Africa & Middle East > Morocco > Marrakech > Marrakech > Articles > Medina Cross-Cultivation

Soukhs, snake-charmers and story-tellers are what usually springs to mind if you mention Marrakesh. Yes, these seductive exotica still exist but other, more complex ingredients are transforming the identity of this city. A new cultural sophistication is being injected by a wave of expats who have bought into the mayhem of donkey-carts and motor-bikes of the medina (the traditional city as opposed to Guéliz, the French extension). By no means sidelined, the Moroccans themselves are participating in this dynamism that at last is going beyond home accessories.

When Yves Saint-Laurent retreated to his oasis in the Majorelle Gardens over 30 years ago, he blazed a trail among French fashionistas and style slaves. That era (the drug-hazed late 60s and 70s) also saw English and Americans partying hard on the riad rooftops; bohemia was the bye-word as William Burroughs, Mick Jagger and errant Rothschilds and Gettys exchanged joints. Yet there was little lasting impact once the roving party-set moved on; of the die-hards who remained, most were designers or decorators who thrived on talented local craftspeople.

Fast forward to the 21st century and Marrakesh has cleaned up and tamed down. Civilising forces are at work, from tourist police to a new arts festival, a fashion week, a film festival and art galleries. This cultural slant is unexpected, as Marrakesh has always been perceived as the fun-loving town of Morocco compared to administrative Rabat (the capital), intellectual and business-oriented Casablanca, Europeanised Tangiers (with its echoes of Bowles and Burroughs) or medieval Fez. The pink-walled city is, after all, where people feast and party, not forgetting the shop-till-you-drop phenomenon catered for by the labyrinthine soukhs. But poetry? conceptual art? literary debates?

The turning-point came with Mohammed VI who, on ascending the throne on the death of his father, Hassan II, six years ago, set about loosening up a repressive climate. With a keen eye to the profits of tourism, he also eased bureaucracy for foreign investors and ordered a crackdown on touts and hustlers. The result is not just sharp hotels such as the Aman but also a tidal-wave of dirham-waving expats moving in to create their own 1001 Nights-style dream-homes and/or guest-houses. Competition is fierce as the designer interiors multiply weekly. Move over Marbella, Cote d’Azur, Tuscany; Marrakesh and its courtyard houses have, once again, become agonisingly hip.

These riads are located between soukhs packed with the babouches, jewellery, rugs, carved wood, lanterns and fake Raybans that have made Marrakesh’ reputation. Far from soothing retail therapy, shops here are all about high retail pressure, and only the very addicted and sartorially driven survive. Lesser mortals, after a round of seemingly gratuitous haggling (he knows that I know that he knows etc), either give up or settle for something they actually don’t want. But this is nothing. Just a few years ago, you had to hire a guide merely to fend off the offensives of dozens of others. Similar but more subtle changes have taken place in Djema El F’naa, the vast, theatre-set of a square where, every evening a cast of players move in. As dusk settles, trestle-tables serve anything from kebabs to sheep’s heads, drums beat and story-tellers amass spellbound crowds (a sign of Morocco’s 50% literacy rate). But new rules and regulations have brought a uniformity that feels very foreign, very un-African; the seductive anarchy is fading fast behind the smoke and aromas of the grills.

Back in the medina labyrinth, the occasional freshly painted doorway signals a foreign-owned riad, often dreamy interior worlds of boho or minimalist elegance. This is the beauty of medina architecture and that should prove to be its saving grace: nothing is revealed by the discreet walled exterior. So, without it being obvious, there are now over 600 foreign-owned houses, with pretty equal representation from the French, British and Italians. The Moroccans themselves are happy to move to apartment blocks rimming the town - for them they represent a welcome step out of the Middle Ages.

Among the expats is Vanessa Branson, sister of entrepreneurial Richard Branson, whose fabulously decorated Riad El Fenn - with deep turquoise and blood red walls, Murano chandeliers, two pools and a roof-top terrace to beat them all - has become the medina’s must-sleep in. But she has not stopped there as her involvement in London’s contemporary art scene also inspired her to kickstart the first Arts in Marrakesh Festival, in tandem with a local entrepreneur, Abel Damoussi.

More than just another sign of the medina’s changing identity, this 5-day cultural exchange between British and Moroccan writers and artists could be seen as the cream on the cake of expat influence - and an intriguing intermeshing of cultures. While rooftop parties and gargantuan tagines oiled cultural diplomacy, traditional riads in all their tiled and stuccoed splendour were the venues for exhibitions, poetry-reading and literary debates. Moroccans heard about the world of British publishing through discussions with top authors and publishers and, inversely, British guests were initiated to Arabic poetry - in translation.

It was not all plain sailing, as some provocative pieces were removed from Vanessa Branson’s exhibition of her art fund collection, and other visually edgey artworks sat rather uncomfortably in their exhibition setting, the highly ornate and palatial Musée de Marrakech. In contrast the Moroccan art exhibition - despite another palace setting - appeared tame, all painterly technique with no real commentary. This was clearly a clash not just of cultures but of socio-political contexts, therefore a lesson for everyone.

Although that particular party is over, the medina’s arts venues continue to thrive. Most overtly splendid is Damoussi’s Kssour Agafay, a 16th century riad that has become a members-only arts club where divans, cushions, candelabra and a soaring open courtyard help expand minds - without the hashish. For anyone averse to steep membership fees and discreet snobbery, the next best is Dar Cherifa, a locally-owned café littéraire cum gallery, all carved cedarwood and lacelike stucco, slender columns and elegant salons. Distinctly foreign in flavour is the Ministerio del Gusto, an eccentric Italian-owned and design-oriented gallery. These hip venues will certainly not be the last, as the popularity and accessibility of Marrakesh goes from strength to strength.

Yet the pale pink walls of the medina still flake, shadows cloak mysterious cul-de-sacs, skinny cats slip round corners and a wizened Berber sells fresh sardines from the paniers of his donkey. Around the corner housewives bring their dough to the neighbourhood bakery and, amid flying sparks, copper-smelters hammer out their wares. Medieval meets 21st century and North meets South. In the end the Marrakesh medina has become a fascinating and unique cultural hybrid, still - but only just - on the cusp.

A version of this was first published in the Financial Times.

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