So this is now Wednesday, our last full day in Morocco, and my fellow companion has set one last task. To find a perfect wall hanging at the right price. We hear of a Monseiur Adil, he is the man we need.
We leave Dar Charkia at around nine thirty and head for the dyers souk. On our way past the Dar el Bacha, the military personnel seem to have increased in number and we now have a gentleman in splendid red uniform. This is so far unvisited. As we weave our way through the labyrinthine passages stall owners are opening their shutters. Some sit around making their mint tea on single ring burners powered by gas canisters. There are some playing cards. There are not many other people around and so the frequency of the men imploring us to come into the bazaar is higher than normal, their action reminding us of marrionettes coming to life as we pass. We turn a couple of corners and before us we see hanks of coloured material hanging around. In dark workshops we see the tubs for dying the material. These are formed by a curved wall, about four foot high, which encloses one corner of the room. The walls of the tub and the floor all around is stained black by the dyes. The coloured potions within the tubs steams lightly, ready for when it is next needed.
Through more passages we go, now in the quest to find Mr. Adil a merchant Lisa has recommended. We have a shop number and as we go we check for a match. This is not as straightforward as it should be as fewer than one in four shops have numbers, they don’t always run in ascending or descending order, and seem to start at one again for inexplicable reasons. We wander around for a while with my temperature rising. Returning to one area we now see a stall which was previously shut. We had indeed found the shop we needed. Mr Adil asked if Madame Lisa had sent us (the owner of the Dar Charkia). We answered yes, and he advised us that in that case no bargaining would be necessary. He would give best and final price at the start. We choose a hand stitched and embroidered wall hanging. We agree on the price of 450 Dirhams. He informs us the usual starting price for his bargaining would be 1,200 Dirhams for the item. We move on, now looking for curtain tie backs. We wander around again looking for the shop but are unsuccessful. We decide to return to Mr Adil and ask him if he knows the whereabouts. He does not know the one we are looking for, but he knows another reputable man. He calls over a young lad, speaks to him for some time and then sends us on our way. We turn into a passageway festooned from floor to rafters with tassels and pom poms in any size or colour you fancy. Turns out we fancy quite a few, but common sense prevails and we restrain ourselves.
Our mission complete we decide to visit another palace, this time the Bahia. On our way to exit the souk I was approached by a dwarf in a sharp suit carrying a large wallet wanting to change my foreign currency. I had none to exchange, so I wave him away. Out now across the Jemaa, very quiet at this time of day, and we find our way the the palace.
Inside we walk around the rooms, predominantly decorated in Moorish style but also with painted doors and ceilings of flowers and plants. This seems a bit unusual, and I hear a guide explain it is due to the building being built relatively recently. It is also noticeable that the there are less doors carved and more painted. I comment to my companion that some of the decoration reminds me of Cardiff Castle. We need to put this on the list of places to visit. Within the central courtyard are a party of Americans. The first we hear on our travels. They are chatting to the guide when one of their number asks about whether there is persecution of Israelis in Morocco. Talk about tactful. The guide keeping his cool explains the difference between Jews and Israelis, a distinction which seems lost on them. He informs them that the flag of Morocco incorporates the David star. There were Jews here long before Islam, indeed if they go out of the palace and turn the corner they can enter the Mellah, the Jewish quarter which still exists today. He explains that Jew, Moslem and Christian live side by side in Morocco with no tensions.
Exiting the building a tour party of Russians are coming in. They are rushing here and there to take pictures of the feral kittens that are resting on the paths. They seem to be less interested in the palace.
Towards the Jemaa yet again, there is a car park where a large number of taxis are standing. As one leaves at the front, the drivers of those behind push their vehicles forward. We continue and find ourselves drawn back once again to the Patisserie des Princes. Purely by coincidence this seems to be placed at just the perfect place on our walking trips. I remember this time to note down the name of the Berber pancake, the M’ssemen. I am due to have a cookery lesson in the morning with the Dar Charkia cook to show me how they are made.
Walking on we detour to a restored riad called Dar Cherifa. Down some narrow passageways this very old building is now a library, cultural centre and also has lodging. We sit for a while over a glass of mint tea and browse the art books, one by the artist Zine whose paintings we admired at the museum a few days ago. The feature that grabs me most about this riad are the remarkable original wooden doors and the exposed cedar wood timbers holding up the floors above.. They are enormous, and there is a door within. I take some close up pictures of the handles and detail for my photography class. Think Liz and I share a penchant for old doors. I am asked by a Frenchman why I take three pictures at the same time. I try to explain exposure bracketing to him; not sure I succeed.
After cleaning up we go out again for our last evening in Marrakech. We are going to Le Fondouk, after a last minute reservation made for us by Sameera. We read in guide books, and confirmed by Lisa, this place can be very difficult to get in to in the evening. In attempting to find the restaurant we arrive at the Fondouk, but it is the Riad Fondouk and not the restaurant. This venue must be difficult to find, as on many corners there are collections of youths asking “do you want Fondouk?”. In the end we succumb, and a youth leads us in the right direction. We arrive and I give him 30 Dirhams for his trouble,. He is none too pleased. I wave him away which makes him more irate. We dive in the restaurant and explain our plight to the hostess who smiles.
We have a very pleasant meal on the roof terrace, moving once to escape the fumes from calor gas patio heaters. I alone have a half bottle of red Moroccan wine from the coastal region. The wine is called Mogador, full bodied and a little rough. All through our meal we can hear the click of a camera shutter from various points around the restaurant. Sounds a very expensive noise. We eventually see the photographer balanced on the rafters of the roof above us. I speculate whether it would be appropriate to ask for a discount as we may be in publicity pictures. This place is getting to me !
The return journey to our bed was less successful than the outward one. Our trusty GPS is leading us in the correct direction, but there are to many blind alleys in the way. At one, a cyclist calls out to tell us it is a dead end. He ask where we are heading and we say Dar el Bacha. He marches off motioning for us to follow. We oblige. After a few minutes and consulting the GPS I remark to my fellow traveller that he is taking us in the wrong direction. We follow. About ten minutes of twisting and turning later he points us to the Derb Bachia, a stones throw from the Jemaa, but a long way from our bed. We both have blisters on our feet but decide that it would be better to return the long way back to the Dar Charkia, a way which we know, rather than negotiate passageways through the souk in the dark. The Jemaa is really buzzing tonight, very noisy and there seems to be even more smoke coming from the food stands. At one circular gathering a band is playing and a woman from the throng has entered the circle and is gyrating away in time with the rhythm. The assembled crowd clap along.
We eventually arrive back, and the houseman informs us of the current football scores. Celtic are winning he smiles.