Mosaic of Marvels
Juliet Nicolson explores the opulent marble palaces, vibrant mosques and fragrant Moorish gardens of Marrakech
During my first visit to Marrakech 20 years ago, I declined not only an invitation to exchange my two daughters for a pair of camels, but also one to swim in our riad’s pool. I had already seen that the water, dense as spinach soup, was being used by the attendant to clean his teeth. Two decades later, the delightfully unexpected and eccentrically exotic nature of this city remains unchanged. As we wandered through its maze of dark, narrow alleys, we jumped to avoid first a donkey pulling a cart laden with clanking copper kettles and then a scooter carrying a homeward-bound schoolboy, his arms wrapped around his chauffeur-mother’s waist and his tiny sister balanced on the handlebars. Weaving our way through stalls selling silver slippers, nougat, rugs, jeans and backgammon boards, we passed a huddle of women in multicoloured robes conspiring to change the world. Eventually, we arrived at the spellbinding Le Jardin Secret, an ancient Middle Eastern garden in which green-tiled pathways intersect with headily scented, butterflyshimmering flower beds. At its heart is a tower from which, high above the rooftops of the medina, we looked down over the chicest riads, their tented terraces nudging against lines of white linen sheets drying in the breeze. We watched a game of chess, a couple kissing, a cat stretching in the sun as the minaret of the 12th-century Koutoubia Mosque rose up in the distance.
Outside the souk, the cacophony inside one of the most storied squares in the world assaulted us. Jemaa el-Fna means “assembly of the dead”, so named because the bodies of local enemies were once displayed in this vast amphitheatre. Today, it is a forum for those who come to preach, perform, sell, watch, marvel and sometimes retreat, a place where henna-adorned fingers beckon you to submit your hands for the same elaborate embellishment. We could see chickens pecking their way between stalls selling fresh orange juice, a snake undulating to the sound of a flute, rising up lazily from his basket, camels standing in the shadows looking cross and bored, and a world-weary monkey sitting unresponsively on the shoulder of his bearded owner. In the evening, we dined at the Royal Mansour, the King’s own glittering, chandeliered hotel-palace, where cocktails are served in golden goblets. Feeling like extras in a Fellini film, we took our seats at Sesamo, a dazzling Venetian-inspired dining room overseen by leading chef Massimiliano Alajmo, who led us on a culinary excursion to his native Italy, while using vegetables from the hotel’s garden. Days later, I was still dreaming about his pistachio ice cream. After dinner, we drove half an hour from the city, with the jagged drama of the Atlas Mountains running like a child’s drawing across the blue page of the sky, to reach the oasis of The Oberoi, Marrakech. Set among avenues of centuries-old olive trees, this magnificent ochre-coloured palace, built by local craftsmen, features huge, airy courtyards lined with black and white mosaic tiles that open out into a dramatic water-filled walkway. Almost every villa has its own swimming pool, nestled in the privacy of a walled garden filled with lemon trees and powder-puff blooms of bougainvillea. The fusion between Moroccan culture and the Indian heritage of the celebrated Oberoi chain is evident throughout the property, from its
architecture to its three superb restaurants. We ate divinely fresh salads for lunch while at night, we were served a tender Moroccan lamb tagine and a prawn curry that transported us with every mouthful to the kitchens of Rajasthan. Equally memorable was our visit to the Ayurvedic spa, which is encircled by a moat of water lilies and paddling moorhens. Here, the fully authentic hammam was an experience both eye-watering and exhilarating, beginning with an extended cleanse in the prettily tiled steam room, followed by an energetic, full-body scrub and completed by a thorough and dedicated massage from my therapist Yousa. My daughter’s facial, meanwhile, was a deliciously restorative treat, with the spa manager Sofia recommending that the music be switched off in favour of soothing silence. This feeling of absolute peace and well-being seemed to envelop the whole hotel, whether we were sunning ourselves beside the large pool or listening to the birds in the ancient trees. The shifting light tempted us to linger in these unique surroundings, the softness of dawn’s blush giving way to the intensity of the midday sun until gentle evening shadows would wrap around the arches and filter through doorways. It is reassuring that such a magical place still exists as it did 20 years ago—where dowries can still be paid in camels. ■