Mayhem in Marrakech

Once again I have found myself a prisoner of the Djemma El Fna, a willing participant in the madness of a city at a crossroads of cultures.

For those of you who have not yet managed to get to Morocco it is possible, even probable, that the images conjured up in the mind of smoky souks and maze like medinas is held as a romantic notion with both trepidation and fascination in equal proportions. I do not want to disillusion the reader, it can be just so. Marrakech however is a major tourist destination and forewarned in such cases as this, is most definitely forearmed.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the place. It has a charm and accessibility that makes it an ideal focal point for travelling the Atlas Mountains and all points of the compass. This of course is its Achilles heel, being all things to all travellers comes at a price and, like everything in Morocco, that price will at some point have to be paid.

The airport has been modernised; the shabby waiting rooms with the air of a decrepit bus terminal are gone and a gleaming new building stands proudly in its stead. Transportation is now much improved, a 20 Dirham bus (#19) to the medina runs every half an hour and taxis will bargain down to a more reasonable price for the short journey into town if you are firm with them.
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