Thursday, May 22, 2014
Storytelling in Marrakech is a practice with ancient roots, thought to date back to the 11th Century. But has it been superseded by modern life? The Cafe de France in Marrakech is something of an institution. It is the oldest and most famous of the slightly louche establishments that surround the main square, the Jemaa el Fna. Dating back to the days of the French protectorate, it sometimes feels as if its decor and staff haven't changed since then either.
Wobbly ceiling fans rotate languidly trying to dispel the stifling heat. Portraits of King Mohammed the VI hang at odd angles from its blue and white tiled walls. Inside customers sit on faded wicker chairs sipping mint tea and strong coffee. On the veranda tourists try to avoid eye contact with the encircling shoe shine boys and hawkers selling single cigarettes, while the locals sit and stare at the hot teeming square, making their drinks last for hours. It was here - back in 2006 - that I first met Abderrahim El Makkouri, a tall man, with a red Fez hat, dark beady eyes, goatee beard and a prominent nose.
Abderrahim is a storyteller - one of the very last surviving "hlaykia" as they are called. Of an evening, when the sun went down and the muezzin called the faithful to the mosques, he would recite ancient myths, legends and folk tales to rapt crowds in the square, and if they enjoyed them, they would pay him a few coins. Square in Marrakech There is a saying in Marrakech that "when a storyteller dies, a library burns." For most of the stories exist only in the heads of their narrators, who take their repertoire to the grave. Abderrahim has seen many of his fellow hlaykia come and go. Most have died, some have retired and one even took up shoe shining. Very few can make a living any more. The crowds who used to gather would rather watch TV. In the 1970s there were 18 hlaykia recounting their narratives in the Jemaa el Fna. In 2006 there were only two: Abderrahim and Moulay Mohamed. Sadly the latter, a quiet, kindly old man, has passed away. So I spent many hours with Abderrahim in the Cafe de France recording his stories for posterity - and a book. He was hoping his son Zoheir would become a storyteller too. A German film-maker even made a documentary about them - the master storyteller and his apprentice - which was shown at the Marrakech International Film Festival. But Zoheir couldn't cope with this sudden exposure to fame and he suffered some sort of mental breakdown. His mother and father would wake up to hear him screaming in the night. They had to take him out of school, and they struggled to pay for his medication. If Zoheir recovered maybe he could tell stories in the square, I suggested one day last year, as we sat on the cafe's veranda again. "Look," said Abderrahim, "can't you see? There's no space anymore for storytellers," pointing at the crowded stalls of merchants selling everything from mystical aphrodisiacs to false teeth, "and besides it's too noisy". He was probably right. The storyteller's art - thought to be around 1,000 years old - was a nuanced one, that had not kept pace with the noise, new technology or the general madness of Marrakech which had engulfed them and drowned them out. What had happened to Zoheir seemed like a sad metaphor for the decline of the storyteller in general; he has seen modernity and it's killing him.
When I returned home I wrote a letter to the royal palace, more in hope than expectation, explaining to the King's advisers that Abderrahim was struggling and that he needed somewhere he and his son might tell stories in the future to save this ancient tradition from oblivion. Cafe de France I went back to Marrakech a few weeks ago and found out that a British man had started up a new cafe that might one day be as famous as the Cafe de France. Here the art of storytelling is being revived, with young Moroccans learning ancient tales from the older generation. I arranged to meet Abderrahim in the Cafe de France to tell him the good news. "I have some good news too," he said beaming beneath his red Fez hat. "The King got your letter… and he has bought me a house!" I was staggered but then another Moroccan saying came into my head. "Nothing is certain," they will tell you here, "but everything is possible." Marrakech is the strangest place I know. Truth here really is stranger than fiction. Where else can you buy aphrodisiacs and false teeth? Where else can you hear stories that are older than the pink walls and ramparts of this medieval city? And where else does the king end up buying a storyteller a house?
Saturday, September 7, 2013
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.
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?”
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?”
Sunday, February 26, 2012
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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