(House and Garden, Feb 2003)
I arrived in Marrakech as the late evening sun picked out the bunchy purple
flowers of the jacaranda trees and tinged the dusky pinkwashed walls of the
old city gold. My taxi came to a halt in the teeming Djemma el Fna where countless
candles were starting to flicker across the enormous square. For centuries,
caravans of Arab traders from Morocco’s mountains and deserts have congregated
here to barter their wares and exchange stories. I stood amid the dancers and
musicians with hurdy-gurdies and performing monkeys, gazing at the busy stalls
selling sizzling foods and steaming aphrodisiacs, unable to believe I had left
London only four hours before.
I hurried to keep up as the driver he whisked my suitcase down a dark cavernous
alley deep into the heart of the Medina. Eventually he rapped on a tiny carved
door in the wall and I found myself admitted to a secret kingdom. Formed from
a cluster of houses built round open courtyards full of birds, flowering trees
and fountains, the Riyad El Cadi is a haven of tranquillity. The walls and stairwells
are lined with antiquities so it was a slow enjoyable climb up to the roof where
I dined beneath the stars.
Next morning, I set out eagerly to explore the nearby souks. This sprawling
Aladdin’s cave is a vast covered market of densely packed streets each
devoted to selling slippers, jewellery, teapots, glass lanterns, wrought iron
work. Merely glancing at anything immediately provokes hectic haggling. Most
fascinating were the black magic stalls purveying gourds, skins, coloured powders
and odd smelling concoctions. A charm to ward off guides on percentages and
pushy carpet sellers would have come in handy. I challenge anyone to leave Marrakesh
without pocketfuls of beads that look like amber but are probably bakelite,
pieces of silver-rimmed swirly-glazed pottery or pairs of pointed sequinned
slippers.
After the bustle and drama of the city, it was a relief to head south on the
straight dusty road leading towards the snowy topped High Atlas mountains visible
in the distance. When we turned sharply at Asni to start our ascent through
the wide winding river valley towards my destination at Imlil, the road became
little more than a dirt track, washed away in places and only just passable.
Villages of flat stone houses clung to the sweeping rocky hillsides where the
occasional small boy sat on a bank of red poppies tending a lone cow or a few
goats. Berber women in cornflower blue and scarlet robes paused from their labours
amid the irrigated terraces of emerald green barley and bright orange marigolds,
to enjoy a gossip. The journey should have taken an hour and a half but I stopped
at every corner to admire the view. When we rounded the final bend in the road,
I gasped with delight.
At the head of the valley, the Kasbah du Toubkhal perches on a roadless wooded
hilltop directly beneath the majestic Jebel Toubkal, the highest (4,167m) mountain
in North Africa. I recognized the ancient citadel the Tibetan monastery in Kundun,
Martin Scorsese’s spectacular film about the Dalai Lama. Once the summer
home of a local ruling Berber family, it has recently been sensitively restored
as a hotel. Run in close consultation with the local villages, it enables visitors
to enjoy the mountains and experience the ancient Berber way of life without
disrupting and destroying what they have come to see. As I climbed onto a mule
for the last half mile’s steep ascent, the skies rapidly darkened. By
the time I arrived at the great wooden entrance gates, it was raining heavily.
The mountain storm raged all night but when I opened my curtains next morning,
the sky was dazzlingly blue and I had a splendid view of the soaring Toubkal.
Perhaps because of the hearty air, the friendliness of the guests who dine together
by candlelight, not to mention muddy hiking boots strewn in doorways, the Kasbah
felt like a sumptuous youth hostel. All the rooms are centred round the vegetable
and flower garden in the courtyard and I almost hoped someone might hand me
a hoe. Instead I had a delightfully lazy morning lolling on a camel-hair cushion,
lingering over my nuts and honey breakfast and watching parties of mountaineers
set off up the zig-zagging mule tracks to conquer the mountain with ice axes
and rope.
In the late afternoon I could resist the lure of the peaks no longer and accepted
the offer of a guide for a ramble through the walnut groves to a nearby Berber
village. Over a welcome glass of mint tea with his friendly family I admired
the children’s toys. I have often since my return home recalled that tin
on a string was giving far more pleasure than any amount of expensive coloured
plastic.
Charlotte Cory travelled with ITC Classics (tel: 01244-355527). She stayed at the Kasbah du Toubkal, near Imlil (tel Discover, 01883 744392)