Marrakesh the Exotic
As you may have gathered, travel has always been one of my great loves. Yet some dreams are not meant to be hurried; they linger quietly, waiting for their appointed hour.
For reasons I could not then (or now) explain, I fell under Morocco’s spell at the tender age of sixteen. In the pages of Darling, a South African magazine that ceased publication in October 1984, I discovered an article on Marrakesh. Its words and images stirred something restless and romantic in me – a longing for rose-hued walls, hidden courtyards, and distant desert skies. I carefully tore out those pages and placed them in a file I kept of dreams, as though by preserving them I might one day preserve the possibility itself.
Life, of course, unfolded as it does – busy, demanding, beautiful in other ways – and the years slipped quietly by. Yet the dream remained, pressed between paper and memory. Not long ago, I came across those fragile, yellowing pages once more. As I held them, I felt the whisper of my younger self and the promise she had dared to make. And so, I resolved, at last, to answer that call – to fulfil a dream more than forty years in the making.
When one first contemplates a journey such as this, the immediate thought is often, “Good heavens- this is going to cost a fortune.” Yet I have always believed that research is one of the most delicious anticipations of travel. There is something deeply satisfying about tracing routes on maps, comparing fares, uncovering possibilities. With patience and a little diligence, a dream need not empty the coffers.
Naturally, the first and most unavoidable expenses are visas and flights. I compared every airline I could find flying from Johannesburg to Marrakesh, only to discover that there are, alas, no direct flights from Johannesburg (JNB) to Marrakesh (RAK). Every route requires a pause somewhere along the way.
In the end, I chose Turkish Airlines, whose route passes through Istanbul – a city that, in its own right, deserves lingering exploration. There was something rather romantic about breaking the journey there, suspended between continents.
As a South African passport holder, obtaining a Turkish e-Visa proved wonderfully simple – and free. The Moroccan visa required a more traditional approach: a visit to the Embassy in Pretoria. Even so, the process was surprisingly painless, completed in just over a week at a cost of approximately R450.
And then, the flights themselves – return tickets for just over R11 000. For a journey stretching from the southern tip of Africa to North Africa and back again, I considered it nothing short of a bargain. Sometimes, with a little effort and a great deal of longing, even a forty-year-old dream can prove more attainable than one first imagines.
This article is devoted simply to impressions – to atmosphere and feeling. In the weeks to come, I will write about particular places deserving of their own space and reflection. But first, the emotion of arrival. When I stepped off the plane into Marrakesh, an unexpected thought rose within me: I know this place. It was not recognition in the literal sense, but something quieter and deeper – as though the city had been waiting patiently in some corner of my imagination for more than forty years. In the clear light of morning, the feeling remained. There is, above all, a softness to the people. A gentleness. A natural politeness. Even in the bustle of the markets, amid bargaining and noise, there is a readiness to say thank you – a civility that feels both effortless and sincere.
Our riad – Riad Papillon – lay tucked within the ancient walls of the Medina, which is an experience in itself. To call it lively would be an understatement. It is startling, frenetic, electric with life. At once colourful and chaotic, vibrant and weary, exhilarating and, at moments, faintly menacing. The adjectives feel endless, inadequate to the reality. The passageways, on average no more than two metres wide – and sometimes narrowing to barely three feet – form a labyrinth that pulses with movement. Bicycles glide past without warning. Donkey carts clatter through with stoic determination. Scooters – the most alarming of all – dart at you from both directions, their riders utterly unapologetic. Many are parked along the sides, further narrowing the arteries of this ancient heart. There are even curious little tractor-like contraptions forcing their way through the human tide. It is madness. It is theatre. It is life at full volume.
And within these walls, they say, reside some 200,000 people – nearly a fifth of the city’s population. An entire world contained within ancient stone. It is overwhelming. It is extraordinary. It is quite something indeed.
When I travel, I try not merely to see a place, but to feel its pulse – to stand still long enough for its energy to rise up and meet me. Marrakesh does not whisper its presence; it declares it. It is unapologetically, gloriously African – and I love it for that. For all the layers of European influence, there is a profound fidelity to its roots, something ancient and immovable beneath the surface.
If one word could attempt to contain it, perhaps it would be juxtaposition.
The serene, manicured grandeur of the La Mamounia Hotel – hushed corridors, scented gardens, polished marble – collides headlong with the surging theatre of Jemaa el-Fnaa, where sound, smoke, colour and humanity swirl together in glorious disorder. The deep, impossible blue of the sky sharpens the terracotta walls to something almost theatrical. A lantern shop glitters like a treasure chest, only steps away from narrow alleyways where the sewers run just below ground level.
Horse-drawn carriages pass with elegant rhythm, clippity-clop, clippity-clop, their drivers upright and composed, while scooters swarm around them like impatient, smoke-belching hornets. The contrast is almost absurd: old-world grace encircled by mechanical frenzy.
A quiet shopkeeper offers a chair with dignified courtesy on a chaotic thoroughfare; moments later, a teenager brushes past with a muttered “tourist, terrorist,” and the spell fractures. I find myself utterly absorbed in a beautifully crafted trinket – intricate, delicate, irresistible – only to be jolted back into vigilance by a blaring hooter and the very real possibility of bodily harm from a scooter that seems far too close for comfort.
And then there are the donkeys – small, steadfast creatures pulling their modest carts with a kind of stoic resignation. They feel as though they belong to these ancient passageways in a way the scooters never will. A rambunctious street child darts through the crowd, all noise and bravado, while nearby an ancient, crumpled man – homeless, by appearance – crouches to wash his feet with half a bottle of water. His movements are deliberate, reverent. His face is a study in concentration. He barely acknowledges our presence. I want, instinctively, to capture the image. The early morning light in the narrow alley. The quiet dignity. But I know that to lift my camera would fracture something sacred. And so, I lower it. Some moments are not meant to be possessed.
Marrakesh is a city of collisions – beauty and grit, grace and chaos, reverence and irreverence – each element crashing against the other to create an energy that is utterly exhilarating. No place is ever entirely good or entirely bad. Yet here, the contrasts are so stark, so immediate, so unapologetically present, that they assault the senses and leave one slightly breathless.
For me, it is in the most delicious way…
Jacqui Ikin & The Cross Country Team
