The rising sun sets fire to the snow-covered caps of the Atlas mountains. Within moments, the shadowy gorges are gleaming with warm terracotta hues. I turn my back on north Africa’s highest peaks and look north where Marrakech – nicknamed the Red City – rests like a jagged ruby amid the jade swathes of palms and the silvery sheen of olive groves.
Swinging 800 metres (2,625ft) above the stony desert in a giant wicker basket, I try to imagine what this scene would have looked like when camel trains trooped this way, loaded with salt, spices and enslaved humans bound for Marrakech’s souks.
The sky around us is filled with dozens of hot-air balloons, drifting like pollen on a Saharan breeze. The biggest of the suspended baskets hold 16 passengers, most of whom will have left guesthouses and riads in the labyrinthine old town before the dawn prayer call.
“That’s the Koutoubia minaret there, to the west,” says our pilot Daniel Penet, founder of Ciel d’Afrique. “That shadowy area to the north of the minaret is the medina [the old town].”
I realise that “shadowy” may be the perfect word to describe the medina. While the high-rise tower-blocks of Gueliz (the new town) are tall enough to catch the first rays, it takes longer for the sunlight to seep into the medina’s alleys and marketplaces. I can now make out the vast triangular Djemaa el-Fna (Place of the Dead), said to be named for the heads of rebels and criminals that once decorated the walls of the vast plaza. I’d been to Marrakech perhaps a dozen times but this unique aerial vantage point provides a proper chance to get my bearings.
Ever since I first visited 30 years ago, I’ve delighted in the atmosphere of “shadowiness” whenever I step through the gates in the city walls. I revelled in the jolt of adrenaline that came with running the gauntlet of the phalanx of hustlers and faux guides on each foray into old Marrakech, though the city is an infinitely more relaxing place these days, thanks to the efforts of the tourist police.
But the medina still defies orientation. It swallows you whole. No matter how carefully I study the warren of tunnels, arches and boltholes around my accommodation there’s only thing I can be certain of; I will, at some point, become utterly and hopelessly lost.
Safely back on land at the city gates after my early morning balloon ride, I fall into step behind a djellaba-clad figure driving a heavily loaded mule ahead of him. The rabbit warren leads me in the general direction of Derb Farnatchi (Farnatchi Alley). Farnatchis are the wood-burning ovens that serve two crucial purposes: the fire that heats the hammam steam baths is also used by the quarter’s residents to bake their day’s supply of bread.
Finally I arrive at the old mansion that has been converted into Riad Le Farnatchi, a collection of suites, restaurant, spa and even swimming pool – a respite from the world outside. There are now more than 7,000 riads (historic houses, converted into boutique hotels) in Marrakech and this is among my favourites. Many are hidden deep in nondescript alleys and I’ve come to realise that the best of them – such as Le Farnatchi – shun signs so that you’re forced to memorise the doors’ ancient features, like the familiar lines in an elderly face. Guests should look on the challenge of navigation as part of the thrill.
Marrakech has its share of world-famous sights, of course, but if you want to dig more deeply into the secrets of this mysterious city an experienced local guide is priceless.
I sign up for a tour with Intrepid, who have been working to help Moroccan women make an inroad into the traditionally male-dominated tourism industry. Their tours provide fascinating insights on this conservatively Muslim city from a female viewpoint.
Atika Aït Nejjar leads us into timeless sections of the souks where donkeys outnumber tourists and introduces us to the owners of tiny stalls where the best pastries, olives and mint tea have been sold for several generations. She knows many of the local women who gather at the few surviving farnatchi ovens each morning with loaded trays of dough balanced on their heads ready for baking khobz flatbread. She leads us through a humble quarter, where crumbling adobe walls still stand (barely) as testament to the devastating earthquake that struck in 2023, to the house of her friend Fatima, an Amazigh (Berber) friend who prepares a huge plate of delicious vegetable couscous for us.
Later, when the subterranean fires have heated the steam rooms she guides my wife through the complexities of a session in the most authentic of the women’s hammam. The largest hammam have male and female sections but in humbler quarters the afternoons are typically for men while mornings are reserved for the women: “Sometimes they spend hours gently steaming,” Atika smiles. “It’s one of the few places where women can gather to gossip and joke … far removed from the ears of men.”
After leaving Atika, I wander more, enjoying getting lost. The never-ending street theatre of old Marrakech continues its parade across the stage of the street. Countless historic fondouk (caravanserais) remain, recognisable from the big gateways that would have been wide enough to drive loaded camels through. Some have been gentrified and turned into designer stores selling cedarwood furniture and ornate lamps. The most fascinating are in varying states of decay but with such an air of timelessness that you can still imagine Saharan salt trains being offloaded at the end of a long journey from Timbuktu.
While there are souks that appear a thousand times a day on Instagram, others you’ll find by searching them out, or more likely through being lost and drawing on all your senses. Place des Epices (the spice souks) has a scent all of its own, while the less well-known Souk Haddadine (the tinsmith souk) is best found by straining your ears for the rhythmic clatter of hammering. Souk Laghzal is just round the corner from the tour groups in the Spice Souk yet few outsiders ever find it. Those who do should spare a moment’s contemplation since this tiny square was once the slavery souk. These days it’s heaped with mountains of fascinating bric-a-brac and traditional remedies in the form of herbs, potions, dried reptiles and animal skins. There’s also a nameless restaurant here where Fatima – known to traders as “the mother of the souks” – serves the heartiest tajines to stallholders (for a fraction of the price charged in the bazaar thoroughfares).
You can use all the tricks in the book to learn your way around the medina: turn backwards frequently to register how the path will look on the return journey, but be sure to memorise landmarks and architectural quirks that will remain visible even when the stalls have closed. Souks that are vibrant during the day can become almost unrecognisable when the shutters are pulled down.
When the sun sets the medina is wrapped in a dark shawl. Lamps flicker to life and a smokescreen of barbecues billows across the Djemaa el-Fna. Musicians make a few tentative initial rolls on their drums and storytellers call out to gather crowds around them. The stage is set for a new chapter in Marrakech’s medina.
Intrepid’s Private Marrakech Medina, Palace & Tombs Discovery Tour costs from €69. Balloon rides with Ciel d’Afrique from 2,400 Moroccan dirham (€225)