Kasbah life

Morocco is famous for many things; tajines, kaftans, lanterns and mysterious blue robed men leading camels amongst them. One of its most, if not the most renowned image of Morocco, is of grand red stone kasbahs perched on cliff tops or dusty river banks. These enormous fortress like homes are all over the country and are remnants of a life not so long past.

Foreigners are presented with a very romantic view of kasbah life. One of billowing, colourful drapes, cosy cushioned corners, luxurious room and protective walls sheltering lush palm tree filled gardens from the external extremes. If you go on 'all knowing' Google you find pages and pages of examples of just this kind of kasbah; rose petal littered footpaths, spa rooms and swimming pools. While this is now the most common use of these grand buildings they have a much more practical past. Like English castles, only far more abundant and slightly less regal, these places were the centre and defence of all village life. 

 

When taking a tour of the Southern Atlas Mountains a few months ago we visited Dades Gorge. This lush valley is one of a few green oases that cut along the middle of the barren and near waste-land that runs along the south of the Atlas and north of the Sahara. Spread out along the 25 kilometre valley are over twenty enormous kasbahs. Most have fallen into disrepair. Some have been maintained and are still lived in by locals, some have been given a major face lift and are now grand hotels.

 

While we stayed in the gorge we were taken by a local guide to visit an old crumbling kasbah across the river. Walking around this giant ruin of a place we got a bit of an insight into real kasbah life.

Kasbah life was still the way of life for many Berbers as recently as 20-25 years ago. Our guide said 15 years ago, but knowing Moroccan sense of time I take this as an underestimate. The kasbah was used as a way of initially protecting families and livestock from wild animals and enemies. This was originally other tribes, but later in battles with the French while fighting the protectorate. The tall mud walls made from straw, local clay and goats hair had few windows and acted as a fortress. Inside the kasbah there was a 'fire room'. A large open air area which was used for making great big fires when they were under attack. This was to signal distress to other kasbahs in the area. Although very large, inside the kasbah walls many families would live along with the animals. There would be kids and goats everywhere with very little private space or peace and quiet. It was cramped and smelly. 

 

The fire room.

The old kasbah wash room.

After the French released control of Morocco in 1955 Kasbah life slowly begun to disintegrate. With no more enemies and relative calm, locals began to appreciate the space and quiet that could be had by moving away from the kasbah. Simply by gaining permission from the local tribe leader it was possible to build a private home with space for animals and agriculture. Our guide said he spent his early childhood in the kasbah and talked of the 'freedom and peace' of living in relative isolation now.

Sadly, when people leave these majestic buildings there is no need to keep repairing the roof and walls. When damp gets in the walls quickly weaken and then crumble. The roof timbers get taken for fire wood and what was the strength and centre of the community for over a hundred years becomes a ruin in less than 30 years. 

While visitors are usually given an unrealistic kasbah life experience, it is our romantic notion of this life that keeps us coming. Without this interest a far greater number of these incredible places would soon disappear into dust. A part of Moroccan history only kept alive by slightly misleading movie sets like Ait Benhadou.

Lost in translation

When you have lived abroad for over 10 years you are bound to encounter a number of occasions when no matter how hard you try or how clear you think you have made yourself, things get lost in translation. Yesterday I had one of those experiences when I visited the hairdresser for the first time in Morocco.

I have never had a high maintenance hair style and am pretty happy with a haircut and highlights once every five or six months, but when you live in a country where your communication skills are limited to hand gestures, a visit to a hairdressers can become an intensely stressful experience.

What makes it worse is I usually find myself in a country where I am surrounded by people with coarse, dark hair; the complete opposite to mine. No big deal until you request highlights from hairdressers used to needing to use high strength bleach for an hour to get any colour difference. Knowledge of this means that sitting down in the hairdresser's chair is akin to going to the dentist. Only the results can be more traumatic and for all to see.

Surprisingly, my luck with hairdressers has been reasonably good. The number of times I’ve sat sweating and biting my nails in a hairdresser's chair in Thailand panicking that my description of how thick I want my highlights using language normally used to choose noodles for soup has not been understood. You spend an uncomfortable hour running through a constant stream of questions of such as 'is it going to be light enough? Is it going to be too light? Is turning orange? Is it going to fall out?' This is the continuous cycle in your brain until the hair-dryer starts to do it's work and all questions are answered one way or another. Thankfully in Thailand I was usually okay. There was the occasional garish orange tint and one slightly green week, but nothing I couldn't deal with.

Yesterday's experience was my most stressful yet. Having asked for highlights and demonstrated the thickness, required use of foils and area to be highlighted with hand gestures and Nick's basic knowledge of hairdresser French, I was left alone while Nick went to do the shopping, wonderful husband that he is.

It started well, the girl doing the foils seemed to know what she was doing and my stress eased. She had obviously understood exactly what I wanted with unprecedented speed. It was only after the front sides of my hair had been done and she started on the very back that I realised that I was getting a whole head of highlights. This I accepted without comment, I’m not fussy, and it's cheap. However, when after 40 minutes of the front of my head sitting in bleach and the top of my head was still not in foils I began to panic. Half of my head was well and truly cooked, while to other half hadn't even been started. I sat and panicked about this for about ten minutes, just how were they going to solve this problem? Surely at best I was going to end up with an orange crown and hair loss at the front. I am ashamed to say that while I can understand quite a lot of French, when speaking I am is still limited to being able to ask for a glass of water and that's about it. I was stuck with my stress in silence.

At the point when another hairdresser came over to check one of the front foils and she asked him something in Moroccan and he responded 'safi' meaning 'done', I watched her start to share my panic. She had obviously underestimated the speed with which my hair stripped itself. You know it's bad when two hair dressers start frantically inspecting your hair and whispering words behind your head. I didn't understand a word of the Arabic spoken, I just felt their panic accelerate mine. It was then that I began to text Nick and warn him to expect the worst. My luck had run out and I was going to lose hair. There would be tears. Why oh why do I always choose to live in a country where the majority of the people can't understand a word I’m saying?

Having prepared Nick for disaster, I think he was quite surprised when sometime later I arrived at the car with probably the best hair cut and colour I’ve had in a long time. This was partly to do with the miracle of a wet towel used to strip the bleach off the overcooked hair while the other hair got to catch up, and partly because the male hairdresser who arrived to cut my newly washed and unconditioned hair (they don't use it here) had little patience for de tangling and simply combed as far as his frustration would allow before cutting off the rest.

This experience reminded why I only visit a hairdresser's once every six months. Time to start flying home for haircuts perhaps?

Michelin living in Meknes

Over the last two weeks we have been off exploring some more as we have had Nick’s mum and step dad, Val and Bill to stray. During that time we discovered a new hidden gem of a place to visit as well as returning to a riad that has secured its place as a firm favourite. As you may have read in the last post, there are always frustrations involved in travel here, this means it can be a real find when you discover somewhere you know you can count on.

The first place we visited was a farm stay about thirty minutes north of Meknes just by Volubolis. This 100 year old farm is the closest building to the Roman ruins of Volubolis. A law was drawn up in the 1930’s stating that no other buildings could be built in the vicinity to protect the archaeological site. Over the last 10 years ex Michelin chef Azzedine has rebuilt this abandoned farm that had been left to go to ruin. Returning from working in Utrecht in The Netherlands in a top restaurant, he then drove to the bottom of Africa and back in an old Landrover. Proficient in French, Arabic and Dutch, it was on this massive journey that he learnt basic Spanish and English. Azzedine then returned to Morocco with a dream of opening a gourmet farmstay. This he is doing step by step and he calls his guest ‘participants’ as each stay contributes to further renovations. He currently rents out 3 rooms in the house and one in a side annex while he lives in an adjoining house. His current project is to turn an enormous old barn into a restaurant and two further bedrooms. The stay is usually half board and for $40 a person you are treated to a five course evening meal either inside in front of the fire or outside under the stars. 

G+T time in the first sun of the hol.

  

The farm stay was distinctly rustic. The rooms were chilly and slightly musty, the lounge dark and lit only by an overhead light, and of course there was the usual lack of bedside lights. But strangely, you could forgive it here due to its uniqueness. There are not many places where you eat your breakfast on a terrace surrounded by roosters, geese and guinea fowl and get a fine dining experience on a farm.  At the bottom of the garden there is a babbling stream which, if you are lucky, and we were, you’ll find wild terrapins. Going at this time of year you are also treated to a garden overflowing with wild flowers and swaying fields of golden wheat stretching off towards the horizon and ruins. It is like a scene out of Gladiator.

http://www.walila.com/inside/

  

 
At the end of Bill and Val’s stay we took them back to Meknes to Riad Maison da Cote. This was the first riad we went to when we arrived in Morocco and having been to quite a few of them since, I can’t recommend this place enough. Unlike most riads it is just single storey so the interior courtyard is bright and sunny and full of overladen orange trees. The rooms are unusually bright and airy and it is a quiet haven from the sounds of the medina. There are two suites and one double available to rent and the whole riad can be rented for around 160 Euros a night. It is a beautiful and colourful riad that is half the price of most that are available in Fes. Even though Riad Maison Da Cote is in the smaller and less known of all the imperial cities it is a must visit.
http://www.riadmaisondacote.com/

 

 

This weekend...

As we have visitors and are off exploring I don't have my needed 3 hours to sit down and write a post... yes, sadly these things always take longer than expected. For those who have kindly taken the time to check up on what has been happening I thought I'd brighten your day with some flowers... 

These pictures were taken while exploring Volubolis half an hour north of Meknes. We had to climb through a hole in a fence into a farmer's bean field to take them but this natural wonder was worth it. 

I also wanted to add a further humorous tale that I forgot to put in last week's post 'Western Expectations'. Talking to Australian friends who are living for ten months in the newly constructed Best Western hotel that can be seen out of our window, they mentioned that the hotel complex had been visited recently by the Minister for Tourism. They wondered what was going on when lots of people in suits appeared and started rushing around to prepare the place for the visit. Loose ends were hidden and the pool was topped up and debris cleared out in an aim to impress their important visitor. 

Although now debris free and full, the pool was still covered in slime, but out of time to do anything about it, someone had the good idea to use this slime to write the name 'Best Western' across the bottom of the pool. This is just another fine example of the Moroccan take of thinking on your feet. 

With that thought, enjoy some real Moroccan beauty.