My immediate impression of Marrakech was the redness of its
buildings. From the air, I could see low-level building after low-level
building painted in red, a little lighter than the mud. Marrakech was engulfed
in rain the weekend I decided to visit it.
Architecturally Marrakech is a unique city, with intricate
doorways laced with patterns that look like writing and walls that are
decorated in bright tiles. Even the design of the Mosque was different. Whereas
in Cyprus and the Levant the Mosques are dome-shaped and the Minarets are a
slender, circular tower, in Marrakech the Mosques were built as a long
building, of around 30 metres in height with a large square-shared Minaret on
the corner. But this is all in the
walled old-city of the Medina, where tourists flock to see the sites. Outside
the Medina, the modern city seemed quite different.
In the taxi on the way to the hotel I spotted German number plates
on the car just ahead of ours. Only the Germans would that their Mercedes on
holiday with them to Morocco. Was a German, taking a luxury car with him on
holiday the equivalent of a Cypriot taking his mother-in-law to Disneyland
Paris? It must be. Both a Mercedes and a
mother-in-law are machines for convenience. Whereas a luxury car would chauffeur
the German family around Morocco, a mother-in-law would look after the kids as
the parents sip Daiquiris by the pool.
Finally we got to our hotel which was situated in the modern part
of Marrakech, just outside the city walls, in a large hotel complex, where
thanks to careful town planning, tourists do not feel like they are at a
resort. And unlike the Medina, it was clean and thoroughly modern. I spotted a
mobile phone advert where a James Franco lookalike said ‘Salaam’ in a
speech-bubble and another advert where a freakishly similar Gwyneth Paltrow
lookalike advertised e-cigarettes. Did
Moroccans have a passion for celebrity lookalikes advertising their daily
goods? Maybe the real Gwyneth was busy shooting a Gucci ad and they found the
next best (and cheapest) thing.
The 12-acre Majorelle Gardens were definitely a highlight of our
trip. The cobalt blue (bleu Majorelle, created by the houses owner Louis
Majorelle) colour the house. The bright colours, colbat blue, yellow and red
lend the Garden a Kahlo-esque feeling throughout. The whole time there, there
was a sentiment of a creative person having lived there. Colour! Water! Art!
Wow! These were the secret ingredients to be creative and original. Sunshine!
Trees! Lushness! Take your sunglasses off and take in all the colours!
A long, river-like water-feature spans the garden leading to a
fountain by the house, which now is the Islamic Art Museum of Marrakech. The
collection includes textiles and ceramics once belonging to Yves Saint-Laurent;
whose ashes are scattered in the garden. Saint-Laurent, who spent time in
Morocco and in particular Marrakech, bought the house and opened it up to the
public. In a quiet area of the Garden, his memorial can be found, shaded by the
palm trees.
We went back to the hotel via the Palmerie, a large copse of
palm-trees that was created when caravans of travellers on camels came to
Marrakech. As they ventured towards the city, they threw the pips of the dates
onto the ground and today, hundreds of palm trees stand in their place.
That Saturday night we went to a posh restaurant nearby our hotel
for some traditional Moroccan food. The restaurant was decorated like the
inside of a swimming pool, with titles along the wall. The only difference was
that we titles were pretty patterns rather than different shades of blue and
the hotel’s logo in title on the floor of the pool. The restaurant had such
high ceiling that it felt like we were sitting at the bottom of an empty aquarium.
Fill it up with water and it could house a baby whale or two.
The restaurant was barely 20% full. There were a couple of other
tables of couples sitting around us. They were the type of couples who clearly
had lived together for a couple of millennia and had run out of things to say.
I could not stop talking (even with a mouthful) but I became so conscious of
the silence that I eventually hushed up. In fact, it was so quiet that I could
hear the din of cutlery from a table across the restaurant.
And suddenly, as if a tornado hit the restaurant, music was put on
full blast and out came a young lady wear beads. She was the belly-dancer. She
was sashaying her hips across the room, to the beat of the drum, and she was
coming right across to our table. Oh how I hate these things. It’s because you
have to stare. You have to enjoy the spectacle. ‘Oh isn’t this delectable’ her
smile said to us as her swung those hips. And those hips didn’t lie. They could
dance.
Where was I to look? I could not look at her hips; they made me
nauseous from all the swaying. And so I concentrated on
her smile. And then I noticed it… the belly-dancer was wearing braces.
