I am writing this, sitting in the very Moroccan sitting room of our two-level suite in a distinctly Moroccan riad – trying to ignore the call to prayer droning out from the Muezzin of a nearby mosque.
For readers who don’t know, Mary and I are spending four days over Christmas in Marrakech. We escape the joys and rigours of Christmas, in exchange for the occasional Islamic call to prayer.
On arrival at Marrakech airport, we experience the most amazing coincidence. Waiting for our bags on the carousel, we chat to a friendly Brit who turns out to be the owner of the riad we are staying in – the Riad Farnatchi. He’s visiting his son who now runs it. He says he “built” it – which sounds both reassuring (proper standards) and slightly concerning: the whole idea is that a riad is an old traditional Moroccan house, converted to accommodate the foreigner. But no worries. The Riad Farnatchi is very traditional, although the conversion must have been a challenge. Apparently he (Jonathan Wix) bought three neighbouring houses, joined them together and turned them into what they now are - a riad, a kind of Moroccan style hotel. And he seems to have done it magnificently.
We get to the Riad and are welcomed by the delightful Saida. I never got to fully understand the geography of the place, even of our room, or rather suite. This has a sitting room with sofa and armchairs, plus a log fire. A winding staircase leads up to a bedroom with an en-suite sunken bath. Down a small corridor you get to a more normal bathroom with walk-in shower. And somewhere there’s our own private roof terrace looking out onto the expanse of the city.
The drive to the Riad is very Marrakech. The taxi drops you in a square (actually not a square at all) amid donkeys, motor bikes, general chaos; and a man from the Riad meets us to lead us down various alleyways (more donkeys) until we dive through an arch leading to the imposing wooden door of the Riad. Through the door you come to the main courtyard of the Riad, with its fountain and mosaic-lined pool – a swimming pool, according to Saida, but not heavily used at this, or maybe any other, time of year.
The weather is sunny and cloudless: 20 degrees centigrade on arrival, but getting seriously cooler as the evening closes in. We elect to have supper in the Riad, definitely not by the pool, rather in the dining room with its blazing log fire.
The Farnatchi has its own guide to the restaurants of Marrakech, written by our new best friend Jonathan Wix and described by him (entirely correctly) as a ”highly subjective guide”. One of the top places he describes as “pretty grim by any standards”. Another (the late Michael Winner’s favourite) is “pretty pedestrian”. All good stuff – it means that when he recommends, you take note.
Our dinner in the Riad is excellent. The only trouble is that we dine in solitary splendour – where are the other guests?
The dining room has an interesting feature that gets it into the DK guidebook of Marrakech. The wall looks (as the guide book rudely says) a bit like flock wallpaper. In fact, as close inspection reveals, it’s a kind of intricately carved stucco. Jonathan later explained that it was all a mistake. He hadn’t really intended it, but when it was half done he hadn’t the heart to stop the work. It’s obviously a Moroccan speciality – that has yet to catch on elsewhere.
Christmas Day
It’s very hard to remember that it’s Christmas Day, as things go on as on any other day.
We have breakfast, snuggling up to the log fire in one of the communal rooms off the courtyard – making friends with two English guests, John and Petra (father and daughter), who have the same idea. He, a spritely 85 year old, was a cameraman with the BBC and many years ago had done his filming in remote areas of Morocco.
We decide, on our first morning, to brave the souks - without a guide. One of the main tasks of a guide (apart obviously from preventing you getting lost) is to shoo away the endless youths trying to sell you their goods and services. In times gone by, as I remember, they were so insistent that in practice you had to have a guide. Now you don’t. But you still have to be firm and ruthless. Don’t look them in the eye; don’t get into conversation. Difficult – and rather sad – but possible.
The Riad is close to the north end of the souks. So it’s easy to go through them and eventually get to the famous central square of Marrakech, the Jemaa el-Fna, with its snake charmers, musicians, colourful water sellers, monkeys - as well as normal things like fruit and vegetable stalls. And a hedgehog, of all things. It seemed to be intent on escaping, but when it got too far away, its owner threw a sunhat on it, which momentarily halted its progress. Was it a happy hedgehog? Who can say?
There used to be a lively café, the Argana, with a first floor terrace overlooking the square – ideal for watching the fun (see left). But some years ago a madman (apparently unconnected to any brand of terrorism, Islamic or otherwise) detonated a bomb in the place. Reconstruction proceeds at a very leisurely pace. It’s still closed.
We make two purchases in the souk and the whole process makes me think deep thoughts. Mary buys a scarf; asking price 250 dirhams (divide by 10 to get roughly to sterling or, closer actually, to euros); eventual deal, after modest bargaining, 120 Dh. I buy a purse; asking price 50 Dh; eventual deal, after even more modest bargaining, 30 Dh. Is it all worth it? We saved a total of 15 euros. Apparently it’s all fun to the locals; to us it’s a bore, and a strong disincentive to buying. I’m convinced that they’d do better with fixed prices. But maybe there are enough punters who don’t bargain. We thought about getting a nice leather belt and started to ask the price; then got bored and made our excuses. Mary later saw them at the airport at a fraction of the price being asked.
After a long walk through the souks and around the famous Koutoubia mosque (you can’t go in), we marched fearlessly in to the Mamounia Hotel (left), retracing the steps of Winston Churchill. We relaxed on the terrace – in great comfort and beautiful surroundings – and enjoyed what was probably the most expensive beer and Caesar salad in North Africa.
Dinner at the Yacout, one of the top restaurants in Marrakech. Jonathan Wix’s guide says it’s one of the great “restaurant experiences” anywhere. He also says that some have called it the best restaurant in the world, which – in his words - “is patently absurd”. It is certainly an experience, partly because it’s in an old riad that has been beautifully – if extravagantly – decorated. But there’s a catch. There is no menu and the food comes in gigantic quantities and a multiplicity of courses. We had been warned: Don’t even think about eating all that turns up; just pick at it. This has to be put to the test with the starters – about 10 little plates of goodies. They are delicious. But they are followed by a whole chicken – again delicious – to be shared between the two of us. And it is itself followed by a slow-roasted gigot of lamb – not quite so good actually. Then desert. Do I make my point? It’s a challenge to resist overeating, even if properly warned in advance. A challenge I certainly failed, as I discovered staggering back to bed.
Boxing Day
Again, Boxing Day is unsurprisingly just like any other day, except that it falls this year on a Friday, so some of the shops are closed and the Muezzin is perhaps even more insistent in his call to prayer.
For us it is our excursion day. I’ve discussed with Saida (and also Morad, the even more accomplished top man) the idea of seeing Richard Branson’s Kasbah hotel in the High Atlas. This seems possible, although we are discouraged from having lunch there. Perhaps Saida doubts whether we can afford it.
The plan is to take a tour with a guide and a driver, up into the High Atlas, to see a village that we haven’t been to before – Imlil – and to have lunch near there; then coming back via Sir Richard (me wondering suspiciously whether this latter bit will actually happen).
The guide is the delightful, educated and very knowledgeable Nuri. We go up into the mountains (speeding past the Branson Kasbah) and reach a Berber village called Douar Samla in spectacular mountain scenery, looking up at the highest mountain in North Africa, the snow-covered Mt Toubkal. We have lunch in a rambling guest house, sitting in the sunshine on the roof terrace with an Italian family from Modena and a South African on his travels who works for Shell and lives in Amsterdam.
Then the drive back via Branson. We stop at the gate and are faced – Uh Oh! - with a sign saying it’s closed to visitors. We politely explore this with the doorman. After a short conversation between him and the persuasive Nuri, we get the nod and are allowed in.
It’s certainly spectacular. We risk our financial security by having a mint tea on the terrace (actually, not expensive), looking out over a splendid swimming pool that enjoys the most magnificent backdrop of the snow-clad Atlas Mountains. I’m sure it’s all worth every penny of the £1,000 a night that they probably charge.
Before leaving, Mary approaches someone who she thinks might be Richard Branson’s mother Eve. She isn’t, but Mary was close. The lady (called Barbara) is involved with the Eve Branson Foundation, which does amazingly good things for the local Berber villagers. And apparently we missed seeing Eve herself by only a few hours.
We left with a very warm feeling about the place, armed with the glossy brochure, which frankly makes it look like any other Ritzy up-market hotel: the photo of the pool manages not to show the mountains – quite an achievement. (I managed to do better - see above.)
We have dinner with our new friends, John and Petra, at the Foundouk restaurant. Excellent food – in more digestible quantities - and just round the corner from our Riad.
Saturday
A more restful day, with a more leisurely start. We decide to visit the Palmeraie just to the north of the city. The Palmeraie is an expanse of palm trees covering many acres, presumably indicating the presence of water and maybe the reason why Marrakech was sited where it was some 1,000 years ago.
We wanted to go there to see the hotel, Les Deux Tours, where we’d stayed many years ago (and where Dominic organized a Millenium party) and to see the changes. Les Deux Tours is almost unrecognizable: much expanded and, frankly, greatly improved – our memories are mixed.
The Palmeraie is itself massively changed. 10-15 years ago it was largely undeveloped, with a very few villas and hotels, like the fairly simple Les Deux Tours. Now you get there on a newly constructed fourlane highway and pass by luxury villas, golf clubs, and big hotels.
One of these hotels we visit, the Palais Rhoul – to see how the plutocrats spend their money (it has reputedly the best hammam in the universe). It was originally a large private house and has been converted to a hotel by the owner, a French/Maroccan lady. It is spectacular. We sit by the circular swimming pool that is surrounded by columns and enjoy a modest beer and salad. Our neighbours may be a little typical. He, a man in his fifties, she, his younger female companion, do not exchange words - as he consults his iPhone and she rearranges her hair.
We have dinner at Le Comptoir, which provides a different experience: good Moroccan food plus a floorshow. We are advised to go for a late dinner at 9.00 as the show starts at 10.30. When we get there, the place is heaving, with well-healed locals and, of course, tourists. Sure enough, at 10.30 on come the sexy dancers, some balancing elaborate candles on their heads. They dance around and among the tables – and sometimes on them. Not very Islamic, one assumes.
Sunday
A day of relative rest for us, after a lie-in, after having been woken up at 5.30 by the Muezzin who manages to spin out his message that God is great for an interminable 15 minutes. I should note here that the Riad kindly offers earplugs to those who want them.
We go to the Majorelle Gardens. Founded a hundred or so years ago by a French artist, Jacques Majorelle , and then bought and restored more recently by Yves St-Laurent. The gardens are an oasis of calm, despite the crowds of visitors, with plants of every description from all five continents: Majoring on vast bamboos and palm trees, as well as cacti. Beautifully maintained and well worth a visit.
Then to the tombs of the Saadian sultans, who held sway in the 16th and 17th centuries – said to be the best Islamic architecture in Morocco.
The Saadian tombs are near one of the great gates into the old city, the Bab Agnaou. Some storks have chosen to nest at the top. As they have, more curiously, on the top of one of telephone masts nearby.
Traffic in Marrakech has its fascination. In the medina, taxis have to weave their way around pedestrians, motor scooters, donkey carts, other taxis and even the occasional bus. I asked one of our drivers whether there are many accidents. No, he assured us, no accidents at all. Not a statistic one can easily verify – or believe. Outside the medina, the roads are greatly improved from what I remember on previous visits. Now we have four-lane highways and ring roads, well maintained, with traffic lights that people mainly obey – unlike in some European cities I can think of.
Marrakech is a challenge for animal lovers. You wonder how happy they all are. The donkeys pulling the carts, loaded with anything from vegetables to furniture and mattresses, don’t look at all happy. The butchers sell chickens alive, of course, as a guarantee of freshness. These creatures show no enthusiasm for being weighed before delivery. And the monkeys in the big square: Who knows how much they like being dressed up and held on chains for the pleasure of visiting photographers? One of the monkey owners – or was he a snake charmer? - had a somewhat beleaguered hedgehog, as I’ve already mentioned. It is of course difficult to judge the relative happiness of a hedgehog or a python – or even a monkey.
Coming to the end of our visit, we realize that Christmas hasn’t really crossed our radar. On a previous trip, a restaurant or maybe a hotel had disfigured a window with a rather lame image of a Christmas tree. This time, not even that. And mercifully, no one had thought of dressing up one of the monkeys as Santa Claus.
I should add a note about our delightful riad, the Riad Farnatchi. You have to remember that a riad is not a hotel constructed as such. It consists of one or more old houses, normally tucked away in the depths of the medina, and presumably representing an amazing feat of building and architecture to do the conversion. There are two things to bear in mind. First, obviously, there are no lifts, so you have to climb endless stairs. And the geography – the way the various rooms and courtyards and roof terraces link together – is puzzling; and four days isn’t nearly long enough to fathom it out.
The second thing is heating – at this time of year. It gets cold in the evening; and because the communal rooms all give onto one of the open courtyards, they get cold by late afternoon. All the rooms, including ours, have open fires; but fires have to be lit. We only slowly got into the habit of saying in advance where we wanted to be, so that they could light the fires. But this didn’t always work. On our last evening we said that we would eat in and could we please have a nice roaring fire in the dining room. Come dinnertime nothing had been lit. Much hasty fire lighting had to happen.
All this had to happen just for us – which is another story. The Riad has nine suites. But we seldom saw the other guests. On both occasions that we ate in, we did so in solitary splendour. Where do they all go? The staff said that their guests tend to like their privacy. I think they must have all been on their honeymoons – or perhaps celebs entertaining their mistresses.
On which scurrilous note, perhaps I should conclude my “memoir” of a very enjoyable few days.
Tony Herbert
31 December 2014
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