Morocco: Care for the Desert Menu?

Morocco is one of the most chaotic countries that I’ve been to, and so it’s a touch ironic that its colonial past was indirectly determined by that uber-organised bastion of central Europe, Germany. As a recently re-unified German Empire gradually advanced its military capabilities at the dawn of the 20th Century, Anglo – French hegemony became increasingly insecure. In an effort to strengthen their relationship in the face of the Germanic Sword of Damocles, Britain and France embarked upon the ‘Entente Cordiale’ in 1904.  This manifest itself as a series of political agreements to foster a ‘warm understanding’ between both nations. One of these agreements was the British allowing the French Empire uncontested jurisdiction in Morocco. The establishment of a French Protectorate soon followed which lasted until Moroccan independence was negotiated in Paris in 1956. Visiting the country today is a brilliant experience, but it is difficult to conceive of a country more void of remnants of its recent colonial past.

Marrakesh is as intense a culture shock as a Ryanair flight can get you. Nestled South of Casablanca, the old town revolves around the ludicrously chaotic centre square, Jemaa el Fnaa. Paris this is not. Laced with snake charmers, peppered with powerful smells and awash with African street performers, most of our time there was spent evading chained monkeys and avoiding the most aggressive smoothie sellers I’ve ever encountered. On several occasions I neglected to indulge in an ‘Apple Crush Blend’ because I was convinced that I would be mercilessly up-sold from a solitary smoothie to an entire orchard.  

The centre square at times feels purpose-built to bamboozle but the fact that it vaguely resembles a square does help somewhat.  Easy to navigate around and difficult to get lost within, neither of these traits can be taken for granted once you venture beyond Jemaa el Fnaa’s confines. Google Maps is easily out-foxed on the comically complex and intricate assortment of streets, lanes and paths which are collectively referred to as the ‘Medina’. It is a vibrant and resplendent market offering all manner of Moroccan and African trinkets although orientation around it is the preserve of those endowed with divine intervention. Indeed, the search for our Riad (a distinctly Moroccan form of B&B), which GMaps assured us was a 10 minute jaunt, became a sweaty and stressful sixty minute struggle. As our bewilderment grew, a litany of locals amassed in our wake and harassed us with directions like a vitriolic Sat-Nav shorn of an off-switch, volume control or English translation. 

To my mind, it is the anarchy that means Marrakesh merits a visit but the city does offer the Bahai Palace for those in search of a reprieve.  Having been initially constructed in the 1860s it was recently restored to full splendour and certainly merits an hour or two. I wouldn’t complain if I was given the keys to it, but I can’t claim to have been completely enamoured. It is ornate, although not spectacularly so. Pretty, but hardly spellbinding. Having said that, one of my fellow travellers, Ronan, had a tremendous time. The palace’s distinctly Moroccan decor certainly offers a splendid back-drop to Spongebob Squarepants t-shirts.

Marrakesh is a unique phenomenon and respite from its insanity was more than welcome after a few days.  A car journey via the beautiful Ait Ben Haddou (the set of Yunkai in Game of Thrones) ultimately brought us to one of the most mesmeric example of natural beauty I’ve ever come across. The Sahara Desert.

I can’t possibly conceive of a way to describe how different, how incomparable and alien, the Sahara is to the morass of chaos offered by Marrakesh. We had moved from a conurbation of carnage, criss-crossed with claptrap and debris to an oasis of calm, devoid of commerce or clutter.  I don’t doubt that the Fresh Prince’s move from West Philadelphia to Bel-Air was jarring, but Marakesch to the Sahara is of a different order entirely. It is the largest hot desert is the world and at 9.3 million square kilometers is almost as large as the United States. However, while Beetles and Jaguars can be relied on to traverse the US, camels are your only option to negotiate the sloping dunes of the Sahara.  

Bestrode on ours, whom we dubbed Boris, Bertie and Bosco, it certainly took time to adjust to their lopping strides and the abrupt, almost violent, way they sprang to their feet when you first sit on their backs.  However, given how arresting the skyline was and how magnificent the sunset, more than once I forgot I was riding a camel at all. It’s a truly magnificent site. The trek lasted about an hour, after which we had to wipe away our tears and bid adieu to Boris and co. for the night to decamp.  But what a place to decamp. Beneath the stars of the Sahara skyline and serenaded by an assortment of Moroccan drums it was an experience as unique as it was beguiling.  

In fact, blemishes on this Sahara sojourn numbered just two. Firstly, the fact that alcohol was not available. I was only half surprised to note that some form of Irish bar hadn’t sprung from the sand at some point. Morocco is a majority muslim country and it should be noted that availability and cost of alcohol is informed by this, even within cities (admittedly, we were visiting during Ramadan).  However, infinitely more infuriating was a teenage couple that had travelled from both England and, I’m convinced, the 18th century. So intense were their Georgian sensibilities that the male half of this dire duo even asserted that Morocco’s economy would be far more globalised had the country been a protectorate of Britain rather than France.  They were a delight.

Our time in Morocco concluded in Fez, world famous for its eponymous hats. The city’s Old Town is a Unesco World Heritage Site and is home to the University of al-Qarawiyyin which, having been founded in 859, is the oldest continually functioning University in the world. Knowing the Qu’ran by heart is a rather stiff pre-requisite for admission however, and given that there is a Mosque on campus but no student bar, its priorities are somewhat divergent from my own. But it is certainly old. No arguments there. 

Notwithstanding the modus operandi of its finest educational institute, Fez itself is a joy. If Marrakesh is Joyce’s Ulysses then Fez is his short story, The Dead.  More easily understood, far smaller but just as profound, the Old Town marries the madness of Marrakesh with a more quaint and convivial atmosphere. It is also thanks to Fez that food will be more than just a footnote to this piece as it was there that I awoke to the delights of Moroccan cuisine.

Morocco’s most notable ambassador in Western kitchens is cous-cous but the fact that Tagine, Kefta and Bastilla are not more widely gorged upon in the dining halls of Europe is very much our loss. Fez is particularly rich in roof-top eateries which always lend a superb view and glorious food that pop with paprika and ensconced the taste buds in coriander, cumin and coconut sugar. Tagine in particular merits further delineation. Describing a dish as a ‘Mountain of Food’ is usually too ham-fisted to be informative but in the case of Tagine it’s a faithful description. The dish is comprised of your meat of choice (typically lamb or chicken) encased in a pyramid of vegetables, dusted with spices and cooked in the same ceramic clay dish that it is served in. It is simple and seductive and, should I ever be entrusted with the keys to a culinary Hall of Fame, it would be among the first entries.

Morocco is certainly riotous but therein lies its unique and undeniable charm. Anathema for those in search of a relaxing break it offers treasures aplenty to those in need of a more chastening cultural awakening. And all that before a jaunt through the Sahara is added into the bargain which, in truth, is reason enough to pay a visit to this astounding corner of Africa.