To be quite frank, I had to drag Big-J to Marrakech kicking and screaming. “What’s wrong with France” he groaned, “THAT’S where I like to go”. By way of an afterthought he muttered a couple of times, “and I’ll have to spend a week drinking bad wine” as he stomped petulantly around the bedroom showing his displeasure. I had to explain carefully (for fear of offence) that whilst I too enjoy France, call me wild and reckless if you like but sometimes, just sometimes, I like to go to other places. “Well” said Big-J, “just be aware that I don’t really want to go, I’m doing this for you and whatever we do” he continued whilst lowering his voice and looking rather serious, “we must NOT buy a carpet. In fact, we mustn’t go near a carpet shop because once they get you in there, you can’t get out without buying a carpet. ”OK” said I, “suits me.”
“I don’t want to go NEAR a carpet shop, not even once” he said sternly.
It wasn’t easy. We had arranged a two-centre trip. Starting in Dublin for four days, we then had a quick overnight at home before leaving for Marrakech the following morning. Not a standard itinerary I grant you and I could explain the background but that’s not important right now. Because of the tight timing Big-J came into his own, planning our packing and our turnaround with military precision, he enjoys stuff like that. Stressful it may have been but there was a frisson of excitement as, with two friends, we headed toward Africa, a continent I had never visited.
First we had to tackle the vagaries of Victoria Station and the Gatwick Express. Big-J wasn’t a happy bunny. The thought of the taxi then the train then finding our way to our terminal was making him feel proper queasy and rather twitchy. As it turned out, it was really easy – even pleasant. “I’ll never be worried about flying from Gatwick again” he pronounced, “that train service is really great and do you know, they serve a lovely cup of tea”. So far, so good.
We weren’t expecting too much and our Royal Air Maroc scheduled flight fully lived up to our expectations. I had thought it impossible to find an airline worse than EasyJet (although I’ve never flown Ryanair) but this one was it. Old aircraft, no legroom, surly staff, late departure, truly putrid food. The one advantage was that we hardly saw the very few staff on board so that was a bit of a bonus. Suffice it to say, never again.
Our slightly nervous arrival in Morocco was a sweaty flurry of form filling and, to be granted entrance to the country, you have to queue. Naturally, the law of queues applied in our case as we chose the shortest one which then took the longest time. Never mind, our baggage appeared quite quickly and our hotel had sent a driver in a Djellaba to greet us.
The fifteen-minute drive from the airport to our hotel proved interesting as we took in our surroundings. Africa and Europe are very different indeed and we marvelled that at just three and half hours from London, we were in exotica. Negotiating Marrakechian junctions was a skilled affair which you’d probably have to learn from the cradle to ever hope to master. All around us was pink terracotta and the land looked arid aside from a beautiful park here or a little oasis there all clearly irrigated at a cost that could probably feed a family of 17 for eight years.
Our driver stopped in a street opposite (what we later discovered was) the highly secure and zealously guarded Royal Palace and around a 5 minute walk from the Medina. There, in-between a motor- cycle repair shop and a tyre replacement outlet, was an unobtrusive wooden door. It was open and we walked in down a rather nice, scented passageway out of the heat and madness into cool serenity where we did all the usual checking into a hotel stuff.
We had booked a Riad, which, for those not ‘in the know’ is a large house now converted into a hotel. As we later discovered, ours – with its 27 rooms - had previously been the home of a Judge (Judgeships must be very lucrative in Morocco) and was acquired by a French family and converted in the late 1990s. A Riad isn’t a Riad (we later found out) unless it has a fountain in its courtyard, which ours did. In fact it had two or three courtyards with fountains and two swimming pools. It also had a very good restaurant, a full Spa including a Hamman (more of which later) and lots of lovely little nooks and crannies which served as romantic, shady seating or bar areas. It was as though we had arrived in paradise. The Riad, Villa des Orangers is quite the nicest small hotel any of us had ever stayed in. It was hard to fault it and, shocking though it might be to those who know us, we really couldn’t find any cause to complain throughout our stay. Au contraire. So lovely was it that we felt as though we were guests in someone’s rather lavish and luxurious home. We highly recommend the place to anyone who is able bodied enough to manage a few stairs – there were two flights up to our beautiful suite - but as that was really the only exercise we had for five days, we were happy to climb them.
A few days into our holiday, we were all totally relaxed. The three of us had had a massage and the four of us, a Hammam (steam bath). I didn’t like the Hammam. Being naked and soaped down in front of other people isn’t something I care for but Big-J LOVED it – blue paper thong n’all. “Next time I come here” he said, “I’ll do the Hammam on the first day – and then again on the last day - only next time, I'll have to request a considerably bigger thong."
"By the way" he added, "when should we come again? I can’t wait to get back here, it’s great for R&R.”
Unlike the three of us, Big-J was an old hand; he’d been to Morocco several times before. “What we mustn’t do” he re-emphasised “is to buy a carpet … or to get lured into any carpet shops” he pronounced, “even if they tell you that it’s their uncle’s brother-in-law and you don’t have to buy anything, they just want you to look … once they get you in there it takes hours and you won’t get out without buying. Mark my words” he nodded sagaciously, “don’t get tempted”. No one in our party was remotely interested in buying carpets but we listened politely anyway.
A few days later we’d arranged a trip into the Atlas mountains. Our guide, Asir, arrived in his air-conditioned 4x4 and we set off. He suggested an itinerary that started off with a visit to Berber house complete with authentic Berber family, comprising adults and their seventeen children, two cows and other assorted animals all living in quarters that resembled something from the middle ages. This family open their home for visitors and apparently entertain hoards of tourists every morning. Enterprising, lucrative and nice work if you can get it. We were struck by how healthy and and beautiful these people were. I guess that with no TV, computers, cinemas, McDonalds, KFC, chinese take-aways, shops or other distractions, the lifestyle in these mountain villages is much healthier than ours as long as you can put food on the table each day and survive illness without any traditional medicine. Although it was heartbreaking to ignore the stunning children who congregated around the car waiting for handouts, our guide seemed to know most of them personally and shooed them away.
After leaving the Berber house, we drove off up the mountain road and Asir asked us whether we’d be interested in seeing the best carpet shop in Morocco. “No” we chorused, “we’re not allowed to buy carpets”. Asir suggested that it would be interesting to have a look anyway but we politely declined because we knew we didn’t want to buy carpet. As we drove past said carpet emporium we couldn’t help but look and remark on the beautiful rugs hanging outside.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stop?” asked Asir, “This is a Berber shop and the best carpet emporium in the area.”
“Well” said Big-J, “maybe we should just have a quick walk around – the girls need to use the loo anyway.”
Within a few moments of walking inside I made fatal a mistake: “That’d look nice in the living room,” I said ‘en passant’ and as a throw away comment and not at all seriously. “Remember” whispered our friend, “you said you didn’t want to buy a carpet, you told me to stop you from buying a carpet, I’m TRYING to stop you from buying a carpet!”. But it was too late. Big-J's eyes had lit up, he had a spring in his step, a hand on his wallet, buying lust had kicked in and the rest is history. Two and a half hours later after lengthy and entertaining negotiations between Big-J and the salesman, a price and delivery date was agreed.
So now, as we await delivery of our rug, I’m left to reflect on whether I should be firmer in my protests when his enthusiasm bubbles over.
Oh dear, he just can’t help himself.
