bottom. Muhammad calls up the dark stairs ‘Maryam!’ and a young girl – his daughter – comes down and lights me up the stairs with the help of a mobile … for Muhammad has once again rushed off to the mosque.

Upstairs I find one room the size of an average lounge, on one side of which there is a low coffee-style table, two sofas and a big TV, and on the other a large double bed: it is clear the whole family live and sleep in this room. Yusuf, the six-year-old, bounces about cheekily on the bed and Miriam introduces me to her mother Leila – at least I think she does cos Miriam doesn’t speak French or English either (she IS only 9).

Leila brings in a tray of mint tea: we are waiting for Muhammad’s return and our lack of a common language is trying. We focus on the tea and sugar – I make big faces about how disgusting tea is without sugar as the men in the shop have started this, and we all laugh. Maryam fetches her French homework book and I try to help, but someone has already filled in the answers and they are all wrong!

Out goes Leila again and I realise that there is a communal kitchen on the landing, where there are also washing facilities. She comes back with bowls of harira soup and plates of dates and Muhammad, at last. There is also bread to dip into the delicious harira, brimful of chickpeas and cumin and lentils (this is a vegetarian one).

This is dinner for the family, I realise, although Yusuf’s not having any – he´s too busy showing off his acrobatic displays on the bed.

Then I feel a need for the facilities. I say ‘toilette’ and know they will get it, but they all look alarmed. ‘Amara!’, says Leila, and then, as I make for the landing, ‘Amara!’ repeats Muhammad with more urgency. Then nine-year-old Maryam hands me a towel and I think ‘Amara’ must mean loo paper and that I need to use this, so I take it and make for the place. ‘Amaraaa’, squeals Maryam as I go to open the door ahead … and then I hear noises inside. Aaah, ‘amara’ means occupied!

Lake Lalla Takerkoust - or the Barraj

On a hot Ramadan Sunday, Marrakech really does become a little insufferable, so I decide to leave the pink walls behind and go visit a pretty reservoir lake I had read about.

The lake of Lalla Takerkoust lies some 35 km south of Marrakech, and so I go to where buses and ‘grande’ collective taxis line up for places in that direction. The drivers seem vague about buses, but grande taxis go they say. In Marrakech these taxis are all 1970s Mercedes – one of my favourite models – and all beige (in Rabat, in keeping with the buildings, they are all white and in Essaouira blue and white). They are also always stuffed to the gills: four in the back, three in the front.

‘Lalla Takerhoust?’ I enquire of one of these Mercedes drivers and am directed across the road to a petrol station, where a man stands by a slightly larger and newer vehicle. I ask him and he says ‘how many?’: apparently he will take a group of me for a sum about ten times as much as the regulars go for.

No, no, I insist, ‘makein fluss’ (I have no money): I am just me and I want to go with all the others like a regular.  Ok, ok, he shrugs, and so begins the usual attempt to collect others to go by shouting out loudly ‘Barraj, barraj!’. (The word for dam is ‘barrage’ in French.)

After a while, an old man with one remaining tooth, skull cap and a large sack of vegetables turns up and indicates he wants to go. But, that seems to be it … so, desperate to get there, I join in yelling out ‘Barraj, barraj’, from my standpoint in the shade by the petrol pumps with other drivers..

Eventually one more man turns up (not sure whether he is attracted by my Barraj call or the driver’s) and as we have now been here for about 40 minutes, I decide I might as well pay for two-thirds of the fare so that we can GO.

Off we set, windows all down to allow in as much hot air as possible and the driver puts some Berber music on the CD and we all clap and sway along to it. One Tooth particularly gets into the spirit of it all, as does – rather alarmingly – the driver, whose clapping means that the wheel is regularly unmanned.

Still we get to the town of Barraj (or Lalla Takerkoust) in one piece and my fellow passengers instantly disappear. Not much in this town apart from huge great barraj looming over everything – and now the driver tells me that the actual lake is another 6km further on. In 39 degrees of sultry heat the walk does not seem too tempting, so I accept his offer to take me there for a further fee ...

And the lake is a real treat. Despite being man-made – the Baraj was built by the French in the 1930s to provide Marrakech with water and electricity – it is a very pretty lake with lots of twists and curves and covey inlets. Easy paths to follow, either along the shores or up and down little hills with lovely views and shady trees – no wonder the Marrakshis all normally come out here for picnics on Sundays.

The French called the lake Cavagnac (something to do with Christians immured in a cave and plunged by God into a mystic sleep), but the locals ignored that and called it Lalla Takerkoust after the lady saint protector of the area, who is buried in the nearby town of Amizmiz.

Amizmiz is near the source of the lake, where the water is reputed to have therapeutic qualities: apparently the sick of Marrakech go there and cover their feet with breadcrumbs so that they will be nibbled by the water turtles.

But today there are no picnickers and no people with sore feet (apart from me). It was Ramadan after all, and so – apart from a few fishermen, some small groups of boy swimmers and a goatherd with his goats – I have the run of the place to myself.  I wander around contentedly, remembering the lake scenes from Hideous Kinky, which were definitely filmed here, and finally settle under a tree for a bit of a sleep.

The sleep does not last long as I am disturbed by the arrival of some boys on quad bikes – probably not one of the more soothing attractions at the lake. They are very well behaved BUT, well, they are noisy. And – much as I love the wilderness of my area – I do gaze longingly across the water at what looks like a restaurant from which some pedalos are lazily making their way across the water.

It is a hot sultry day, as I have already mentioned, and so I descend for a paddle and the coolish water is very welcome. I would dearly love a swim, but decide that this is Out of the Question as I a) do not have a costume and b) am the only female around. There IS some sort of a policeman making the rounds on a quieter kind of quad bike but still I decide that I will wait till the next time I come, when I will hire all of the man’s taxi and bring a group and a picnic.

From my paddling area I can see yet more trails for walking, and also a clearer view emerges of the Atlas mountain range, which would be stunning on a cooler, clearer day. Also I spot some other restaurant-type places and what looks like private beaches. But perhaps they are closed today as it is Ramadan.

The quads are long gone and so are the swimmers and so is my bottle of water. Now is time for the return journey. I set off on the road back to the town of Barraj and am there surprisingly quickly – it is probably more like 3 than 6 kilometres.

Hot work, though, that walk, scorching. So the sight of a white frothy river tumbling over boulders far down below the town is just too much to resist. I race down there and douse my head in the cool clear water, much cooler than the lake. The local youth seem unfazed by my presence – all is cool, cool, cool, and Allah Akhbar.

Back up in the town of Barraj I find that there IS a bus service to Marrakech after all. And the fare is 7 dirhams, about one tenth of what I paid to come out here. Taxi drivers – they are the same all over the world …

But hey, now I know all about the lake and am looking forward to bringing a picnic party in slightly cooler weather!

Ramadan in Marrakech: how to be awed

How do people survive for sixteen hours on no food and no drink – not even a drop of water – during Ramadan? Well here in Marrakech I witness it every day … and I am stunned by the stamina of the people, by their stoic determination to observe the saim/saima (fast), but most of all by their overwhelming faith, their conviction that there is a God up there and that He will protect and help you if only you pray enough.

And as if sixteen hours without food or liquid aren’t enough of an ordeal just to survive, try to imagine what it is like when the temperature is in the mid-40s daily, as it is now! And then go one step further and try to imagine what it’s like to be a builder: because during the month of Ramadan the majority of restaurants and cafés are closed until sunset, many owners of buildings will take advantage of this ‘low’ season to renovate or restore them. So it is not an uncommon sight to see ladders and scaffolding and paint pots – and men toiling in overalls under the full glare of the sun, men who have not drunk a drop of water since 4am ...

There are of course Ramadan exemptions for certain categories: children and old people; sick people; and people who are on journeys … though I am not clear about this last one as when I was coming back from Rabat on the train everyone waited until the sunset – and then the man with a trolley did a roaring business, and smokers gathered in huddles at the end of each carriage.

In Morocco the King formally changes the hour for the month of Ramadan, so that the sun will go down an hour earlier and the people do not have to wait until too late for their ‘ftour’ - the ‘breakfast’ (made me think about the literal sense of the word) meal they take at 7.45 each evening. From about 7 all the cafés are preparing plates of ftour for everyone – this usually consists of a bowl of harira soup, a pancake, a hard-boiled egg, some dates, yogurt, fruit juice, and maybe some sweet cakes.

Everyone is waiting for the imams in the mosques to make the 7.45 call – as the words ‘Allahu Akhbar’ (God is great) ring out around the city, the people can finally break their fast ...

And even before the Imam has begun that prayer, an utter silence has descended on the city. The streets are completely deserted, all the more astounding because this city is normally one non-stop heaving belching mass of traffic and humanity. At 7.45 the street outside my hotel – usually the same chaotic cram of honking buses, motorbikes, taxis, bicycles, horses and carts,  – is totally dead. The first time I was here in Ramadan I just went and stood in the middle of the road and gaped. I could not quite believe my eyes. The stillness. The silence.

Meanwhile the Moroccans set to on their harira soup and boiled eggs, no matter the weather. They tell me it is important for the digestive system not to eat heavy, fatty food after a day's fasting – and after a day or two’s experiment I can see the sense of that. It is also apparently quite healthy for the body to purge itself this way for one month a year ... again Moroccans say there has been research conducted into the Ramadan fasting system, and the body seems to benefit (although I cannot for the life of me understand how going 16 hours in 45 degrees of heat without water can be good for the kidneys.)

So there you go: Moroccans say everything Allah ordained was for the good of his people – he had thought it all out. The fasting is good, as is avoiding pig, a dirty animal they say: it will only bring you infection and stomach problems. Every day during Ramadan the local newspaper carries an article on a subject covered by the Koran which has subsequently been proved scientifically …

As for what the Koran has to say about alcohol, well … you will find here that Moroccans are divided. Being a frequenter myself of places where alcohol can be obtained, I see many people I know to be Muslims partaking … and they don't hold back. But when it comes to Ramadan, wow!... they are all drinking Coke and coffee!

I am not sure whether I find this hypocritical, as some Moroccans do, or not. In a way it’s a bit like Catholics giving up things for Lent I suppose. But Catholics are not asked to avoid them during the rest of the year – and Muslims are. Still, the human flesh is weak and people must have treats.

I can only think, however, that it’s a good thing Muhammad didn’t have anything to say about marijuana … kif is generally accepted here, just as long as you are not too blatant about it, and it seems to be indulged in even more during Ramadan. So, if you can’t have your usual kick, at least there’s another one waiting in the shadows.

And those shadows are important, because the Moroccans’ attitude is: if you can’t resist, then OK, do it … but don’t do it out in the open; do it in the privacy of your own home!

But back to the drink: The first drink anyone actually has at the ‘ftour’ is usually a fruit juice – the Moroccans are very inventive with their juices (as indeed they are with almost everything) and you can have some exquisite mixtures: freshly squeezed beetroot and orange is the on trend drink in Marrakech this year and my particular favourite. But lemon and ginger also works really well (this often has some herbs in as well), as does a delicious combination of avocado, milk and almonds. Orange and cucumber, orange and carrot, melon, banana juice with milk, apple and orange – all these are on the menu.

Apart from giving your body a digestive break, the main point of Ramadan is of course to review your faith and pass a very holy month praying fervently for an improvement in every part of your life and your faith. One of the five pillars of Islam is about giving helping the poor with donations whenever you can (and on Ramadan’s last day, the ‘azakat’ tradition means that everyone finds a little something to give to the poor).

During Ramadan, people come to my hotel every evening a short while before sunset with an empty bowl ... and they are never turned away. In fact, pots of extra soup are prepared so that everyone who wishes can get a bowl of harira.

One Saturday night I was on my way to meet a friend and I saw something even more moving. It was about 7.40 and so the streets were deserted ... as before, with everyone either at home, or racing there, in order to share the ‘break fast’ ritual. So, the only people to be seen at that hour are odd groups of disconcerted tourists who do not understand what is going on ...

But that Saturday night I saw a man ahead of me, who looked really down-and-out and was rifling through bins and pulling out paper cups and drinking what was left in them.

Wary Western woman that I am, I was just thinking of crossing the road to avoid him ... when a car appeared from nowhere and stopped by the man. A small boy got out of the car and handed him a bag of food. The man looked amazed and motioned whether it was really for him and the small boy said ‘Yes, enjoy’, smiled, and got back in the car, which drove off just as rapidly as it had appeared.

And every Moroccan to whom I have told this moving story says the same: that to give to others poorer than you is Islam and you do it whenever you can. In fact, there are lots of beggars in the street and I see more Moroccans giving them coins than any of us suspicious Westerners ...

But probably the most powerfully moving aspect of Ramadan is the very demonstration of the people’s faith. There are normally five calls to prayer a day, but during Ramadan  the Imam summons people to pray a special sixth extra prayer for Ramadan – called the Tarawihh.

The call for this particular prayer goes out about 9.30 and way before then preparations have been put in place in the Pink City. Railings bar the busy main road  from the old medina to the Ville Nouvelle (Avenue Mohammed VI) so that the traffic is diverted away from the great Koutoubia mosque. Then thousands upon thousands of people flock to the square in front of the mosque to join in the haunting sung prayer. The men are all in their traditional jellabas and there must be over 20,000 people there each night - to see them bend and stand and bow down again, and listen to the sung prayers, is absolutely humbling and awe-inspiring ( I have a top view from the roof of my hotel).

In the last week there are more special prayers that begin at 2am – again the road is barricaded, around 1.30, and the faithful make their way to the same rush mats outside the Koutoubia. I wake to the strains of the sung prayers floating through my window … and they go on until about 3.30.

The 27^th night is extra special as it is believed to be the night that Mohammed received the revelations that would later form the Koran. The people make a special meal for the sunset breakfast, and that night those who can and wish (of course) will pray all night until 6 in the morning. They then go to visit their loved ones in the cemetery the next day.

On my last night this time in Marrakech – the 28^th night of Ramadan – I was walking back towards the Koutoubia along the main Avenue Mohammed V about 11.30 and it became apparent that the road ahead was already closed to traffic. The nearer I came to the mosque the more densely packed with people the road was. I could barely move for thousands and thousands leaving the square – definitely more than normal.

My friend Aziz saw me and yelled: ‘Come with me to the roof to watch’ and we dashed up there. He explained that the Imam at the Koutoubia had declared that tonight was the last night of the Tarawihh prayer – even though Ramadan wasn’t over. So more people than ever had turned up. But why finish before Ramadan, I wanted to know. He’s tired, I think, says Aziz, but it turned out that he (the Imam) had simply finished singing his way through all the special prayers two days early.

You’d have thought he could have timed it a bit better – but in a way that’s what I like about Morocco: nothing is ever that straightforward and explanations are always a little hazy. It keeps a kind of mystery there.