Today we have decided to head to the south of the city and visit the El Badi Palace.
Breakfast, very nice and relaxing. The houseman comes to me to chat about Swansea FC. He knew from last week that we come from Swansea and he wants to talk of Michael Laudrup, and how the Swans are doing. He tells me they beat Liverpool this week, and drew with Chelsea over the weekend. Did not realise. We leave and walk towards the Jemaa round the outside avoiding the souks. Bit longer distance, but probably works out quicker as the vendors touting for business are avoided. The area we are in now is comprised of shops rather than stalls, and are more targeted to the local market. We pass a ceramic tile merchant, who in addition to tiles has prefabricated self contained water features, a back panel with a sink arrangement at the bottom made of a metal frame and then tiled over with mosaic in the standard colours of green blue and red. We both look at each other and wonder the same thing. Could we get this home. No, but could we fashion something similar with the bits and pieces we have at home. A project for next year maybe.
On we go and pass some shops making the courtyard drainage system, parasols and seat pads for outdoor use. A lot of men are stitching and gluing. A metalworker is busy welding in one shop, he has a lamp shade made of an old hub cap for sale on his door, he works on chairs in darkness apart from the flash of the arc when he joins metal together.
At the bus station next to the Jemaa park farriers make running repairs to the caleche ponies. There is a long queue of carriages, but not much sign of punters. There are some food stalls here. At one cart a man, whose hands seem far from clean, inspects a good number of the loaves on offer eventually settling on two.
At a busy junction with no lights or traffic police we wonder how it is that in this mayhem there is a sense of order. At traffic lights it seems to be expected to be tooted if you do not depart the nanosecond the light changes. The contrast with a self governing free for all at this junction where all appears calm is striking.
We stop at a fabric shop. Had to happen. My fellow traveller has shopped for fabric at every holiday location we have ever visited, language is never a problem for her. We get around eight metres of material at a discounted price. This is not a haggling shop. My companion also had a rummage through the remnants and selected another piece. The shop owner does not want her to go away with a tatty off cut, instead he cuts another length square off the roll free of charge. The size of the bill means I have to leave the shop and find an ATM. I backtrack looking for a road to the Jemaa where there should be a bank. A man asks me if I want help. I tell him I am only looking for a cash machine and he points me in the right direction. I get the cash and return to the shop. On the return journey the man sees me again and asks whether I found the machine. I tell him I did, so he sticks out his hand for a reward. I ignore him and carry on. At a bakers where earlier we had seen a lady on the pavement making berber pancakes, two young ladies are having a hell of an argument with a man. The cause would appear to be related to a pot of yoghurt which is spilt on the pavement. One of the ladies is holding the other back, she seems intent on giving the man a right good hiding. I turn away just in case. We pay the bill for the fabric and carry on, but leave the heavy bag to pick up later in the day.
Around the corner we see a number of shops selling door furniture, bolts, and a veritable treasure trove of ironmongery. We both cannot resist. Two shops benefit from our custom and we walk away with three hand beaten soap dishes, a curtain keeper, two hand cut metal fretwork panels and a brass latch for 200 Dirhams the lot.
Finally, the objective of our walk this morning, the El Badi Palace is in sight. We spot a few storks nesting on the a wall. As we get closer to the entrance we count a total of twenty birds. We pay for our tickets and enter. What remains of this twelfth century palace are the perimeter walls and a central courtyard with sunken gardens in the corners. A few rooms remain off the courtyard. Inside, we can see the storks all standing like proud sentries. They seem to have restricted themselves to the western walls. Some fly off to be replaced with others returning. All is peace and quiet here, other than the occasional loud gutteral sounds of the storks and aircraft engines at the airport away to the west.
As we stand in one part of the palace a group of British tourists stand close by with their guide. He looks very much like John Rhys-Davies, the actor in Indiana Jones. The guide wears a grubby jellaba and has a scar that reaches from ear to chin. He says that the palace has around two thousand storks (we count no more than twenty). He tells them not to drink or use the tap water to clean teeth or eat the salads as they are tourists. Frankly if you do not eat the salads in Marrakech then you really limit the food options to meat (and bread of course). We climb to the terrace and take closer pictures of the storks. A party of Spanish ladies comes up behind us bringing their own personal fiesta with them. They are laughing and singing and take pictures of one another. Much hilarity culminates in a group of about ten standing in front of the storks. The ladies stand on one leg and hold their hands out to impersonate a stork’s bill, and they imitate the storks ‘clack,clack’ call. They leave, and the guide with the British party is now here. He gestures to two of the British ladies to come and have their picture taken with him. He gets very close, and he is handling them with a bit too much familiarity. My fellow traveller gives thanks that we did not employ the services of a guide. Down the staircase we go and there are two guards posted at the bottom close to a wall covered with names scratched into the orange coloured render. I assume they have been stationed there to stop any more of the vandalism. Makes you wonder why people would do this to such a place, and I remark as such to the guard who nods in agreement.
A room off the main courtyard houses the Koutoubia minbar. We have not paid the extra to see this part of the palace, but the doorman lets us through, but reinforces the signs “No Pictures”. The minbar is a high staircase type construction on which the imam ascends half way to take the prayers. This minbar was made for the Marrakech mosque in Cordoba, taking the Andalusian craftsmen eight years to construct. The wood carving on cedar wood, with ivory and stone inlay, all done by hand, is astounding.
We leave the palace and turn into the Place des Ferblantiers. Here there are metalworkers, some making the fretwork lampshades, others working in more modern materials making what looks like air conditioning ducting. Some are making ladders. At a shop in the corner I spot some tea glasses. My companion notices some napkin holders fashioned from wire bound with a satin thread. We attract the attention of the stall holder and get a price. This is a fixed price enterprise, but we still get a little discount. In the end we settle on six tea glasses with metalwork cradles, twelve of the napkin holders, three mini tagines with metal decoration, one Hand of Fatima soap dish and some assorted tassels all for the sum of 225 Dirhams. We are chatting with the salesman who asks where we live. He thinks England. We try to explain Wales, through description and drawing a map in the air. No luck, he has a confused look on his face and then says Sam Tân (seems as though they see the Welsh titles for Fireman Sam on the Cartoon Network). Country located, it is then easy to specify location by referring to Swansea City FC.
We continue our return to pick up the material and divert into a local food market. First we see a riot of colour at a flower stall, arrangements awaiting delivery all over the floor. As we go further in we get the whiff of fish, not a bad smell as the produce here looks amazingly fresh. We turn into the meat section, and the aroma is not so pleasant. Here there is plenty of meat for sale, most of it alive. Beef and lamb carcasses hang over the walkway, and one swinging side of beef nearly catches my fellow traveller. Rabbits stare out from cages, chickens lay on the floor with their legs tied next to ducks and even a few turkeys. There is even one bird cage housing a large amount of baby tortoises. It is a bit disturbing for us.
We pick up our material. The shop next door is taking delivery of rather a lot of foam.
On towards the Jemaa. It is quite busy here today. A few monkeys and their owners, snake charmers, henna ladies and story tellers. We approach a large gathering at which a story teller is fiddling with a bag on the ground. We do not understand the words, but he appears to be telling the story of a spirit or djinn hidden in his bag. An accomplice arrives on on bicycle and pretends to place something into the bag with a flourish. The story teller goes around the audience making the bag move around like Eric Morecambe. It takes a long time to get the the point of the story. He is going to open the bag, only to dummy again and again. I conclude that the bag is empty, and I don’t understand the moral of the story anyway so walk on.
Through the spice souk we go and then into an open square where there are ladies with canvas on the ground on which they are grinding and then sieving herb leaves. Others are selling baskets in many styles and colours. We stop here at the Cafe des Espices for lunch, salad and orange juice. We sit outside under an awning as it begins to rain. The merchants in front of us scatter and retrieve plastic sheeting with which they cover their wares. It is just a passing shower, and within ten minutes the covers are off again.
Through the souks we go again on a route we have not been before past men cutting and sowing leather. There are people making saddles for horses and camels. Around a corner is a shop selling highly decorated horse tack. On again, and we can hear the sound of metal against metal but it is some time before we can see the men working.
Back at Dar Charkia we rest our feet and chill.
In the evening we are out again to a restaurant recommended by our hostess. On the way we see a bizarre sight of a large BMW stuck on a corner between two narrow derbs. It appears as though he cannot go either forward or backwards and he is unable to make the tight turn. His passengers inside look on as cyclists, pedestrians and mopeds navigate their way around his predicament. We dine at the Cafe Arabe, on the terrace, a very pleasant and peaceful location with good food.
Back for a nights rest and plan for our last full day tomorrow.