Month: February 2014

Day 10 Casablanca

It’s a long dull drive to Casablanca through a flat terrain of fallow fields.  The city is busy, modern and traffic choked, so it takes ages to get to the Hassan II Mosque.

This gigantic piece of modern Arabic architecture juts out into the sea on what looks like reclaimed land.  It is truly breathtaking with the tallest minaret in the world and taller than Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.  There is nowhere to park, so we are dropped off and hurry to catch the next guided tour.  We are too late and Hotoman is summonsed by mobile phone to collect us and we spend time walking along the sea front.

Our second attempt at the mosque is successful and a very well informed female guide tells us that the place was build by a French architect.  The roof can be rolled open and I think that must be a tremendous sight, but it’s not going to happen today.

 

The scale is huge and underneath there are vast washing facilities – men and women separately.  The faithful must wash before prayer.  Further down there are great pools and hamams one for men and one for the women.  These however have never been used and remain only on show for the tour guides.  We think it’s a waste.

We return to the seafront to have lunch.  Mary Sue & I decide not to stay in the restaurant we’ve been herded to as it’s a bit dingy and instead head over the road to a place with an outside table and a sea view.

 

The food is fine and only marginally more expensive.  It’s time to check in to our hotel which, in spite of the alleged difficulty is fairly standard for a four star, though Garry doesn’t think it is up to scratch.  We have a free afternoon but are given a time to be back for dinner.  Mary, Sue & I are off to find Rick’s Café.  We know it is down by the docks and briefly consider walking, but decide a taxi might be more sensible.  The first problem is flagging one down that’s free and the next is that none of the drivers seem to know where the place is. No one has heard of Rick’s Bar or the movie ‘Casablanca’. Eventually and with the help of a local man in a suit we find a taxi who thinks he knows where it is. Miraculously we are delivered to Rick’s Café only to find that it is closed.  Mary and Sue are devastated but I notice that it will be opening in thirty minutes so we decide to hang around.  It’s not a very trendy neighbourhood with road works around the docks and suburban flats around a square on the other side.  We sit in the garden square and watch people: families, mothers with babies and children playing. Suddenly there’s a man acting strangely with a ritualistic aggression.  He seems oblivious to those around him and people eye him wearily, beginning to move away.  We also move to the other side of the square and watch children playing until opening time.

Inside it’s a traditional Arabic building with upstairs balcony looking down on a courtyard of tables.  There are booths around the wall and immediately I see that the bar is long and curved with a grand piano to one side.  This seems wrong according to the film, which had a straight bar and ‘Sam’ played on an upright piano. ‘Casablanca’ the movie of course was not filmed in Morocco at all.  This is a homage created in 2004 by an American called Kathy Kriger, who had a dream.  Unlike the café in the movie, this is a classy joint with atmosphere and upstairs the movie plays continuously so that even if this is not the place you get the feel of it.

We are the first customers and it’s late enough in the day to order gin & tonics.  The place is now filling up with tourists and there is a large coach outside – time for us to get a taxi back to the hotel.  The doorman calls one and we have to haggle to lower the price as presumably the doorman has to get his cut of the fare.

We get back to the hotel to the news that we are eating in the Hotel as the traffic is horrendous and it will take us too long to get across town and back.  We have the dining room to ourselves as this is our farewell meal. The food is fairly average and Anthea declares the pastille not fit to eat.  They make better ones back in Christchurch.  This is a fish and prawn mix parcelled up in filo pastry and sounds delicious in the recipe book.

Mary brightens things up with an impromptu feedback session where everyone has to say what their favourite food and place is.  Quite a few things which were not on the schedule score highly.  I stick to the trout lunch, the city of Chefchouen, the Mosque and Rick’s Café.

The next morning we are anxiously waiting for Hotoman to take us to the airport.  He’s late and stuck in traffic.  Sue has to make a connection to somewhere in Italy and others are in the same situation.  I’m on the same flight to London as Jennifer, but she disappears the moment we get to the airport.  I catch up with her in the departure lounge briefly – she’s in business class and we meet up again at the luggage carousel at Heathrow.

Over the next few weeks I dive into Peta Mathias’ book and try the Pastille which is a success.  I grind up my spices to make Ras al hanout and entertain friends to lamb tagine, I make preserved lemons (quartered and pushed into airtight jars which are then filled with salt then topped up with lemon juice) so simple to make and ready in a week.  These I use in a lemon chicken casserole with cumin, turmeric and fresh coriander leaf – delicious.  I’d bought a postcard with the recipe for Medfounna – the bread stuffed with meat we had for lunch in Erfoud.  It’s in French, so I have to get out my dictionary.  I’ve bought Turkish flour for this thinking it might be similar to Moroccan flour.  It’s not but the result is good with a much more tasty filling that the Erfoud version.  My great success however is beetroot salad. I cook the beets, slice them into sticks and sprinkle rosewater over with a bit of olive oil and seasoning – everyone raves.  It seems that some of the ‘Savours of Morocco’ have been achieved after all.

Day 9 Marrakesh

 

 

So, here we are in famous Marrakesh, sung about in the 70’s by the popular singers of the day.  Anne has brought her huge Macbook-pro down to the pool where there is wifi, to prove that she was right in thinking there was a Beatles song.  We listen.  Also there is a Crosby Stills & Nash number ‘Marrakesh Express’ which has been going around in my head.  I recognise the LP cover as we listen to it, I still have it in my collection.

Today we have a tour in the morning and a free afternoon as there is a change to the schedule.  This has been talked about for several days, the problem being that our flights out of Casablanca would necessitate leaving Marrakesh at 4am in the morning to get to the airport in time.  We’re told there is a conference in Casablanca which has made booking a hotel difficult. I’m not sure why this hasn’t been anticipated earlier as the agents have had our flight times for some months.  Mary was hoping to take a day trip to a seaside place called Essaouira tomorrow and is disappointed.  I’m happy to have a look at Casablanca and in particular the great Mosque and to get to the airport without a rush.

We walk to our minibus to meet our guide for the morning and with Hotoman at the wheel, are whisked off into the countryside to look at an irrigation scheme.  This isn’t on the schedule, but we needn’t worry as some government official is visiting the site and we can’t see it.  Instead we go and look at the outside of the main mosque – we are not allowed inside – and join a number of large coach parties also looking.  Next we pile back into the Medina to look at Medersa Ben Youssef (Islamic School) which is beautifully tiled.

 

Simo’s boys think it’s a cool place to go to school, but are unsure about the small Spartan rooms where the students used to live.  We move onto the 19^th C Mnebhi Palace which is now a museum.  It has a large tent over the courtyard casting a yellow light over everything.

There’s an art exhibition – mostly still life, which I’m not usually attracted to.  They are strangely similar to the European Masters, for example, a painting of sunflowers in five panels. They are rough, exuberant and I like them.  I overhear one of our party saying what poor quality they are, but Liz agrees with me.  We move on to the DarSiSaidMuseum of traditional crafts.  This is dull, poorly lit and badly curated.  One couple can be seen shining their mobile phone on a gloomy glass case in order to see its contents.

Next there’s a visit to a contemporary artist’s gallery or shop.  I’m not that interested and after climbing the stairs, find it all tourist rubbish. The afore-mentioned person however is enthusing loudly.  I descend to the street and wait, waving away the sellers of leather wallets.  Fairly soon others form the party, who have seen the light join me and the wallet sellers return like flies.  Our last organised retail opportunity is to a spice market.  It’s not the sort of market where heaps of colourful spices are displayed but a highly organised business on several floors.  We are herded in groups of about twenty into one of the many presentation rooms painted pale green to look pharmaceutical. Cabinets around the room house jars containing various substances.  We have an entertaining lecture from one of the staff, promoting herbal medicines, spices, oils and creams all made from natural products, allegedly. I can see how this is going and at the end of the lecture the list of products are gone through and people agree to buy.  I can’t believe Mary and Sue, who are buying up large.  In the end however they drop the Agane oil as it is the same price in New Zealand.  I can buy all of these spices in East London and prefer to make up my own blends and don’t want to be laden down.  I note the Gary and Willy are also not buying.  I slip out though the crowds and wait in a narrow and equally crowded alley-way while our group collect and pay for their purchases.

 

We now have free time and for once can choose where to eat lunch ‘at our own expense’.  Mary, Sue and I have our eyes on an arts & craft school we’ve passed several times and there is the Jardin Majorelle, otherwise known as the Yves St Laurent garden.  But first, lunch.  There’s a modest looking café on the square which will do, but Mary is not well and only Sue & I eat.  In the end Mary goes back to the Riad leaving Me and Sue to get a taxi to the wonderful gardens.  The taxis are reliable and cheap, though the first one we hail doesn’t know where it is.

The next one knows and we find a gathering of coaches and taxis at the entrance to Jardin Marjorelle.  It’s a riot of colour with brick red paths, cobalt blue buildings, green and blue tiles and brightly coloured pots.  ‘Green and blue should never bee seen’ the saying goes.  What nonsense, the colours vibrate against each other to stunning effect.

 

We spend our time oo-ing and ahh-ing at vistas and exotic plants.  The garden was made by French furniture maker Marjorelle in the 40’s. After he died, it was acquired and restored by Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Berge. There is a tranquil area dominated by a ruined classical pillar, a suitably phallic memorial to Yves.  There is also a Berber museum, which we didn’t go into but instead look at the high quality and beautifully designed Moroccan garments on sale in the shop, at a price.

 

 

    We decide it is too far to walk in the heat back to the Arts & Craft centre and engage a cab.  Which one do we want to visit?  We just know it’s near the Mosque and in the end we are dropped not at the school, but at the Main outlet for the graduates.  It’s all very intricate and not really to my taste, but interesting to see nonetheless. We attempt to get a cab back to the main square, but a kindly driver points out that we are literally around the corner.  As we walk back to the riad, there’s time for me to do a little last minute shopping.  I find a pair of red leather Moroccan slippers (my black English ones are a disgrace) at a good price.  Next it’s rosebuds, which I need for the making of Ras el hanout.  This is a North African blend of many spices which I use in tagines. I last bought rose buds in Tunisia years ago.  I’m on the look out for the actual buds as much of the pre packed stuff is mostly petals.  I find a self service place and pick out the buds. Lastly, a traditional check scarf for my daughter which I think needs to be grey.  Success at the last hour as I haggle the price down for a bargain.

Our evening event is out of town, a dining experience followed by a pageant performed by local people on a grand scale.  When the originator of the place died, his family wanted to close it down, but the King intervened and insisted it be kept open, providing employment for the local people.  We arrive at a Hollywood style Kasbah with a large parking lot for coaches.  People are piling out of vehicles and we join in the queue passing musicians and dancers on the way in.  These local people are supposed to create the atmosphere, but its pretty half hearted.  Inside is a huge rectangular area boarded by stone seating.  Set further back are dining booths.  It’s all enormous.  There’s a donkey running up and down and a camel giving rides.  Liz jumps at this chance and one of her dreams has been fulfilled.  It is clear that the place not well subscribed this evening.  We are in one of many large dining areas and served the usual salads.  This is followed by the most sensational slow roasted shoulders of lamb flavoured with cumin.  Throughout the meal musicians and dancers invade the space and we give them coins, although we’re not supposed to as they are all paid.  Now it is show time and we move onto the tiered seating and wait for the performers to appear.  There is a procession of dancers, musicians and people in costumes all looking very bored with what they are doing.  At one point Aladdin’s flying carpet slowly crosses the stage on a wire and various floats go past. The show climaxes with cavalry charges where the riders, dressed as Lawrence of Arabia freedom fighters gallop past and fire their muskets at one end.  Various acrobatic tricks are performed by the riders and there’s a comedy run made by a man on the donkey.  I can’t help thinking that the family may have had a point wanting to close down this tacky Hollywood style event.

Our drive back is somewhat alarming.  Hotoman has been stopped twice by police here, once for talking on his mobile phone while driving (he’s always doing that) and another time to check something else.  We’re told that there is a log of speeds and such like built into the minibus.  Everyone is in high spirits after the evening and Hotoman decides to weave back and forth across the road and then go round a roundabout 4 or 5 times.  I’m a bit alarmed but some of the party are having the time of their lives.  I’m just hoping that we don’t get spotted by the police.  Who would drive us to Casablanca tomorrow?

Day 7 The Todra Gorges

 

I wake before dawn and take my camera onto the flat roof of the hotel to wait for sunrise.  It sort of makes up for the missed sunset in the desert.  At breakfast, Jennifer & I continue to struggle for a British cup of tea.  Meanwhile Simo is making a big show of distributing maps of where we are going today.  They are free hand-outs from the hotel showing the local area and where to find other hotels in this chain.

We set out for what the schedule says is a five hour drive to the Todra Gorges, only is isn’t and we are ahead of schedule.  Simo  (or is it the driver?) decides to stop at a fertile valley and take a walk through fields.

 

Having engaged Hamid, a very handsome young man to guide us we scramble down a bank. Jennifer declines and stays with the minibus.  Hamid’s English is excellent and, having just left school, is planning to go to university.  We are walking through fields of alfalfa or lucern, which the women are cutting by hand.  I spot a huge pile of corn stalks on legs and tell Mary to come and investigate.  She can’t believe that there’s a donkey under the load.  We engage with the farmers and photograph the loaded beast, who is contentedly chewing on a leaf sticking out of the stack on its back.  Next Mary befriends some little boys and gets them to do cartwheels in return for ballpoint pens.  Simo is initially alarmed, telling us not to encourage them, but Mary has managed these situations before and it’s clear that they have to work for any reward and not just get a handout.  It’s been an interesting and unexpected interlude and as we walk though the village, we see the minibus with Jennifer waiting to pick us up.

Our morning coffee stop is at Tinejdad, an unremarkable place.  Further on, at Tinerhir, we turn off to the Gorges du Todra.  Their dramatic red cliffs remind me of China and the Three Gorges on the Yangtze River.

As it’s around lunch-time we cross the shallow river into one of several restaurants nestled under the over-hanging cliffs.  Although lunch is always at our own expense, we never get a choice and are herded to a particular establishment.  The driver gets commission for bringing us and the same goes for any craft and retail opportunities we visit.  The restaurant has a corrugated iron roof which is attractively lined with traditional fabrics.  It’s hot under the corrugated iron and several people are not eating lunch today.  Others are sharing dishes, so the restaurant is not making much. After the first few days of eating three meals a day, there had been a growing rebellion over lunches.  Some people are opting not to eat at all.  Jennifer often brings a banana from the evening fruit bowl.  Gary and Willy don’t like fixed menus and often order one dish to share.  Sue and Anne are gluten intolerant and save their breakfast cornbread for lunch.  Liz, Mary and I eat everything. The exceptions are when one of us has the runs and we all have a turn at that.  As time goes by we get used to the over abundance and no longer feel guilty about not eating everything on the plate as we were brought up to do.  Variously, we discover we were fed ‘The staving millions of: India, Biaffra or Russia’, depending on which decade one grew up in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a relief to paddle in the river on the way back to the minibus, an opportunity to wash the desert form my sandals.

Our hotel at Dades is a modern version of a Kasbah with spectacular views of the town from the pool terrace.

I make for the swimming pool as it’s long enough to do nine or ten strokes before turning, but it’s very cold and doesn’t warm up as I swim.  So much for doing half an hour and I escape to the jacuzzi which has warm bubbles.  Mary and Sue arrive, but don’t swim, choosing to have a beer instead.  Dinner is another buffet with the usual dishes, salads tagine and fruit.  It’s all getting a bit samey.

Day 8 The Atlas Mountains

Our quest for a decent cup of tea escalates, joined by Garry, who is also a morning tea drinker.  The chain hotels here and in Erfoud do Liptons tea bags on strings.  In Erfoud we put the bags in small cups, bringing another cup of cold milk (essential) to the table to add to the brewed tea bag.  This has to be repeated for each new cup of tea (I need three) with hot but not boiling water.  In the past, Jennifer has asked in vain, in her best Arabic, for a teapot and milk jug and one morning I arrive at breakfast to find that she’s got her tea in a large glass tumbler.  I try it and we agree it is the best solution so far.  This morning she has again asked for a teapot as there are no tumblers.  Garry joins us at the table and orders a teapot and to our great astonishment it arrives, albeit with only one teabag.  Jennifer immediately stops a thin faced waiter who nods and disappears. I notice that he has he’s re-appeared without the teapot.  I remind him and it does arrive.  Hooray!

 

 

 

 

Our first stop is Ouarzazate and the Kasbah de Taourirt.  This is a four-hundred year-old castle/palace which had been partially restored. It’s a fine piece of architecture and has been used for locations on several movies. 

Of particular note are the painted wood ceilings.  At each of these stops, Simo organises a local guide. This one has quite good English and is very informative. Simo tries to contribute information but his accent is no more accessible that the guide’s and he doesn’t really have anything to add. 

We take a walk through the streets before continuing our journey to the Atlas Mountains, passing the ‘Hollywood’ of Morocco.  In the distance we can see film lots and sets representing other African and middle eastern locations. 

Some of the others suggest that this might have been interesting to look at.  Personally I have no need to look at film sets.  Lawrence of Arabia was filmed around here and I imagine loads of horsemen galloping over the desert behind Peter O’Toole.  At least there is a herd of camels to look at in the arid landscape.

 

Road to Atlas Mountains

 

Our journey through the Atlas Mountains takes us up steep winding roads with precipitous drops to the valleys below.  We climb at least three major passes, the highest of which is closed in winter.  Someone has an altitude meter and records the highest point.  The grandeur and colours in the mountains is breath-taking as is our speed.

Hotoman passes scores of heavy lorries winding their way up and down.  Fortunately there is not too much traffic in the opposite direction, but there are pleas from the back not to swing around corners so much.  Along the way, on wide bends, lone men have set up their stalls of rock crystals and craft-ware for sale.  I can see there’s nothing I’d want to buy, but the shoppers and browsers would like to stop. However, time presses, no commissions have been arranged and the lorries we have passed would catch up and have to be re-passed.

 

Mary and Sue are on about Argan oil, the latest ‘must have’ in New Zealand for hair care and cooking.  I’ve never heard of it and think that these uses are a strange combination.  On reflection, coconut oil has many uses.

Argan oil comes from a berry on a tree which grows in the Atlas Mountains and goats famously climb these trees to graze.  At our coffee stop Mary spotted what she thought might be one of these trees, but Simo says no, there are no Argan trees in this area. On our way down the mountains, Mary and Sue see a sign for a ‘Woman’s Collective’ selling Argan oil.  They ask the driver to stop, but no, he’s not going to.  We suspect he doesn’t have an arrangement with the collective.  Later we find out that it’s not really a women’s collective but a marketing ploy to attract women customers.  It almost worked.

The drive to Marrakesh passes through agricultural land and at this time of year the crops have been harvested.  Olive trees still bear fruit and there are a few patches of cabbages newly planted for the winter.  Our riad in Marrakesh is Le Pavillon Oriental, but it’s in the Medina and we can’t just drive up to it. The manageress meets us and boys with carts load our cases and trundle though tortuous alleyways to and unmarked door.  As we have come to expect, this opens onto a tranquil courtyard and there’s a pool.  It’s been a long uncomfortable and sweaty journey so I make a bee line.  It’s possible to push off the steps and one end, swim two or three strokes before doing a tumble turn, then back to the steps.  It’s not much exercise, but it’s cooling.

‘It all happens in the huge town square at night’, we’re told and Simo says it goes on until dawn.  It is indeed buzzy when we get there.  Great avenues of stalls have been set up selling all manner of street food.  You sit at a trestle table and eat your food off a piece of paper.  There are some gruesome options such as sheep heads, lungs and other offal.  Several stalls sell hot snails.  Some of us don’t fancy eating at these stalls, which makes Simo cross. Apparently they have been feeding tourists for years with no reported side effects. We are offered a choice and divide into two groups.  Six of us go to a restaurant with tables, chairs, cutlery and napkins.  The rest (including Simo’s two sons who have joined us for a family holiday) go for the street food.  We spot a very nice looking place and Simo pops into the kitchen on the pre-text of checking its cleanliness.  He emerges to suggest a special offer of chicken with preserved lemon.  He’s done a deal with the restaurant.  Garry spots a roast lamb dish on a neighbouring table and asks the diners what it’s called.  Simo is furious and thinks this is inappropriate. I think the chicken sound good but Garry is determined on the lamb.  Once again I have to intervene and tell Simo to go as we are all adults and can look after ourselves.  Actually, all of us at this table are very experienced travellers and Marrakesh has the reputation for being one of the safest places in Morocco.

We’ve had our salads and are waiting for the main course when Simo comes to check on us.  They’ve finished their street food and are ready for the horse and cart ride around the city by night in recompense for the cancelled camel ride in the desert.  He goes away and Hotoman, our driver, waits for us to finish, hovering in the door.  Next there’s a belly dancer with paper money in her bra strap.  Garry briefly gets up to move his hips as does Jennifer.  Fortunately I’m hemmed in behind the table and concentrate on my food.  Eventually she tries elsewhere.  It’s late by the time we tumble out of the restaurant and make our way to the horse and carriage area.  We need three to accommodate all of us.  Liz is in high spirits and joins me, Mary and Sue.  We encourage her to go on the top with the driver to get the best view.  It’s lovely to see this first time traveller, who many years ago left New Zealand for Canada and got as far as Queensland, enjoying every moment.  We drive around for about an hour past all the posh hotels.  Sue is concerned that one of the horses is not going straight, he’s veering off to the right and the driver keeps using the whip.  Fortunately all the retail establishments are closed at this late hour and it’s just past midnight when we are returned to the main square.  By this time the crowds have begun to thin out and activity is slowing down, so much for the ‘all night party’.  We’ve all taken a careful note of the way back to the hotel, so it’s with some surprise that we see Simo moving off to the left in completely the wrong direction.  We all shout and point to the right.  Even his wife and sons shout ‘the other way’, but he is adamant and says he knows his own country.  Clearly he has a poor sense of direction and is eventually persuaded to go to the right but not without a small tantrum.