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MOROCCO December 25, 2005 – January 1, 2006
Sabine (who used to live in
Frankfurt and now lives in London) and I decided at the last minute
to do something a bit different and go away at Christmas. This was to be my first ever Christmas away from the family home.
I have to say that Sabine and I have never experienced such a
happening Christmas Day before in our lives…. I booked a holiday package including
flight, 4-star hotel (Moroccan standard 4-star?) and breakfast, departing
from Paris for Marrakech at 650 Euros per person. This included a 10%
discount thanks to my company. Sabine
came over to Paris on the Eurostar on Saturday, December 24th
and stayed over at Hotel Sarah. This
time she was packed…. but I wasn’t…. Christmas Day
The travel agency had sent me
by post the flight tickets, but was later informed that they were no
longer valid (not sure the reason why) and that we had to present ourselves
two hours before departure at the travel agency’s desk at CDG Airport
Terminal 1 to collect the replacement tickets.
We took a taxi from my place at 10.00 and arrived at the airport
just before 10.30. There was
quite a queue of people collecting their tickets but it was fairly fast
moving and everything went smoothly and according to plan. Our flight departure was at
12.45 with a charter airline called Aigle Azur (France’s oldest airline,
60 years old this year). We
boarded an A320 on time. Sabine
and I arrived at our designated seats, which were in the centre and
next to the window. A young Arab guy was sitting in the aisle seat,
with his wife and children sitting across the aisle the other side. The Arab guy had to get up to let us get to
our seats. Whilst doing so,
he took the opportunity to go off to the toilet.
He hadn’t been gone a minute and his wife sat their young daughter
aged about 7 or 8 in his seat. Ah! We came to the conclusion that the wife did
not want her husband sitting next to two beautiful young women throughout
the flight…. The husband came back and sat
in his daughter’s former seat. The passengers all settled down. Except for the young girl sitting next to Sabine
who started fiddling with her armrests, swinging her legs and kicking
her seat, much to Sabine’s annoyance.
In the meantime, I was trying to get comfortable by the window. I have never been in a plane that was so short
on leg space and I wasn’t sure how I was going to survive the three-hour
flight. I almost had the back
of the seat in my face; I could have wrapped my legs around the guy’s
neck in front! Everything was still going to
plan. The engines started….
and a couple of minutes later, they were switched off…. Sabine and I
looked at each other uneasily. This
was not a good sign. Some time
later, the pilot made an announcement that there was a technical problem
and they were going to have to do some tests.
Oh no…. We saw a guy don his florescent yellow vest
and leave the plane. He seemed
to be one of the flight crew, but we weren’t sure. Whoever he was, at
least he didn’t take with him his tool kit like they do on Chinese buses…!! Some time later, a second announcement
was made over the tannoy: “You may have noticed firemen on the right-hand
side of the plane. They are there just as a precaution”, as all the
passengers turned their heads right to look out of the window at firemen
on the tarmac donning their red scarves, fire-proof gloves and helmets….
Not to mention the police van that also turned up! An air stewardess
tried to put us at ease and made the half humorous comment that they
were changing a tyre… A third announcement came: “An
open bar is now available at the back of the plane.” Ah! This doesn’t
sound so bad after all! This
announcement was followed by a rush of people getting up in the aisle. The man who’d got off the plane
wearing the florescent yellow vest got back onboard and removed it. A fourth announcement was made: “We are sorry,
we cannot take off in these conditions, we are going to have to transfer
you to another plane. Estimated departure time is now 18.00. Everybody
disembark. You will all be served food and drinks in the airport waiting
area. Only passengers who have
baby products in the plane’s hold can have these items collected from
the hold. Please make yourselves known.” There was a GROOOOAAAAN from
the passengers. Everybody immediately
started to get up. The aisle
was chaos with people on the way to the toilet, people on the way to
the open bar and people wanting to get off.
I remained in my not so comfortable seat.
The chaos went on for half an hour until we had a fifth and final
announcement: “I’m afraid you can’t leave the plane just yet. According to airport regulations, the police have to be present
when you disembark. We are waiting for the police to arrive.” Another GROOOOAAAAN emanated from the passengers
as those that had been standing in the aisle for half an hour waiting
to get off (Sabine included) regained their seats. The police finally arrived and
we were all able to disembark. We
were greeted by a representative from the Aigle Azur airline, an Arab
aged about 60, who was going to look after us passengers and make sure
operations ran smoothly. He
was tall and had the looks, imposing presence and charisma of Omar Sharif! I’m not making this up, other passengers thought so too! The first thing Sabine was desperate
for was a cigarette. Of course, it’s forbidden to smoke in the airport
and we had more than a four-hour wait ahead of us. She went off to flutter her eyelashes at Omar
Sharif and asked him where she could smoke. Omar Sharif said he would try and find a solution to the problem
and would let her know. As it was lunchtime, the air
stewards/stewardesses wheeled off the food and drink trolleys from the
plane and proceeded to serve the passengers!
We were amused to discover that they make more mess serving on
the ground (e.g. bottles of drink being knocked over) than they do in
the air! It was like Meals on Wheels. While my family was just sitting down to their
Christmas lunch of succulent roast turkey (kindly informed via SMS),
Sabine and I were propped up against an airline counter eating hallal
plane food. Exciting… Still, with Omar Sharif around to look after
us, we couldn’t complain…. The Arab guy who’d been sitting
near us on the plane was at the counter next to us eating on his own,
that is until his “I don’t want my husband sitting next to two beautiful
girls” wife came over to keep an eye on him while she left her two children
seated. The inconvenience we discovered
was that the toilets are outside the confines of the security checked
area. So every time you wanted
to go the toilet, you’d go out and have to go back through the security
control. We therefore had to
plan our toilet trips when there were no queues at the control. We noticed that Omar Sharif
had been out and returned with baby food for a passenger. Sabine decided to ask him what exactly was
going on and if he’d solved the no-smoking problem (I’d told her this
was her chance to give up smoking, but she wouldn’t have it). Omar confessed that the plane had had a fuel leak, which was discovered
as soon as the engines were started, and that a spare plane was currently
flying in from Mauritania. (I
suppose at several million dollars each you’re not going to find many
spare planes hanging around in a hangar at CDG airport, which is what
Sabine for hoping for!) Departure
was estimated at about 18.00/18.30.
Omar also told Sabine she could have a sneaky smoke in a deserted
section the other side of the waiting area.
We went off to the area he indicated.
Sabine had a quick smoke behind a plant while I kept a watch
out for the police. Time ticked by. Sabine amused herself by doing her So-Duko
puzzles. I fancied a cup of
tea (preferably English, but highly unlikely that I was going to get
one at CDG airport) and headed off to flutter my eyelashes at Omar Sharif
who was serving drinks from a trolley.
I asked him if there was any tea left and he apologised saying
that the plane had been emptied and there was no more available.
I decided to have an orange juice instead and said that I’d also
like one for my friend. Omar
Sharif replied, “I’ll come with you and serve your friend a drink myself.
That way I can chat her up (It sounded better in French; he said
“comme ça, je peux lui faire la cour”).
She’s ravishing! So are
you by the way!” Huh, so I was just a “by the
way afterthought”! No comment. We went back to Sabine and Omar Sharif started
chatting to us asking us where we were from. During the holiday, we did amuse a few people when we told them
that Sabine is German and lives in London and I’m English and live in
Paris. Omar kindly offered us
a coffee. He went off to the
café to get some and brought it back to us.
He then moved opposite to see if other passengers were doing
OK. Omar Sharif had barely left
when a French guy came by, also aged about 60, and started talking to
Sabine. He introduced himself as François and was a retired professional
footballer who had lived in Germany at some point.
He said he would catch up with us later and he went off to join
other passengers. Omar Sharif came back and wanted
to know when we were returning to Paris. I replied January 1st. He told Sabine that she should stay an extra day in Paris so that
they could “go out for drinks and have some fun”! He promptly wrote his mobile number on Sabine’s So-Duko puzzle book,
at the same time touching her shoulder, and he went back to work. It was past 17.00 and the plane
supposedly from Mauritania was landing.
Passengers were getting excited.
This time it was a bigger plane, an A321, with forty or so extra
seats apparently. Great, we
could spread out. While the plane was docking,
we went to join François the footballer who was talking to another couple. In the background was another couple lurking
and listening to our conversation, a couple who we weren’t sure what
their sex was…. one had bright red dyed hair (we think this was a man)
and the other had blond dyed hair (we think this was a woman).
A strange load of people had booked themselves on this trip to
Marrakech… Omar Sharif made an announcement
that the plane was ready for boarding and that we could go and sit where
we liked. OK great, but we had
François the footballer sticking to our arses…. The only reason he was going on holiday was not to do cultural sightseeing,
but to stay in the hotel 24 hours a day and participate in the hotel’s
entertainment and drink. Sabine and I were praying that he wasn’t going
to be in the same hotel as us. Whilst queuing to board, I asked
Omar Sharif if we could have seats with legroom. He replied, “Tell the head of cabin crew that
Omar says you can have any seat you like.” Walking on, I turned to Sabine and said to her, “Did you hear what
his name is? He is called
Omar!” Sabine and I were getting ourselves
comfortable in our seats. This plane had about one centimetre more legroom
and we’d deliberately left the middle seat vacant. Unfortunately, François the footballer plonked
himself down in the row in front, still carrying on with his jokes.
Oh god, we hoped he was going to shut up and fall asleep. The pilot made an announcement, “We are now ready to depart, this
time with a plane that works…” It
was 18.30; Omar’s estimation had been spot on.
As we were trundling round the tarmac, the air stewardess from
our original flight started singing over the loudspeaker, “Allez…” Flying over Paris at night compensated
for our late departure. It was a clear night and we had a fantastic
view of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Elysées. François did eventually go to sleep, after being bothered at first
by Sabine’s overhead reading light which was shining on his head. Peace at last! Three hours later, we finally
landed in Marrakech. It was
now 20.30. We were greeted by
our holiday rep, Fatima, who was going to accompany us to our hotel,
the Sahara Inn. We spied François going off in another group.
What a relief, he wasn’t going to be staying in the same hotel
as us! At the hotel, Fatima announced
that she would see us all the next morning at 11.00. All being knackered after the day’s events,
we didn’t think at the time that this meant hanging around the hotel
until 11.00 and therefore wasting the morning.
Already Christmas Day had been wasted. We checked into our room.
The first controlled check: it did not have the cockroach look
about it. Not only that, it
overlooked the swimming pool. The only inconvenience we did notice was that
the rugs didn’t seem to have been vacuumed for several decades (does
Morocco have vacuum cleaners?) and on TV there was the wide choice of
one and a half channels. The day’s events were not over
yet. We were hungry and needed
something decent to eat, so we walked down the road to the nearest restaurants
in a side street. Accompanied
by a scavenging cat under our table, we had typical Moroccan food: bread,
spicy and non-spicy freshly chopped tomato sauce, fresh tomato salad
with mint, chicken brochettes, sausages and mint tea, all for 128 Dirham
(12 Euros). Walking back to the hotel, a
few Arab men said hello to us along the way, including an older bloke
hovering around us on a dilapidated motorbike.
Unfortunately, he didn’t look like Steve McQueen from The Great
Escape, but he seemed to be harmless enough.
A car pulled up beside the guy on the motorbike.
We thought it was someone asking for directions and we carried
on walking. Next thing we know,
the same car pulled up beside us and a plain clothed man got out and
approached us announcing in French “I am from the police!”
For a split second, we asked ourselves “oh my god, what have
we done now?” but the guy continued, “Was that man bothering you? Did
he ask you for anything?” “Errr,
no, not at all”, we replied. “Are
you sure?” asked the guy. “Yes,
we’re sure, thanks very much!” In
the meantime, “Steve McQueen” had done a disappearing act on his motorbike.
This was a good start. Not
bad when off-duty policemen are keeping an eye out for trouble and are
making sure that tourists are all right!
But we weren’t sure exactly what “Steve McQueen” would have asked
us for… Money? Drugs? Sexual favours? We got back to our hotel room.
We hadn’t been in the room for long and I started scratching,
then I felt my lips starting to swell up, then I had a burning sensation
in the palms of my hands, and finally I started to break out in spots
on my body… oh dear, I was having
an allergic reaction, probably to something I’d just eaten, but had
no idea at all to what! Maybe
it was the spices? Weird. Sunday, December
26
By morning, my allergic reaction
spots had disappeared, much to my relief. We tried out the hotel’s breakfast, which was included in our package
deal. It wasn’t worth getting
excited about. And when you
go and look at the Sahara Inn’s official individual prices on display
in reception, you then realise what a “grand rip off” it is when they
serve you bread, one flavoured jam, butter, croissant and pain au croissant
(which weren’t up to French standards), awful tasting coffee and synthetic
orange juice (unbelievable when the country has orange trees all over
the place weighed down with oranges), and this breakfast for 100 Dirham
(10 Euros)! It definitely was not up to the 4-star Novotel’s
breakfast in Beijing. We had our meeting with Fatima,
who of course turned up half an hour late. Basically, her job is to sell as many excursions as possible.
We enquired about hiring a car but she didn’t recommend it, especially
at that time of year when there are a lot of people on the roads in
the town and out in the country driving like maniacs.
OK point taken. We said we’d let her know if we were interested
in any excursions. I asked Sabine if she wanted
me to book another airline home. She replied that it wasn’t necessary.
She’d never had so much fun with an airline before! We took a bus ride (3 Dirham
= 0.3 Euros) into the centre of town.
We wanted to check out the Djemma El-Fna square famous for it’s
freshly squeezed orange juice sellers, musicians, snake charmers, story
tellers, etc… This was the happening
part of town. We decided to
have lunch at the Chegrouni Restaurant which was very good.
A tajine for example is 50 Dirham (5 Euros). This made a change
from cold turkey and bubble & squeak.
We sat at a table that overlooked the square and people watched. Two guys aged around 70+ sat down next to us.
We started chatting to them and discovered they were from Puerto
Rico. They’d been in Marrakech
a few days before us and gave us helpful information on places to see. After lunch, Sabine and I wandered
around the souk. They Moroccan
men didn’t hesitate to invite us into their boutiques to try and persuade
us to buy something. They also
kept calling us “gazelle” which is common in Morocco. Next we moved on to the top
hotel of the town: the 5-star Mamounia
Hotel, Avenue Houmane el-Fetouaki, whose most famous guest was Winston
Churchill. You can rent a villa
in this hotel for 35 000 Dirham (3 500 Euros) per night if you want. We arrived at the entrance and were greeted
by several security men. We
wanted to go in for tea but they wouldn’t let us.
Sabine persisted. In
the end, security relented and said we could enter on condition that
we left our bags at the entrance. No
way! Not my bag with my camera equipment in it (one
of the inconveniences of carrying around with you expensive camera equipment),
so we left. We figured that
maybe the Moroccan royal family was present. It had been raining that day
and we took a taxi back to the hotel (20 Dirham = 2 Euros) to have a
little siesta in our hotel room. Later
that evening, we were feeling a bit peckish and went to check out the
hotel bar. This was not the
most happening hotel bar we’d been in.
We were greeted by Djamal the waiter who served us mint tea and
peanuts (which was all the bar had in the way of food).
I suspiciously eyed the electric piano and microphone that had
been set up in the corner. Maybe we were in for some exciting bar entertainment?
That’s what I thought until two blokes arrived, one sat at the
piano and the other stood in front of the microphone and started singing
Arab songs. More like wailing
actually. Sabine and I weren’t
going to put with this for long. The only excitement was for two dodgy looking
Arab men sitting in the other corner with a young Arab girl who’d just
turned up wiggling her bum in tight jeans and wearing stiletto boots. She had the prostitute look about her. Oh dear… time to retire to our room, where
we could still hear the very distant wailing emanating from the other
side of the pool…. Tuesday, December
27
Sabine and I had booked a tour
through our tour rep to Ourika Valley (275 Dirham = 27 Euros each). At last the sun was out, it was fairly fresh
at around 15°C-18°C, but was just a tad warmer than back in France or
the UK. A coach arrived to pick us up
and we finally hit the road after doing a tour of about five hotels
round Marrakech picking up other tourists.
Unfortunately, we were subjected to listening to the same piece
of Arab music put on by the driver in between the yakking in French
by the tour guide in a microphone.
Sabine and I haven’t quite decided yet which is worst: being
in a Chinese bus watching the same kung-fu film being repeated over
and over or being in a Moroccan bus listening to the same piece of Arab
music non-stop…? The tour guide warned us that
we were going to stop off on the way at a shop to look at (and buy)
traditional pottery. This was
very amusing. Because a coach load of tourists (i.e. us)
had arrived, there was suddenly all sorts of activity going on at the
shop. We were all invited into
a shed next door, where a young guy appeared, sat behind a potter’s
wheel and started making a pot (i.e. conning us tourists into thinking
that the pots were made right there and that they were therefore authentic
– yeah sure!) To make things even more authentic, we were
then taken round the back of the shop to inspect a pottery oven which
was supposed to give us the impression that the pots were baked right
there. The oven looked like it hadn’t been used for
a couple of centuries! Of course, a few tourists got
conned into buying the usual tajine dish. The next stop was a visit of
a typical Moroccan house. We
were given a guided tour of the house, women were preparing food in
the kitchen and finally we were offered tea in the salon.
The one thing that really amused Sabine and I was the giant satellite
dish on the roof terrace of the house!
The tour business seemed to be booming.
Sabine and I are considering opening up our homes and giving
guided tours… Our excursion also included
lunch in a local restaurant. Very
basic food was served, but it was fine. Unfortunately, the disadvantage
with these types of excursions is that you don’t necessarily get to
stop in the picturesque spots and the bus doesn’t have time to stop
either. A hire car is the best
option, where possible. We got back to our hotel early
evening. Sabine and I took a
taxi into the centre and asked the driver, Abdelkarim, his opinion on
good restaurants. We were in
a dilemma as to what to do for New Year’s Eve.
Abdelkarim ended up taking us on a tour of fancy restaurants
in Marrakech for 30 Dirham (3 Euros), before dropping us off at the
Djemma El-Fna square to get something to eat at the food stools. Being tourists, whether it be among the food stalls or in the souk,
you always get the following shouted at you:
We were accosted at the square
by two young guys in their twenties called Aziz and Ahmed. The chatty one, Aziz, suggested that we should
meet up the next evening at 20.00 in the same place. We kind of half agreed in order to get rid
of them. Aziz asked his mate
for a piece of paper. Ahmed
got out a torn piece of paper and Aziz wrote his mobile number on it. Another phone number to add to the collection….
Aziz kissed Sabine on each of her cheeks and I ended up having kisses
from Ahmed! It was late evening and we flagged
down a taxi to return to the hotel.
We negotiated the usual night rate of 30 Dirham (3 Euros). On depositing us in front of our hotel, I gave
the driver a 100 Dirham note. It
was until I’d got out of the car and looked at the handful of notes
he’d given me, that I realised he only given me 60 Dirham back instead
of 70 Dirham. We’d been fleeced out of 10 Dirham (1 Euro)! We were knackered when we hit
the sack. We were again subjected
to the same distant wailing/singing across the swimming pool from that
same guy in the hotel bar… Wednesday, December
28
Instead of booking a day’s excursion
to Essaouira on the west coast (170 km from Marrakech), we decided to
go and book a bus ourselves. We
hailed down a taxi driver, this time called Fanguir Mohammed (my collection
of taxi driver business cards was slowly expanding).
He proposed to take us to the Supratours coach station next to
the train station. Unfortunately,
we could only purchase a one-way bus ticket (60 Dirham/6 Euros). We’d have to buy the return ticket as soon as we arrived in Essaouira. It was another sunny day.
We wandered around a couple of old palaces: the 16th
century El-Badi Palace in ruins and inhabited by storks, and the Bahia
Palace with its fabulous mosaics and architecture. Each entry fee was 10 Dirham (1 Euro). We passed in front of the royal
palace. The King must have been
in residence because his royal guards, dressed in red, were standing
around the palace’s walls. As
crazy as we are, with police on the opposite side of the road, we plucked
up the courage to approach a group of guards and Sabine asked a man
in military uniform if we could take a photo… We didn’t hang around
much after that, as the answer was pretty clear: “NO!” In the evening, we returned
to the food stalls at the square and ate at stand n° 22, run by Arabs. The Berbers at the opposite stand n° 42 were
not happy that we went to eat at their rivals.
We promised n° 42 we would come back Friday evening. The sad thing about eating at the food stalls
is that you’re subjected to people coming round begging for food. I gave one old woman the remains of my bread. Afterwards I bought myself a
chicha (water pipe) for 100 Dirham (10 Euros) in anticipation of future
chicha parties, as well as a lamp. We got back to the hotel that
night. Sabine was pissed off. Our bath towels had not been changed all week,
so she stormed off to reception to get some fresh ones. Thursday, December
29
We had our 08.30 bus to Essaouira.
Beforehand, Sabine was sorting through her papers.
She retrieved the piece of paper with Aziz’s phone number on
it, the guy we stood up the night before.
She asked me to look at the back.
It was a torn-off bank statement, indicating the total sum of
4000 Dirham (400 Euros)! Dam! We’d
missed out on our luck! Ahmed
was a man worth knowing after all, with 4000 Dirham in his bank account!! Our coach seemed to be in good
condition. As we boarded, we
were greeted by a Bob Marley song, which made a change from a wailing
Arab. However, we had to endure the same three Bob
Marley songs on DVD throughout the whole journey… The scenery along the way was
very nice. Unfortunately, there
again, this wasn’t the kind of bus that stops where you like. It makes one stop along the way for toilets
and refreshments. Of course,
the one place the bus does stop at is not at all picturesque and you
had to traipse through mud to get to the café.
We got chatting to a young waiter called Karim.
The young guy announced that he has family living in Mantes La
Jolie (west of Paris). Now considering that we’d stopped off in the
boonies, and the guy announces that…. one wonders! We arrived in Essaouira at 11.15
and immediately started queuing with the other passengers to get our
return tickets. We were fortunate
to be able to get the 18.45 bus returning that day as there weren’t
many seats left. It was another sunny and warm
day. Essaouira is a quaint town
with white painted houses and bright blue shutters – it has a Mediterranean
look about it – and is well known for its port.
We were wandering around the streets when suddenly guess who
we spot! One of the Puerto Rican
guys who we’d met in Marrakech! We
stopped to have a chat. He’d just been camel riding and he recommended
that we should absolutely do it, handing us one of Rachid, the camel
driver’s business cards. 100
Dirham (10 Euros) for a one-hour camel ride.
Although I wasn’t too sure about this, I thought that if the
Puerto Rican aged 70+ could do it, then there was hope for Sabine and
I. Before I knew it, Sabine was
phoning Rachid. There was no getting out of it now. Rachid proposed to meet us at the tourist office at 15.00. Sure enough, at the tourist office, we were
greeted by Rachid dressed in sexy camouflage trousers, trekking boots
and a bright blue kaftan. Things
were looking up. He accompanied
us to a taxi, which took us five minutes up the road to brushwood-covered
sand dunes. He had four camels were hiding among the brushwood
and trees. With a bit of a shove from Rachid,
we managed to mount the camels (in fact called dromedaries because they
have one hump). I was more worried
about getting off the thing! We set off towards the beach;
our camels attached one behind the other.
This wasn’t too bad after all.
It was very windy down on the beach and among the dunes. Sand was blowing everywhere. While I was holding on for dear life, Rachid,
wrapped up in his headscarf, was sitting sideways on his camel, talking
into his mobile phone and not holding on!
No comment… Unfortunately, camels can be
stubborn things. For one reason
or another, my camel wouldn’t go where Rachid wanted to go. So Rachid and I had to swap camels. Which meant descending without falling off – this is something you
have to master pretty quickly! I mounted Rachid’s camel, only
to discover a slight discomfort. His
camel had an axe attach to its left side.
I therefore had to endure an axe head sticking into my inner
left thigh for the rest of the journey. And the journey soon went from
one hour to one and a half hours. We
were on our way back and had to cross a small river that ran into the
sea. We weren’t sure why, but
all three camels started kicking up a fuss and refused to cross the
river. You should always go by a camel’s instinct. Apparently they’d already crossed that part
of the river that morning. Maybe
the torrents were too strong? Maybe
there was sinking sand? In the
end, Rachid had to get off, take off his boots, roll up his trousers
and lead us across, fortunately without further mishap. We finally made it back to where
we started and the taxi came to pick us up. We gave Rachid a 20 Dirham tip (2 Euros) after all the trouble he’d
been too. By the way, Rachid
is also a man worth knowing. We
were previously informed by a tour guide that one dromedary camel is
worth 1,000,000 Dirham (100,000 Euros!)
However, I investigated on internet and found some for sale for
a non-negligible price of 4,000-7,000 US Dollars each. We got back in time for our
18.45 bus. The Puertan Ricans
were taking the same bus as us. I
should point out that both bus drivers drove very well and carefully. We stopped off on the way at the same café
as before. An old man dressed
in a djellaba was sitting watching some Anglo-American looking soap
opera, along the lines of “The Bold and The Beautiful”, dubbed into
Arabic. Our young waiter, Karim, was still there, so
we had a chat with him. He said
he wanted to come and see us in Marrakech… That evening, back at the hotel,
we had a power cut in our room. Hopefully
it cut out the microphone and electric piano in the bar, because we
couldn’t hear that guy wailing! However,
it meant that I had to move around our room using the light from my
mobile phone. Friday, December
30
We were very lucky with the
weather. It was another sunny
day. Our day was dedicated to visiting the Ali Ben
Youssef Medersa, a 16th century theological college which
housed up to 800 students in tiny cramped rooms.
Entrance fee 40 Dirham (4 Euros). We wandered the souk. I was after buying a goatskin pouf. We stopped off at a pouf shop and were greeted
by Djamal, the salesman, in his 30s.
We said we wanted to buy two poufs.
Djamal invited us to sit on a pouf.
We had to get comfortable for the bargaining.
He also asked us if we wanted some tea, which we did. Leaving us comfortably seated in his shop, he rushed off round the
corner to get some and returned a few minutes later. We had to abide by Djamal’s
way of bargaining. That is,
he writes a price first on a piece of goat’s skin, then we write the
price that we want to pay, etc. until we come to a mutual agreement.
Well, his starting price for both medium and large poufs was
1,620 Dirham (160 Euros)!! He
must be joking or what! In between
the price negotiating, we struck up a conversation about the differences
between the European and Arab way of living, cultures, salaries, taxes,
etc. Very interesting. Then Sabine started on the subject of the way the tourists get ripped
off buying souvenirs, with some souvenirs being authentic and with others
you see the same stuff everywhere and it’s obvious they’re made in a
factory, indicating the pots in the boutique opposite as an example. She then picked one of Djamal’s poufs and indicated
to him which stitching was done by a machine and which stitching was
done by hand. Djamal was quick
to realise that he wasn’t about to rip us off by asking for 1,620 Dirham
for two poufs! Anyway, after spending a couple
of hours in his shop, we finally came away with two poufs for a total
price of 370 Dirham (37 Euros). Can’t
complain really. Sabine wanted
her brown pouf darkened – it was for a friend who had specifically asked
for a dark brown pouf. While
leaving a colleague to darken it with linseed oil (only takes about
ten minutes), Djamal invited us for tea at another friend’s shop.
We arrived at Moustapha’s & Abdul’s woodcarving shop to be
greeted by Abdul, and a couple of French tourists in their 50s who were
there to negotiate a job lot of goatskins to take back to Paris.
The woman had strange taste in clothes – she was peroxide blonde
wearing a black top, black mini skirt, black tights and black boots. I think she was trying to get the “punk” look
but she was way past it age wise! Abdul led us all up to his open-air
terrace where he started making tea.
His cousin was polishing a wooden statue. He explained that normally his father did the carving, but today
was his day off. Abdul also
spoke German and exchanged a few words with Sabine.
Amazingly enough, in addition to French, quite a few Moroccans
speak German. It was all very
convivial. Suddenly, Djamal excused himself and said he
had to go, but would be back. Sure
enough he did return and explained that he’d been to pray at the mosque…
and subsequently lit up what seemed and smelt like a joint!!! Well, if that’s what praying does for you…?!? We had to leave our friends
as time was getting on. We headed
off back towards the main square, which amazingly enough we found after
traipsing round the souk’s little alleyways.
We had a freshly squeezed orange juice from a seller on the square
with a very cute smile, before heading up to have a drink at a terrace
café overlooking the square and the sunset. As promised, we ate at food
stall n° 42. The guys recognised
us and we were treated like queens.
There were regular power cuts that evening, so more often than
not we ate in the dark. At one
stage, Sabine got the chance to “do some cooking” behind the stall with
her three admirers. A young Arab guy arrived with
his European wife, who looked in her early 20s, with their young baby,
as well as with his mother, and probably his sister.
The young European wife was obviously visiting her in-laws. It was interesting to observe and take note.
The husband looked totally bored and was not talking to his wife
at all… After dinner, Sabine and I did
a tour of the souk by night and still managed to find our way out. One of Sabine’s admirer’s, a carpet seller,
gave us a bracelet with a stone heart.
How sweet. We took a taxi back to the hotel,
this time it was an old guy driving a rundown Peugeot 205 without a
front bumper. We soon found
out why it had no bumper. This
guy drove so fast, racing round streets, skimming bikes and pedestrians. At one moment, he even drove half on the pavement so that he could
queue jump and be at the head at the traffic lights! We were laughing. He turned round towards us laughing and gave us a five. We arrived in one piece at the hotel. I gave the guy 40 Dirham (4 Euros) instead
of the negotiated 30 Dirham (3 Euros).
He deserved the 10 Dirham (1 Euro) tip!
Unfortunately, he was so fast that I didn’t get a chance to find
out his name or get a business card. Saturday, December
31 (New Year’s Eve)
Again another sunny day. We took a taxi over to the tannery where we
were hassled by a guy who persisted in being our tour guide and was
no doubt expecting money for his services.
We made the mistake of saying that we were going to have a drink
first and he promptly took us to a “café” which looked more like a garage
that had been tiled. The guys
in the “café” were surprised to have a couple of female tourists visiting. Of course, there was no fresh coffee in this
place so we had to make do with Nescafé.
In the meantime, our “tour guide” was hovering. We drank our coffee and while he was chatting
to other tourists, we did a bunk into the tannery where they prepare
the goatskins before they are transformed into poufs, bags, etc. The stench in this place is quite something,
but it’s interesting. Back at the main square, we
wanted a coffee and decided to test another restaurant/café with a terrace.
I can confirm that this particular restaurant has the best five-star
toilets in the whole of Marrakech.
You’re greeted by an old toilet attendant, who makes sure the
toilet is clean before you go in and you get toilet paper and soap!
This little old lady deserved a tip. However, I didn’t get a chance
to note the name of the restaurant because of an incident that occurred
on the terrace. (In any case,
it’s to the right of the Chegrouni restaurant).
Sabine and I sat down at a table for four in the sun. The manager came to us and said that the table
was for four people and could we move to the table for two (which was
in the shade and therefore cold). Sabine
replied that the two other people nearby were seated at a table for
four so why couldn’t we? The
manager explained that they were waiting for other people.
(Highly unlikely as they were well into their meal). While the manger had disappeared, we moved
to another vacant table for four in the sunshine on the other side. The manager reappeared and stated that if we
stayed there, he wouldn’t serve us.
He disappeared back inside again.
Well, if it was going to be like that, then we would leave. We got up and as we walked past him, I said, “You’ve just lost two
customers!” As we continued
walking down the stairs, he hurried after us shouting “Oi!”. Sabine turned round and replied, “Oi what?” and we left. We don’t recommend eating or drinking there
on the terrace, but we certainly do recommend the toilets. That afternoon, Abdou the taxi
driver took us to the Majorelle
Garden, owned by Yves Saint Laurent, and famous for its blue villa
and various cacti and plants. The entrance fee is 30 Dirham (3 Euros).
The garden is small but is well worth the visit. That evening, Sabine and I decided
to treat ourselves. Not everybody
gets to celebrate New Year’s Eve in Marrakech. We’d previously made a reservation at the Stylia
palace restaurant, 34 rue Ksour, tel. +212 44 440505, attributed
the “3 fourchettes luxe” (3 luxury forks) rating.
We were quoted the New Year’s Eve menu as being 900 Dirham (90
Euros). We did panic in the
week as it occurred to us that we hadn’t brought any nice clothing with
us for New Year’s Eve. I had
to make do with a respectable T-shirt and black trousers.
At least I had another pair of shoes other than my trekking shoes… I have to say that the architecture
of the restaurant is impressive. And considering that your ordinary
run-of-the-mill restaurant/bar in Paris charges around 150 Euros for
a New Year’s Eve menu, which is usually nothing special, we certainly
had our money’s worth with our five-course 90 Euro menu at the Stylia:
To which you add a bottle of
wine for around 20 or 30 Euros. We
got big portions. Not only that,
they served you from huge platters, so you could help yourself to the
rest of the platter if you wanted.
We were stuffed! In addition,
we had excellent service and entertainment, which consisted of traditional
musicians and belly dancers. We left at around 1 a.m. The doorman kindly accompanied us round the
streets to a taxi. Being New
Year’s Eve, it cost us 50 Dirham (5 Euros) to go back to our hotel. We passed Djamal the waiter in the hotel bar.
He rushed over to us to wish us a Happy New Year and gave us
eight kisses each! Sunday, January 1 We had our Aigle Azur flight
departing at 16.35. Transport
had been arranged from the hotel. Fatima
gave each of us a questionnaire to complete about our stay at the hotel. We made sure we noted the hotel’s reluctance
to change bath towels every day and that Fatima proposed a meeting at
11.00 on our first day in Marrakech, to which she turned up late, and
which wasted half a day. Our fear was that we’d come
across François the footballer on our flight.
We met up with other passengers we flown out to Marrakech with
who said that they were so sick of François and his jokes that they’d
dumped him in the desert, and that in fact he was taking a later flight. Thank god for that! We boarded our flight on time
but we had to wait for about half an hour while they continued boarding
passengers. Apart from that, the flight, sadly, was uneventful. I have to say though that baggage collection
at CDG airport was totally inefficient.
From the time we landed to the time we picked up our luggage,
one hour had gone by! I also
took the liberty of trying to find an Aigle Azur representative to make
a formal complaint about our delayed outbound flight and to see if we
had a chance of getting compensation.
But it was well after 22.00 and there was not a soul. On my return to France, I wrote
a letter to the travel agents who replied quickly, explaining that flight
delays were beyond their control, that security was of the utmost importance
for their passengers and as a token gesture, they gave Sabine and I
each a 50 Euro voucher to use on one of their package holidays only,
and which are to be used by October 2006.
Not much good to us! Still,
we had fun. Conclusions
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