Into the Valley of Ourika Rode the Two Scots.

Our planned trip for today was to head south into Berber country and hike up the Ourika valley to the waterfalls. A look out our window in the morning showed there had been a significant snowfall in the mountains overnight so we packed a selection of clothing just in case the temperature took a nose dive. Our driver picked us up after breakfast and we drove south with several stops to take photos of the changing landscape. Rachid spoke fairly good English and we stumbled along in a mixture of two languages where necessary. Our first stop was at a traditional Berber home where we were given a guided tour by the owner. These encounters always feel slightly jarring. I know it is a welcome source of income for some villagers but it feels very intrusive to be walking into a stranger's bedroom and encouraged to photograph his wife in the kitchen. To make matters worse, Rachid told us that the family had lost both grandparents and an infant child in the last great flood in the valley.
A few steps across the road was a Women's Cooperative making and selling argan oil products. We were shown the women at work and the different stages of production. The women were very keen to see my henna-ed hands and to show off their own. The Berber women cover their whole palm in henna rather than in patterns. Of course there was a gift shop where profits went to support the women working there to maintain themselves and their children.
In Setti Fatma Rachid introduced us to our guide, Hassan, who would take us up the mountain to see the seven waterfalls. Hassan had lived and worked in the valley all his life and had been a guide for over twenty years so we were in experienced hands. We had survived a climb up Montsegur in France several years ago so we joked that this trek would be a dawdle! Oh how the prideful fall! After the first twenty minutes Hassan was almost pulling me up! He was being very polite and helpful, offering his hand whenever he felt I needed extra support although I think I would have preferred to have been left with both hands free to negotiate the boulder-sized steps.
When we arrived at the second waterfall we took a much needed rest. I looked around at the other exhausted tourists and a few Moroccans. I had on my sturdy walking boots, loose trousers and top while the Moroccan women were in their djelabas and babouche slippers! I felt very useless!
After a short rest and some photographs we were ready to move on. Round the corner of the small cafe at this level, Hassan pointed to the next section of the journey.'Now we have to do some climbing' he said without a hint of humour! In front of me was a solid wall with a ladder tied to it! I looked around hopefully for a path and, being unsuccessful I looked at Hassan in disbelief and squeaked, 'Up the...ladder?' Yes, we have to climb' was the straightfaced reply. The voice in my head said, extremely loudly. 'Fuck. This!' The voice that actually came out of my mouth sadly admitted to Hassan that I would not be going up any ladder. It was tied to a freaking rock! I offer no apologies for putting life and limb before any great photos and stories that would have ensued had I reached the top waterfall.
Even in late October it is a busy site and there were several people jams on the way down. There isn't always a lot of room for people to pass but we made it down safely. There is even a tourist shop on the way, several in fact although Hassan was obviously affiliated to only one. It was the only shop we were stopped at and shown the different wares.
Back at the riad now and I am not sure full function will ever return to my weary legs...

Souk - a - dee- doo- dah!

Today we ventured into the heart of Marrakech for a visit to the souks and various museums. Most of the literature on the souks spake of catastrophes such as getting lost, getting ripped off and disappearing in an unknown alleyway but as a fearless woman who tends to take no prisoners in an altercation I was not fazed by such possibilities.  Besides, I had Sean to protect me!

I can imagine that in the 1960s when such exotic places were only seen on the pages of the inestimable National Geographic magazine the souks of Marrakech were completely otherworldly and I certainly don't mean to detract from their exoticism. It IS different. It is NOT Kansas, Toto. However, it is not completely beyond the ken of Westerners. Shopkeepers everywhere want to make a sale and if they can do so by claiming to have drunk whiskey in their youth when they learn you are from Scotland then so be it. It is up to the tourist to be up for the challenge of having a conversation and moving on, having a conversation and being persuaded to buy something, or ignoring the vendor and carrying on with their touristy day. I believe I fall into the first category. I am curious enough to want to talk to people, even on a superficial level and move on without buying into the idea that I suddenly owe the other person something (my money). However, I understand that the longer that vendor is in conversation with me he (it is usually a 'he' but not exclusively) is not making a sale and so I move on quickly having had the pleasure of some superficial, but entertaining (hopefully for both of us), human contact.

The souks are something to see. If you have a yen for travel and to see exciting places then I hope you make it to Marrakech someday. The dried fruit stall with a tiny square gap in the middle where the vendor stood surrounded by his wares, the lantern shop where the lanterns were hung in the shape of a door leading into an Aladdin's cave of lantern loveliness, the carts pulled by donkeys, the mopeds driven by middle-aged women in veils, the cats- there is a ginger tomcat in Marrakech that is completely shagged out after fathering half the cat population - these are some of the wonders of the souks. Turn left here, right there, suddenly you have no idea where you are. But, as Sean pointed out, the sky was still above us and the cobbles were beneath our feet. 

There is much to be taken in by - scarves, bags, slippers, clothing, ironwork, saddles, candles - to name a few. Take your pick. Stop to take a closer look. Don't stop to take a closer look. Just remember if you stop someone WILL try to sell you something at an over-inflated price. If you think it is a fair price, pay it. If you want some entertainment and to get your chosen item at a better price, barter. You will walk away from the experience with memories you won't forget!

I had only one item in mind when I entered the souks - and it is a boundary you cross from the world outside the souks to the world inside. I wanted a Kaftan. I had been looking for a ball gown for the annual 'Oil Baron's Ball' and I thought I would go for the more exotic item in Marrakech. It took a lot of wrong turns and quite a few stumbles down quirky alleyways but we eventually found a shop. About twenty seconds of standing still in the relative vicinity of the shop was all it took for the owner to zone in. 'Hello, bonjour, where you from? You English?'' 'I'm from Scotland.' Ah! I am from Irish!' (Yeah,  right!) 'Come in, Princess.' (to Sean) 'She is your Princess, She is beautiful. You are lucky man' It was suddenly his mission in life to find me the perfect Kaftan. I was a Princess after all!

Before I could even spell the word K.A.F.T.A.N. I was be-robed! I have been undressed by men before but this may have been the first time one actually dressed me! Slightly disconcerting! 'Try this colour.' 'What about this colour?' 'This one.' 'That one.' 'Doesn't your Princess look beautiful, sir?' He knew his trade. But he also knew that I knew what I wanted and - more importantly - what I didn't want. I told him where I would wear it. No, I didn't want velvet. I told him the colours I liked. Red will NOT go with my hair on any planet! It was a negotiation. An extremely entertaining negotiation for both of us, I believe. 

In the end I made my decision and the real negotiation began. The price. He began with an outrageous number. I countered with an equally outrageous number. He was sad. I was heartbroken. Different numbers were thrown in the mix. The numbers became closer together. Closer together at his end of the negotiation, not mine. I have only done this once. He makes a living at it! I spent more than I wanted to but I had a great time. He got a great price for his kaftan. We hugged. Yes, we actually embraced and kissed cheeks twice! He said he liked me so he had given me the best price possible. I said I liked his so I had paid over the odds. He gave Sean a 'free' scarf. We left happy. I had a unique dress for the Ball. He had my money. Time to head home. Now, how the hell do I get out of the souk?

Kasbah Al Mendili, Marrakech.

We had almost decided to go to Barcelona and Valencia for this year's holiday when Marrakech made a late appearance in the running and completed an admirable sprint finish to be Destination 2013. Choosing the hotel was equally as difficult and just when we thought we had made our decision Al Mendili popped up on the radar. I can't possibly judge it against the 'also rans' but I am certainly glad we came here.
We are staying in the Chaar el Assel room overlooking the Atlas Mountains. It's name means Honeymoon but we only learned that when we arrived!
http://www.almendili.com/en/elassel.php
This link is a photo of the room and I am sitting in that comfy chair right at this minute!
There are only 10 rooms in the hotel, or riad as they are called here. It is run by a delightful French couple, Catherine and Alain who are wonderful, caring hosts. A car picked us up from the airport and we were welcomed at the riad by Catherine and Alain and served with local mint tea and a wet towel to freshen up. Through halting French and English we introduced ourselves and were shown to our suite.
Dinner was served on the rooftop terrace with the stars twinkling overhead and Venus shining brightly over Marrakech in the distance. Meals here are slightly unusual as there is no menu. The waiter serves what the chef prepares which may be disconcerting for some but Catherine had asked if we had any allergies or dislikes and the kitchen would have been informed if there was an alternative required. We are pretty much omnivores and I have to say, the food is delicious. To accompany the meal we asked the waiter to recommend a local vin gris, a specialty of Morocco and Algiers. And very nice it was, too!
This morning we asked for breakfast to be served on our private terrace overlooking the Atlas mountains. Basically, it seems you can eat wherever you want if you give the staff notice in advance and there is no extra charge. Lunch was eaten by the pool where we had spent most of the morning after a stroll round the garden. Catherine arranged for a taxi to collect us after lunch to go into the Medina, the central part of the city.
Our driver was very friendly and spoke French clearly and slowly so I could understand. He dropped us off near the Koutoubia mosque which we wandered around (not allowed in on account of being non Muslim and, in my case, non male). There are some nicely laid out gardens at the back of the mosque where we tried to find some shade from the 30 degree heat.
The central square, Djemaa el Fna, is nearby. Its name, according to my guide book means 'Place of the Dead or Place of the Apocalypse. Not encouraging! It is a bustling place with market stalls, beggars, snake charmers and street vendors of all kinds. I got grabbed by a henna tattooist who had henna on my hand even as I was saying 'la, shukran' (no, thank-you)! I managed to get away! Not all tourists are so efficient at avoiding the aggressive sales pitches. As we sat on the terrace of Le Grand Balcon I saw a caleche driver draw in a couple who obviously felt it was rude not to stop to speak. Very quickly he had them in his caleche and was trotting off with them!
Our driver collected us at the appointed time and place and returned us to the riad.  It is now time for a cocktail methinks.

Toilet Skills.

One doesn't normally talk about toilets and such activities in polite company but I feel this post will be helpful for those who, like me, are toiletly challenged. Of course I learned at a young age how to use a toilet. You know the type. Basic. Sit. Bit we won't talk about. Flush. Leave with a contented smile on your face having achieved what one had set out to achieve. However, there are modern contraptions that do all that and sing and dance at the same time. I have encountered a couple of the 'Bells and Whistles' type and I have to say I have not come away from the experience entirely happy with my skills.
My first encounter, as I'm sure many people's is, was what I will call 'The French Model'. Hole in the ground, hang on (if it is an advanced model with bars on the wall) etc. The most challenging of these was in the Ngorongoro crater in Tanzania (no hand rail, terrible stench and possibility of roaming lions). All I will say is that trying to complete the toilet duty while simultaneously trying to keep clothing and camera equipment safe from unknown liquids on the 'floor' was an exercise in juggling and balancing worthy of a talented circus act.
Then there was the encounter with the modern Japanese contraption that washed and blow-dried the relevant delicate parts in the maternity home where Senior Bomber made his entry to the world. The sound effects of squeaks and gasps from the new Mum's who attempted the full laundry cycle  was entertaining until it was my turn...A similar contraption was encountered in Luxor many years later. It came with a hand book and required an advanced degree in engineering to understand its every whim.
The toilets in Schiphol airport, Amsterdam, are not fancy. They don't require particular balancing skills or specific knowledge to use successfully. However, the problem here is that they have 'automatic' flushes. That is, it flushes when it senses that the user has completed the relevant activities and has moved from the sitting position. All well and good, you might think. But are you prepared to exit said cubicle in expectation that said toilet will then flush itself? It appears very few people are prepared to accept the risk that the toilet will, in fact, complete its duties satisfactorily and in a timely manner. Hence long queues of needy travelers waiting on a free cubicle while the occupant tries to get the toilet to flush by moving nearer to the door, waving their hands in front of the sensors, pinning themselves against the walls to try to convince the toilet they are no longer in the vicinity etc. It's a nerve-wracking experience. And you have a flight to catch...