MARRAKESH
Money, Mini Bars & Mopeds
Johnny Ireland
A short city break between jobs. Some winter Arabic sunshine. Not what you’d call a quick flight from Glasgow but a location long on the wish list of Mrs Ireland so it had to be done. Our destination? Marrakesh.
Flying with one of our favourite (not) budget airlines we decided to err on the side of caution and pay extra to put a suitcase in the hold, thus avoiding the potential walk of shame where you’re told at the gate: “Your bag is too big for under the seat and you’re hereby fined.”
In hindsight, the price of the hotel (or ‘riad’) was too good to be true. The cost of three nights bed and breakfast was reduced by 66% for a ‘superior’ room with patio, mini bar, coffee machine and… toilet roll. Is it me or are hotels taking the p**s when they advertise that particular ‘benefit’ when listing your room’s facilities?
The communication with the hotel after booking was fantastic. They even offered to collect us from the airport for a mere €25. I did, however, manage to find a cheaper alternative on-line and, proud of my efforts, decided to use the saving towards a car parking space at Glasgow airport, complete with fast-track security.
Could I make a similar saving when it came to ordering currency? Apparently not, because Moroccan Dirham can only be purchased on arrival into the country. Euros, though, are widely accepted and so I ordered on-line for collection at the airport.
On the day of travel, sailing through security, I said to Mrs Ireland, “Don’t let me forget to pick up the money.” Thankfully, we had plenty of time so, after a quick mooch around Duty Free, we headed to our favourite airport bar. Well, you can’t beat a pre-flight dram (or two) to get you in the holiday mood, can you? The next thing we know, our gate is being called and our flight is boarding. Ooops – I forgot to collect the euros! Hot-footing it to the foreign exchange counter (panting), I gave my order number to the cashier.
“I need the credit card you booked with,” she said.
I’d left my bag with Mrs Ireland in the bar so (still panting) I ran back through the airport, grabbed my wallet, and rushed back to the foreign exchange. Euros in hand, we made it to the departure gate just in time. Heart rate just about back to normal, I settled in next to Mrs Ireland and enjoyed a fabulous sunny flight across the snow-capped Alps.
Arriving at Marrakesh airport, we expected to be met by a taxi driver holding a sign with our name on it. There were many such taxi drivers and many such signs, but none said Mr Ireland. After a frustrating 15 minutes with no wi-fi or mobile signal, we eventually found our driver.
I had paid an upgrade to travel in the comfort of a people carrier, but we were guided to an unidentifiable car the size of a Fiat Cinquecento. It smelt of sweaty socks and had no rear seatbelts. Had we been in the UK we simply wouldn’t have got in. But in a foreign country on a Friday night after a four-hour fight (and a few drinks), we climbed in and hoped for the best.
Having previously lived and worked in the Middle East, I knew that Friday was a holy day and that only meant one thing – chaos! The traffic from the airport was almost stationary and the closer we got to our destination, the more crowded it became. There were people and mopeds everywhere! Eventually we reached a roadblock, and were told we must walk the rest of the way to our hotel. What?! It was dark, it was crowded, we were tired, we had no signal on our phones, and we had absolutely no idea where we were going! Feeling sorry for us, the driver called our hotel and ten minutes later, a porter arrived with a trolley for our bags.
I thanked the driver profusely, tipped him way more than I should have, and followed the porter through the crowds into the rabbit warren alleyways of Old Town Marrakesh. We never would have found the hotel without his help. So, once again, I left a far-too-generous tip and stepped gratefully into the riad’s reception.
The male receptionist couldn’t have been friendlier, and we were soon shown to our room. Suffice to say it was far from superior. There was no mini bar, no patio, and no coffee machine (but thankfully the toilet roll was plentiful!). We soon discovered there was no hot water either.
“No hot water until tomorrow, sir.”
“What about the mini bar and coffee machine?”
Within ten minutes, the mini bar arrived. It was actually a fridge. An empty fridge. Our riad did not serve alcohol. Coffee it is then! The coffee machine had duly arrived, complete with sachets… but no cups.
Despite the late hour, we decided to head out and find refreshments elsewhere. First though, we needed to lock our valuables in the in-room safe – can’t be too careful in a foreign country.
But whilst there was indeed an in-room safe, it wasn’t fastened to anything. In other words, you could just pick it up and walk off with it! Which is exactly what the receptionist did when I explained we had no code to open it. We never saw the safe again.
By this point, an alcoholic drink was most definitely required. So off we went, re-tracing our steps through the alleyways towards the main square, dodging people and mopeds as we went. Finding the square was surprisingly easy, finding alcohol, not so much. There were plenty of spectacular roof-top bars, all of which were ‘sans alcohol’. Sensing our desperation, one very helpful waiter (our very own St Bernard) walked us through town to one of only four bars that served alcohol. Once again, I was more than generous with his tip!
The following day, realising I couldn’t afford to keep tipping large euro notes, I headed to the currency exchange office. Removing five Scottish twenty-pound notes from my wallet, I handed them to the cashier.
“Only English notes, no Scottish.”
“But they’re both the same! Pound sterling.”
The notes were promptly thrust back into my hand, at which point Mrs Ireland, quick to recognise my annoyance, escorted me from the office. I was all for escorting the cashier to Glasgow to introduce him to some Scottish culture, and to prove that my crisp twenty-pound notes depicting the iconic Forth Bridge were every bit as valuable as the ones showing an English romantic painter.
Despite the challenges, it was a fabulous short trip. Marrakesh is such a welcoming place. It’s a bustling city with snake charmers, street traders and mopeds all adding to the buzz of its Old Town. Whilst Moroccan Arabic is the official language, French is widely spoken, adding a certain mystique and allure to the chaos.
If it’s culture you crave, you can’t go wrong with Marrakesh, and staying close to the Medina is a must. But if I could offer one piece of advice, it would be to stay in a traditional riad rather than opting for a western hotel chain. They add authenticity to your stay and offer a taste of the ‘real’ Marrakesh. They may not serve alcohol, but toilet roll is guaranteed!
