Marrakesh Diaries: Gardens secret or otherwise

Finding the calm in the chaos of Morocco

The Museum of Berber Art in the Jardin Majorelle and possibly the most photographed building in Morocco.

The Secret Garden is, and it isn’t. That is, it is a secret, and it isn’t a secret. The Secret Garden is a secret because, well, it says so. It’s called The Secret Garden, so don’t go gabbing about it. It isn’t a secret because they’ve stuck a great big sign on the wall outside telling everyone where it is.

Though technically the sign doesn’t say The Secret Garden, it says Le Jardin Secret, since we’re in Morocco and if it’s not in Arabic or Berber a sign is written in French. When I’m in most countries the idea of going to see a garden is as entertaining as watching amateur snooker, but in Marrakesh I find myself gravitating towards anywhere that isn’t pure chaos.

And in Marrakesh that usually means somewhere you have to pay to get into. Though The Secret Garden doesn’t cost much, at least I don’t think it does. The Moroccan dirham is so different to the British pound that it’s hard to keep track of just how much I’m spending. I’m spreading dirhams across the place like a billionaire divorcee. I would have and nearly did give over 30 dirhams for a bottle of water. Only the honesty of the shopkeeper meant I paid the correct price of 3.

Although however many dirhams it takes to get into The Secret Garden, I would pay it. A morning in the souks and in Jamaa El-Fnaa has made a ten-day silent yoga retreat seem just the ticket. It’s not quite silent in the Garden but it is quiet.

Nope, can’t seem to find it.

A garden, even a secret one, is ordinarily the retreat of the dull traveller. The cruise-ship-sailing, bird-photographing, guidebook-studying ambler. Those who like the idea of looking at plants because a plant isn’t going to try and rip you off. That’s who I find in The Secret Garden, the tour groups and the families led by dad with a map. Not my usual crowd but in Marrakesh we are kindred spirits. We have come to escape the noise.

They’ve come to see the plants, and if Morocco doesn’t have enough plants that you can’t see at home, here there are plants from Australia, Argentina, the States. I’m suddenly and completely enraptured by a spiky little thing from Mexico. I stare at it for whole minutes and then wonder why. Soon I realise it’s because it hasn’t made a single sound, hasn’t hounded me to buy a trinket, hasn’t uttered a mere syllable in the few minutes we’ve spent together. I want to spend all my time in Marrakesh with this spiky little thing from Mexico.

But then I discover the most fun you can have in the not so secret Secret Garden. A small trough runs through the middle of a path that carries water to the fountain and the tourists to the middle of the Garden, which sits under a wooden canopy. The trough is right in the middle of the path, you can’t possibly miss it. Unless you’re not paying attention. Unless you’re consumed with tourist-fatigue. Unless you’re sick of looking at spiky little plants and lovely architecture and listening to your fifth tour guide in three days. Unless you’re strolling down a path and not looking at your feet, and suddenly, oops! You’re in the trough and you’re stumbling and you very nearly take a very nasty fall that would give your travel insurance an Olympic-level run for its money.

This doesn’t happen to me. I’m so happy to tell you it doesn’t happen to me because it usually happens to me. I could be writing this from a Moroccan hospital bed but I am not. Instead I’m writing it from a very comfy seat under the canopy, cackling at the tourists who keep tripping themselves up in the trough. Like lemmings off a cliff, here comes the next one, a kind-looking man in a baseball cap, there he goes!

The Secret Garden holds me for a good few hours. It’s peaceful and green and the sun is shining and it’s got the best entertainment this side of the Sahara.

Then after a day or two back in the souks and the markets and the chaos that is the centre of Marrakesh, I come over with a case of garden-fever. I yearn for the peace and the quiet and the spiky little plants from Mexico.

Le Jardin Secret from above.

Luckily for me Marrakesh has another garden, and this one is much more famous. Jardin Majorelle is all the rage, being next to the Yves Saint Laurent museum and one of Marrakesh’s most Instagram-able sights. Created by the French artist Jacques Majorelle over the course of forty years, it contains as many exotic plants as you can shake a selfie stick at, and has at its centre a Museum of Berber Arts housed in a gorgeous deep blue building that is for my money the prettiest in all of Morocco.

It’s a shame then that the Jardin Majorelle sits in Gueliz. Ostensibly the modern face of Marrakesh, a visit here seems a good idea when one is sick of souks. Wouldn’t it be nice to see where the modern-day Marrakesh resident spends their time? Where Morocco turns its face to the world? No. Gueliz is the chaos of Marrakesh without the charm of its medina. The best thing to do here, according to various travel websites, is the Jardin Majorelle. Next on the list is leave.

But the Jardin’s location isn’t the worst thing about it. The worst thing is the staffing. I haven’t looked up whether there’s an employment crisis in Morocco but I’d be willing to bet there isn’t, because the whole country works at the Jardin Majorelle. You can’t move for blokes in the Jardin. The paths have arrows showing the way around but if you so much as stray an inch from this prescribed route there’s a staff member willing to gently, or fiercely, remind you that when you bought your ticket you signed away all free will and choice.

Hiding from the staff in the Jardin Majorelle.

I think I’m subtly making a break for the toilets back the way I’ve come only to be intercepted by another walkie-talkie clad chap who tells me that no, I can’t go to the toilet this way, I have to go that way. Then just in case I’m considering veering off course again he walks me part of the way, with a quick pitstop to look at the memorial to Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Bergé, which sits in the garden.

“This is a memorial,” the man says.

“Uh huh,” I say, unsure whether he thinks my break for the toilet was disrespectful or whether he is just pointing out that this is a memorial. I can’t tell whether I’m being chided or informed, but I do know that my back teeth are floating. I snap a picture in a manner that I hope conveys respect, nod at the guard and then jog in the direction of the nearest urinal.

That done, I can relax. I'm now free to explore the garden but since the toilets are (conveniently or inconveniently, depending on your point of view) right by the exit, if I want to see any of the garden again I have to see the whole lot. So I perch under a veranda and just look at the bits I can see. It’s wonderful but there aren’t any ankle-breaker troughs to watch, and certainly no sense of tranquillity.

There are a few benches but sit on one for too long and one of the staff will no doubt come up behind you and whisper, “this is a bench.” And you will need to decide whether you are being chided or informed. But either way, you can always just respond, “uh huh.”