Why Morocco is the perfect first taste of Africa for children

Our writer plunges his nine-year-old son into the colour and chaos of North Africa – and is stunned by the transformation it brings about

The view through the plane window, as it descends towards Marrakech, could not be a more perfect introduction to Morocco. There, on the ground, beneath the long shadow of the wing, is that orange desert dust so closely associated with this vast country. Up ahead are the first low-slung out-buildings of its most popular dot on the map, tacitly promising the wild city beyond. And there, shaping the horizon, are the Atlas Mountains, their ridges wearing a thick coat of white. Hal lets out a small gasp as he takes it all in. “Well, I knew there would be sand,” he marvels. “But I didn’t think there would be snow.”
This is the second window we have peered through together on this trip. The first, just a few weeks previously, was the virtual frame of a Zoom conversation, open in the rather less exciting setting of my home computer screen; the first stage of planning this journey.
And it did require some planning; a getaway intended as my son’s first visit to Africa, at the tender, and splendidly impressionable, age of nine. On the other side of the looking glass, a representative of Stubborn Mule – a family travel specialist which, as part of its tour preparations, likes to involve children in the conversation – was waiting to talk to us.
I had already selected Morocco as the ideal destination for this first immersion into a new continent – a country less than four hours away by air, and in the same time zone as Britain, but also alive with previously unseen (by Hal) landscapes, and an aura of adventure.
But the final touches to our itinerary would be down to him, via online consultation. So we talked. Would he like to spend some time in the desert? (Absolutely); would he like to go trekking through the mountains? (Yes, he would); would he like to try exotic dishes and spicy food? (A pause, a glance at me, another pause, a nervous, non-committal smile).
A little more than a month later, this gentle exchange is suddenly a visible reality. Also visible, perhaps, is Hal’s culture shock. He shifts as far back into his seat as he can go, shuffling anxiously as the taxi dives through an implausible gap in Marrakech’s medina walls. And he wriggles in silent agitation as the car threads the needle through the melee of mopeds, carts, pedestrians and idle trucks that waits beyond, the wing mirrors all but scraping the houses on either side. I can almost see his young mind whirring, “What on earth is this?”
The answer to that question, in short, is the Kasbah district, in the south-west corner of the old town. And shortly after, more specifically, Riad Hikaya. Here, by contrast, is tranquillity and refuge; a pair of 18th-century family houses, carefully joined and lovingly restored, eight rooms within, a small reflecting pool at its heart. We are greeted affectionately; served a plate of homemade pastries, stuffed with dates, and plied with mint tea, poured into the obligatory handle-less glasses which, at first, are too hot to hold. Hal has never drunk this elixir before – and would normally, at best, sniff it with mute suspicion. He is so discombobulated that he finishes it, without query or complaint.
The calm is temporary. Our itinerary provides us with a guided tour of the souks – and the intensity of this new experience ratchets up a couple of notches. It feels – as we enter this maze of chaos and commerce, with its shops randomly selling spices, fruit, jewellery, metalwork, kitchen goods, herbal medicines, wedding dresses, and everything in between – as if the nine-year-old hand in mine has slipped back five or six years, to the morning walk to nursery, so tightly does it clutch my own. Hal is largely quiet throughout, but when we halt for lunch at Kosybar – an inviting restaurant with a shady first-floor terrace, gazing onto the throng of Place des Ferblantiers (Tinsmiths Square) – he is ready to chat.
“How did you find that?”
“Scary. Really scary. I didn’t like it.”
“What didn’t you like?”
He reels off a list. The motorbikes speeding up the alleys behind us. The use of baby terrapins in boxes in the front of some stores (conversation starters; cute eye-catchers, deployed to lure in passers-by who tarry to peek at them). Our guide’s warning to avoid certain fresh orange-juice stalls in the main Jemaa el-Fnaa square (“because the quality is very bad”). The hot tang of horse urine, a key element in the leather-making process, in one particularly pungent part of the souk (I agree with him wholeheartedly on this point).
“Was there anything you did like?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Well…”. He readies himself with a long slurp of cola, then begins. “I liked the motorbikes themselves, and the way the bikers found space. They didn’t actually hit us. Or anyone. That was cool. And I liked that everything was so bright; all that fruit. I loved the donkey pulling the cart full of salad [a colossal bushel of coriander]. I liked how many things there were to buy, and that everyone was very friendly. Oh, and the man at the food stall in the big square [Jemaa el-Fnaa] who said that everything he served was ‘guaranteed 100 per cent diarrhoea-free’. That was really funny. Do you think it’s true?”
I smile, tell him it’s best not to find out, and allow him the indulgence of a margherita pizza from Kosybar’s predominantly international menu. He has had enough new experiences for one morning, and besides, his taste buds will be tested in the coming days.
Not, admittedly, at Inara, a luxury camp 30 miles south-west of Marrakech, in the Agafay Desert. Here, the restaurant choices are mainly European, and wholly gourmet. But his eyes widen at the raw heat of the day, and the sharp drop in temperature as the evening arrives (solving the riddle of the extra blankets left on our beds). At sunset, we ride out on camels. Hal yelps as his new humped friend lurches to its feet, bouncing him in the saddle, a look of mild alarm on his face. His expression changes to wonder as we venture along the trail, the wind making the desert dirt dance, the horizon defined by the dying of the day, the lollop of the creatures carrying us a curious mixture of ungainly and graceful.
This will not be our final animal encounter. Another morning – dew splattering the cold plastic windows of our tent – brings further progress, southbound again, 50 miles, into the arms of the Atlas Mountains. This is Morocco without varnish, the road increasingly twisted as it rises, its surface persistently poor, evidence of landslides piled up at the base of the cliffs. And the many tents in the hill town of Asni are not of the glamping variety, but rudimentary shelters, “housing” those whose homes were destroyed by the 6.8-magnitude earthquake that hit the area last September. It is my turn to be shocked.
I do not share this bleak information with Hal, preferring to let the unfussy comfort of Dar Imlil – the rustic hotel, in the town of the same name, in which we will sleep for three nights – to seep in. Above, the mountains are even more obviously snow-capped, this deep layer of white prompting another burst of nine-year-old amazement. In the middle of the picture, Jebel Toubkal rears its head – a mighty beast which, at 13,671ft, does not attempt to conceal its position as the Atlas range’s highest mountain.
We will admire it again the following day, hiking towards it in the cool of a high-altitude morning. “I’ll be going up there tomorrow,” declares our guide, Brahim, flicking his head at North Africa’s mightiest peak with a nonchalance born of several decades striding across it. “Two days up, two down,” he continues, as if describing a drive to the supermarket. “Next time, you come,” he adds, grinning at Hal, “I will take you with me.”
It is impossible to gauge his age. A small, sinuous man, he could be anything between 45 and 75, and I struggle to keep pace as he marches upwards, oblivious to the gradient. Thankfully, while the climb leaves me panting, Hal has assistance in Rali – not, this time, a stubborn mule, but a remarkably affable one, happy with both the angle of the slope and his lot. With his help, we crest the ridge, to a view of even greater magnificence – Toubkal framed in the sunlight – then plunge on downward, at an even more unremitting clip, in search of the village of Aroumd. There is no time to waste. We have a lunch date.
Brahim is also our chef. Or, at least, his wife is. We glimpse her briefly in their warren of a home – as we slip off our shoes to tiptoe over Berber rugs, into what is ostensibly the best room. Here, we are presented with a feast – a mountain of couscous, laden with onions and peppers; a giant chicken tagine, complemented by dates, potatoes and spices.
Ordinarily, such unfamiliar fare would be anathema to Hal, and I prepare to launch into a gentle lecture – that this has been made especially for us; that to turn up a nose, even a nine-year-old one, would be to cause offence. But he is ahead of me, reaching for the spoon, loading food onto his plate – as if, rather than regressing to nursery school, he has developed into a conscientious young man over the course of the journey. Through a third window, at the rear of the room, Toubkal stares back at us. And maybe nods in approval.
Stubborn Mule Travel (01728 752751) offers a six-day Morocco Family Short Break that includes Marrakech, the Atlas Mountains and a camp in the Agafay Desert. The price for a family of four starts at £5,995 in all (£1,499 per person), including flights, accommodation, private car transfers, activities and most meals. An eight-day take on the trip, and a 15-day Highlights of Morocco tour, are also available.

Explore hotels that have been tried, tested and rated by our experts

Trending now