A Buzz through 3 Continents in 3Weeks
With Michael Musgrave Asia - Europe - Africa
September 2006
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Painted red cedar ceiling in the Bahia Palace in Marrakech – the ‘unexpected’ destination on my last trip
I’ve been ‘on the road’ again. This time to Asia, Europe, and unexpectedly, to Africa. I invite you to come on whatever part of the journey that may take your fancy. Choose from four ‘chapters’: Chapter 1
BEIJING
“Peking no longer”
Chapter 2
SWITZERLAND
“Hospitality Swiss Style”
Chapter 3
ITALY
“The Italian Connections”
Chapter 4
MOROCCO
“Take me to the Kasbah”
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“Why such a higgledy-piggledy itinerary?” you might ask. I had planned a three week holiday in Europe. . •
It centred on a ten-day stay with American friends in a rented apartment in Florence.
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I tied-in visits to old friends in Switzerland to precede the Florence stay, and included a stopover in Beijing to break the long journey from Australia to Europe.
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Makes sense, yes? An Asian stopover and a relaxing time with friends in Europe.
Then, a last minute development changed things: I received an email from the friends going to Florence advising that they regrettably have to cancel their plans due to ill health of one. So what was I to do? My air ticket was issued and could not be changed easily.
“The world is my oyster!” Now . . . Where to go for those cancelled ten days planned in Florence? I’ve always wanted to go to Marrakech. It’s not too hot in October, and there’s a non-stop flight from Milan (just a short train journey from Lugano). I can spend the weekend in Milan to look at the shops, fly to Marrakech for a few days, and then back to the original plan to visit Florence. I can even use the same rail tickets that have been issued.
How does that sound? Read on!
Corner of the Forbidden City in Beijing
Michael Musgrave, October 2006
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“Peking no longer!” Beijing has been catapulted well and truly into the 21st Century since I last visited here on business trips from Hong Kong twenty years ago. This time I am travelling strictly for pleasure with Pam and Ken Turner. It’s forty five years since they were here last. ‘Contrasts’ is the name of the game for the three of us. We have chosen Beijing as an alternative Asian stopover city on the long haul to Europe, and our four night stay gives us time to see the main sights comfortably. Beijing, in my distant memory, was the city of bicycles and non-descript grey trucks with stencilled numbers of the communes painted on the back. It’s now transformed into a throbbing metropolis of landscaped highways and architecturally adventurous new buildings. It’s amazingly clean. Factories have been removed from the city and coal burning has been replaced by gas heating in the homes. It’s been clear and sunny on a couple of days but a haze of pollution filled the air on the others fortunately not to the throat-grabbing degree I’ve experienced in Shanghai. Language is always a major impediment to communication, and more so here. The situation is much improved but still has a long way to go. Hence well intentioned service sometimes comes across as abrupt. I turn it to my advantage however to dismiss offers for drinks in girlie bars while walking on the street at night by smiling widely and saying ‘no speak English’. Neon lights were not permitted at all when I was trying to find an office to establish a visible shop-front presence for Amex to service card members trickling into China in the mid-eighties. Today neon lights flash like the Ginza and Piccadilly Circus. The smell from cabbages stockpiled on balconies of high rise tenement flats (to get the populace through the winter) is no more. Now the locals can choose from fresh and delicious looking skewers of seafood, beef, kidneys (still contained in walls of ‘killer’ fat however!) being barbecued as you wait at the stalls along Goldfish Lane. (We were never game enough to try them though).
The ‘One-Child’ policy remains in force
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in Beijing with major financial disincentives for any subsequent children. You’d never know with all the children around you. Youth culture is rampant with massive commercialisation in fashion, beauty, and technology. Materialism is king. Kids with mobile phones seem to be snapping more pictures than sending texts. The change away from traditional values and custom are reflected in some comments from our thirty year old guide. “. . . A cheongsam is for my mother’s generation. I don’t even own one”, and “I have a live-in partner in the flat that I bought. I am in charge!” The Peking of the Emperors and Mao still exists in the edifices that abound in the modern, fastgrowing Beijing of 18 million people. The government is spending huge amounts to restore these major sights to their original glory in time for the Olympics in 2008. After this trip, I believe Beijing will deliver a spectacular Games. (I snatched a glimpse of the impressive 80,000 seat ‘Birds Nest” main stadium and aquatic centre from the highway). The Peninsula sent the Rolls to collect us at the airport – very chic for Pam – pity we had to have a suitcase piled between the Turners on the back seat as we speed along the expressway lined with blooming roses. On our first evening, we had to take a walk for a couple of hours to breathe in the atmosphere and we head off for the Forbidden City and Tian’anmen Square. Excitement rises as we do the touristy thing and photograph each other in front of the Chairman Mao picture at the Gate of Heavenly Peace. The city is so clean and clear of litter and graffiti that you get the feeling that they’re even sweeping leaves away as they fall. Next morning we arrange for a driver to take us to the Great Wall – the less visited Mutianyu section about two hours drive from Beijing. This section was built during the Ming Dynasty in the 14th Century and is regarded as one of the most scenic. We take the cable car up to the wall to save our knees. It’s an amazing feat when you actually see it rising and falling unbrokenly along mountain ranges like a flying dragon. (The Turners go further than I.) There’s so much to learn here, we decided to ask for a private guide for today’s outing. A major renovation is underway at the Forbidden City to make it ready for the Olympics, but there’s still enough open to give us the grand effect. New roof tiles in a bright yellow ceramic are already in place and they contrast magnificently with freshly repainted red pavilions and brightly decorated gates in designs of red, yellow, blue and green. The Forbidden City is laid out like the Moghul Forts and Palaces in India with Inner areas reserved for the Emperor only with other areas and gardens for the Royal family, and concubines. I contribute to the restoration when I buy a small yellow jar from the period of the last Qing Emperor with pomegranate and peach decoration. (They denote prosperity, good health and longevity – important life goals of mine.)
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The Temple of Heaven reeks of new paint – but the colours in this round building are magnificent (the Chinese thought the world was square but heaven was round, so the main colour inside is blue – denoting heaven). The red colour outside denotes double happiness; and yellow is the Imperial colour of the Emperors. It is surrounded by a forest of the oldest cypresses in Beijing which fill the air like on the Mediterranean coast. Amazing in this densely populated city. We see a lot of cypresses including the Summer Palace later in the day – the colour green picking up on the importance of longevity to the Chinese. We cave in at the suggestion of visiting a Silk Factory and it is an interesting and educational experience. Did you know that one cocoon from a single silk worm produces 1,600 metres of thread? And we saw the thread being spun. Overcome with excitement, we also caved in to our
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guide’s suggestion to visit a local restaurant serving more traditional ‘Old Beijing’ dishes. The pork and lotus root and our delicious dessert of sweet potato and Chinese dates tasted the better for all the shouting locals and clanging of dishes all around us. In one of my first ‘newsletters’ from overseas in 1985, I used a picture of me in a Tian’anmen Square of bicycles. I go back to the same spot – only this time the square is decorated with half a million pots of yellow chrysanthemum and red salvia for the National Day Holiday. It’s really crowded with gaily dressed locals having fun. (No Mao suits any more). I have no problem getting someone to take my picture. People are ‘snapping’ everywhere. (Do you ‘snap’ digital pictures?)
I’m currently reading a revealing story on life in communist China in the recent past. ‘Mao’s Last Dancer’ - an autobiography of Li Cunxin tells the story of a young peasant boy who rises from bitter poverty in a commune near the city Qindao during the time of Chairman Mao to stardom in the West as a principal dancer for the Houston Ballet. A BBC documentary I’ve seen since leaving Beijing paraphrases the current situation even better. “Some parts of China have changed beyond all recognition - hurtling through centuries of change in just one generation. . .” My visit to Beijing attests to that. But the Li Cunxin story confirms that there’s still a long way to go for much of the country. Don’t let that deter you from coming!
The 2008 Olympics mascot and Main Stadium - one of three displays in Tian'anmen Square for the National Day Holiday. The others celebrate the Three Gorges Dam, and the new Railway to Tibet.
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“Hospitality Swiss Style” I arrive in Zurich amazingly fresh after twelve hours of flying in daylight on Lufthansa from Beijing via Frankfurt to stay with the Aumuellers. Juergen meets me and takes me home to see Birgit and my God-daughter Joya-Lara, now seven. The next morning, Juergen drove me along the lake of Zurich through rolling green hillsides, wooden chalets and brown cows to the little town of Einsiedeln for Mass at the Benedictine Abbey - better known for the shrine for the Black Madonna. It was the feast of the Rosary and the huge church was full to overflowing. A visiting bishop from Bucharest joined the monks in concelebrating a beautiful sung mass. The choir was in the sanctuary complete with wind instruments to complement the organ accompaniment. The highlight colours surrounding the ceiling frescoes are striking in an unusual combination of pink and green, with stucco figures of angels hardly able to contain their exuberance hanging off all the cornices and capitals. The Chapel with the Black Madonna was wide open today for the Feast of the Holy Einsiedeln - Chapel of Black Madonna (Picture from Rosary. I still haven't been able to find out Internet ) why Our Lady is black but Juergen thinks it was from all the candles over the centuries. I found a picture on the internet that highlights the beautiful interiors that I can’t capture with my camera, but unfortunately the statue is hidden behind closed doors. After a coffee in the little town of painted buildings we drove around the lake to join Birgit and my god daughter Joya for lunch - a dégustation menu of lake fish, partridge, venison, cheese and sweets with excellent Swiss wines - did I need to get home and sleep it off? Today, we meet a guide and spend a couple of hours walking through the Old Town of Zurich. Juergen and Birgit have lived here for ten years and I have visited many times but there’s always something new to discover. It’s full of little streets from Roman times, winding up hillsides with hidden little squares, parks, towers and church spires. The old buildings now house restaurants, fashion and gift shops and trendy apartments. We even see where Lenin plotted the Russian Revolution in the summer of 1916 above an old butcher shop that still has the same fittings today. We enjoy an enormous lunch at the famous old Kronenhalle. My favourite Neusli salat (green ‘lambs
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breath’ lettuce) with chopped boiled eggs almost does me in and I still have the roasted veal in cream sauce and rösti potatoes to come. And, as in Switzerland, to come again. I simply have to decline the second serving! Next for a busy four days visiting the de Pietra’s in Lugano. I arrive in the sub-tropical Ticino region of Switzerland through the Gotthard Tunnel in driving rain but by morning it’s brilliantly sunny. We cross the nearby border into Italy and then a mandatory stop for an espresso in the piazza in the shadow of the Duomo to whet our whistles. The morning is taken up with an exploration of Como - an old medieval town once known for its silk industry but still charming with narrow winding streets of residences of Renaissance nobility, little churches, artisans’ shops, butchers, grocers and parading locals. Picture opportunity for the best looking porcini mushrooms I have ever seen. I wouldn’t have minded a pound of the tripe I saw in the butcher’s window either – but where to cook it on holiday? After a plate of delicious breaded calamari, we cross back into Switzerland in perfecto weather by now – washed sparkling clean by the storms and cooled by a northerly wind. We drive around the lake to the quaint little lakeside village of Morcote and then up the mountain through laden chestnut and pear trees to Corona for more views down the lake. Stop to take pictures of pears hanging from a tree this time. Speeding down the expressway for St Moritz the next morning we are greeted with ‘deviation’ signs. The San Bernadino tunnel is closed. We have to cross the Alps the old way twisting and winding up past massive granite rock faces to the top (as high as Australia’s tallest mountain Mt Kosciusko). Then past the little township of Dissentis and another huge Benedictine Abbey from the 7th Century. On through typische ‘William Tell’ country with green valleys, wood chalets and church spires juxtaposed among the peaks, gorges, and chasms of the Alps. At 2,284 metres, we finally reach the pass where Julius Caesar marched his army in 45BC, before we slip down into the beautiful Engadine Valley near St Moritz surrounded by peaks with early dustings of snow. We settle into the Romantik Hotel Margna from ages past and it’s time for coffee and cake before a walk around the town of Sils Maria and down to the lake. A heavy frost in the sunny morning doesn’t stop me from setting out on my well intentioned morning walk but the below freezing temperature has me back in the breakfast room in ten minutes. The best birchler muesli, a slice of malt bread and freshly churned butter with soft boiled egg puts a lining on the tummy for the winding descent into Italy and along Lake Como. We are back in Lugano by lunchtime, and I have an afternoon to write to you.
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I’ve run the gamut of dining experiences in this beautiful part of the world. On the night I arrived, Vera made the pasta and Tony the sauce for a delicious home-made meal. The next evening we eat simply again in the Grotto della Saluti. (A ‘grotto’ used to be a small family run place making their own salami and cheeses and serving guests in front of a roaring fireplace). Today the fare is expanded to include local produce and other home made dishes – my guinea fowl with wholemeal polenta and porcini mushroom is delicious. On the last night, a moon as full as a ball of yellow cheese rises stage right on the spectacular view from Principe Leopoldo’s old hunting lodge overlooking the twinkling lights of the city surrounding the Lake of Lugano below. This sets the stage for the spectacular dining experience in the Relais & Chateau Restaurant – including the house specialty of pumpkin risotto accompanied by a red from Abruzzo – expertly chosen by the maitre d’ to ”suit my Australian palate and surpass any Aussie equivalent”. He was pretty well on the money – a delicious drop. Why do mushrooms always have me fumbling for my camera? I tell myself that it’s my sister Anne’s desire to have wonderful specimens for when she’s in the mood to paint. I saw funghi in Zurich that were ‘alabaster’ perfect, and then funghi porcini in Como that were so beautifully dirty (and deliciously edible!).
Its raining (again) for my departure on the Cisalpine train to Milano. What does it matter? I’ve enjoyed ample sunshine when it mattered, and lashings of hospitality that will travel with me. (I think it’s going to be another soft boiled egg for dinner tonight!)
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“The Italian Connections” I have two stays in Italy on this hastily re-organised European itinerary. After all the hospitality and activity in Switzerland, I’m happy to do very little in Milan over the weekend while I wait for my flight to Marrakech on Monday. After this side trip to Morocco, I will fly back to Milan and then take the train to Florence for a few days. Here in ‘Milano’, I decide to inspect the ‘temples’ of fashion along the Via Montenapoleone and Via della Spiga – fortunately it is winter season, so I’d never fit into the fabulous dresses or shoes. As I might expect, some of the décor, like the reflective black fountain at the entrance of Giorgio Armani’s main store is quite spectacular. For the money I’m paying, the Hotel de la Ville situated centrally between the Duomo and the shopping areas is well worth it. It’s English “country house dowdy” but the sheets are pressed and the plumbing works. The bidet is also very useful – as a foot bath after walking all afternoon on the uneven block paving stones throughout ‘fashionista’ streets. Sunday dawns beautifully sunny and I go to the Duomo for Mass – a lot of incense and hordes of Japanese tourists but nothing special. The finishing line for the Milano Marathon is right outside the cathedral, so the Bgrade choristers and a pedal organ in the transept aren’t any match for the cheering crowds, blaring loud speakers and bands outside. A little trivia for you – the Duomo is the third largest church in Christendom; it was consecrated in the 15th Century; but stood unfinished until the 19th Century; then Napoleon ordered the façade be completed. (Now in the 21st Century technological tests are being carried out to detect cracks in the façade and to prepare for total restoration). I see Napoleon again later in the day standing in bronze in the quadrangle of the beautiful Palazzo Brera. I didn’t know he had such influence in Milan. After Mass, I walk in the Brera area behind La Scala through the winding narrow streets discovering little hidden courtyards. I wonder what these elegant palazzos and homes of the old nobility might be hiding. Families and kids are strolling happily and I find an empty table outside in the sun in a little ristorante - Nabucco. I eat well on a plate of pasta, but stop short of the third and fourth courses that I see the locals and their children polishing off effortlessly!
Tomorrow Marrakech! (Read about my ‘Road to Morocco’ in Chapter 4.)
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Back in one piece from Morocco, my visit to Florence comes at the end of three weeks of gallivanting half way round the world. I reckon I’m a bit tired and I can’t contemplate queuing for museums or galleries with the hordes of tourists in town over a weekend. My hotel is right on the Piazza della Republicca and I can see the Duomo from my window at the back. I feel very relaxed. So, I’m going to take it easy and explore as far as my feet will take me. The
weather is picture-perfect. Can I ask for more? Yes! I walk through the streets as free as a bird taking in the nooks and crannies, peering into courtyards and perusing the facades of ancient buildings. Pity there is so much graffiti in Italy. Dodging the dawdling, gawking tourists in the centre of the Old Town near the museums and the Ponte Vecchio is nearly as hazardous as avoiding motor scooters whizzing past me. I go down to the Arno and over to the other side into residential neighbourhoods where I find wonderful artisans shops and the antiques areas to browse. In the evening, I sit with a bottle of wine in the outdoor part of the hotel’s casual dining room revelling in the hub-bub of people, music and movement in the Piazza just mad on a Saturday night – free entertainment on my doorstep. (I need to remember to tell Annie how the chef manages to combine green apple, red prawns and curry in a risotto)
Hotel Savoy, Florence
Earlier I’d gone to Mass in a little church just behind the hotel where I’d noticed a sign for an Organ and Flute recital for later in the evening. The priest started his sermon as a friendly fireside chat seated in front of the altar, in the dark, with the body of the church lit only by votive candles in the chapels along the sides. Then the devil seemed to take hold of him and he
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breathed fire (don’t know about the brimstone) – very entertaining. Even though he was speaking in Italian, he was so animated and real. I enjoyed him. I also say a prayer to Padre Pio for a speedy recovery for Fred. After all, he and Edmundo are the reason I am in Florence. I take to the hills – literally. I hail a taxi up to Fiesole in the dark one evening for dinner at a restaurant recommended by Sydney friends. Leaving the suburbs in our wake, all I can see is a ‘tunnel’ of high stone walls and pine trees as the mad driver speeds through winding little roads in the dark. On arrival at Ristorante La Reggia, I’m greeted with a glass of Pro Secco and a window table to take in the view of the twinkling lights of Florence spread out below. My salt cod served with Sicilian tomatoes and raisins is delicious. But I enjoy the salad of sliced baby porcini mushrooms even better.
Baby Porcini and Parmesan salad – a squeeze of lemon
Except for the colourful frescoes of the Last Judgment in the cupola of the Duomo in Firenze, the interior is as unremarkable as Milano so I doubt if I’ll get the buzz I seek from ‘lighting and grand organ music’ at Sunday Mass there. Another Australian friend, who lives in Florence, suggests that I go up to the church of St Miniatus de Monte – on a hill near the Piazzale Michelangelo (in the opposite direction to Fiesole). What a grand idea that turns out to be! St Miniatus is a beautifully decorated, 1000 year-old church of Roman design with Renaissance additions and Gothic paintings on the walls. The ceiling of the church is old Florentine painted wood, and the life of St Benedict is depicted St Miniatus de Monte (Picture from the Internet) in painted panels on the ceiling of the Sacristy. As an added bonus, I get spectacular organ music and Gregorian chant from the monks! The views out over Florence and the old medieval walls from here on this sunny Sunday are unbeatable.
A little further up on the other side of the hill there’s a totally different view of green Tuscan hillsides with villas and pine trees - from the windows of the Trattoria Omero where I go for a Sunday lunch (another recommendation that doesn’t disappoint).
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It’s shaping up into one of those days where I wish you could join me. And partake of delicious creamy grilled porcini . . . can you smell the garlic and rosemary? And even creamier veal brains . . . and those melt in the mouth Tuscan beans drizzled with oil.
It would appear that I’m taken up with eating, (porcini in particular) and attending Masses – perhaps, but both are very Italian aren’t they? I do have an ecumenical side to me as well so I include a picture of the Florence Synagogue that I stumbled upon trying to identify the green copper dome in a residential area of Florence far from the madding tourist throngs.
I can't but help myself photographing fruit and vegetables in little corner shops.
The Great Synagogue in Florence with a central dome inspired as by the edifice of the Hagia Sophia church in Istanbul, and many architectural motifs are borrowed from the Moorish traditional architecture of Spain.
A contemporary makeover by Olga Polizzi of this Grand Old Dame – The Savoy on the Piazza della Republicca – acknowledges its location in the heart of the fashion district - using a red shoe motif throughout the hotel.
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“Take me to the Kasbah” Flying in to Marrakech I wonder if the plane window is so dirty or is it really that brown and dusty down there. Then a river appears like a magic dividing line and the countryside becomes a series of geometrically planned groves of green fruit trees. There are blooming rose beds all the way to the pink turreted mud walls of the old town, the Medina, where I am staying.
On arriving at the Villa des Orangers, an authentic 1938 townhouse just outside the souk, I enter through a nondescript door and into an Arabian nights dark reception area before being ushered into the courtyard. As I sit, I hear only the falling of the fountain. A faint sense of incense wafts through the air. Are the oranges tied on up so high in the trees or are they growing in pots that beautifully? The walls with Arabic design are not sparkling with new paint but there’s an air of authenticity here. I sense that this is going to be good. It’s explained to me that there are very few windows to the outside world in these Riads – the local name for town houses and palaces. Rooms usually open only on to a courtyard. My room is very comfortable and has a second floor with terrace looking out over the famous tower in the square. Why am I here? What do I want to see in such a short time? I’m drawn by the mystery of Marrakech – the souks, the colour, the architecture and Islamic design to some extent (not that I want to re-decorate Moroccan style anytime soon). Of course I want to be bathed in the famous hammam too. I’m taking a guide for a half day tomorrow to get my bearings and to learn a little more about the place. Then I’m going to the Atlas Mountains the following day to walk through some Berber villages and have lunch at the Kasbah Tamadot (owned by Richard Branson).
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Not one to waste time, I book my hammam at La Sultana De La Medina’, and get quite lost in fading light between the palace gates and a double arch down a dark alley on my supposedly ‘easy 4 minute walk’. I tip a kindly local who walks me there and realise only after he salaams ten times and thanks ‘princely sir’ that what I thought was one dollar was really ten. C’est la vie! Lying on a marble bench in a room with marble walls, floor and roof, a young girl ladles hot water over my naked body (but for a g-string) before rubbing me all over with a slippery black nugget of beldi soap to prepare the skin for exfoliating. Then ‘torture by red glove’ – I can see dead skin piling up on this ‘sandpaper’ device on her hand so I soldier on gritting my teeth. This big boy does cry however when she turns me over and starts on the chest with gusto. My nerves just about settle by the time I finish the follow-up reinvigoration massage with jasmine-scented Moroccan argan oil. So much for relaxation. Coming home, it is dark. Street lights barely glow and locals are racing to the Mosque for prayers or riding bikes without lights. Everything is closed and I’ve lost the arches and the palace. I don’t have the address or the phone number of where I’m staying, nor could I pronounce the French name. I eventually stumble on the little nondescript opening, and decide to stay in and try the local fare in the hotel - chicken tagine with dates and honey is quite delicious.
The overpowering smells of grinding cumin, freshly-picked piles of mint and bread baking nearly knock me over as we set out on foot for the morning guided tour. This is it. I know I’m in Morocco!
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The Bahia Palace is an excellent example of Hispano Moorish architecture and contains excellent examples of Islamic design. It shows a layout of a typical riad – 4 quadrant gardens, a fountain in the centre and is surrounded by rooms (just like my hotel). The Palace contains excellent examples of stucco work; cedar ceilings and doors painted intricately with vegetable colour and mosaic tiles. Like the Forbidden City in Beijing and Mughal Forts in India, the Palace contains the usual quarters for the King, his legitimate wives, and his harem (other female members of his family (no concubines in Islam), and decorated reception rooms. Before heading for the souks, the labyrinth market I’ve heard so much about and am waiting to see, the guide convinces me that we should first visit the Majorelle Gardens bought many years ago and still housing the villa of Yves Saint Laurent.
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What a good idea. It contains brightly coloured flower pots, ponds, fountains, trellises and buildings amidst gardens of palms and cactus – “like a Gauguin painting” he says.
Our taxi got sick of waiting for us here so we take a horse and buggy for the short distance to the souk. Industries like leather and metal work are in the outdoor area and it is noisy and so dirty, but in the covered sections we see the colour in the stalls and smell the exotic spices and herbs. Bargaining everywhere. I’m not interested in buying a thing. It makes me realise that these people are really poor. We see children still working in the factories even though there is a new law requiring them to stay in school until age sixteen – but those who’ve already been trapped in work have slipped through the net. I don’t like my guide very much, and I like him even less when I end up in a carpet factory and can’t get out! In the evening I get the chance to see the new and modern Marrakech. Wide landscaped streets with gardens and palms are a surprise after only being in the Medina. I eat in a restaurant run by women from Fez – the only male is on the door. I feel I’m being welcomed into a home, and the fine Moroccan food is said to be the best in town, and not expensive. The special Moroccan soup is bean or chickpea based and delicious, and I choose a strange combo of roasted lamb and prunes to follow. The evening wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t see the bustling, much talked about Jemaa El Fna main square and the 70-metre high tower of the Koutoubia Mosque at night. Thousands are eating at long tables near dozens of stalls of food sellers with
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music blaring. There are tooth pullers, herbalists, snake charmers and others playing games raucously, dancing, boxing, and story telling – all with the light of pressure lamps only. I get lost again on my way home but now recognize a few landmarks and navigate through the weaving cars, buses and motorbikes back to the calm of my room. Now for the excitement of a day with the Berbers in the Atlas Mountains! I know when I meet Rachid, my English speaking driver in his new car at first light, its going to be a good day. We head east on roads lined with pepper trees and eucalyptus from Australia. Apple and pear plantations take over as we approach villages made of mud huts at the foot of the mountains. Life hasn’t changed for many people for centuries here. They like to keep their traditions and culture - an old lady leads her one cow by a rope, and the bundle of weeds that she’s cut in the fields for feed is tied to her back; a shepherd sits and watches his flock graze. Others sit under a canvas with their camels nearby and animals lie down by the stream. I didn’t know that my visit to the Berber village was to be on foot. The local guide tells me that we will trek from about 1,700 metres up to a Berber village at 2,000 metres. (That’s as high as the Alps where we followed Julius Caesar and his army into Switzerland last week.) Then we’ll cross the river and come down the other side of the mountain to the Kasbah du Toubkal, an ecolodge in the High Atlas. More pears and apples, but then all I see is the backside of a mule as I clamber over the rocky path trying not to step in something. The views back down the valley are amazing, and my University-educated guide M’hamed gives me an excellent insight into life here in the mountains. Electricity came only seven years ago and changed much of the way the people live. Irrigation to all the farms terraced on the mountainside on the other hand has been done for centuries. I pass on the offer for a cup of mint tea fearing what I might catch – but then go back. Why miss out on ‘tea with a Berber family’? A pot of boiling hot sage tea and a plate of walnuts is brought to me sitting on a rug and cushion on the floor (Mint tea is served only in summer.) This Berber house has mud walls, a timber roof, and is spotlessly clean. Then down to the river where we run into tourists who have come up the easier route on the back of mules - lazy buggers. We wait to avoid their dust and make the slippery uneven descent over sand and gravel. M’hamed held my hand for part of the way or I may not have made it.
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. . . . and finally down the other side to the garden refuge in the Kasbah du Toukbal where M’hamed feeds me dates and washes my hands with orange-scented water . . . . .
Starting out fresh for the trek up the mountain . . . .
My reward for this unexpected exertion is a stop for lunch on the way back to Marrakech at Richard Branson’s stunningly situated Kasbah Tamadot – with views out over pink and brown mountains with streams running through the green valley below. A mezze plate of Moroccan specialities with flavours of sesame, almond and cumin and a glass of chilled white wine brought me blissfully back into the decadent world of the 21st Century. Back to Italy tomorrow! 20