You may remember in the last blog I mentioned Susie's bargaining skills.
If there was a Master's Degree in Haggling, she would have one! I'm still not totally comfortable with the process, but have improved, and now consider myself a passable haggler, but right from the start Susie has been into it like a local. Her opening gambit is always about a third, or less, of the price quoted, and then the disbelieving looks and exclamations of woe from the vendor and the serious haggling starts, with Susie getting up to walk out of the shop a few times before an agreement is finally reached, always with humour, and always with Susie not having moved much from her original price. Then the vendor breaks into a broad grin, hugs Susie and asks her is she really a Berber. It must have happened at least 6 times now. I consider myself the Master's Apprentice.
Susie had occasion to use her bargaining skills the morning after we left Les Jardins. The owner had told us the weekly souk was on in Skoura that day, so we motored back into town, parked the car, and prepared for battle. We wandered around the stalls for a while before finding some stuff that interested us and accepted an invitation to sit down and have some mint tea. We really are becoming quite comfortable with the ritual of tea and small talk before the real business of bargaining begins. After some protracted negotiations we again walked away happy with our purchases, and with a smiling shop owner as well. I really think they love the process more than the actual sale.
Leaving Skoura, we motored up into the High Atlas and across some spectacular high passes on switchbacking roads with thunder rumbling and lightning flashing overhead. We had a brief shower before starting the downhill run towards the plains and Marrakech, but by this time I was starving and pulled over at a dodgy looking little cafe in the hills. Susie was a little reluctant, but hunger was the master, and we ordered chicken kebabs with chips and salad and sat down outside to wait. The young guy brought out our chicken on steel skewers, fanned up the coals on a small bbq by the road, and cooked our chicken. It was delicious.
Stomachs full, we continued, and arrived about an hour later at the outer walls of the Marrakesh medina, with me beginning to get a bit frazzled coping with the crazy traffic and not having a clue where to go to drop off our vehicle. We needed to contact the car rental company rep, but our mobile wasn't working, so we pulled into a servo and parked, Susie jumped out and went in search of a public phone. I waited, and waited. Eventually she reappeared - with a smile. She had found a phone, then had to get change, then the rep only spoke French and Arabic, so she engaged the help of a young teenage boy to talk to the rep, ran out of money, the young guy went off to get more change for her, recontacted the rep, had the young guy tell him where we were, and he said "No problem, be there in 10 minutes." Susie tipped her young helper, who ran off with a grin, and in no time at all we had handed over the dusty Prado and been given a ride to our beautiful riad, just inside the walls of the medina.
Our riad, Les Yeux Bleu, was the best yet, with a beautiful courtyard and pool, and equally welcoming bedroom. We were welcomed with mint tea by Breck, the young manager, and Mouktah the waiter come general hand, and were surprised to learn we were the only guests, a party of Brits who had booked all 5 other rooms having cancelled straight after the Marrakech bombing.
We love the way these riads, and all traditional Moroccan homes, are nothing from the street (or alleyway in the medinas). Just a door in a wall, quite often without even a sign, but open the door and you walk into an oasis of calm, away from the crowds and noise outside, with flowers, palms, beautifully tiled courtyards, and trickling fountains.
We dined that evening at a swish but reasonably priced restaurant and hit the cot.
Next day, Susie had convinced me I needed the Hammam experience. Our riad would have organised it in house, but no, we had to have the full on, public Hammam experience, just like the locals, so men having the morning hours, off I went with directions from Mouktah, towel in hand to the local. While I was getting my gear off (down to briefs) the attendant asked me would I like a massage. Sounds good, I thought - yeah, why not.
What followed was not a massage so much as a savage stretching which at times I swore was going to do my joints some damage. It got better for a while after that. In the hot atmosphere he lay me flat on my back on the smooth marble, and then face down, and washed me thoroughly with black soap then rinsed me off with buckets of water. Not bad, I thought, but that was only the beginning - then he got out the sandpaper.
Imagine your naked body being scrubbed vigorously - I mean VERY vigorously - with a coarse grade of scourer. That removed a few layers of "dead" skin, then he changed to the fine grain scourer and did it again. An experience, definitely, but not one I would repeat. Susie, on the other hand, for her appointment later in the afternoon was attended and scrubbed by two women who must have treated her more gently because she came back glowing and saying she would go regularly if she could. Maybe I got the resident sadist.
In between our Hammam experiences, we wandered in the Medina, approached continuously by keen vendors selling anything and everything. The Marrakech medina is far more chaotic than that of Fes, because in Marrakech vehicles are allowed, so even in the narrowest of alleys you still have to contend with small motorbikes and scooters buzzing through the crowds. And driving around Marrakech? Sheeee...it! If you're not assertive, nay, aggressive, you won't pull away from the kerb! Mixing it with trucks, buses, cars, taxies, motorbikes, scooters, bicycles, donkey carts and pedestrians, all of whom act as if the road is theirs, and theirs alone, and doing it all on the "other" side of the road, is kind of nerve jangling. A pre-dinged vehicle is definitely an asset!
Wednesday 11th, and it was time for cooking class. Moroccan cooking, that is. Prior to getting hands on, we were given a demo on how to prepare dough for trad Moroccan bread, then went out into the street to check out a Bakery. Not like your regular local in Australia, these guys bake absolutely nothing of their own - all they do is bake everyone else's bread. Just a doorway in the wall, you walk inside to see a couple of guys working what amounts to a giant pizza oven. All the women bring their family bread for the day on trays, to be baked, picked up and taken home. How the bakers remember who's loaves are who's is beyond me, but they do. Then we were treated to a chat about spices and their myriad uses by a local vendor before returning to our kitchen to put together our own very tasty chicken tajines and then dining on our productions. Good fun.
Thursday was time to go to the mountains. We negotiated a fare in a Grande Taxi (a circa 1980 Merc) to Imlil, a mountain village in the shadow of Jebl Touhbkal, the highest mountain in the High Atlas at 4200m. The drive up was exciting enough, so after finding our very basic trekkers' lodge, we spent the rest of the afternoon just taking in the sights of the village.
Next day we walked in the mountains. We engaged a local guide, Ibrahim, to take us on a walk in the local area. A young English couple had done a 6.5 hr walk with Ibrahim that day, which they said was very good, so we thought, "Yeh, that sounds good, we'll do that." When approached, Ibrahim said it would take 8 hrs - maybe we would like to do something shorter, maybe 5 hrs? We consulted... No, those guys definitely said it only took 6.5 hrs, we'll do that one.
Well, we conveniently forgot the 35 odd year age difference didn't we? Yep, it took us 8 hrs and 5 mins, climbing and descending from 2 high passes in the process. Truly spectacular mountain scenery reminiscent of Nepal, passing through small villages and wading mountain streams, and we were both fine until the 6 hr mark. After that it caught up with us and we were in survival shuffle mode, but we made it, totally spent but enriched. Ibrahim of course, all of 21 years old, just bounced along in front all day, most of the time with his hands in his pockets, even when rock hopping across streams. Hate that.
Sat morning we gave ourselves a sleep in before rousing ourselves on sore knees for brekkie then walked down to the village to meet Susie's daughter Luisa and fiancee Rory, who had quite by chance booked the same lodge in the same village for a night. We spent a quiet afternoon and evening roaming the village and talking until well after dinner.
Next morning we hugged Lu and Rory goodbye, happy in the knowledge we would see them again in about a week, and negotiated another Grande Taxi back to Marrakech. From there we climbed on a bus for Essaouira, on the Atlantic coast. We had 3 nights in Essaouira, and were able to just relax and amble around. Our riad was basic but comfortable, and the young staff, Aiya and Redouane great.
The fishing port was something to see - a kaliedescope of colour, activity, and smells as fishermen unloaded catches, gulls screamed and hovered above, and locals bought the catch straight off the wharf. We climbed around the battlements of the old town, originally a Portuguese settlement, walked and explored the medina, took a long walk and swim on the beach, kissed camels, and sipped cool rose as the sun sank into the sea. Thanks to LP, we also found the best meal we had in Maroc at a funky 50's style restaurant called Elizir. The place was totally furnished in weird 50's decor retrieved from who knows where, making for a fun atmosphere, and the food was sensational.
Feeling relaxed and ready for Portugal, we bussed back to Marrakech, the airport, and our flight to Lisbon.
