Marrakesh, Morocco

As it happened our plane landed in Casablanca.  The city was disappointing.  Not the mysterious, romantic city of Humphrey Bogart’s Casablanca and “Here’s looking at you kid.”  And not even an interesting Arabic-African-Middle Eastern melange of culture, cuisine and architecture.  Just another rather dirty, down-at-the-heels Americanized city.  But our plan was never to stay there for long.  And I was determined, because who could pass up such an opportunity, to ride the Marrakesh Express. 

So, in the - lightly edited - words of the song….

 

“Took the train from Casablanca going south
Blowing smoke rings from the corners of my mouth my mouth
Colored cottons hang in the air
Charming cobras in the square
Striped djellabas we can wear at home
Well, let me hear ya now

Don’t you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express?
Don’t you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express?
They're taking us to Marrakesh..”

 

As it also happened, the train was packed with holidaying Moroccans, many of whom were kids who would otherwise have been in school.  So packed that we had to stand, me in one car and D. in the drafty, noisy space between cars.  The space by the bathroom, which was a busy place.  At one point a fight broke out between two young women, apparently about one of them smoking (cigarettes, not marijuana).  Other than that, the trip was singularly unspectacular, through a flattish landscape that we could anyway only peek at over the tops of seated passengers.  For just over three (long) hours.

 

Only to arrive in Marrakesh in the rain.  Ah the best laid plans… .  Still, this was more like it.  Here we were in ‘El Hamra,’ the ‘Red City,’ so named because of the beautiful buildings, built from red clay, that dry to a warm, and decidedly ‘romantic,’ salmon-pink colour.  A line of gussied up horse-drawn carriages waiting to tour the tourists.  Men in voluminous djellabas with pointed hoods, their slippered feet, quiet on the cobblestone streets.  And further in, towards the centre, the incredible Jemaa el-Fna square.  The beating heart of Marrakesh.  Always filled with tourists, and therefore touts, selling everything from cheap hotels and restaurants to guided tours of their cousin’s, uncle’s, sister’s, father’s shop.  “Come in come in.  We have for you good price.  Come look.”  And so into the souks, an assault on the senses – visual, acoustic, aromatic – where you mind your wallet, purse, backpack.  Incredibly busy.  Exhaustingly rich.  There is simply no place like Marrakesh.

 

But we’re not here to stay, and certainly not here to buy.  We’re heading further south, and east.  To places much quieter.  Places D. was in some 40 years ago, on his mobilette.  Now those really were the days…

Location: Marrakesh, Morocco

Comments

  1. Will AJanuary 14, 2026 at 2:32 PM

    Incredible city. I still dream of the souks and tagines. there really is no place like Marrakesh. We must go back- as I left my heart there :-)

    ReplyDelete

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