Thursday 26 October 2017

Today is officially at leisure but not for poor Jilali, who drives us to wherever we want to go.  Not always via the most direct route, but more of that later.

Firstly, we head to the newly opened Yves Saint Laurent Museum, next to the Jardin Marjorelle.  There is a long queue and Jilali insists on parking the van (probably in the funeral cars only bay) and standing in the queue with us so he can buy the tickets.  He is a gentleman.

This museum is devoted to the work of YSL and it’s terrific.  No photos allowed but we see his sketches and fabric samples, photographs and actual outfits.  Gorgeous, and mostly practical, fashion.

The exhibition gallery, for temporary exhibitions, is showing the paintings of Jacques Majorelle, who developed the garden next door.  His is lovely work and we really enjoy the hour or so we spend in this small museum.

We then explore some of the shops nearby, which are new and modern and which trade in modern Moroccan arts and crafts.  We buy a sample pot each of the Marjorelle blue and yellow.  We think a couple of pots on the Quamby deck will look good in these colours.  The woman from whom we buy assures us that the paint will travel well and the cans will not spill.  Just to be sure, she puts some sellotape around the lids.  That should do the trick.

There was a cactus farm on our list of things to see yesterday, but Abdul Raheem, by his own admission, got a bit confused with our itinerary and it all went a bit cactus.  Jilali agreed that he would take us today.  So, off we head.  “Do you have the address?” asks Jilali.  Fortunately, Cherrie had googled the place to make sure that we did indeed want to vist and she knew it was 10kms out of town.  The hearse has wifi so I fired up my phone, found the website and even a little map of where it was. Opposite the main stadium of Marrakech, and off the road a bit.  Jilali knows the stadium so things are looking good.  We speed past the stadium.  “Next left” I say.  There is no next left.  “Around the roundabout up here and back a bit then turn right” I say. No response.  The hearse is heading north and nothing is going to stop it. “Jilali” we say from the back seat “the cactus farm is back there”.  I show him the map.  He studies the map on the phone, whist still driving at breakneck speed, narrowly avoiding other vehicles,  animals and pedestrians, then throws the phone on the passenger seat and continues north.  This is one proud man who perhaps can’t read a map, clearly doesn’t know where he is going, but who will ask no one for help.  Except strangers.  Twice he stops twice to ask directions.  Once of two gardeners, who argue amongst themselves and then one points east whilst the other points west.  It’s the classic ‘he went that way’ stuff.  We continue north.  The second request for directions is made to a young man standing at a bus stop. I don’t think he even knows what a cactus is, in the event that is what Jilali is asking about.  North we continue.  Our driver is obviously angry.  We know he is a hot head, we have seen it before, but today is an extra special display.  We stay shtum in the backseat.  Cherrie whispers that we just have to ride it out and see where this takes us.  Without much warning we make a right hand turn onto a dirt road and drive for a few miles through a mining site.  There is no cactus down here, but wow things have certainly turned cactus.  U Turn, back onto the main road.  At the junction, where it becomes obvious that Jilali is planning a right hand turn to Casablanca, Cherrie pleads for him to ring for directions….the travel agency, the cactus farm, the funeral director (or whoever owns this black van with black windows).  He won’t ring anyone he knows.  Presumably because he thinks he will lose face.  He does, however, agree to talk to the cactus farm and Cherrie gives him the number.  He gets the directions.  It is south, opposite the stadium.  We have been driving for 90 minutes.  By now, I don’t think either of us care if we never see a bloody cactus, but there is a principal at stake here.  We find the cactus farm, exactly where the map said it was, and to add insult to injury it is on another dirt road.  The hearse is no longer clean.  Jilali is incandescent with fury, but when he drives through the gates he declares “I got you here.  Happy?”  “Mmmm” we mumble and walk amongst cacti for as long as we can, while Jilali cools off.

This cactus farm was planted by a German horticultural engineer who specialised in cacti, coincidentally.  He settled in Marrakech in 1964 so some of these plants are pretty old.  He also supplied the cactus to Jardin Marjorelle.

Look –  Cactus Hand.

The place is amazing really, if you like cacti.  Cherrie does. By the time we return to the hearse, Jillali has calmed down.  “You happy?”  He knows he’s blown it and is trying to charm his way out of it.  We are pretty pissed off with him, but ask if he can take us to a store on the way back to the hotel to buy two plastic containers to put our little paint cans in.  And a roll of cling wrap. Can’t be too careful when flying paint around the world we figure.  Don’t even know if it be allowed on board.

No lunch today, but it’s all been a bit high charged for an appetite.  Jilali drives us back to the hotel, and shows us some different parts of this cosmopolian city.  We also saw much more of the road to Casablanca than ever intended.  Not recommended.  Dinner in the hotel restaurant.