Category: Middle East 2017

Saturday 28 October 2017

We have found paradise and it’s in the atlas.  Or rather the Atlas.  An hour from Marrakech in the foothills of the spectacular High Atlas Mountains, we are ensconced in the most glorious Kasbah.

After yesterday wine incident we may never drink decent wine again (until we get home at least) but perhaps wine is an unnecessary accoutrement in paradise.  Yes, clearly I am delusional. That will pass.

Today we relax.  It couldn’t have come at a better time.  Holidaying is exhausting stuff, and its just R&R left on the itinerary now.  After breakfast we walk around the beautiful grounds

Chat with the birds

 

And the love birds

Talk to another old duck

And soak in the views.

We visit the compound where the in house animals are kept.  Typically, I discard the sign on the gate warning me to take care when visiting the animals and barge straight in.  The camel on my right reaches for a taste of my shoulder, two billy goats with huge horns race to see who can get to me first and I shriek “Cherrie” who unbolts the gate (from the outside – she is far more considered  than I) and I run through.  She slams it in billy’s face

Perhaps long distance views of goats are better

Really, do views get better than this?

More pool work, even a lap or two.  Such hardship

We meet Jean and Herman for drinks as planned, and it soon becomes apparent that Herman knows everything and is especially keen on his own voice. Not even I can get a word in edgewise. Hard to believe I know. Cherrie is sitting closer to Jean and manages a conversation with her but I am stuck with Herman. As we rise, an hour later, to go to dinner (we had pre booked a table for two on the rooftop terrace again) Herman decides that he still has much to say and it should be said at a table for four. We suffer through an insufferable two hours, during which the only people to speak are Herman and Jean. It’s second marriage for both. She is as rich as Croesus and only sold the roller a couple of years ago because someone scratched it. I admit to a sense of great relief when dinner was finally over.  I know a great deal more about Herman than I care to and frankly I don’t wish to know a skerrick more.  Note to our mutual friend please keep this to yourself and I apologise if I offend

Tomorrow after breakfast we depart these glorious mountains bound for the sea. More hardship.

Friday 27 October 2017

Jilali is all smiles when he collects us from our Marrakech hotel this morning.  The usual hand kissing and hug.  No sign of yesterday’s churlishness and we are relieved.  He asks if we had a good day yesterday and we respond with “some good, some bad”, which he takes with good humour.

Today we are headed to a Kasbah in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains, where we will spend two nights.  We have studied the map and are satisfied that we will not  climb too high or be subjected to too many twists and turns.

En route we will visit the Anima Gardens, created by multimedia artist Andre Heller.

Jilali is driving slowly.  And carefully.  So slowly that I ask him if anything is wrong.  He assures us that everything is all right.  After a while he asks if we can help him to find the Anima Garden.  He obviously has not been there before and once again his pride is too great to ask his employers for help.  Fortunately we are on the right road and its not hard to find, well sign posted and only 30 minutes from Marrakech.

Anima is more a sculpture garden than plantings, and is an amusing place to spend an hour or so.  We feel watched wherever we go

Something we think about quite a lot

But it doesn’t blow our minds

There is a cute glass house, which is actually mirror

And which cleverly reflects anyone sitting on a nearby bench

We meander through the gardens, distracted by the artworks but we suspect that is the purpose

Finally we see the light

And return to the hearse for our trip to the foothills.  It’s only a short drive, perhaps another hour or so.  Those Atlas Mountains are so beautiful, unlike anything we have in Australia.  The colours, the height, the texture.  It’s a spellbinding drive full of anticipation of what awaits us.   We pass through more productive agricultural country, see mountain goats

and goats out for a Friday stroll, with friends

As well as  friends out for a Friday drive

As we pass through a small village Jilali pulls over unexpectedly and jumps out of his seat to a small roadside stall where he buys a fizzy drink. He apologises and continues the drive. After a while it is evident that he is feeling unwell, so we convince him to pull over until he is feeling better. Poor fellow, not far to go now but clearly feeling dreadful

It’s not long before he bundles us back into the van and drives, slowly and carefully, towards our destination. At one stage we fear he is nodding off so we keep up the conversation and include him. He has loosened his tie, an alarming departure from the norm, and we are concerned. But he gets us to our beautiful Kasbah in one piece and no doubt has a snooze down the road. Plenty of room in the back for a 6’ man to lie down in.
Look what we’ve come to

What a glorious place and oh, those views. We have arrived in time for a late lunch and so we indulge. This is good food, and mercy be, a good wine list. Worth repeating those words……good wine. How wonderful. I splash out and order a Bordeaux for 390 dirhams. That’s about $US39 and I reckon that’s pretty reasonable for a Bordeaux. It is sublime and extremely good value for money. It’s one of those wines that is so good one can almost be content with sniffing it, with only occasional sipping. Cherrie doesnt share it with me. She prefers a G&T with lunch, so 2/3 of the bottle is consigned to our dinner. A good deal I reckon.

Now, let me be clear about this.  I only have myself to blame.  In elevated spirits I call for the luncheon bill.  This is when I nearly fall over, with no blame on my leg this time. The bill is enormous and it’s all to do with the wine.  It was actually 3900 dirham. Not 390. That’s about $A500. I feel sick. For the rest of the day.
We spend the afternoon by the pool, indifferent to the beautiful people who surround us, but I am the only fool who spent 500 bucks on a bottle of wine. Even this beautiful outdoor pool, heated to just the right temperature, is not enough to make me feel better.

Tonight we dine on the outdoor terrace. I do not drink, I still (literally) feel sick. Cherrie enjoys $380 worth of wine. The best she’s ever tasted she reckons. Enjoy it while it lasts I tell her, for she’ll never taste it again! The couple at the next table are talking strine. As we leave the restaurant, with the empty bottle of gold left behind, we strike up conversation with Jean and Herman from Sydney. They are horsey people, as it were, and we have friends in common. We agree to have a drink with them before dinner tomorrow night to chew the fat.  At least in our case.

And so to bed.  In paradise.

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.

 

Wednesday 25 October 2017

Three Ms of Marrakech today.  Majorelle, Momounia, Musee

The Jardin Marjorelle is located in a classy suburb of Marrakech.  Established in the ‘20s by French artist Jacques Marjorelle, it is a vision of blue, yellow and orange pots.  The blue is so unique, more cobalt than cobalt, that it is officially now a colour  – Marjorelle Blue.  He was inspired by the Moroccan colours in the mosaics.

The colours define this garden, which were such an inspiration to Yves Saint Laurent who, with his partner Pierre Borge, bought the property in 1980.  It had been open to the public since the death of Jacques Moselle in 1962 but was slated for a high rise development in the late ‘70s.  Saint Laurent and Borges fought the development and ultimately purchased the property to save it.  They lived in the house next door, which they named Villa Oasis, and restored the garden to Majorelle’s vision by retaining the glorious colours

installing irrigation and engaging 20 gardeners to maintain it.  The gardeners are, of course, colour coded.

It always remained a public garden and retained the name of the original owner/designer.  Majorelle built his studio in the gardens, the sight of which is arresting

which Yves and Pierre converted to a fascinating Berber museum.

Saint Laurent died in 2008, his ashes were scattered here, and there is a memorial to him in the garden.  His partner, Pierre Borge, who was 8 years older, died just last month and his ashes will also be scattered here.

Winston Churchill used to spend time in Marrakech and it is evident that he visited this garden too

The brand new Musee Yves Saint Laurent opened next door just last Thursday, and we go to visit that too.  But, of course, Wednesday is ferme day.  So, we walk down the end of the road instead and Abdul Raheem loads us into a horse drawn carriage, which he says is included in our tour.  We’re not sure about this, and how fair to the animal it is, but we placidly obey and we are drawn to the public gardens in Gueliz, the new town. It’s a pleasant stroll through the garden but nothing special. I spot a large van which looks like a mobile library but Abdul laughs me off and says no, it is a van with gardening equipment.  I feel foolish, until we walk to the other side where the sign on the van clearly says Bibliotheque Mobile.  I stay uncharacteristicly quiet, but I am satisfied that our guide also sees the sign!  Oh, the smugness.

From there, we go to the second M of the day, the Hotel Mamounia.  This is where Lois and Gerry (remember them from the desert camp and Skoura?)  stayed last year and loved it so much they have come back.  Perhaps to buy it, who knows? The Mamounia was built in the 12th Century is a luxury five star hotel, where we are NOT staying.  It is indeed amazing and we walk through and around the lush foyer area, guided by Abdul Raheem who shows us interesting things like the bar where Churchill used to drink, the original woodwork and the new carpets which have, somewhat regrettably, replaced the hand woven rugs etc.  But it is the garden which we are here to see and glorious it is.

This is one luxurious hotel and we feel rather out of place amongst the beautiful people.  We are more at home amongst the workers who are harvesting the olives from their plentiful plantation

I guess this just confirms what many of you have already observed- that I am most comfortable with a big stick in my hand.

The third M is the Museum of Contemporary African Art.  Neither Abdul Raheem nor Jilali have ever heard of it, but fortunately Cherrie has the address.  It is in the golf estate (there are 27 golf courses in Marrakech) and it’s fabulous, with a collection from artists all over Africa.  Abdul accompanies us through this small museum, which opened in November last year.  He is grateful to have learnt about it.

It’s lunchtime, and finally our pleas are heard.  We are delivered to that well known Moroccan institution, Le Pain Quotidien.  We could be in Paris or London, but no, we are in Marrakech.  Abdul Raheem leaves us here.  Jilali has parked somewhere.  No one in this international French shop speaks Anglaise or Francaise  it seems.  We have no idea what to do, but eventually succeed in purchasing a tomate sandwich each, which turns out to be mostly tuna.  At least we get a coffee.

Post lunch we ask Jilali to take us back to the souks, so we can wander at leisure, but he goes into meltdown because he is, after all, a driver and not a guide. He has no idea which gate of the Medina is best for the souks and really doesn’t want to risk it.  He knows somewhere much better anyway, with prix fixe, and he begs to take us there.  We don’t have the heart to tell him we are not buying but rather looking so we reluctantly agree and get dropped off at a two storey department souvenir store.  It’s actually quite fun perusing all the tat, but not the same as the souks.

After being dropped back at the hotel, we decide we want to see the main square, and the snake charmers.  This area is hopping at night, and the place to be.    The hotel gives us a map and explains the route for the 15 minute walk.  Plenty of places to eat around there too they tell us.  The 15 minute walk takes us 50 minutes.  And, we cross the road three times, miraculously surviving.  The trick is to just look ahead, do not look at the traffic, take no notice of the traffic, walk to the other side of the road, pretending to be confident that the trucks, bikes, cars, vans, mules and donkeys will go round you.  You can be sure they won’t stop for you.

The square is like sideshow alley at the Easter Show

Complete with drag belly dancers

 

 

And the snake charmers.  We didn’t get close, because those cobras were slithering all over the pavement and we feared that one wrong note from the flute might reflect poorly on the reptilian behaviour, to potentially unpleasant result.  Besides which, the charmers demand 100 Duran (about $10) per photograph.  Our photo editor caught a long shot, as it were

 

We decide that dinner is not an option in this square.  Neither is walking back to the hotel.  Instead we walk some way to find a taxi, which by some good fortune takes us home.  Picnic dinner in the room suffices nicely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday 25 October 2017

Three Ms of Marrakech today.  Majorelle, Momounia, Musee

The Jardin Marjorelle is located in a classy suburb of Marrakech.  Established in the ‘20s by French artist Jacques Marjorelle, it is a vision of blue, yellow and orange pots.  The blue is so unique, more cobalt than cobalt, that it is officially now a colour  – Marjorelle Blue.  He was inspired by the Moroccan colours in the mosaics.

The colours define this garden, which were such an inspiration to Yves Saint Laurent who, with his partner Pierre Borge, bought the property in 1980.  It had been open to the public since the death of Jacques Moselle in 1962 but was slated for a high rise development in the late ‘70s.  Saint Laurent and Borges fought the development and ultimately purchased the property to save it.  They lived in the house next door, which they named Villa Oasis, and restored the garden to Majorelle’s vision by retaining the glorious colours

installing irrigation and engaging 20 gardeners to maintain it.  The gardeners are, of course, colour coded.

It always remained a public garden and retained the name of the original owner/designer.  Majorelle built his studio in the gardens, the sight of which is arresting

which Yves and Pierre converted to a fascinating Berber museum.

Saint Laurent died in 2008, his ashes were scattered here, and there is a memorial to him in the garden.  His partner, Pierre Borge, who was 8 years older, died just last month and his ashes will also be scattered here.

Winston Churchill used to spend time in Marrakech and it is evident that he visited this garden too

The brand new Musee Yves Saint Laurent opened next door just last Thursday, and we go to visit that too.  But, of course, Wednesday is ferme day.  So, we walk down the end of the road instead and Abdul Raheem loads us into a horse drawn carriage, which he says is included in our tour.  We’re not sure about this, and how fair to the animal it is, but we placidly obey and we are drawn to the public gardens in Gueliz, the new town. It’s a pleasant stroll through the garden but nothing special. I spot a large van which looks like a mobile library but Abdul laughs me off and says no, it is a van with gardening equipment.  I feel foolish, until we walk to the other side where the sign on the van clearly says Bibliotheque Mobile.  I stay uncharacteristicly quiet, but I am satisfied that our guide also sees the sign!  Oh, the smugness.

From there, we go to the second M of the day, the Hotel Mamounia.  This is where Lois and Gerry (remember them from the desert camp and Skoura?)  stayed last year and loved it so much they have come back.  Perhaps to buy it, who knows? The Mamounia was built in the 12th Century is a luxury five star hotel, where we are NOT staying.  It is indeed amazing and we walk through and around the lush foyer area, guided by Abdul Raheem who shows us interesting things like the bar where Churchill used to drink, the original woodwork and the new carpets which have, somewhat regrettably, replaced the hand woven rugs etc.  But it is the garden which we are here to see and glorious it is.

This is one luxurious hotel and we feel rather out of place amongst the beautiful people.  We are more at home amongst the workers who are harvesting the olives from their plentiful plantation

I guess this just confirms what many of you have already observed- that I am most comfortable with a big stick in my hand.

The third M is the Museum of Contemporary African Art.  Neither Abdul Raheem nor Jilali have ever heard of it, but fortunately Cherrie has the address.  It is in the golf estate (there are 27 golf courses in Marrakech) and it’s fabulous, with a collection from artists all over Africa.  Abdul accompanies us through this small museum, which opened in November last year.  He is grateful to have learnt about it.

It’s lunchtime, and finally our pleas are heard.  We are delivered to that well known Moroccan institution, Le Pain Quotidien.  We could be in Paris or London, but no, we are in Marrakech.  Abdul Raheem leaves us here.  Jilali has parked somewhere.  No one in this international French shop speaks Anglaise or Francaise  it seems.  We have no idea what to do, but eventually succeed in purchasing a tomate sandwich each, which turns out to be mostly tuna.  At least we get a coffee.

Post lunch we ask Jilali to take us back to the souks, so we can wander at leisure, but he goes into meltdown because he is, after all, a driver and not a guide. He has no idea which gate of the Medina is best for the souks and really doesn’t want to risk it.  He knows somewhere much better anyway, with prix fixe, and he begs to take us there.  We don’t have the heart to tell him we are not buying but rather looking so we reluctantly agree and get dropped off at a two storey department souvenir store.  It’s actually quite fun perusing all the tat, but not the same as the souks.

After being dropped back at the hotel, we decide we want to see the main square, and the snake charmers.  This area is hopping at night, and the place to be.    The hotel gives us a map and explains the route for the 15 minute walk.  Plenty of places to eat around there too they tell us.  The 15 minute walk takes us 50 minutes.  And, we cross the road three times, miraculously surviving.  The trick is to just look ahead, do not look at the traffic, take no notice of the traffic, walk to the other side of the road, pretending to be confident that the trucks, bikes, cars, vans, mules and donkeys will go round you.  You can be sure they won’t stop for you.

The square is like sideshow alley at the Easter Show

Complete with drag belly dancers

 

 

And the snake charmers.  We didn’t get close, because those cobras were slithering all over the pavement and we feared that one wrong note from the flute might reflect poorly on the reptilian behaviour, to potentially unpleasant result.  Besides which, the charmers demand 100 Duran (about $10) per photograph.  Our photo editor caught a long shot, as it were

 

We decide that dinner is not an option in this square.  Neither is walking back to the hotel.  Instead we walk some way to find a taxi, which by some good fortune takes us home.  Picnic dinner in the room suffices nicely.