Morrison - My 1001 nights: tales & adventures from Morocco

This book is dedicated to my beloved parents, Jim and Fredi Morrison, and to my friend Charlie Shepherd.

Oh no, said my mum when I told her the title of my book, you cant call it that, people will think its a porn novel. Many apologies to any of you who have picked up this book hoping for lots of sex, you are about to be sadly disappointed, although I am going to start with virgins and a libidinous king. One Thousand and One Nights is one of the most famous works of Middle Eastern literature. It tells of King Shahryar, who, devastated at finding out his wife had been unfaithful, vowed to marry a virgin every night, killing her at dawn to avoid a recurrence. Eventually, hed worked his way through all the virgins in the land until the only one left was the viziers daughter, Scheherazade. A clever girl, she spun him a tale each night, leaving the cliffhanger for dawn so he would spare her. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Aladdin and the Enchanted Lamp and Sindbad all came from these stories.

As a child, living in Dubai, we had One Thousand and One Nights on audio cassette (remember those?) read by actors with velvet voices and interspersed with Rimsky-Korsakovs score. We sometimes listened camping on the beach at Ras Al Khaimah with the air still hot from the days desert sun and the stars bright above us in the blackened sky.

When I started writing this book, I had lived in Morocco for just over 1001 nights and accumulated as many stories about this wonderful country, so it seemed an appropriate title, also fitting the diversity of the peoples and places I am taking you to on this journey. From the vibrant spice markets of Marrakech to the winding medieval alleys of Fez, over the high, snowy passes of the Atlas Mountains and into the heart of the Sahara desert the ultimate wilderness I want to share the glory of the different environments and landscapes that have been my home for the past 1001 days and of course nights.

These are my stories, so you will find a lot of me in them, or at least Morocco as seen and understood through my eyes. I have included the history I have encountered along the way, although it is definitely my interpretation of it as it applies to what I see and not an academic analysis any errors are my own. Ive written about some of the big adventures I have had in Morocco, they are things that not everyone will get to do, but they are exciting and got me to places that are not always easy to reach.

I also want to introduce you to my Ali Babas, Aladdins and Sindbads as well as Fatimas, Laylas and Khadijahs, because it is the people of Morocco that have made it such a magical experience. I have been welcomed and taken into the heart of families everywhere I have been and allowed to share their lives a little. Too much sugar-laden mint tea and Friday couscous may have made me fat, but the stories have been worth it.

Finally, I want to pass on some of my most useful tips for visiting Morocco itself and a Muslim and African culture. It is knowledge that has come from funny, fabulous, difficult and sometimes bewildering experiences.

For you, the reader, I hope that you laugh a lot and learn some new things; that you find some handy tips if you want to come for a holiday or to live; and, most of all, that my love for this soul-enriching country rubs off on you a little. Who knows, you may even be inspired to come and visit if you havent already.

Once upon a time...

It is the smell that hits you first; a heady mixture of horse pee, charcoal smoke and perfume from a thousand warm bodies. Then it is the noise, the rhythm of drums and castanets, shouts of orange juice, orange juice, orange juice, the bells from the horse-drawn carriages and the shrieks of excited children as they watch street boys launch neon stingers high into the air. Hollywood couldnt make up Jemaa El Fna, the main square of Marrakech: it is Africa, the Orient, magical and mythical but at the same time very, very real. It is also the centre of the city and the country that I had arrived in, expecting to stay for four months, but which has grabbed me and wont let go. Its four years and counting.

When I left the mists of Englands Peak District on 2 January 2014 with just one suitcase and the scribbled-down address of my new flatshare in Semlalia, my overwhelming thought was, What on earth are you doing, you insane woman? Why are you blowing up your very nice life once again? I had been persuaded to sign up to run the Marathon des Sables, the toughest footrace on earth, six marathons in six days across the Sahara, and I was coming to Morocco to train for it. I was actually going to do this crazy thing.

Charlie Shepherd friend, founder of adventure company Epic Morocco, expert on all things Moroccan, running and cycling has a lot to answer for. Go on, he had said the summer before, catching me at a weak moment when he had just made me cycle up a very large hill, Im going to do it, sign up with me. You can do it. You are good at endurance. If you can cycle from Cairo to Cape Town, you can run across the Sahara. It isnt going to be that hard.

But I cant run, I said, which I felt was an important point, given that we were talking about a 156-mile race across sand in temperatures of over 50C.

No problem, said Charlie. You have a good head, which is the main thing. At this stage, with hindsight, I know that I should have looked at his physique wiry, athletic, fit and then mine none of the above and said no. But he is a very persuasive person and I found myself believing him. Next thing I knew I was signed up and panting up hill and down dale in the rain and mud round my home in Hayfield with my running partner, Naomi, and Billy the Running Dog.

As it turned out, that was excellent training, but I wanted to give myself the best possible chance of completing the race (alive) and so I took the decision to rent out my house, pack up my cat, and take myself off to Morocco to run in the sun. It helped that I could do my job writing, social media and media training from anywhere, and it also helped that I had studied Arabic at university and had lived around Africa and the Middle East. I was looking forward to using my rusty language again and being in all the warmth and hospitality of an Islamic culture.

Three hours and twenty minutes from Manchester airport and I was taxiing into a different world. From the plane, I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas Mountains giving way to the red plains around Marrakech, dotted with spots of green oases and little adobe-built villages. Then, the twenty-first century starts to intrude as you fly over swimming pools and golf courses, banking up for your first sight of the medina, the old walled town, and the famous red rose clay of the city.

Marrakech is not the capital of Morocco, but for me it really is its heart. It is called many things, including the Rose City and the Daughter of the Desert, and it positively oozes romance. It sits on the fringes of the Agafay desert and you can taste that desert in the air, but at the same time, on a clear day, you can see the blue Atlas Mountains in the distance, tipped with snow. It is called the Rose City because it is obligatory to paint your house to match the ancient mud-built houses of the medina. The clay, which originally came from the surrounding plains and mountains, is a rosy-coloured terracotta. Now, of course, most people build in concrete because it is so much cheaper, but the rose-paint rule means that the city still retains its character.