Category: 2Cs OverCs

Le Jardin Secret – Marrakech

The word paradise has its origins in the Old Persian pairidaeza that means an enclosed space. This is an apt description of Le Jardin Secret with its 30 feet high walls making it almost invisible from the rest of the Medina of Marrakech.

Le Jardin Secret was one the the largest riads (house with a courtyard) in the Medina. It’s Islamic garden forms the centrepiece of a palace that once belonged to the wealthiest and most influential people in the city. It was created in the late 16th century and today most of its general character is from the 2nd half of the 19th century. In 2013 a project of restoration began to restore the riads former glory. It opened to the public in 2016.

There are two separate courtyards, a smaller exotic garden and a larger Islamic garden.

The exotic garden does retain the features of the earlier garden but it is planted in a contemporary romantic style using plants from all over the world. Apparently it may be considered to represent an aspect of the Garden of Eden; as it says in Genesis “Out of the ground the Lord God caused to grow every tree that is pleasing to the sight and good for food” There are three Australian plants here. The Acacia covenyi, Grevillea ‘Winpara gem’ and Westringia brevifolia.

The Islamic garden is part of a tradition that goes back to the earliest Persian gardens laid out more than 2500 years ago and is typical of others in Marrakech. A pattern called chahar bagh meaning fourfold garden, is central to this tradition and could be found as far apart as India and Portugal.

The garden has been restored and replanted to reflect the traditional character of a Moroccan garden before European influence. Shrubs and trees are what would have been planted in a Moroccan garden of the mid-19th century where every plant had a special meaning or use.

Water is the primary focus of the design occupying a central position in the composition. In Islam, water has a symbolic value as the divine essence of life and is an essential part of all Islamic gardens. Marrakech was founded by the Almoravids (a Berber Muslim dynasty) in 1071 and was the capital of an empire covering Morocco and the southern half of the Iberian Peninsula. The water supply was essential to the success of the city. The Almoravids built a system of khettaras, underground tunnels, conveying water entirely by gravity from the base of the Atlas Mountains to the city (approx 50kms). Whoever controlled the Atlas Mountains controlled the water to the city and therefore the city.

The defining feature of chahar bagh was the most efficient means of distributing water to the plants later developing as an important symbol of the domestication of the wild desert landscape. In the 7th century with the rise of Islam this way of ordering a garden was adopted by Muslims and the fourfold division became symbolic to reflect the description of paradise in the Quran. In Le Jardin Secret’s Islamic garden the path that leads from the centre of the garden to the Hbiqa Pavilion had water in the form of a narrow rill. The garden is engineered to provide water at the right place and pressure with the main paths and irrigation channels set above the planted level allowing water to spill down and irrigate.

In Islamic gardens paths are paved with traditional terracotta tiles (or bejmat) with glazed green in the more important areas. Around the fountains the paving is with smaller glazed tiles called zellij and at the lowest level each quarter is further divided by bejmat paths.

In the Islamic garden all shrubs and trees are species that would have been grown during the last 600 years in a traditional Moroccan garden. Plants with rich history and symbolism. The planting is designed to give the effect of a bustan or a flowering, fragrant orchard with species chosen to give a long season of interest but not necessarily native to Morocco.

The four most important tree species in symbolic terms are:
Ficus carica (fig)
Olea europea (olive)
Phoenix dactylifera (date palm)
Punica grantum (promegranate)

Other tree species are:
Citrus limon (Lemon)
Citrus sinensis (Sweet Orange)
Argania speciosa (Argan)

Shrubs, Climbers and herbs:
Artemisia abisinthium – Wormwood
Cistus salvifolius
Eschscholzia california – Californian poppy
Iris germanica – Iris
Jasminum officinale – Jasmine
Jasminum polyanthum – Jasmine
Lavandula dentata var. Candicans – Lavender
Lippia citrodora – Lemon Verbena
Myrtis communis – Myrtle
Polianthes tuberosa – Tuberose
Rosa damasceana var.Sempreflorens – Damask Rose
Rosa moschata – Musk Rose
Rosmarinus officinalis – Rosemary
Salvia archers var. canescens – Turkish Tea Sage
Stupa tenuissima – Mexican feather grass
Tulbaghia violacea – Society garlic
Viki’s vinifera – Grape Vine

Le Jarden Secret is a place to shelter from the chaos and heat of Marrakech. It is an oasis of peace where the shade of a tree, the splashing noise of the fountains and, when flowering, the scents of the flowers favour contemplation and rest.

Photography & words by Cherrie McDonald
Drawings Tom Stuart-Smith

 

Sunday 29 October 2017 
We watch the sun rise over the Atlas Mountains and marvel at the beauty

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The ever reliable and ebullient Jilali is here at 10am to transfer us to the edge of the Atlantic. He has enjoyed his day off in Marrakech, except for his 4am airport transfer and his 8am airport transfer! Ah, that’s showbiz, as they say in the funeral business.
It’s a 4 ½ hour drive to our final Moroccan R&R destination, Qualidia. We drive through more beautiful agricultural country and pass more eucalyptus trees than the Blue Mountains can boast. OK, accuse me of exaggeration but there are an awful lot of eucalypts. We take photos but due to the speed at which we are travelling (clearly Jilali is feeling better) every one of them is blurred.

Eventually the speed catches up with him, and Jilali is flagged down by a cop. Not a word is spoken. We hold our breath as he gets out of the car, aware of his quick temper. The key is still in the ignition and I muse that we can drive ourselves in the event of fisty cuffs and subsequent slammer. But, Jilali turns on the charm, shortly later returns to the van and extracts some cash from the glove box and a lengthy handshake seals the deal. We are on our way again.

Jilali announces that he will pick us up early on Wednesday for our transfer to Casablanca and that we will go to his home, meet his family and eat lunch with them. He will cook couscous. We have anticipated this, because he has alluded to it several times previously without being specific enough for us to respond. We are fond of Jilali and he has done his best to take good care of us, but neither of us are keen to push the ‘friendship’ to this extent. Besides, I fear that we might have to sit on the floor to eat, which is impossible for me. My floor sitting days are gone. We certainly don’t wish to be rude and we are aware of cultural sensitivities so we explain that we do not leave Qualidia until after lunch on Wednesday.  Fortunately our itinerary confirms this.   He checks his copy of the itinerary at length (which curiously is not in Arabic or French but in English and he struggles to read it), all whilst driving at breakneck speed but show me a Moroccan who can’t read and speed at the same time and I’ll show you an illiterate Berber on a donkey. He then rings the hotel to which we are headed and after his Arabic conversation with them he announces that lunch is not included. We stick to our guns, with as much kindness as we can muster, and tell him that we want to take advantage to rest up before our long trip home. I hope his study of our itinerary does not extend to our three days in Madrid. He accepts our rejection with apparent good grace and we move on to the coast.  Has Jilali been to this hotel before? Two U turns suggest not but we arrive in time for a late lunch. Aware that lunch is not included in our booking, Jilali has encouraged us to eat in the local town but we are keen to arrive at our destination so we are insistent.

We note quite a haze as we approach, is it dust or smog?  We learn that there is a large phosphate mine here, a major export industry from the huge port nearby. Perhaps that causes the haze?

The hotel is situated on a large lagoon, and we look out on the heads to the Atlantic as we eat an excellent sea food meal.

And in a perfect bookend to the day, we watch the sun set over the ocean.

Monday 30 October 2017

You know that old saying…..When in Morocco do as the Moroccans do. Well, we decided to have  a hamman, the traditional bath where one is scrubbed and sauna-ed – by others. We throw caution to the wind and figure that the chances are we’ll
only live once and so we should experience this tradition – in the hotel, not at a public hamman. It’s an experience I think we are grateful for. We were in this together, in adjoining rooms and in hearing of each other. Undress to the altogether and put on this disposable g-string. Why I don’t know as it covered exactly nothing. I grapple with this, Cherrie less so as she spent 6 years at boarding school. We lIe on a hot marble slab and get several buckets of extremely hot water thrown over us. Get a rub (not a massage) with argan oil, roll over, repeat the experience. Lie there for probably 15 minutes in sauna heat, then more water thrown over us. Exfoliation with what felt like a prickly pear, shampoo, cold water so that I felt I might have been having a shower at Gordounston in mid-winter. A bit of relief with some warm water and then head wrapped in a towel, dressing gown back on (we were not
dried) and out into the tea room for a cuppa. Not a word had been spoken, except between us and not many of those. What was there to say? After we had finished our tea, we got up to leave, having cast the hair towel aside. But out of nowhere, our hammanists appeared and indicated that it was not yet over. Argan  lotion was applied to our arms and legs, and then it was over. I’m sure our attendants will dine out on this.  It’s unlikely they had ever seen such fat ladies, except perhaps when the circus was last in town.

Back in our room we put our swimmers on and marvel at how good our skin feels.
Down to the swimming pool where the water is an alarming 19 degrees,  I decide that I’ve had enough cold water therapy for the day and lie on a lounge and read. Cherrie braves the water,  but not for long and never again.

Another lunch, from a very limited menu, down by the lagoon. What a fabulously relaxing day.

We watch another spectacular sunset over the Atlantic , but skip dinner because we
are not hungry. In fact, Cherrie is quite ill. We continue to struggle with
Moroccan food, as do our digestive systems, despite declarations from others how delicious it is. Oh for a hunk of steak and a green salad!

Tuesgay 31 October 2017

This morning we take a bird watching tour on a little local boat

 around the lagoon, which is enormous, tidal and very salty. There are  surprising agricultural endeavours on its banks

 

More donkeys doing their work.  We love these industrious little creatures and dream of having Arthur

and Martha

in the front paddock at Quamby. But of course it won’t come to pass.

The lagoon is dotted with oyster farms.  I’ll bet someone’s shucked

 

The bird life on the lagoon is amazing

We leave the boat at the far end of the lagoon where a 4WD is waiting for us. We walk a little way with a heard of sheep and their shephard(ess)

and look for the flamingos. There they are

Back at the hotel we have a light lunch in the sun.  I have become such a fashionista that I had to order a glass of (inferior and, importantly, cheap) wine because it matches my hat so well

An afternoon by the pool, but not in it, reading and relaxing.  We eat in the hotel restaurant tonight. The breakfast and lunch staff are absolutely charming but
the evening staff have got the grumps big time. We are served by Lurch whose English is far superior to my Arabic but on par with my French. My French is very close to non existent, but then again I don’t work in a restaurant serving tourists.   The meal is nothing to write home and not even worth blogging about.

 

 

 

 

Wednesday 1 November
More leisure activities this morning, if you can call reading in the sun an activity and then a final Moroccan lunch, of delicious local lobster. Sans wine.
Jilali collects us at 2pm and transfers us to Casablanca, a 2 1/2 hour drive. We hug the coast for much of it, drive past the large phosphate mine and the huge port.
Casablanca is a large, modern city and we have arrived for peak hour. Jilali shows us where his eldest daughter goes to school, and the new tourist phenomenon Rick’s Bar, a perfect replica of where the film was set. Except, of course, the film was shot entirely in Hollywood.

We are staying at a nice hotel which also feels the impact of the film

And from our room a gorgeous view of the big mosque which we visited on our first day in Morocco, 3 weeks ago

Tonight, lying on the comfortable bed, we watch “Casablanca” on our iPads using Netflix. An amusing way to spend an evening in Casablanca, and our last in fascinating Morocco.

Thursday 2 November 

Jilali delivers us to Casablanca airport.  We tip him handsomely, give him little gifts for his 3 children which we had bought from home, and a hand written note thanking him for the care he has taken of us

Farewell Maroc.  It’s been swell

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.