Sketches of Morocco

By Stephen McGinity

"Welcome to the first of what I hope to be an ongoing series of witty and informative sketch books regarding travel and adventure. Throughout, I hope to take you on a journey of self-discovery and curiosity about a place that, I personally, found to be a truly unique experience. Sahara nights, city souks, Berber villages and sights and smells galore, fill these pages to bursting point with my own very personal Sketches of Morocco. So without further delay, I invite you all to join me on my journey. I'm sure we will have a lot of fun along the way..."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen McGinity
• Release date: Mar 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310730856

Stephen McGinity

Stephen McGinity is an award winning British author, born and raised in the North West of England. His first travel / humor book entitled; Excuse me, are you British?, follows his travels across the United States of America from coast to coast, while including his own hilarious and personal travel diary. The book went on to become one of the best selling books of 2012 and won him the National Writers Association Award during the same year. Since then, Stephen has released a semi-fictional book of hard hitting short stories in the style of Poe, Kubrick and King, with plenty of twists and turns and written in a modern day style. Entitled; The Naked Bohemians, the book has been highly revered by The New York Times, Radio One (UK), KCSM Jazz 91.1 and The Boston Globe. Continuing along the lines of his first book... Excuse me, are you European? was released in August 2014. It is considered to be a highly anticipated follow up to his first non-fictional travel / humor book. Although instead of focusing on America, it instead consists of seven fascinating and beautiful European cities. As well as once again including his own unique travel journal and even more humorous experiences. Stephen's latest release, Sketches of Morocco, takes him to the stunning realms of Northern Africa. Where tales of surviving the maze-like souks, nights spent in the Sahara Desert, adventures through the Atlas Mountains, and much more... all make for yet another witty, informative, and completely honest view regarding the weird and wonderful aspects of life. As seen through the eyes of one of the most free-thinking, straight-talking writers of the modern era.

Book preview

Sketches of Morocco

For Tyson

Contents:

. On Arrival...

. The Rose City

. Ourika-ka-ka-ka-ka!

. Tea in the Sahara

. Are We Nearly There Yet..?

. Essaouira – The Pearl of the Atlantic

. Royal Palaces & The Art of Chivalry

. On Departure...

1.

On Arrival...

In Europe, everybody wears a watch. But here, in Morocco, we have time.

This is the first thing I'm taught upon asking the taxi driver how long the journey from Marrakesh Menara airport to my accommodation will take. And, to be perfectly honest, I liked the quote so much I thought I would open the book with it.

So I did.

As I do happen to be wearing a watch at this point (although I think I may well go without it for the rest of my adventure) I can tell you that it takes roughly thirty minutes to arrive at the entrance of the Medina. Where, having handed over ten Euros to the driver, I'm told in no uncertain terms to place my faith in the bedraggled looking local hovering about by the side of the road with his tattered wooden shopping cart, as it is he who will proceed to get me to where I need to be safely.

The time is 21:00 pm on Sunday, 10th January, 2016, and this is my first time visiting North Africa. For obvious reasons I have absolutely no idea where I am, therefore my only real option is to take heed of the drivers broken English instructions and dump my bag into the cart. Before heading off alongside my new guide, whom I have now named 'Steptoe' in a way that only those familiar with a certain style of British humour would fully appreciate, and onwards through the archway.

Although I feel I should add that before I walk through said archway, I have to make it across the street, which isn't really a street in the technical sense of the word, more like a deadly version of the Wacky Races.

Steptoe, however, appears to have no trouble at all in manoeuvring his way through the oncoming traffic, seemingly with his eyes closed while resembling Moses parting the Red Sea. Whereas I myself feel as though I've been placed directly inside of the 80's arcade game Frogger and may well get squished at any given moment.

With my hopes of making it to safety rapidly evaporating like tears in a hot wind, I tell myself screw it, before taking what can only be considered a blind leap of faith, somehow managing to reach the entrance with all my limbs miraculously still intact. Although it's safe to say that my nerves are at this point dancing the jitterbug and may never be the same again.

The street inside the Medina is relatively quiet and it isn't much more than a ten minute walk to my accommodation. Along the way I'm asked is this my first time in Marrakesh? Where am I from? (My guide apparently has a cousin who lives near me). Do you know Rod Stewart? Where did you get that hat? How much was my watch? Would you like a tangerine? What do you think of One Direction? And so on and so forth...

To which I reply; It sure is. The 14th star of the Zorbian constellation. Sadly not, but my friend Maggie may (get it)? Where did you get that tile? It's a fake. Sure, why not. They're starting to show some potential. And so on and so forth...

Upon arriving safely at my Moroccan accommodation, Steptoe, who I seriously doubt has been listening to a single word I've said along the way, as anyone who is anyone knows there's no 14th star in the Zorbian constellation, there are only twelve, gives the door a few sharp knocks with his cloven paw, before being answered by some young and flustered looking French girl. Once greeted, I'm advised to offer up some form of payment for services rendered. With this, I reach into my pocket and give him three Euros for his help and inquisitive nature.

Clearly unimpressed with what I myself thought was a fairly generous tip for a ten minute walk along a single street, the look of disgust that suddenly appears etched across his weathered face tells me differently. Anyone would think that I had tore off his sisters burqa and screamed profusely in her face that Rod Stewart's real name is Ricardo Bumfluff and is as gay as a Mykonos day-tripper.

It appears that he wants Dirhams, and, Euros, in coin version at least, are of absolutely no use to him.

As I try to explain that I currently have no Dirhams in my possession due to Moroccan law stating that it's illegal to bring them into the country (and to take them out of the country for that matter), he finally accepts the three Euro tip, thanks to a little convincing from the flustered French girl, and is soon off on his merry way back to Oil Drum Lane.

Riad Dar Radya, located at 7 Derb El Wartani Mouassine, is at first glance as picturesque as the photographs on the website (always an added bonus), and at a grand total of seventy two Euros for seven nights stay, including breakfast, I feel I can't go wrong here.

Once I've checked in and met Laila, the wonderful owner of the establishment, and been shown to my room on the upper floor, the time is fast approaching 22:00 pm. So without further ado, I make my way back outside and into the warm Marrakesh evening.

In search of my first glimpse of the world renowned Jemaa el-Fnaa.

Upon booking my stay at Riad Dar Radya, one of the big selling points for me personally, was that it's not only close to the main attractions of the city, but also, is centrally located within the Medina. Newer parts of any city are all well and good, but in order to get a real taste and feel of somewhere like this, then there really is no better place to be.

Unfortunately I don't actually get to see Jemaa el-Fnaa on this particular evening due to having no idea how to get there, even though I was informed by Laila that it's basically a five minute stroll away. Instead, I find myself wandering around the dimly lit streets trying to look as though I know exactly where I am and where I'm going. All the while disappearing deeper and deeper into the mesmerising souks.

Before arriving here I did the usual research on what to look for, what to avoid, who to trust, who not to trust, etc... and one of the things I read was that there are certain locals who will target tourists who look lost, dazed and confused, before leading them away from where they actually want to get to. In essence, promising them a better and possibly quicker route, but in actual fact, leading them further and further away, eventually to a family members shop nestled somewhere within the overwhelming maze of the souks.

Once this has happened and you have unwittingly become stuck between a rock and a hard place, you have three options.

You can either spend the next thirty minutes to an hour talking to the owners of the shop and watching them working on their items and crafts for sale, leather goods, musical instruments, pottery, et al. Or, you can say thank you (shukran, in Arabic), make your excuses to leave, and spend the next twenty four hours trying to figure your way out of the honeycomb of connecting alleyways.

Failing that, you can take everything with a pinch of salt and simply go with the flow. You are on holiday after all lest ye forget.

It really is that simple.

Although there's a definite certainty that you're going to have to part with a sprinkling of cash at some point along the line. Whether it be from the wandering gypsy who has led you down the garden path while learning everything there is to know about you in the process. If you end up buying one of the beautiful, hand-crafted and unique items that your mother would love that are more or less mass produced by every other trader in the area. Or, should you decide to man up, be bold, and use some of that steely determined grit that all your friends back home say that you possess in abundance, you could try to