Hammam Visit

The second of my series of articles entitled 'An English girl in Morocco' was published today. This time the subject was a visit to a hammam and can be found here if anyone is interested.

First Impressions of Marrakech

I was approached last week by a Arabic newspaper which is published in London. They asked me if they could publish something I wrote in March on my return from a trip to Morocco. Some readers may already have seen this article on this blog, but it can also be found here on the online version of the newspaper, Alarab online.

Remembering Morocco (5)

Again we rose early and after a small breakfast were soon back on the road, piled into the back of the Landie and brimming with excitement. That evening we would be sleeping in the Sahara Desert. But first, a visit to the Todra Gorge. In the clear sharp African sunlight the shadows are crisp and neat making the 300 metre high walls which are either side of the river appear even more majestic. Against the bright azure sky the faded red of the rock takes on a magical hue – this is a natural cathedral if ever there was.

We wander along the bank of the river and a small boy appears by my side, his eyes glinting against his dark cheeks and hair. He holds out something in his hand, which I take. It is a camel, albeit rather small and woven out of green reed. It is beautiful so I pay him and he trots off to his father, pleased with his sale. All along the side of the footpath there are people peddling their wares. Every time we pause, there is someone by our side. We return to the Landie and climb inside. We are obviously not the only ones with this idea as when I turn round to watch the gorge disappear from view I am surprised to find a boy hanging off the back ladder, his eyes level with mine through the rear window. Laughing, he drops off the back as we turn left towards the desert.

We spend the rest of the day driving ‘cross country’, our vehicles taking it in turns to chase each other across the flat desert which stretches in every direction as far as the eye can see, bordered by the Atlas mountains in the distant distance. The sand is orangy and dust flies up in huge plumes behind the Landies as they speed across the ground. We have to drive next to each other as to drive in convey would be nigh on impossible. We race. I feel as if we are on an important mission.

And then, finally, we reach Merzouga. The last outpost before the Erg Chebbi sand seas. It is from this small village that our Berber guide, Omar, is from. He leads us between small houses and we stop at a shop. Some of our party purchase desert scarves – M and I had already stocked up in the souks at Marrakesh. And then, as the afternoon sunshine began to creep towards evening, we went to meet our camels.

Six camels, in a caravan, ropes threaded through their noses. “Hush” says their leader to each in turn and they kneel down, awkwardly, one knee at a time. We pack the saddle bags with firewood, water and Berber drums and pose for one last photograph against the backdrop of the camels. Each of the party is assisted in turn onto a camel and the camel is instructed to rise. Which it does, again, one knee at a time, so for an instant you feel as if you are going to topple off forward and then sideways and then suddenly you are several feet in the air. Their backs are warm and they are furry. Much more woolly than I ever imagined.

I am sat on the leader of the caravan. His rope is held by a Berber camel driver and he leads the train across the sands into the desert. The sun is still warm but dropping over the horizon. The shadows are crisp and clear although lengthening. The sand is redder than I thought and our shadows lay over the dunes. It is quiet and beautiful and so peaceful. The camels footsteps do not make much noise against the shifting sand and the repetitive swinging of their backs is somehow rather comforting. There is very little other wildlife in this part of the Sahara; scarab beetles are perhaps all that I see other than some tiny green scrubby plants. The beetles are quite large and shiny and visible even from the back of a camel. They leave tiny footprints behind them as if the teeniest four wheel drive vehicle had driven in circles along the tops and sides of the dunes.

I sit there and my mind drifts. It is so quiet. In my minds eye I see Count Almasy stumbling along, desperate to get back to Katherine. This may be Morocco but it could just as easily be anywhere else in the Sahara. The sun slides towards the horizon and the sand shifts colour, deeper, redder. It looks colder in the fading light. We wind our way onwards through the sand sea, the dunes getting higher and hillier, the valleys deeper. We tread towards the Algerian border. It is almost dark, the sky is a deep blue-black. The last rays of the sun fade behind the horizon and little prickles of stars begin to appear. And then, we see tents. Berber tents, dark against the pale sand. We stop near them and our driver is speaking to the camels. “Hush” he says, and they bow to their knees. We climb off and look around. As far as there is to see there are sand dunes. It feels as if one could walk forever and never reach the edge.

We gather around the fire that Omar has built, wrapped in thick woollen blankets and we eat tagine, scooping out the meat and vegetables with flat bread, all of us around one dish. It is very bright now that the stars and moon are out properly, almost as light as day. We can see the camels lying down after eating their food, resting on their knees. One has his neck and chin on the floor as well, almost as if he is a dog. The Berbers bring out their drums and start chanting and singing. Drums are handed round and instructions given. We are not our English names but Mohammed, Fatima, Ali Barbar. We join in with the drumming and try to follow the chanting. It is intoxicating. There is no other noise except for the drumming. And after the drumming, silence. Silence so loud that it is deafening. I lay back and look up at the stars, stars brighter and clearer than I have ever seen. I feel very small.

Moroccan Inspiration

Was feeling dull and lacking inspiration so I had a look through some of my Moroccan photographs, hoping it might lift me out of my mood. I'm glad I did - the colours, shapes and memories are instantly peaceful. So, I thought I'd share one with you.

I love this minoret: the shape, the detail of the arches which are emphasised by the sharp shadow outlines thrown by the clear african sun and that gorgeous pale red colour which stands so majestically against the perfect azure blue of the sky.

We bought a bedspread in Essouiria which is made from wool, linen and silk and has stripes of different shades of blue, some of them the same colours as the sky in this picture. We bought it from a tiny shop down a beautiful white washed alley way just off one of the main souks in the medina. We walked past but could not help but stop: beautiful stiped bedspreads, throws and rugs in every colour and size imaginable were hung up, their colours intensified by the white wall they were hung against and the hot sun beating down. We haggled to the best of our ability whilst trying not to show how desperately I wanted that gorgeous throw. It is now on our bed in our flat in London and it soothes me everytime I make the bed.

And then, last week, on holiday in Cornwall, I found a pillar candle in the same colours which I bought and which now stands on the black mantlepiece in our bedroom. That also made me happy.

Remembering Morocco (4)

An enforced day off, so finally catching up with some of the things I have been meaning to post for months. First up, the rest of our trip to Morocco.

But after four days of wandering through souks and sitting in gardens, we decided that it was time to do something a bit different. We rose early on the fifth morning, earlier than usual, about the same time that we would do at home to go to work. By 8.30am we were sitting in Djemma El Fna, waiting for Omar to pick us up. All we knew was that we were going for 3 days. One night we were to stay in a riad, the other a tent. We knew we were heading over the High Atlas, across the desert the other side, eventually for the sand seas of Erg Chebbi, near to the Algerian border.

We had been told 8.30am. It came and it went. The minutes ticked by towards 9am and we began to wonder if it had been such a good idea after all. And then, there was a white landie pulling up. A man jumped out. He loaded our bags in and we climbed aboard. An English voice greeted us.

"Hi" she said.

"I'm Fizz".

And that was the last time we doubted Omar.

And so ended the last entry, which can be read in full here.

I paused, awkwardly balanced on the step of the landie, not yet used to the height off the ground, looking up at her. She was wearing Gucci glasses and the early morning sun was reflecting off them. Blonde, pretty up turned nose. I suddenly felt scruffy in my already grubby trousers and plain long sleeved yellow top. I could feel M, impatiently waiting behind me, eager to get in and for us to leave.

"Hi" I replied, "I'm Rachel".

I hauled myself into the back seat and tried to find a place to stash my rucksack.

"This is Ben" she said, gesturing to a straw hat on some blonde straggly curly surfer hair, sat facing away from us in the front seat.

And so began our strange journey to the Sahara. We left the small, red, dusty streets of the medina and joined the wider grey straighter roads of the outskirts. No real road markings, occasionally a set of traffic lights, the purpose of which was hard to ascertain. Bikes of all shapes and sizes flooded past on the edge of the road. Palm trees lined the sides, their roots pushing up cracked and barren soil. We turned towards the mountains in the distance, the snow caps which were visible from all round Marrakesh.

And then, we were pulled over by the police. It was the first time, it was certainly not the last. They wanted papers. Our driver got out and they argued. I thought we were going to have to turn back, but then, as suddenly as it started, there were smiles, patting on shoulders and we were back on the move.

The road began to get steeper and we started to climb through the foothills of the Atlas mountains. We paused every now and then by the side of the road to look at villages built into the side of the mountain, clustered around river beds, to take photos and to use progressively worse squat loos. At each stop, people would appear, as if by magic, trying to sell us fossils, jewellery, tagines. And we would take photos. Omar, our guide, told us to pretend to be Japanese and take many photos.

The air began to get cooler and patches of snow appeared on the ground. The drivers knew the roads well, too well, I thought on occasion, as they overtook on bends of a road with no barriers and a several hundred metre drop to one side. But we made it across the pass safely and were soon dropping down the other side of the mountains and back onto flat land. A complete contrast to the mountain range - this was red, dusty, cracked flat-ish dirt.

We drove for hours across the desert, there were no roads where we were driving, just an occasional barrell or marker. Every now and then there would be a piece of human created rubbish -if it hadn't been for that, there was no sign of human life as far as the eye could see. Until the land got slightly hillier and we rounded a bend; a small settlement appeared out of no-where and we had reached our first destination: Ait Ben Haddou Kasbah.

As we all piled out of the landie, Omar and the two drivers watched with amusement the preparations of 2 english girls. Handbags, suncream, water, a hat. It's hot out there in the desert, you know, our english skins aren't as used to the sun as you Berbers. But wait, lip gloss Fizz, surely not. Omar leads us down towards the river, winding through the small lanes of the little settlement. Suddenly we pop out on the river bank and stand for a moment, taking in the imposing majesty of the kasbah on the other bank, before our attention is drawn to the procession of donkeys in the fore-ground, ferrying passengers from one side of the bank to the other. Some of them seem a little small for the work - one man is so big that his feet drag in the water and his guide is almost having to carry the donkey across for him.

This kasbah is now used for filming; Gladiator and Troy both used it to film town scenes. In the past, this is where the pasha used to live with his hareem. The construction of the buildings is remarkably simple, but is why it does not last forever and has to be re-built; it is red mud mixed with straw to make a sort of concrete and turned into the walls. Bamboo poles are then laid over the top and covered with more of the concrete mix to make the roof.

And then, just as quickly as we arrived, we were off, driving again through Quarzarzate and pass the film studios, through the valley of the roses and finally reaching the Dades Gorge at sunset. We stayed the night in a small riad/guesthouse which was right on the bank of the river. Lying in bed we could hear the water rushing past, but we were too tired to stay awake for long. Besides, in the morning we would be setting off again for the Erg Chebbi sand seas.

Remembering Morocco (3)

We spent the first four days of our trip in Marrakech. Each morning we ate breakfast overlooking the square, each afternoon we watched the sun set from the roof terrace. Marrakech is a very flat city. Each building is supposed to be no higher than the height of a palm tree, except for the mosques, which tower over the city and look beautiful silhouetted against the sunset. The oldest of them all, the Katoubia, was built in the eleventh century and set a trend, both in dimension (the 1 to 5 ratio) and the beautiful tiling around the top. They stand imposing, the call to prayer sounding from loud speakers attached to their tops. All of the other building are of a similar height. It seems that there are two Marrakechs, the one at street level and the one at roof level. I stand, watching the sun set over the limits of the city, the snowy tips of the Atlas mountains visible in the distance, looking over the roofs, the many many satellite dishes and wondering if I could walk over the top of the city if I wanted, jumping from terrace to terrace over the tiny alley ways which divide the houses.


But after four days of wandering through souks and sitting in gardens, we decided that it was time to do something a bit different. We rose early on the fifth morning, earlier than usual, about the same time that we would do at home to go to work. By 8.30am we were sitting in Djemma El Fna, waiting for Omar to pick us up. All we knew was that we were going for 3 days. One night we were to stay in a riad, the other a tent. We knew we were heading over the High Atlas, across the desert the other side, eventually for the sand seas of Erg Chebbi, near to the Algerian border. We had been told 8.30am. It came and it went. The minutes ticked by towards 9am and we began to wonder if it had been such a good idea after all. And then, there was a white landie pulling up. A man jumped out. He loaded our bags in and we climbed aboard. An English voice greeted us. "Hi" she said. "I'm Fizz". And that was the last time we doubted Omar.

Remembering Morocco (2)

Our riad doesn't serve breakfast. It is more towards the backpacker end of the market. So we start each day with a quick walk across the Djemma El Fna to one of the cafés with roof terraces looking over the square. We soon settle on a favourite, which has fewer English speaking tourists, metal chairs with cushions and proper (rather than paper) tablecloths. We order the usual 'petit dejeuner', a basket of bread with a pot of butter, a pot of 'confiture' (which is sometimes jam, sometimes marmalade, occasionally honey), very fluffy orange juice and a cafe au lait and sit back in our chairs, enjoying the morning sun, which already feels rather warm, and watching the movement below in the square. Sometimes we read, sometimes I paint but mostly we sit and watch the people go by. Everyone seems very busy doing not very much at all. The snakes charmers gather under their green umbrellas, their white coats and yellow shoes distinct from the old ladies in black who sit armed with henna under their umbrellas. There are five, six, seven men all identically dressed, taking it in turns to sit and play haunting but garish riffs on what appear to be metal recorders, trying to provoke their snakes into moving, whilst others try and draw in people to watch, to photograph and most importantly to pay. The crowds shift and move rather like tides. Circles gather around raconteurs and acrobats. Men lie in the shade of their umbrellas. A group of men with wheelbarrow like carts sleep in them whilst waiting for business. The orange juice sellers call out for business. It is a strangely compelling place, the Djemma El Fna.

And through it runs a road although it is barely delineated, if at all. More scooters, more bikes, horses, donkeys, men pushing wheelbarrows, delivery vans, the occasional 4x4. One man we see has about 20 boxes of 16 eggs piled on the back of his scooter, held on by two bungees. Another man is on a bike carrying an enormous basket of bread between his legs, his knees bent out right to the side, peddling away. One woman appears to be carrying a TV. She is riding on the back of a scooter. There is a certain scooter style - left leg turned out, foot hanging off, more often than not with the left arm carelessly draped towards the back of the bike. Some have small black helmets (straps undone) perched on their heads. Most are wearing cloaks, open backed shoes, plain muted colours. It is not until I visit a hamaam that I see a non tourist woman without a hejab or similar.

The hamaam we visit it not a tourist one. It is further down the street on which our riad is, further into the 'residential' part of the Medina. There are 2 entrances, separate ones for women and men. We go in at the same time, M and I, so that neither has to wait around. I don't get hassled very much when I am walking next to M. But in the ten minutes that I stand outside afterwards, waiting for M, I get watched, stared at and called to more than the rest of the trip put together. I am nervous going in on my own, my French is more limited than M's. But all the French in the world wouldn't have helped me, once inside, as the women in there appear to only speak Arabic. They gesture to me to remove me clothes. I had read that full nakedness is taboo, so I change under my towel. I put on bikini top and bottoms. The women gesture at me to remove the top.

She takes off all her clothes and changes into an enormous pair of knickers. Wearing only bikini bottoms and flip flops, I follow her. We walk through a room which is full of naked ladies, sitting on the floor surrounded by buckets of water. They are chatting and washing, catching up on gossip I cannot understand but recognise by tones, glances and body language. They look at me with detached interest. I am taller, skinnier, whiter and blonder than all of them. But I don't feel awkward, not at that point. I follow the lady assigned to me through to the next room. She fills buckets at a tap and washes down the floor. She gestures and I sit down. She soaps me with brown gooey soap, which I later discover is 'savon noir' and then scrubs me with a mitt, all over, no part left untouched. Behind the ears, inside elbows, ankles, the lot. I feel like my skin is coming off, but also invigorated and as if my blood is circulating better. And then, just as quickly as it started, it is over. She is waving her arms. I can't understand her. I try gesturing. We still can't understand each other. A younger girl is called over. "Parlez-vous francais?" "Un petit peu" "c'est finit". I follow her out into the slightly cooler changing area and she hands me my towel which I had hung just fifteen or so minutes earlier on a peg. I get dry and changed. The atmosphere has shifted. It no longer feels like people are watching me with distracted fascination. I feel an intruder in their private social space, alienated because we cannot communicate with each other. I do not know the customs of a traditional native hamaam and feel that they feel I am rude for waiting until they indicate by gesture what I must do. My bag is handed back to me and she stands there waiting. She is after a tip. But I only have 2 dirham. I hand it over and she tuts. I cannot tell if the amount I gave her was reasonable or whether she was just hoping for more because I am a tourist. An academic thought though, as I have no more money with me. She limps off muttering and I leave, starting to feel claustrophobic, with a general "au reviour". The ladies have returned to their soup making and tea drinking and do not even look up.

Remembering Morocco (1)

And so our trip started by watching the sun set from the plane, a fantastic sight as all the colours of the rainbow were visible around the tilt of the earth with darkness above and below the rainbow, with only the wing of the plane visible as a silhouette against the rainbow.

We landed at Marrakech airport which had no shops to speak of save for a stand selling drinks. A cat, the first of many cats we were to see throughout our time in Morocco (although we didn't know it at the time), wondered over to say hello. We changed some money and then followed the 'sortie' signs. Into a car park. Where several beige cars were parked, surrounded by a gaggle of men wearing long cloaks with pointed hoods. "taxi" they said. "Djemma El Fna". And so began a period of haggling, where they tried to make us pay three times the amount our guide book suggested, and we told them "c'est plus cher". Eventually the arrival of a German couple meant that we managed to persuade them to take us all for a price we were both happy with. And then we were off. Weaving in and out of bikes, scooters, petit taxis, grande taxis and an assortment of cars and horse drawn caleches. Each bike had two or more occupants, most with a man driving, a woman hanging on the back and a child sat on the lap of the woman. Although it was dark the air was still warm, hotter here at night than the daytime England we had left behind and the city walls glowed red in the glare of the street lamps. Benches lined the walls, each one occupied by a couple, here and there a moped or scooter parked next to them.

And then we had stopped and we were in the middle of what seemed to be a festival. People were everywhere, small children offered biscuits from baskets, others talking loudly to each other, shouting over the crowds. More scooters weaved in and out. Smoke drifted up from many stands gathered in the square, the place, the assembly of the dead. The Djemma El Fna.



Through the chaos we managed to get our bearings and began finding our way down winding narrow streets full of more bikes, mopeds and people. It was a street off the southern side of the Djemma El Fna and seemed all the narrower for the shops, wares and people spilling out from the sides. People walked down the right leaving the centre clear for mopeds, bikes, donkeys pulling carts. The air thick with the smell of hundreds of suppers being cooked, of drains, of donkeys and occasionally spices or perfumes from one of the shops. But this road wasn't one of the souks; this was a more residential street. Each even tinier alleyway off to the side had many doors opening off it. Cats lurked in every corner. Men lounged or squatted by every shop. People spoke to us in Arabic, in French. A small boy followed us, trying to ask us where we were going. "Non monsieur" repeated in ever stronger tones, and still he persisted. And then suddenly, we found the riad (guest house).
Arriving finally. Finally. But no, "c'est complete", "but we have a reservation". He comes out, shutting the door behind him. He leads us to another riad several streets away. We are shown to a room. He leaves. The new proprietor asks for more money than the reservation. We haggle. He finally relents. The room is basic but functional. The walls are red and cold. There is no hot water. We drink the first of many mint teas in the courtyard, the tea poured from a great height into a small glass, to aerate it and allow the mint and sugar to mix. We start to realise that we may be on the same timeframe GMT wise, but everything in Morocco takes its own time.

And so it goes on. Very hot by day, cooler by night. Local women are covered up, wearing more clothes than I thought possible in that heat. I buy a scarf, even in the moderate clothing I brought I feel exposed. Other tourists wear shorts and vest tops but I feel more respectful to their culture my way. Call to prayer punctuates the air five times daily, a mournful lament of a wail, broadcast over a loud speaker system from the tops of the mosques, each on slightly different and an altered tone or timing. The air is full of sound. And smells. Spices, leather, bad drains, mint, food cooking, horse pee. The sun shines through the gaps in separated rays and is full of dust. Everyone calls out to you, "lovely jubbly", "fish and chips" "only to look" "I give you good price". Each shop-owner knows these English phrases but no more.

We wander through the souks, everything you could want, many times over said Canetti, and he was right. Rows and rows of colourful shoes, scarves, carpets. We haggle for a few minutes over a small handbag. He starts high, I start low. He says I am a Berber, I tell him his price is too expensive. I start to walk away. A hand on my arm "excuse me" and he lowers his price. We finally settle on a price which suits us both. I soon learn to keep my sunglasses on, stopping only to admire things that I am prepared to actually buy. We both realise that no matter how much you think you will stick to your best price, you often will go slightly higher. We wander and admire and finally emerge in small squares, blinking at the bright light after the darker alleys of the souks. We realise that the map in our guide book is not much use. You simply have to wander and eventually come across the Djemma El Fna and our bearings can return. Everything here takes it own time.

Marrakech

Camel trekking in the Erb Chebbi sand seas near to Merzouga. More to follow.

Erg Chebbi

The planning for the Marrakech trip continues, sporadically, when I get a chance. So many things to sort out. It's no wonder that people simply book all inclusive holidays with flights and hotel and insurance. It's been fun doing all the research ourselves though. what I can't find though is the information that I am looking for regarding hammams. Some things I've read suggest that one needs to take ones own bucket, soap, scrubby things etc. Other accounts I've read would indicate that you just turn up and pay and it's done for you.

The other thing which I am really looking forward to is the camel trekking. I've been in touch with 2 other people who are joining the same trek and it is making it all seem a little more real. I've also been trying to research the area and what we can expect to see. I believe that we will be driving over the Atlas Mountains which may well still have snow at the highest points. We will continue our drive until we reach a village called Merzouga and from there we will pick up camels, trekking out into the Saharan desert and the sand sea of Erg Chebbi. We will sleep in a nomadic style Berber tent and then trek back to Merzouga the following day. The picture above is of a camel train near Merzouga. I hope to be able to post some photographs of my own on our return.

But for the moment, back to reality and back to London. I am writing this whilst watching In Her Shoes but as TJ is also cooking, I can't hear it too well. I will have to wait for an evening on my own and I will watch it again. Have been trying out a DVD service from Blockbuster, which is free for two weeks. It is one of the offers which can be sampled here at the free gifts website which I mentioned the other day. I signed up for the offer on Monday and had three DVDs in the post yesterday which I then post back, in pre-paid envelopes, and I then receive the next three DVDs on my list. An excellent service and well worth at least a trial.

Just one more thing to mention: won an Ecover tea-towel which arrived out of the blue yesterday morning with a note attached stating that I was a winner in their December newsletter competition. A lovely surprise and a much better way to start the morning than today (when I was woken up by a phone call at 9.30am and was late). I left early enough yesterday morning to walk to work through Regents Park in the sunshine. Although it was cold it was not unpleasant. There was some residual ground fog over the field which was being slowly burnt off by the sun, backed by the grand buildings in the middle distance and the more blurred office blocks in the far distance. A much better morning 'commute' than getting the tube!

Marrakech

Busy busy trying to organise things for our impending trip to Marrakech to celebrate our 5th anniversary. At the moment I am waiting to hear back from a guide regarding trekking into the Sahara (the Erg Chebbi dunes near Merzouga) on camels. It's all very exciting and I can't wait to go. A trip like this, even for a relatively short period, takes more organisation that I had anticipated. Still, we're getting there slowly and having fun in the planning. Roll on the departure date...