Travelling the Alphabet — M is for Morocco

Morocco 2005

What a wonderful trip this was. Can a trip make you fall more in love with life and with your soulmate than ever. I think this is what happened for me in Morocco. I hope I can capture the flavour for you.

We left Gatwick by plane on a coldish autumnal day and arrived in Marrakech in deep baking heat. I have known hotter of course as in autumn Morocco is also cooler but as a contrast it was noticeable.

We were met at the airport by a guide and taxi and driven to our first Riad in the centre of the old town within the Medina walls where the streets were too narrow for vehicles and we had to walk the few short yard inside the gates to the front door of our accommodation. From the outside it was plain walls and almost no windows. Not very welcoming! The doors opened into a lobby area, still very simple. We thanked our driver, tipped all round and then waited as we were signed in. As we stepped into the central garden square around which the whole Riad is organised it was a different story altogether. Stunning balconies over hung the central area which was open to the sky and had a pool and sunny cloistered areas as well as full sun exposure patches.

UP a wide marble staircase at the side we were led to our rooms. It was one room really, but felt palatial, the whole width of the side of the building and with a luxurious double sofa sitting area at one end and a bathroom and large sleeping area at the other end. The bed was vast and turned out to be two 3 ft mattresses that could be zippered together. We could certainly sprawl in our sleep here and not worry about being too hot and cramped. It had the complete sumptuous Arabian nights feel to it all, the upholstery, the carvings, the tiles, the drapes; it was all surprisingly luxurious for our expectations from the outside.

We asked our host who explained that in Islam culture, you do not show off your wealth and you do not rub the wealth differences into the faces of those who have less. Opulence is only behind closed doors. This house was inherited by his wife from her parents and they used it for guests as a business. We also learned that our host was the king of Morocco’s main English translator and regularly met heads of state at official events and occasions. He had all the charm and graciousness skills of an ambassador or political dignitary and clearly had an intimate relationship with his own royal family.

On reflection I am not so sure that this concealment of wealth is as benign as it would seem, since concealment of wealth contains its own kind of fraudulence. Like anywhere else, wealth inherited makes it easier to create more of the same thing, whilst usually not being able to accumulate without the labour inputs of many others who are only paid a pittance for their craftsmanship or services. Yet without their effort you would probably not have developed, kept or increased the wealth either. I wondered what the average wage was for the receptionists and cleaners and cooks that enabled this Riad to make more money and be what it was. There are only two classes in morocco, rich and poor and very little in between. We became acutely aware of this as our visit progressed but it did not stop us loving this wonderful rich country full of character and tradition.

The first day we had a tour guide trip around the main sites of the city, which introduced us to several places of historical and cultural interest. We were slightly hurried around these sites however, certainly no lingering to take in the ambience or explore the flora of more wonderful courtyard gardens. We were then marched off to the Medina where we were almost abducted into a carpet shop protesting loudly that we did not want to buy a carpet, we really didn’t, our home is and was complete. ‘Only to show you how they are made, only to show you our wonderful carpets’.

Their persuasiveness is hard to resist when you are in someone else’s country, you are with a guide and you are unsure about the local culture yet. We were invited to have some chai and accepted as it seems too churlish not to, and agreed only to look at the carpets, then to ask which ones we liked best, then to face their bartering how much the preferred designs might be. We bartered a little but not intending to buy and kept saying too much etc. So in the end they said what would we pay for this carpet, and we said a ridiculous amount, not realising that they might have to accept that offer since they had opened the bargaining.

And that was how we ended up buying a beautiful richly coloured wool Berber carpet in Morocco for a very small amount and having to bring it home on the plane. They bundled it up very small with string and somehow it went back to the Riad and was kept there until we left three weeks later. I love that large rug and am still surprised that we have it.

Straight after that, with our guide almost shocked and muttering that we would pay so little for a carpet, we were then mugged a second time into a ‘traditional apothecary’ shop. We were put into a small cubicle and the doors more or less closed behind us and guarded to prevent our escape, and given many special offers we could not refuse. Remedies for this and that, spices in special offer 3 for 2 packets.

I succumbed and bought a few deals, some of which were excellent and some were the con but never mind. We were also forcibly massaged on the neck and shoulders and made to pay extra for them too, like we had a choice at all. Our guide had obviously warned the ‘apothecary that we didn’t want to spend any money and that was what they were all most determined to make us do. We declined the offer of a further day’s guidance and said we would like to wander at our own speed. He had not felt like a benevolent presence for our guidance.

It was all rather fun though and we came to no harm at all but we were just not prepared for the onslaught of salesmanship. We did end up with very fragrant luggage for the rest of the trip though, cumin and turmeric especially filtering all our clothing, at least we fitted in!

The following day we wandered the souk and bought a pair of Moroccan style slippers each. Walking at leisure, we found that there wasn’t a great deal more to see other than to return to those previously visited palaces and spend more time exploring them. I do enjoy markets though and have visited a few amazing ones at times, the vivid smells and colours are the only impressions remaining, long after any other details fade

The trouble with guided tours is that you are on their schedule and don’t have the time to linger as you might prefer. We found lovely cafes in which to spend time drinking and eating lunch, and spent each evening at the Riad with the safety of its strong walls and the sense of sanctuary enveloping our senses.

The food in the evenings at our Riad was exceptional, and very luxurious. I’d brought some work to do while away, mostly reading research papers so our evenings were spent there.

Late afternoons however we did venture out into the big squares and side streets and watched some of the street performers until we realised that if you so much as stopped for a few moments to watch them and did not donate, they would get quite aggressive and angry with you, and sometimes come and accost you; even putting their greasy old hats on your head and insisting you have your photo taken and then charging you for that.

It was a scrabble for money from tourists and not a very pretty experience, which was a huge shame as I am sure we, like many others would be far more generous and willing to watch and enjoy and embrace their rich street culture of dance, music, acrobatics and juggling, amongst others. There were many scraggy and ill-treated horses lined up, attached to carriages, waiting to be hired, and the smell of their urine and pooh that was somewhat overbearing too.

THE third day we found and spent as long as we could at the Jardin Marjorelle, a famous garden planted and designed by Jacques Marjorelle, a french designer who also helped to establish Ecole de Nancy, which I have talked about in France, a wonderful style of art nouveau / deco and a whole approach to living elegantly. Marjorelle had to open it for fee paying visitors due to hardship and divorce settlements and it was about to fall into property development hands when Yves Saint Laurent, and his partner Pierre Berge, found it and bought it to keep and preserve.

The garden is about two acres in size and has its own access to water, essential in such a dry climate, and the design is as much about colour and architecture and structure as it is about plants. The Moorish Moroccan cultural accents are spread throughout the art deco styling and the overall effect is vividly bright and impressive, with the deepest shades of cobalt blue throughout . There were huge cacti stands and bamboo groves like small forests, with many of the bamboo having been carved with various graffiti over many years of the garden being opened.

The garden inspired me and the graffiti inspired David who then spent the rest of the holiday taking photographs of graffiti in various forms all over Morocco. IT was funny and fun if a little off the usual tourist attractions, but it became a theme of this trip and later a song and an album of his songs. Needless to say I loved it for itself as a garden, the plants, the layout, the surprises as you come around a corner and find a new niche of some sort or another, with a fountain or some other centre piece making it a true walk of discovery as you followed the pathways laid out.

The following day though we were off on our next section of the trip into the Atlas mountains. We were driven for a couple of hours, listening to the wonderful African jazz style music played by our taxi driver,( Ismael Lo : I have since bought CD’s of his) through the varied rugged and farming terrains around Marrakech gradually watching mountains come into view. We had places of special interest pointed out to us, most notably Richard Branson’s pad.

We arrived at Toubkal at the foot of a steep path up which we had to walk to get to the hill fortress where we were actually staying. There was the usual gamut of traders and hawkers we had to negotiate and I made the unwise suggestion to buy on our exit rather than just as we arrived. I did not think they would remember, I didn’t but they did, but that was a week later on.

Kasbah de Toubkal is, well it is a ‘wow’ of a place. Having visited YSL house and garden in Marrakech and then driven past Richard Bransons morocco retreat fortress we were prepared for something but not this. You enter through a gateway that is not easily accessible, and into this hill fortress with many buildings and towers and pathways and gardens, all in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, near to High Altas, and Mount Toubkal itself.

We were told on arrival that we would have to change rooms half way through our week and someone had specifically requested the room and they were fully booked. We were unbothered by that option and accepted gratefully. We settled into the surroundings and explored the various buildings and options for our stay here. I fell in love, I think we both did, it was stunning.

Our first room over looked the people living at the base of the fortress walls. Their simple houses and lives played out in front of our eyes, their animals living right next to them, chickens, goats, asses tethered to skinny mountain trees. And children, scruffily happy laughing children living right next to the earth, covered in her dust and colours, matching their sun burned skins. I loved watching the children and we did spend a quite a lot of time doing just this.

It was cooler here, it was now mid-autumn and the air in the mountains was higher and colder than in central Marrakesh, so we were glad we’d brought some warmer layers but not quite enough. But I wasn’t concerned as we had some serious walking and exploring to do. Plenty of body heat to be generated instead.

The next day we found a guide with an ass to take us up around the valley and into the mountains nearby. We donned walking boots and set off in fine stride, myself being accustomed to the long walking trips of travelling and David a willing novice; myself in well-worn in walking boots noted for their comfort over long distances and David with his newly purchased and slightly worn in boots.

SO you know what I’m going to say next don’t you? We were climbing fairly steeply, at an angle not usually found in the rolling hills of the Isle of Wight, thus the boots were not worn in at that angle. It is surprising how much the angle of the foot will vary the pattern of the rub within the boot or in this case against the boot. HE said nothing for some time, but then I noticed he was limping and walking with a wince, not a mince but a distinct wince. I asked and he confessed he had developed holes in his heels that, on cursory inspection, were quickly resembling craters. Thank goodness for the guide and his ass.

David mounted the poor beast of burden for most of the rest of the hike along very narrow mountain paths with precipitous drops to one side, and had to trust in both god and asses to be sure he did not go over these edges to his certain death below on rocks that had been deposited by the river that ran through the wide bottomed valley. He walked on the flatter areas but by this time his heels were so worn through that any boots on walking was difficult. And we had five more days of that ahead — if we wanted it.

We made it back to the fortress complex, had a hot shower and felt grateful that David had bought himself a pair of Moroccan slippers which had folded over heel-backs.

We walked around the gardens, shivering slightly as darkness descended and took with it any remaining warmth from that day’s sunshine, heading towards the social areas where the meals were served, and sat down to enjoy our evening.

We were joined by an American couple who insisted their slightly attention seeking and noisy toddler also accompany them for all meals. They liked to discuss him loudly, as a running commentary to all assembled, as all assembled were affected by his antics, observations and demands, assuming everyone had the same level of fascination as they did for their own offspring. They appeared nice enough at first though and we chatted to them a little. I am always prepared to be indulgent when it comes to kids as I love their energy and directness so much; it reflects my own I guess. He talked and smiled, a lot, and she nodded at him, a lot.

Gradually, and inevitably, the conversation came round to politics, and it came to pass that we did not share a common perspective on anything at all, especially the USA reprisals against terrorists, their warmongering tactics, and most of all Guantanamo bay detention camps and the use of torture. We managed to disagree as agreeably as it could be possible in confined circumstances but the one thing I remember was that the man never stopped smiling, but now his grin has developed a fixed quality to it, a grimace, nothing genuine any more; his eyes showed contempt and disgust at our more humanitarian perspectives and pacifism but he cannot stop grinning inanely, stupidly, pointlessly, and I realised that his smile was a permanent mask and that he was never really smiling at all.

We did not sit near them at table again but I did observe him more times during our stay there and the grin never faltered, never wavered, never looked genuine at all about anything ever.

That evening ended with some Moroccan berber music and a lovely stroll back to our room, except that I noticed David was once more wincing and limping and walking oddly. The hard leather Moroccan sandals had freed his heels from further torture but instead had worn equally increasingly large holes into the tops of both feet. It was also by now feeling rather icy.

He went to bed wearing socks because there was quite a lot of blood now seeping slowly from various points all over David’s poor feet.

The following morning we had to prize the socks from his feet where they had become affixed to the dried blood, once more opening all the wounds. We were without supplies of bandages or plasters, having believed that our boots would perform their role without difficulty, and indeed mine did it well. We found that David’s light weight boat shoes could be trodden down at the back and were sufficiently low at the front not to add any more insults to his poor beleaguered feet and thus we slowly made our way up to the communal rooms for breakfast, and opted for a leisurely walk around the valley area which could be managed in trodden down boat shoes with tissues stuck onto the wounds now to stop any further sock adherence.

The fear was infection of course too as it was dusty, so we used the few medications we had brought to keep the sores clear and clean as well as possible and I gave his feet gentle massages to try and comfort them, the areas that were not wounded although this did not allow much variation in massage form.

You know how it is when you can see someone is in considerable discomfort but their fortitude shines through; their lack of complaining and determination not to spoil anything for others, i.e. me. I already respected and admired David beyond words but this determination not to let his poor beleaguered feet spoil anything shed a new light on his character for me. My heart went out to him and the desire to nurture and care for his feet became one of my main objectives for the rest of the trip.

Enough of wounded feet, we thoroughly enjoyed the next few days and did take another guided walk into the mountains on the other side and with an ass so David could cope. The guide took us into some lovely valleys along the range with spectacular views across more peaks and valleys, and one destination was intended to be a shrine to some woman. There we found an incongruous makeshift shop in the middle of nowhere, apparently, though obviously by design.

Here, we were the only customers and I was deeply attracted to all the rich colours of the ware so I bought a small prayer rug, a berber jacket that needed repair but was the only one he had in that colour, and a small drum. We had little money on us and were assured that the Kasbah could change our travellers cheques. This was not true but they managed it anyway as we were committed to the purchase of the goods we’d selected and had no Moroccan money to pay and we would have to pay our tab balance when we left anyway.

Once we left the little set up behind, we were taken to the guides family home and given Chai and general hospitality, to visit their home and see how they lived collectively. This was not pressured and not begging in any familiar form but more a desire to share their culture and way of life and to make contact with other people. They were mostly Berber peoples, a distinct tribal culture all along north Africa, and different from the more populous Arab culture. On an unguided day or rambling ourselves, guess what we found a lot more of too! Graffiti on rocks in Arabic script and painted onto rocks or carved into trees, or occasionally painted against walls and signposts. A lot of photos were taken.

After two nights we were moved, with great apology from our hosts, into our second room, at the top of one of the towers which looked right out across the valley and up at the mountains which by now were starting to gather siftings of snow at night and in early morning although all had gone by midday as the sun was still strong and had a kick to it.

We loved our tower and could not imagine why anybody would have chosen the previous room over this option. It was romantic and had the best views and its own little stove to keep it warm enough. You had to climb up the outside staircase and past the lower tower room to reach it, but that made it feel even more of a retreat and a secret private escape heaven. We hugged each other several times in sheer glee at our good fortune and I did my usual dance around of celebration which has probably more in common with pogo-ing, although I never did that as a sport or a dance.

The final most memorable event during the stay at Toubkal was the Hammam, a wonderful Arabic steam bath tradition and great to warm up in at the end of a cold day walking slowly in mountains. You had to book it in advance at breakfast so it could all be switched on and warmed up for you and you are given the keys to open the room and lock it behind you.

We lathered each other’s bodies in the coarse rich handmade soap they provided and sat and steamed slowly whilst mulling over our days in Morocco, now half gone. We flirted, wiping soap from each other’s skin, massaging a little and steamed some more. Once we’d had enough, warmed through and thoroughly cleansed, it was time for the plunge pool. A small high-sided tiled concrete circular structure about four foot in diameter was in the middle of the outer area of the Hamman and David went in first, about thirty seconds and then heaved himself out again and said how refreshing and invigorating it was. I went in next and the shock winded me, the sides were slipperly and I couldn’t get any grip to lift myself out with.

So I was stuck up to my high chest in this icy mountain water, literally barely above freezing temperature and now yelling for David to come back and help pull me out. HE laughed at my predicament first, because that is what he always does, and then very gentlemanly helped me get out. I felt the relief of the body heat return more slowly as I had been more deeply chilled by this invigorating experience, and we both fell about helpless with laughter at the pair we were, him with his holey heels and bridge of his foot and me getting stuck in icy plunge pools in Hammans in the mountains in Morocco.

The combinations of romantic tower settings, holey feet and icy plunge pools, the general hilarity of our experiences, he madness of endless graffiti photos, this remains one of those trips or part trips that took our relationship to whole new levels of mutual appreciation and fun.

We left Kasbah de Toubkal with the return struggle down the entrance path which made more sense once you realised that would have made it very hard to attack, and I was firmly reminded that I had promised to buy from the traders there. I found a ring I could face wearing and thanked the stall holder for his reminder. There I also recognised the man whose stall we’d ‘inadvertently’ come upon in the mountains two days previously. They may have been much gentler than in Marrakesh but just as determined to make their sales for that week, but having seen how simply and basically they lived, though happy enough in their lives, they still had to make an income, as does everyone.

THE taxi took us back past Richard Branson’s house again and straight out to the coast to Essaouira, apparently once a favourite haunt for Jimi Hendrix, even more reason to stay there.

We drove past citrus, olive and argan trees — similar to olives, and were amused to see trees with sometimes up to four or five goats, high up in their branches, having climbed to reach the leaves; the ground by now was pretty parched and the rain had not yet come to re-green this coastal agricultural region. It was a longer drive this time, round five hours or so and again we listened to Ismael Lo and other African musicians playing on the car stereo. We always had to ask them to turn it up as they kept it very low for their own entertainment not expecting Europeans to want to hear their music too and our driver was happy to show us the CD covers as he changed them every so often.

Essaouira is on the Atlantic coast and thus has long sandy beaches and big rollers of waves coming crashing onto them. Essaouira was also the saviour of David’s feet.

The Riad we were booked into was less grand but equally amazing and comfortable. The en-suite bathroom was an amazing construction all in one piece, a kind of deep blood red marbled material that was moulded into bath, basin and floor. Splashes were of no consequence and like before we also had a small seating area in our bedroom although all on a smaller scale.

As soon as we had deposited our luggage and had a drink of fragrant iced water each, we headed out onto the beach with towels and costumes. We sat and paddled and sat some more, allowing the strong but mellowing autumn sun of North Africa warm us to the bones and the strong salty water to heal tired and wounded feet. As we sat there the first of the beach hawkers approached. HE had a cheeky smile and spoke good English. He showed us a photo of his beautiful camel with bright blue eyes and insisted we had to have a ride on the camel along the beach. We declined. Then we must indeed want his necklaces of argan fruit stones. Again I declined, I am really not a great wearer of jewellery beyond earrings and rings, it gets in the way for me. He offered a few more persuasions and then asked if I liked jigga jigga, and winked at David. I wasn’t sure immediately what he was suggesting but waved him away with a smile.

We laughed afterwards though ,when he was out of earshot, and watched him progress along the beach working his charm on all other visitors seated at various points. We got up and decided to walk along the beach some distance, along the water line. The water was not cold but refreshingly cooling to our feet and the tingle of salt re-assured us that David’s feet would not succumb to any nasty infections. After about an hour of walking along we came upon the remnants of an old tower that had been broken down by the water and now lay on an angle as if also reclining on the beach looking out to see. It brought home that coastal erosion I not confined to our home island, but left a rather romantic reminder of the history of this area and its need for defences from marauders from the sea. How much our lives have changed when very few of us even consider this possibility any more.

Boat shoes with broken down heels enabled us to wander a fair bit around Essaouira and its general touristic economy mean that again the street stalls and sellers were much better at allowing browsing without pouncing on you to buy, so that you dare not indicate any interest in the wares on offer, as had been the case in Marrakesh. The walls were still intact around almost all the old town. Cannons stood on the old ramparts and the streets were so narrow it was only just wide enough to walk along side by side in some places.

We stopped and watched some repair work being done to one old building about three or four storeys high. The builders just walked along a narrow plank from the next door building to bring the materials up and across to where they were needed. No cranes or safety or scaffolding or anything. People walked along underneath as if nothing was happening over-head. If something fell, that was just what occurred. It was up to people to dodge. Life was as easy come easy go to safety and injury as anywhere, partly because there was no choice and partly down to cultural norms. Our safety culture in UK makes us so fearful of ‘something happening’ and yet it rarely stops something happening. Perhaps our destinies occur in spite of safety procedures, and our debilitating fear to live fully, and take risks, increases the more we are concerned for our safety.

We also found a café which provided us with excellent vegetarian tagines which we had only just started to tire of by the end of the week. So many cultures just do not understand vegetarian life choices fully and find it hard to consider why we might make that choice for ourselves, even on holiday when there was so much wonderful fresh fish here.

That is another stunning sight in Essaouira, the bright blue wooden fishing boats lined up along the quay and pulled up out of the water. They reminded me of descriptions and illustrations of stories from childhood of magical and mysterious people living in far off lands, and of course as a child this is exactly what this place was; a small fishing town on the west coast of Morocco, facing the Atlantic, living with its moods, its powerful influences, and living from its bounty. We walked and watched and photographed the dock area copiously as it was so appealing and attractive and yet functional and busy. Our official photographer was shooting everything he saw, even the customs office, until an official started waving his arms at us and saying ‘No, no,’ very officiously. Slightly intimidated we nodded in submission and apology and walked away quickly.

Every afternoon we swam, walked along and then sat on the beach. As a daily ritual, I was offered rides on the blue eyed camel , beads of argan seeds and jiggajigga, so that when we saw the chap coming towards us we almost welcomed him as a friend, ‘Hello how are you today, we are fine how are you, have you sold many rides on your camel. We hope you have a good sales day today.’ Etc. On the very last day of our stay I relented and bought a string of argan seeds from him and his gratitude was way beyond anything related to the price. I think it was a conquest, he had worn us down with his charm and determined friendliness, he had won and we had succumbed. He made that sale in the end, thus proving to himself his prowess as s salesman.

At the end of our seven days here we travelled back to Marrakesh for two more nights, one day, and then to our Island home. It seemed a slight anti-climax to the trip but it allowed us to collect our carpet from storage and to rest feet for one more day so that they could once more wear footwear suited to cold UK early winter weather.

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