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Marrakech: the word strikes the ear like a hot desert wind thrashing through the palm groves. Surrounded by adobe ramparts, set in an oasis, a short flight from Europe, by rights this Red City should only exist in a fevered sultana’s dreams and, in a sense, Marrakech is a city built on pure imagination. Historic glories may be a little thin on the ground – the fortifications are old rather than ancient, great monuments are somewhat scarce, new neighbour- hoods sprawl ever outwards, eating into the palm groves, and the main avenue is now clogged with traffic – but still the tourists come, lured by the colour, the light, the promise of some longed-for sensuality. No fading flower of a city, Marrakech is colour – as any ramble in the souks shows. Perhaps the city’s earth-red walls and green palms inspired the Moroccan flag: a green Solomon’s seal on scarlet ground. Could it be that local temperament owes something to this colour contrast, too? Flashes of enthusiasm mesh with happy-go-lucky warmth. And above all the Marrakchis are bahja – joyful, vivid, living for the good times. No wonder their city is known as Morocco’s pleasure capital.
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