My 1001 Nights Read online

  This book is dedicated to my beloved parents, Jim and Fredi Morrison, and to my friend Charlie Shepherd.

  CONTENTS

  Map of Morocco

  Prologue

  1 Marrakech

  2 The Desert

  3 The Atlas Mountains

  4 Fez

  5 Tangier and the Pirate Coast

  6 Chefchaouen and the Rif

  7 Casablanca

  8 Jebel Saghro

  9 Essaouira

  10 Valleys and Oases

  List of Illustrations

  Acknowledgements

  About Alice Morrison

  Index

  PROLOGUE

  ‘Oh no,’ said my mum when I told her the title of my book, ‘you can’t call it that, people will think it’s a porn novel.’ Many apologies to any of you who have picked up this book hoping for lots of sex, you are about to be sadly disappointed, although I am going to start with virgins and a libidinous king. One Thousand and One Nights is one of the most famous works of Middle Eastern literature. It tells of King Shahryar, who, devastated at finding out his wife had been unfaithful, vowed to marry a virgin every night, killing her at dawn to avoid a recurrence. Eventually, he’d worked his way through all the virgins in the land until the only one left was the vizier’s daughter, Scheherazade. A clever girl, she spun him a tale each night, leaving the cliffhanger for dawn so he would spare her. ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves’, ‘Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamp’ and Sindbad all came from these stories.

  As a child, living in Dubai, we had One Thousand and One Nights on audio cassette (remember those?) read by actors with velvet voices and interspersed with Rimsky-Korsakov’s score. We sometimes listened camping on the beach at Ras Al Khaimah with the air still hot from the day’s desert sun and the stars bright above us in the blackened sky.

  When I started writing this book, I had lived in Morocco for just over 1001 nights and accumulated as many stories about this wonderful country, so it seemed an appropriate title, also fitting the diversity of the peoples and places I am taking you to on this journey. From the vibrant spice markets of Marrakech to the winding medieval alleys of Fez, over the high, snowy passes of the Atlas Mountains and into the heart of the Sahara desert – the ultimate wilderness – I want to share the glory of the different environments and landscapes that have been my home for the past 1001 days and – of course – nights.

  These are my stories, so you will find a lot of me in them, or at least Morocco as seen and understood through my eyes. I have included the history I have encountered along the way, although it is definitely my interpretation of it as it applies to what I see and not an academic analysis – any errors are my own. I’ve written about some of the big adventures I have had in Morocco, they are things that not everyone will get to do, but they are exciting and got me to places that are not always easy to reach.

  I also want to introduce you to my Ali Babas, Aladdins and Sindbads as well as Fatimas, Laylas and Khadijahs, because it is the people of Morocco that have made it such a magical experience. I have been welcomed and taken into the heart of families everywhere I have been and allowed to share their lives a little. Too much sugar-laden mint tea and Friday couscous may have made me fat, but the stories have been worth it.

  Finally, I want to pass on some of my most useful tips for visiting Morocco itself and a Muslim and African culture. It is knowledge that has come from funny, fabulous, difficult and sometimes bewildering experiences.

  For you, the reader, I hope that you laugh a lot and learn some new things; that you find some handy tips if you want to come for a holiday or to live; and, most of all, that my love for this soul-enriching country rubs off on you a little. Who knows, you may even be inspired to come and visit if you haven’t already.

  Once upon a time . . .

  1

  MARRAKECH

  It is the smell that hits you first; a heady mixture of horse pee, charcoal smoke and perfume from a thousand warm bodies. Then it is the noise, the rhythm of drums and castanets, shouts of ‘orange juice, orange juice, orange juice’, the bells from the horse-drawn carriages and the shrieks of excited children as they watch street boys launch neon stingers high into the air. Hollywood couldn’t make up Jemaa El Fna, the main square of Marrakech: it is Africa, the Orient, magical and mythical but at the same time very, very real. It is also the centre of the city and the country that I had arrived in, expecting to stay for four months, but which has grabbed me and won’t let go. It’s four years and counting.

  When I left the mists of England’s Peak District on 2 January 2014 with just one suitcase and the scribbled-down address of my new flatshare in Semlalia, my overwhelming thought was, What on earth are you doing, you insane woman? Why are you blowing up your very nice life once again? I had been persuaded to sign up to run the Marathon des Sables, the toughest footrace on earth, six marathons in six days across the Sahara, and I was coming to Morocco to train for it. I was actually going to do this crazy thing.

  Charlie Shepherd – friend, founder of adventure company Epic Morocco, expert on all things Moroccan, running and cycling – has a lot to answer for. ‘Go on,’ he had said the summer before, catching me at a weak moment when he had just made me cycle up a very large hill, ‘I’m going to do it, sign up with me. You can do it. You are good at endurance. If you can cycle from Cairo to Cape Town, you can run across the Sahara. It isn’t going to be that hard.’

  ‘But I can’t run,’ I said, which I felt was an important point, given that we were talking about a 156-mile race across sand in temperatures of over 50°C.

  ‘No problem,’ said Charlie. ‘You have a good head, which is the main thing.’ At this stage, with hindsight, I know that I should have looked at his physique – wiry, athletic, fit – and then mine – none of the above – and said no. But he is a very persuasive person and I found myself believing him. Next thing I knew I was signed up and panting up hill and down dale in the rain and mud round my home in Hayfield with my running partner, Naomi, and Billy the Running Dog.

  As it turned out, that was excellent training, but I wanted to give myself the best possible chance of completing the race (alive) and so I took the decision to rent out my house, pack up my cat, and take myself off to Morocco to run in the sun. It helped that I could do my job – writing, social media and media training – from anywhere, and it also helped that I had studied Arabic at university and had lived around Africa and the Middle East. I was looking forward to using my rusty language again and being in all the warmth and hospitality of an Islamic culture.

  Three hours and twenty minutes from Manchester airport and I was taxiing into a different world. From the plane, I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas Mountains giving way to the red plains around Marrakech, dotted with spots of green oases and little adobe-built villages. Then, the twenty-first century starts to intrude as you fly over swimming pools and golf courses, banking up for your first sight of the medina, the old walled town, and the famous red rose clay of the city.

  Marrakech is not the capital of Morocco, but for me it really is its heart. It is called many things, including the Rose City and the Daughter of the Desert, and it positively oozes romance. It sits on the fringes of the Agafay desert and you can taste that desert in the air, but at the same time, on a clear day, you can see the blue Atlas Mountains in the distance, tipped with snow. It is called the Rose City because it is obligatory to paint your house to match the ancient mud-built houses of the medina. The clay, which originally came from the surrounding plains and mountains, is a rosy-coloured terracotta. Now, of course, most people build in concrete because it is so much cheaper, but the rose-paint rule means that the city still retains its character.

  It could equally be
called the Rose City, though, for the number of roses growing along the boulevards and in the gardens. A happy meeting of an excellent climate and rich soil means that roses flourish here and are crammed into every tiny corner of soil, dominating the green spaces of the boulevards. They are tended by mainly female gardeners, who you will see early in the morning, bent double, weeding and pruning, bundled up in layers of clothes to keep the cold, and then the sun, out. The first time I passed a group of them I thought something really odd was going on, as they all seemed to be talking to themselves. I wondered if maybe they were taking part in some kind of community scheme for people with mental difficulties and was silently congratulating the Moroccan government on its forward-looking mental health programmes, until I realised that they all had mobile phones tucked into their headscarves.

  The medina is a warren of alleyways and tunnels, punctuated by ancient wooden doors, behind which are hidden many-roomed riads, homes built around courtyards, often housing fully grown palm trees and laced with neon-bright bougainvillea. Each riad is different. One thing they all have in common, though, is that you can’t believe that something so lovely lies behind an often-unprepossessing door in a dingy alley. Before I arrived in Marrakech, I had imagined myself living in one in the centre of the ancient city. This dream was fuelled by the first place I ever stayed in in Marrakech and which remains one of my favourites. It is called Riad Samsara and is owned by a long-time Swiss resident of Morocco, Jacqueline Brandt.

  Riad Samsara is at the far end of the medina, near Bab Taghazout. Finding it is typically difficult. The instructions go something like this: ‘You will see a large parking space with sausage sellers. Here, go through the Bab [Bab means gate] and you will pass the mosque on your right. Keep going under the arch past the vegetables and the doughnut stalls.’ (Obviously, it is very difficult to pass a hot doughnut stall where they cook those golden rings in front of you and then dip them in sugar without stopping to buy either one of the huge wagon-wheel ones, or a punnet of little, fragrant nuggets. I wonder if this is one of the reasons I like Riad Samsara so much?) ‘Carry on and then take the second alleyway on the right and continue until you see the big door on the right. If you get lost just ask anyone for Chez Jacqueline.’ The first time I went, I did a lot of asking and eventually paid a little boy 10 dirhams (80p) just to show me where it was and wheel my wheelie bag. My top tip for finding your way round the medina is not to stress about finding things but just to ask and, if necessary, tip someone 10–20 dirhams to guide you.

  Stepping through that door was like stepping through the looking glass. It opens out to an ornately tiled courtyard with a marble fountain in the middle, strewn with rose petals. Outside is a cacophony of noise, but inside all you can hear is the song of the birds nesting in the orange trees of the courtyard. Pink bougainvillea and scented jasmine crawl up the walls to the carved wooden balconies that overreach the courtyard. Each room is different, but the grandest is the Hibiscus room. The double bed is so big that I can lie across it without reaching the edges and, if I get bored, I can always repose on the red velvet sofa and look at the art-filled walls. Jacqueline is a collector and has artefacts and antiques in every corner, a family of leather giraffes on a stone-built fireplace, a group of clay musicians on a painted bedside table. But it is the bathroom that really wows you. Burgundy marble on a massive scale and a bath so big you can actually swim in it.

  My experience at Riad Samsara notwithstanding, I had decided that for living purposes I wanted the open spaces and easier life of the New Town. Medina life is a very specific thing. You have to be ready to share all you do with your neighbours, who will take a keen interest in your comings and goings. Much of it is only accessible by foot, which makes going in and coming out a thought, and your weekly food shop an impossibility. And, finally, little motorbikes or scooters, called motos here, are a ubiquitous menace, not just a nuisance. They race through the narrowest of streets at 100 miles an hour and if you don’t get out of the way, they will mow you down. I have seen a woman in her seventies with big bags of shopping knocked sideways by two spotty teenagers. She ended up turtle-like on her back, her pantalooned legs waving in the air, surrounded by escaping tomatoes and courgettes. I, and everyone else, rushed to help her, save the vegetables, and castigate the spotty youths. Although they were not nearly apologetic enough, in my opinion.

  Motos were the final nail in my coffin with regards to any medina aspirations I may have had and so I put up a message on the Expats in Marrakech Facebook page asking for a flatshare in the new town. My call was answered and the universe sent me Alex Stein, a young American woman who was setting up a charitable arm of a large agricultural company in the south but whose base was in Marrakech. Her three-bedroomed flat with a garden was in Sakia El Hamra, Semlalia.

  I was to be very happy in the flat but that first night was grim. Alex wasn’t there so I arrived in the dark to a chilly, echoing, bare flat. January is cold in Marrakech, where the houses are not designed for winter, and I was very happy that I had packed my hot-water bottle. Alex had bought me a bed and a duvet and pillows, so I was set for the night. But as I switched off my solitary, glaring light bulb and clambered under the covers, I wondered again what on earth I was doing.

  The next day things got better. Charlie arrived with a bike for me so I could get around the city, I ate breakfast in the garden in the sunshine, including a mandarin picked from our mandarin tree, and Alex arrived.

  ‘Hellooooo,’ was followed by taptapping boot steps as she swirled into the flat dressed in a fantastically cool khaki cape with epaulettes, chunky military-style boots, masses of curly hair and a bright smile. Leaving my home and my friends and family had been a big step, but the minute I met Alex I knew that with her and Charlie I was going to be fine. I also knew that, between the pair of them, I had my very own Google of Morocco advice. First on my list was to furnish my room so that I felt a little less like I was living in Stalag 17. ‘Bab El Khamis is what you need for any furniture. It’s the local flea market,’ said Alex. ‘Then the medina for all your other stuff.’

  Whether you are a shopaholic or a shopaphobic, shopping in Morocco is an experience not to be missed. Don’t worry if you hate shopping at home, doing it here bears no resemblance. Shopping is actually a fantastic way to meet and interact with Moroccans and to learn some basic truths about Moroccan culture and society. But beware, you need to go into it well-rested, well-fed, well-hydrated and with comfortable shoes on – so far, so like a 10-kilometre run – and pace yourself, definitely pace yourself.

  There is a Moroccan saying: ‘You have the watch, we have the time.’ Coming from a Western culture, I am used to doing everything as efficiently as possible and can feel myself starting to mentally huff if I feel I am wasting time. I’ve tried to explain this to various Moroccan friends and they think it is hilarious. ‘What are you saving all that time for?’ they ask. Good question, really. Here, time is to be spent, not hoarded.

  That first day of shopping was an education. I set off with a long list of things I needed and strode across Jemaa El Fna, not stopping to look at the snake charmers or monkey wranglers, briskly answering, ‘Not today, thank you,’ to a young Senegalese man who asked, ‘Madame, would you like some big, African cock?’, and denying myself the pleasure of a freshly squeezed orange juice from one of the fruit stalls.

  Two rugs were the first thing on the list. I picked a likely-looking emporium and delighted the man who accosted me with the inevitable, ‘Come in to my shop, just looking, no buying, very cheap’ by going in. Aladdin’s cave spread out before me, with thousands of hand-woven carpets stacked along the walls, arranged by colour and by type. I felt momentarily daunted. Where should I start? I had no need to worry; Lahcen was at my service. My first lesson in spending time was about to be learnt. Greetings, even to a complete stranger, are likely to be protracted.

  Lahcen: ‘Good morning.’

  Me: ‘Good morning.’

  Lahcen: ‘How
are you?’

  Me: ‘I am fine, how are you?’

  Lahcen: ‘I am fine, how is the family?’

  Me: ‘Good, good, thanks be to God. How about you? How’s the family?

  Lahcen: ‘Great, and your health?’

  Me: ‘It’s good. And you? How is your health? Are you well?’

  Lahcen: ‘Thanks be to God.’

  Me: ‘Thanks be to God.’

  This ritual of greeting is ubiquitous, and once you get the hang of it, it actually makes you feel very connected to people. There is a pleasure in exchanging good wishes before you even start thinking about transactions. It’s a world away from the self-service tills at Sainsbury’s.

  Lahcen and I got down to the serious business of looking at rugs. I was instructed to sit on a cushioned stool as his assistant started bringing down carpets of every size and colour. Each one would be rolled out at my feet with a flourish. I half expected a hidden Cleopatra to roll out of the end. I also felt a bit like Cleopatra as I waved my hand, banishing anything that was too big, too orange or too expensive-looking.

  Tea was offered and my immediate, British, reaction was to say, ‘No, thank you.’ But, I stopped myself and said yes instead. This was the right choice. The assistant went off to get the tea from the tea shop and was soon back with a hot pot, handfuls of fresh mint and mounds of sugar. I had had thoughts of trying to keep my sugar intake down, but mint tea without it is extremely bitter, so I just didn’t look as Lahcen ladled it into the pot. If you don’t see it, surely the calories don’t count. All three of us settled down for a glass and a chat – after all, we didn’t want to exhaust ourselves with non-stop rug selection; there was plenty of time.

  We talked about life in general, how business was going, and if there were lots of tourists about. I was to learn that no matter when or where I ask about business, I get the same answer, which bears a strong resemblance to when you ask the plumber at home if the problem with the U-bend is going to be easy to fix. First, there is a sharp intake of breath, sometimes a bit of a whistle through the teeth. This is followed by some sorrowful head shaking and a deep hmmmmm sound. Then, you get the answer – from the Moroccan shop owner that is, not the plumber, ‘Well, it is not bad, thanks be to God, but it is not like it was. No, it is light for this time of year, not like it was in the past. Then, ahh, then . . . it was good. Tourists everywhere and they spent money. Now, they come but they don’t spend money.’ I would not want to cast doubt on Lahcen’s veracity, but he was wearing a very large gold ring and had all the appearance of a prosperous and happy man.