But it sure does throw it down in Marrakech !
So, up dressed and breakfast (with some remarkable fresh orange juice) and out to brave the Marrakech Medina. Lots of people dressed for winter, but for us a rather pleasant t-shirt temperature in the high teens. Plenty of men dressed like Obi Wan going about their business but could not put out of my mind the thought that they were really extras from another Star Wars epic. The nearer we got to the tourist sights of the Jemaa el Fna the frequency of being approached by young men to assist us, or to show us their brothers wares, increased. One young man, who had a brother in Cardiff by all accounts, insisted that he was not an Arab, but a Berber like most of the people who live down the lower end of the medina in an area called the Kasbah. He also had another brother that sold the finest argan oil in Marrakech.
Visit to the Saadian Tombs was a little marred by a Spanish lady rubbing us up the wrong way, either getting into our pictures, or acting like a parrot on my fellow traveller’s shoulder whilst queuing.
Slight detour then into the Centre Artisinal, a very large touristy shop selling almost everything a tourist to Morocco could want, and much more besides at a fixed price without having to haggle. Here we got separated for a while, me waiting at the exit, my fellow traveller returning to the entrance. She had by all accounts been in conversation with a lady French fry farmer from Shropshire. Eventually we met up after a 45 minute delay. Still it gave me a chance to relax and make a few notes in my black book. I was not annoyed like the tour guide for a group of German tourists, one of their number was missing and the coach driver was getting very agitated. Nothing bought, we returned to the Jemaa el Fna to look for a drink and sustenance.
On our return journey we attempted to find two gardens mentioned in our guidebook, but were not able to find either. At one point, with the lanes getting narrower and narrower, and the look of the area was a little poorer, our path was blocked by a man with a cart who appeared to be both a wholesale lemonade salesman and a rancid goat and sheep skin collector. It was easy to tell his progress simply by following your nose. It was surprising to see young children flocking to him to buy the liquid. In these back streets many young children were also taking their proved dough to the neighbourhood baker. We popped our head in one of them and engaged the baker’s assistant in conversation (been a bit trilingual today) and had a look at the baked bread on racks, each loaf with its own individual finger pattern on it to determine the origin. On route we spotted a British family, man in sleeveless vest, daughter in too short and too tight pink hot-pants, oblivious to the Marakchi sense of modesty. They did get some glances from the locals, and not all of them admiring.
We had lunch at a pleasant cafe The Patisserie des Princes. Clean facilities including in the gents, those for ablutions if required. I had, at first what would seem to be a strange savoury, a local pastry called a pastilla with pistachio nuts, sugar, cinnamon and minced chicken washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice. My fellow traveller declined, opting instead for a sweet pastry with custard filling and English tea.
After lunch, with the weather taking a turn for the worse we meandered through the souks. One small piece of sandalwood, a Berber coat for the grandson to wear next winter, an Obi Wan outfit in grey wool for me, and my companion a cotton deck check patterned kaftan. Not sure whether we got the best price we could have, but an inordinate amount of haggling, and a “Dhs 20 is all that I get” to conclude the bargain left both the merchant and I feeling as though we probably did alright.
Around two o’clock the rain really did pour down, the picture at the head of this post gives an indication of the force, and we waited patiently in a quiet cul de sac for it to ease off. I was assured by one of the shop owners that today will be the last day of rain. It always rains the last week in October according to him. Although the weather seemed to have killed his business for the afternoon he assure me that he and all Moroccans would be very pleased to see it for the sake of the farmers and the vegetable crops.
When the rain eased we returned to Dar Charkia for mint tea (delivered by a small lift in the corner of the room) and a bit of repacking for our journey to the mountains tomorrow afternoon.
Spent a relaxing few hours to clean up and do some journal writing and sketching, then out again for dinner. Tonight at the Al Fassia a restaurant in Gueliz, the new part of the city run by a ladies co-operative. And very good it was too. The dishes of assorted Moroccan vegetable salads was superb.
After dinner we declined the offer of a taxi back to the hotel, and took a 40 minute stroll back through dark alleys without getting lost, thanks to our little GPS device which is proving to be a worthwhile stress relieving gadget (has certainly cut down on bickering over map reading disagreements)!