Where To Stay In Marrakech

Anyone who’s been back to Marrakech after a several year absence would have difficulty recognizing the place. The winding alleyways of the medina are still there, with atmospheric riads hidden behind nondescript doors and stall after stall of silks, slippers, brass on sale. And in the center of it all, Jemaa el Fna, the main square inhabited by snake charmers, acrobats, sizzling kebab grills, boulevarding locals and mobs of tourists. 

What’s changed, however, is the hotel scene; it’s a veritable explosion with more coming on line all the time: Rocco Forte’s Assoufid, a Baglioni, a Mandarin Oriental, a W, a Park Hyatt, the Jawhar from Monaco’s Societie des Bains de Mer are all set to open over the next year. 

Long gone are the days when La Mamounia, although still the most famous, was the only game in town. With all of this new construction, though, hoteliers fret about whether there will be enough visitors to fill all of these new rooms, plus the existing ones in longstanding hotels and ones that have opened over the last few years. For these visitors, it means that there is an embarrassment of riches and they need to decide which to pick. Here are a few choices: You can see the Atlas Mountains and the date palms of the Palmeraie from the top deck of the Royal Mansour riads. If you want to feel like a member of the royal family—and want privacy: Stay in the Royal Mansour, the hotel that the King of Morocco built. (Conversely, if you want a bustling bar scene and to be seen, stay at its neighbor and competitor, La Mamounia.) 

The King spent untold millions, and thousands of artisans spent years creating the ceramic tilework, sculpted plasterwork , geometrically carved wood, inlaid marble and intricate leatherwork for which the country is known. The 53 triplex riads with plunge pools on the top deck have correspondingly lush décor along with courtyards and fountains; you never have to leave your room. But to do that would miss the clubby bar with its intricate, hand-tooled leather walls, the spa with its open white spiderweb décor and prodigious range of treatments and the exceptional Moroccan restaurant La Grande Table Marocaine, one of several under the supervision of Michelin three star chef Yannick Alleno. 

Tagines are served all over Morocco but few as rich and delicious as the ones at Marrakech's Villa des Orangers. If you want the intimacy of a riad, a medina location but with more facilities: Villa des Orangers. You could easily pass the doorway of this Relais & Chateaux property on a busy street in the medina and have absolutely no clue about the grandeur inside: a large riad of Moorish architecture dating from the 1930’s housing 27 rooms and suites, three flowered patios, a large garden and a long pool,the latter not typical in medina riads. The décor is a mix of Moroccan, Colonial and African designs in the rooms and the lounges, creating a look that’s both stylish and cozy. The romantic, candlelit restaurant also turns out a superlative menu of mostly French specialities with some Moroccan dishes, a nice change if you’ve overloaded on tagines. But if you haven’t, their tagine was the best, most intensely flavored one that I had anywhere in Morocco. If you really like Arabian horses: The Selman which opened in 2012, has a location several miles outside of the city, a French interpretation of Moroccan décor by Jacques Garcia that looks just a little similar to his 2009 renovation of La Mamounia, and stables housing the owner’s Arabian horses that were also designed by Garcia. Lucky horses.

But apart from the ability to observe these fine creatures—guests are not allowed to ride them—there doesn’t seem to be a reason to stay here instead of the others. Palais Namaskar, in the Palmeraie outside of Marrakech, has been designed for pure knockout drama. If you like sleek, international décor, and your own pool. The Oetker Collection’s Palais Namaskar also opened in 2012 out in the date palm shaded Palmeraie, 15 minutes from the medina. The design is pure drama—long, narrow walkways linking villas with Moorish arches punctuated by gardens and pools—there are 28 water features on the grounds, 27 of which are private pools. (Beware how narrow those walkways are, though, when walking back from the bar or you could easily fall into one of them.) In the bar, a chandelier that looks like something out of “The Phantom of the Opera” hangs low overhead. 

You feel like you’re in a magazine layout, not necessarily in Morocco but it’s all so beautiful that ultimately you don’t care. And one advantage of staying here is the property’s jet, which can bring guests in from Casablanca, fly them to other Oetker properties (Nice for the Hotel du Cap, Paris for Le Bristol..) or in from other cities around the world. The design of the Taj in Marrakech's Palmeraie is India in Morocco but the bedrooms are beautiful. If you’re also fond of India: The Taj Palace Marrakech nearby in the Palmeraie which opened late in 2012, has another element of national confusion in that it stood in as a palace in Abu Dhabi in the movie “Sex and the City II.” Apparently, the Moroccan owner loves Indian design and both the imposing palace doors entry and the pool with cupola floating within it in the rear are reminiscent of a Rajasthan palace. The bedrooms are beautiful; the common rooms, kind of nuts and floridly shaded. If you don’t like color schemes of purple and jade green splashed on a huge scale, this probably isn’t the place for you.

If you want to meet interesting locals and artists: Staying at Jnane Tamsna in the Palmeraie is like being at an extended dinner/house party. Owner Meryanne Loum-Martin knows everyone in town—at a recent lunch, I met Vanessa Branson, sister of Virgin Atlantic’s Richard Branson, owner of the art filled Riad El-Fenn in the medina and the driving force behind the Marrakech Biennale—and international cultural types are always passing through. Loum-Martin is a designer and her style here is classic Moroccan shot through with contemporary touches and wit. The food is also top of the line, home cooked Moroccan. And the property has several pools surrounded by lush flower and vegetable gardens created by her botanist husband Gary Martin. It’s a very soothing place. Riad Fes in the heart of the Fes medina is a bastion of luxury in a UNESCO World Heritage site. The same can’t always be said for the main city, particularly as it goes through this development boom. But two other Moroccan cities that can be excursions from Marrakech remain peacefully unchanged. Fes is a UNESCO World Heritage site for its perfectly preserved walled medieval city and staying in the old city instantly transports you back. There are no tee shirt or souvenir shops, just bakers and food stalls supplying the locals who live in small stone houses tucked into the alleyways.

The subdivisions are by trade—the leather crafters, dyers, ceramicists settled in different sections and still work there; stalls sell their products. If you stay in the Relais & Chateaux Riad Fes, a former nobleman’s house in the center of the medina, you just walk out your door and into another age. Just remember to hug the walls if you hear someone scream “Balak! Balak!” meaning “Make Way!” It means a donkey cart, the still used means of transport, is heading down your way ferrying goods. Two hours west of Marrakech on the Atlantic coast is Essaouira, the haven of musicians such as Jimi Hendrix in the 60’s and it still retains its casual, drop out ease, a seaside town surrounded by fishing boats, encircled by seagulls. In its medina, stores sell artisan clothing designs and food stalls present just caught fish, mounds of spices, ripe olives. The best lunch plan is to go to the fish market in the medina (not the fish stalls on the waterfront) and have a simple place around the corner grill your fish. The best hotel in town is the 19th century mansion the Relais & Chateaux L’Heure Bleue Palais just inside the walls of the medina, with rooms decorated in Moorish, Portugese or British Empire styles. And the best view: from the roof, looking out at the old city with its crisp white buildings that through the years haven’t changed at all.

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Marrakech, the hard way

It’s easy to fly to Morocco. Alternatively, one can get there by car, rail and sea Children saluting beside flags Saluting Gibraltar from the Upper Rock There is an obvious way for those living in the UK to take a family holiday in Marrakech: drive to Gatwick, hop on an easyJet flight and a few hours later you will be drinking mint tea in the Red City. Alternatively, you could put your three children in the back of the car, catch an overnight ferry to Santander, drive across Spain, dump the car on a clifftop road overlooking the Mediterranean, transfer your stuff into rucksacks, catch a boat to Tangiers and then the night train to Marrakech. We did the latter.


Accounts of this land-and-sea mission to Africa draw sharply different responses from friends: the split is roughly 50-50 between those who say “Wow” and those who conclude simply: “You must be mad”. More IN AFRICAN DESTINATIONS Africa’s best sustainable safari lodges Camping with Branson African adventure on the high seas Golf Tour Master Classes Marrakech has always been high on my list of target holiday destinations. The Lonely Planet guide to Morocco has sat forlornly on the bookshelf for some 14 years, a reminder of a planned trip that was abruptly cancelled with news of the imminent birth of our first child. Years of beach holidays in Devon and Normandy followed and the book gathered dust. But this year it was time for action: the kids – now 10, 12 and 13 – were ready for a “challenging” destination and they were going to do it the hard way. It seems wrong to turn up in Marrakech with the taste of Costa Coffee from the Gatwick departure lounge still in your mouth. This, after all, is a city defined by its geography: the majesty of the Atlas mountains and the mystery of the Sahara beyond; a historic meeting place of Berbers and Moors and nomads from across the desert.

Arriving on a 737 wouldn’t do it justice. So a plan was hatched. Marrakech would become the final destination of a trip in which the history and geography of Moorish culture would be gradually revealed, culminating in the explosion of sound and colour of the souk and kebabs in the frenetic Djemaa el Fna square. We had two weeks to get to Africa and back. . . . No adventure is complete without overnight travel: the thrill of waking up in a different place, the weather and scenery shifting while you sleep. So the ferry from Portsmouth to the prosperous seaside town of Santander, is a good place to start. Children’s entertainers and an onboard expert on cetaceans – the Bay of Biscay is a top whale-watching spot – keep the kids amused and by late afternoon the Picos de Europa are sliding into view and announcing the start of our Spanish road trip. First stop, Madrid.

Santander is a favoured holiday spot for Madrileños seeking respite from the summer heat and the distance between the cities can be covered in about four hours. By the time we reach Madrid at 11pm, the city is just getting going, the bars spilling out drinkers on to the streets. We spend a couple of happy days in the city but Madrid was the creation of Felipe II – a Habsburg – whose Austrian-influenced capital was strictly outside the pedagogical remit of the grand holiday plan. To really get started, we need to head another four hours south across La Mancha to Granada and the romantic heart of Moorish culture. Approaching Andalucia – Al-Andalus, to the Moors – across the plain one can sense the force of geography and history.

The motorway heads inexorably for the wall of the Sierra Morena, described by Laurie Lee as an “east-west rampart” dividing people into different races. In his memoir As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning he recalls: “Behind me was Old Castile and the Gothic North; beyond the Sierra the spiced blur of Andalucia.” Riding camels It was in Granada that the Moorish dominance of Andalucia lasted longest and found its greatest artistic expression in the Alhambra, a palace of such stunning intricacy that it is listed by the kids as near the pinnacle of their “Top 10 Holiday Memories” – just behind the time when their dad was leapt upon by a Barbary ape. The Moors held sway in southern Spain from 710 until 1492 when the Catholic monarchs completed their reconquest. After surrendering Granada, Boabdil, the last Moorish king, cried at the sight of his beloved Alhambra shimmering under the snow-capped Sierra Nevada, eliciting the immortal rebuke from his mother: “Do not weep like a woman for what you could not defend as a man.”

On a more prosaic note, those hoping to emulate Ferdinand and Isabella by entering the Alhambra should take the 21st-century precaution of booking tickets online: the number of daily visitors is strictly limited and disappointed tourists are a common feature at the gates of the complex. Heading south, the motorway leads through the mountains to the Costa del Sol, the strip of hotels finally giving way to the first spectacular sight of the Rock of Gibraltar and then – ta ra! – the green mountains of the Rif. At this point the trip gets a bit backpackery and – frankly – I’m a little nervous. We arrive at Tarifa (landing point for the Moorish invasion) and park the car overlooking the ferry port. Possessions are moved into rucksacks and we’re off to Africa. The Parker family outside the Prado in Madrid There is a slight issue (which I thought best not to raise with Mrs P) that, unless you use an expensive third-party agency, it is impossible to book Moroccan train tickets from outside the country. We are therefore about to arrive in Tangiers – north Africa’s supposed capital of hassle – without any certain means of getting a night train out of the city. But there is some good news to report. The authorities have cottoned on to the fact that westerners have been deterred from visiting by the prospect of being mobbed by “guides” hoping to lead you to their brother’s carpet shop.

A police crackdown seems to have done the trick: other travellers will undoubtedly have had different experiences, but we met very little hassle throughout our journey. Tangiers is great: a city living through an economic boom but still possessing a shabby and seedy air, a reminder of its time as an “international zone” – a haven for dodgy money and a gay resort favoured by the likes of Kenneth and Tennessee Williams (no relation). Meanwhile at the shiny new station there is good news for marital harmony: couchette tickets are available for the overnight Marrakech express, a service with its own sealed carriage and guard and a mixed clientele of locals and foreign visitors curious to discover what Crosby, Stills and Nash were going on about. Alighting from a temporarily broken-down Marrakech express The train rattles across the coastal plain and makes an unscheduled stop for several hours in the midst of a stand of cacti, but finally arrives in Marrakech just after 11am. Within minutes we are at our journey’s end – the friendly Riad Dar Dialkoum, a cool and tranquil space within the intensity of the medina – and the start of a glorious four-day stay in the city. Better to travel than to arrive? Hardly: Marrakech is never likely to disappoint the traveller with the sheer bravado with which it incorporates a medieval core into the life of a vibrant modern city.

But the journey to and from the foot of the Atlas mountains is at least as memorable as the destination itself. The return home takes in the much-maligned but fascinating colonial curio of Gibraltar, the gracious faded seaport of Cadiz, the Moorish splendour of Seville (with an obligatory night of flamenco at La Carbonería), a night in the golden university city of Salamanca and finally an afternoon on the beach in Santander whiling away the hours until the ferry sails for Portsmouth. We arrive home in London at 10pm on Sunday night with work and school the next day. Mad? Maybe. But for the bleary-eyed occupants of the dusty car – each with a scrapbook full of memories – there is only one question: “When’s the next one?”

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Morocco's bright lights: Romance, riads and arresting exoticism in the Red City

The Red City yanks you from the 21st century immediately. So much so, it seems impossible that my day began in gloomy London. I stand paralysed, ink from the map clutched in my hand imprinted on my fingers and the bedlam of Marrakech ringing in my ears.

Burning bright: Marrakech has inspired visitors from Winston Churchill to the Rolling Stones I am not the first to discover the delight of swapping a grey city for the bewitching sounds, smells and colours of Marrakech, which is only a four-hour flight from the UK. Its arresting exoticism has captured many in the past - the Rolling Stones in the 1960s were among its most notorious visitors (tales of their infamous stays at La Mamounia make up a large part of the hotel's guided tours). 

Sir Winston Churchill was another regular - he came to regard the imperial city as his winter home. Churchill is in my mind on the first evening when I see the expansive Jemaa el Fna square. Arabic music, bartering and snake charmers' flutes drum up an orchestra that reverberates around one of the world's biggest open-air restaurants. What would the great statesman have made of this urban clearing?  I feel part of a Mexican wave. Waiters from the 50-odd food stalls run rings serving hundreds of customers a steaming selection of meat, fish and vegetables from their roaring barbecues. 

Spiritual centre: The beautiful Koutoubia Mosque calls locals to prayer

In the background, herbalists, storytelling halakis and belly-dancers do their best to compete with the deafening sound of excited children and motor engines, while plying their trade nearby. In a city that seems effervescent at all hours, visitors can at least be thankful for the tranquillity of its Riad guesthouses.  

There are now said to be more than 1,000 of these serene city sanctuaries built into the cool walls of the Old City, each with courtyards, exotic greenery and heart-shaped fountains. I seek refuge at the superb Dar Les Cigognes, which sits quietly behind a gold-studded door along an otherwise anonymous street. 

Breakfast on the roof in view of les cigognes - the storks that live in gargantuan nests atop the 16th century former Sultan's residence, Palais el-Badi - is a daily treat. El Fna, by day, is quiet. 

To the north of this now empty space are the labyrinthine alleys that make up Morocco's most celebrated experience - the souks. 'Souk Safari' is now on offer at all of the district's entry points. I turn down a guide's help, deciding instead to wander solo down the maze of shops and stalls. 

Chaotic crush: Djeema el Fna Square comes alive in the evening with entertainment and market and music

It's hard not to be taken in by the hand-welded musical instruments, fabrics and spices I am sure to have no use for back home. But the sellers never fail to entice with their smiles and mocking repartee. 'Come and have a butcher's,' one hollers in perfect Cockney. 

Shopping, though, is not restricted to the souks. On another ramble through the Medina, I spot a man ushering people down an almost obscured corridor. Inside is a vast seven-room, two-storey emporium of handmade lanterns, pots, belts, candles, leather-bound mirrors and hulky armchairs. I don't escape empty handed. 

The French colonial new town Le Gueliz is a sparkling contrast. It is full of high-rise malls, cafe culture and coach tours. This Westernised area - overrun with international brands and modern apartment complexes - lacks the thrill of the Medina. 

It might be awash with luxury hotels and golf resorts, but the result is sterile. For me the scruffy, ancient streets of Marrakech hold greater appeal. And there can be no better tonic in the chill of winter than this feverish Moroccan jasmine-scented city - even with its hullabaloo. 

Travel Facts

Dar les Cigognes has rooms from £153 (00 212 524 38 27 40, www.sanssoucicollection.com) BA flies from London Gatwick to Marrakech from £139 return (0844 493 0787, www.ba.com)

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The Chic Of Marrakech

Its voluptuous exoticism and easy accessibility have always drawn a certain traveler to this Arab oasis. Now, thanks to an influx of new money and smart new places to stay, the rest of the world is checking in as well.

Frederick Vreeland, the former U.S. ambassador to Morocco and son of Diana, the legendaryVogue editor, has just flown in from Rome to host a lunch party at his Marrakech home, Orchard of the Shooting Star.

Like Vreeland himself, who is tall, slim, and devastatingly good-looking, with intense dark eyes and his mother's high cheekbones, the house oozes Bohemian chic. The villa is located in the Palmeraie, the smart enclave of Marrakech, home to the crème of the city's society, including the transient population renting private houses (the insider alternative to Marrakech's five-star hotels). Vreeland's is the best of them, hidden behind sunburnt walls and a heavy, studded wooden door. There is no traffic, only the sound of a Berber shepherd exhorting his ragtag flock, and birds—thousands of birds. Their song comes from within the orchard of apricot, lemon, and olive trees surrounding the pretty eight-bedroom house, built around a shady courtyard and cluttered with 18th-century European antiques, Moroccan textiles, worn sofas, and Venetian oils. The centerpiece is an arch-shaped pool on a raised terrace overlooking the garden. Swallows dart at the water; bees hover in the flowers; the scent of orange blossoms fills the air.

We eat in the shade—the group includes a fashion photographer, New York banker, and Moroccan palm tree specialist. The talk is of Marrakech's current popularity; the city was empty of even the Gettys (among the early high-style immigrants to Marrakech in the late 1960s) when Vreeland first arrived on an official tour with Jackie Kennedy in '63. At that time the Palmeraie was uninhabited. Now his neighbors include various scions of the Moroccan royal family, Xavier Hermès, and Farid Belkahia (North Africa's most well known contemporary artist) as well as seasonal guests like Linda Evangelista, Nicole Kidman, and Giorgio Armani. "Marrakech has become the destination," says Vreeland. "Everyone is talking about it. It has heritage and exoticism, but it's also a place where as an American you feel most at home in both the Arab and African worlds."

The signs are everywhere. In the Palmeraie, four-wheel-drives cruise past with darkened windows, disappearing behind bolted doors into secret gardens. I stay at Dar Tamsna, a favorite of the visiting fashion pack, where I'm waited on by a staff of nine and have a pool to myself; there are antique-filled salons and a garden that flickers with candles when night falls. I hear about other villas, about land prices going from $75,000 for 2.5 acres in 1995 to double that now, about the people defecting from London, Paris, and Rome. "I used to flatter myself that I knew every foreigner in this town," says Memphis-born Bill Willis, an interiors architect who came here in '66 to work on the homes of Yves Saint Laurent and French philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy. "Now," says Willis, who is Marrakech's most famous socialite, "I feel I don't know anybody anymore."

Marrakech's old town, or walled medina, has witnessed the greatest influx. The attraction is the riads, traditional houses built around internal courtyards hidden behind the featureless walls that make up the alleys. Many are being converted into maisons d'hôte, or upmarket B&Bs. There is Riad Enija, with its glorious courtyard (colorful mosaic tiling, a fountain at its center) and Riyad El Cadi, nestled at the end of three narrow lanes. Occupying five interconnected courtyards, El Cadi dates back to the 13th century. Its walls are hung with the owner's exquisite collection of early Islamic and Byzantine art and 19th-century Berber textiles, and some of what is displayed has traveled on loan to major exhibitions.

Aside from the B&Bs, there are more obvious signs of a destination much changed. In the medina, women in Prada wander the souk for handwoven silks (I even see a pair of Manolos negotiate their way through the dust), meeting for a light lunch at Ryad Tamsna, a stylish restaurant-boutique converted by Parisian-Senegalese ex-pat Meryanne Loum-Martin. Late in the afternoon the well-heeled retreat to the cream linen banquettes and sip mint tea. My address book bulges with recommendations: Beldi, where Paloma Picasso comes for her handstitched caftans; Valérie Barkowski, a designer of colorful knitwear and hand-finished bed linens; Place Vendôme, where a friend wants her Fendi baguette copied in pale-cream kid.

There are also galleries. I visit Ministero del Gusto, an appointment-only house exhibiting contemporary, African-inspired furniture (more Soho than Maghreb), owned by Alessandra Lippini, a former fashion editor from Italy. It's surprising that a shop this sophisticated (a Moroccan combination of Gaudì and Warhol's Factory) can pull it off in a North African oasis. But the clients come, including David Bowie. We talk—Lippini, her partner Fabrizio Bizzarri, and Frans Ankone, Marrakech habitué and art director of Romeo Gigli—concurring that the appeal of Marrakech is that it is the safest far-off city you can find. You don't even get hustled. Quite the opposite is true: A Moroccan friend helping me find a shop in the souk is the one who gets stopped—by the Tourist Brigade, introduced a few years ago to stamp out the pseudo guides who used to give Marrakech its insalubrious reputation.

Moroccan food is heavy (rich tagines, pastillas dunked in oil) which is surprising, considering most of the country was a French protectorate for so long: The kitchen is usually the first thing to be colonized by the Gallic motherland. But a more delicate cuisine is developing, driven by the demand of discerning visitors, with up-and-coming chefs like Swiss-trained Moha Fedal giving French twists to Dar Moha Almadina's Moroccan staples. At Le Comptoir Darna, young, rich Marrakechis sip Champagne over Oualidia oysters.

These portents of sophistication are not confined to the city proper. In the High Atlas Mountains, an hour's drive from Marrakech, Kasbahs, or old fortified castles, are being turned into luxury hotels. British entrepreneur Richard Branson is renovating Kasbah Tamadot, the former home of California-based antiques dealer Luciano Tempo. It's a breathtaking place, overlooking the Asni Valley, thick with wildflowers, orchards, and swimming pools in hidden courtyards. Farther into the hinterland, Bill Willis is converting Kasbah Agadir N'Gouf. And there's Kasbah Agafay, a new all-suite hotel converted from a 150-year-old hilltop fort 20 minutes outside the city. It is a trend inspired by Amanresorts' Amanjena (opened last February), where the suites are like fiefdoms, the pools like lakes, the hotel the ultimate $800-a-night symbol of the new chic of Marrakech. "Marrakech gives quality of life," says Farid Belkahia. We are sitting in the artist's villa, stuffed with books, paintings, and antiques. "But it's also a place people visit for a reason—spiritual, intellectual, cultural. It makes writers and artists inquisitive. The trouble is that the Occident doesn't necessarily understand it. They don't have this kind of spirituality in their own countries. They come here to try to listen, but this indicates to me that there are some problems in the Occident, that there is something missing." His wife, author Rajae Benchemsi, cuts in: "They just want a hit of Orientalism."

When Western travelers of the 19th century spoke of the Orient, they largely meant the hot, desert Islamic countries of North Africa and the Middle East. Their champion was painter Eugène Delacroix, whose overland journey through Morocco in 1832 became the archetype of the Orientalist experience. It was exotic, with men in djellabahs smoking hookahs, and erotic, with kohl-eyed women hidden behind veils. This cliché is what visitors still expect of Marrakech.

From the air, the medina must look just like an earthworm's nest—a knot of narrow pink lanes circumscribed by eight kilometers of 12th-century ramparts. On the ground, it is no less dense. The epicenter is the Jemaa el Fnaa—the Times Square of Marrakech. Except the people seem more peculiar. A man with a face like a dried date circles an egg around a girl's head. Behind him sits another fortune teller melting lead. Children try to catch soda bottles with a hook and bamboo rod. A family sits with a scribe. There are snake charmers and monkeys on chains. Smoke rises from steaming escargots; lambs' brains are laid out in neat little rows. There are castanets, tambourines, mobile phones; and there is shrieking laughter. There are storytellers, acrobats, and male belly dancers in drag performing wherever a pool of space forms in the evening crowd.

Flanking the Jemaa el Fnaa are the most heavily trafficked souks. There are no cars (it's too tight), only mules and carts. Sun slices through the oleander awnings, through skeins of fuchsia, saffron, and indigo cottons hung out by dyers in the early morning. Artisans work in hovels, chipping at tiles. Each trade—tanners, leatherworkers, metalworkers, slipper-makers—keeps to its own quarter, infused with a defining scent: rotting carcasses, burning metal. Except for the absent veils (this is a progressive Islamic state), it is still a Delacroix canvas. There is nothing familiar—I saw only a single pair ofbabouches (Moroccan slippers) with the fake Vuitton monogram—and there are no advertising billboards.

Globalization runs out of momentum in Marrakech. "Moroccans are proud and have a very ancient culture. They're open-minded to what comes in from outside, as long as it fits in with the local philosophy," says Mohamed Bouskri, a VIP guide for the last 32 years. "There is neither systematic rejection nor acceptance of new ideas. This is because we're African-Mediterranean and Muslim by religion. We are a mosaic of different cultures with a history of filtering influences. The Jewish Mellah and Royal Palace are back to back, despite our king being the highest representative of the Islamic faith. And Club Med is next to the Koutoubia Mosque."

"There seems to be some real cultural elasticity here," says Gary Martin, an American ethnobotanist living in the city. "There's an ability to deal with the introduction of new cultural pressures. They're able to absorb it. This is why Marrakech retains its own identity."

Visitors seeking their hit of Orientalism will be satiated; it is the familiar that eludes you, not the mystique. Yet most of the tourists coming through Marrakech touch only the surface—certain sights, certain places: the ruins of the 16th-century royal palace, Yves Saint Laurent's spectacularly renovated Majorelle Gardens, the metalworkers' souk. This, however, is no longer enough for the increasing number of more discerning visitors who want to go beyond the picturesque. And beyond the obvious, from Berber Picassos (the carpet weavers) to that inevitable story about a grand vizier and his 25 concubines that trips off the tongue of every guide at the Bahia Palace. This triviality has become Martin's bugbear. Identifying the demand for a more sophisticated cultural experience, he recently launched Diversity Excursions, an organization specializing in custom tours accompanied by Moroccan academics, from garden historians to archaeologists. Says Martin, "Its purpose is to plunge deeper into the things that everyone else sees, and things that they don't even get near."

I'm floating above Marrakech in a hot-air balloon. I can see the Atlas Mountains rising dramatically out of the plain, and the Palmeraie, with its patches of green, stretching out from the pink warren of the bustling city. Camels are strung out along the northern walls; the gates into the medina are jammed. I try to peer into the gardens of the private villas. They're too far below, a flock of goats becoming a string of ants on a sere hill. I am reminded of Willis: "To be in the world's largest oasis with those mountains in the distance, it's so theatrical. Throw in the silhouette of the palm trees and it looks like a corny stage set." Better. Better by far. Because Marrakech is a city that understands the value of privacy, epitomized in the medina's architecture with its courtyard gardens and high, windowless walls. I wonder then if it's this subtlety, the sense of understatement, that makes Marrakech the sophisticate of Africa.

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Marrakech Best Spa´s

When its time to put your feet up and relax after long days out-and-about and late night partying, head straight to one of Marrakech’s relaxing hammams and day spas for an indulgent spa treatment.
Here is a list of our favourite spas in Marrakech - click on the links below to find out further information and to make a booking: 

 1. La Mamounia - More Information 

 2. Amanjena Spa - More Information 

 3. Ksar Char-Bagh - More Information 

 4. Hotel La Sultana - More Information 

5. Hammam Ziani - A local hammam with basic facilities: rue Riad Zitoun El Jedid, Medina; 8am - 10.30pm daily.

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