There is something about walled cities. They have a sense of romance and mystery, of man’s struggle to protect his own, or perhaps it’s just about history. Walled cities are meant to be stormed, like pages of a book waiting to be prised open exposing the secrets within; ripe virgins proudly defending their honour,
Tauroudant, with its high terracotta walls is such a city. Nestled beneath the Atlas mountains and surrounded by fertile agricultural land its thick terracotta walls rise up to greet you then continue upwards in defiance to touch the blue Moroccan sky.
Well that’s how I’ll describe it in my novel.
The reality is all hustle and bustle and people going about their business, and tired backpackers in dirty jeans with rucksack welts on their shoulders. The bus station teems with taxi touts, or horse drawn carriage touts, or “Very nice hotel’ touts.
As a seasoned traveller of four days, I am far too experienced to fall for their tempting ploys. Me and my blisters pulling our Longchamp case on wheels (no rucksack welts for us), hobble purposefully through the arching gates certain that The Salem Palace will be instantly recognisable.
It isn’t.
No signposts anywhere.
A maze of low level, low end terracotta houses with goods spilling into the road greets us. The city of Taroudant more closely resembles a down market car boot sale than the undiscovered fortress of Omar Sharif.
We march onwards like pilgrims, my blisters unimpressed. Three roads and nothing but second hand goods and the biggest strawberries I have ever seen later, they shoot out from beneath my Abaya and hail a cab.
“Salem Palace S’il vous plait’ (I realise that this far south, English is not even worth negotiating.)
7 whatevers later (I have obviously been royally ripped off to date), we pull up at yet another high terracotta wall of the Jaipur variety. A fading sign above the vast gate announces we have arrived at Palace Salem.
Trip Advisor describes it as “Shabby Chic”. Well they got one bit right. Think Marigold Hotel before the renovations.
That’s not fair. My room is clean and huge and the bathroom looks as if it works. ( I can try and ignore the grouting). A Moroccan blue balcony overlooks a pool that has water in it and the huge grounds of the ‘Shabby Chic’ Palace are green and lush.
In its day it must have been an impressive sight. I explore, and discover cavernous rooms where I imagine bargains being struck between rivalling factions, small booths where courtesans would entertain their lovers, cool walks in the central courtyards and beautiful and intricate carvings on immense fixed doors, with tiny doors cut out, that actually open.
The internet works in the lobby. The death of a good friend, Shackleton, saddens. Life is so short, we have to hold on to everything good for as long as we can.
I meet Beatrice and hear my first words of English in four days. Beatrice is French but her English vastly superior to my French. She has been in Taroudant for a month. The daughter of a deceased, ‘gentleman’ farmer, she now lives just outside Paris but spends most of her time travelling, Morocco being her favourite winter destination.
She takes me to the souk, (why do women like shopping?). It is…a souk, albeit a Berber souk as Beatrice is at pains to point out. “Berbers sell things, they don’t make them.” Well who’d have known?
The proud possessor of 5 whatever’s worth of dates later, we emerge from the souk and, as Beatrice wants to return to the hotel and I am an enthusiastic explorer, she explains how I need to get back.
Foolishly imagining, I am now the unofficial tourist guide for the city of Taroudant, we (my blisters are still with me) are quite happy with this arrangement.
Several hours later, I discover that ancient cities were never built on grids. Who got that wrong?
Hopelessly lost, and entering ever narrowing streets (the buildings are beautiful), I think that perhaps the old bag should exert a measure of caution. Tagging alongside a young Arab woman with a child accessory and feeling like an Agadirian beach vendor, I pluck up the courage to ask if she knows the way back to the hotel.
We walk along the inside the city walls and I discover that she is the niece of the concierge at the hotel, the accessory is her niece and she has another sister with two autistic children who live even further south, (the Sahara I presume).
Half an hour later and she points out the shabby chic hotel. Delighted and, despite her protestations, I insist she takes some whatevers to buy the accessory an ice cream.
On entering the lobby, and being somewhat disappointed that no-one was the slightest concerned about my long absence. I ask the concierge to pass on my grateful thanks to his niece.
He looks blankly at me.
He has no niece.
I wonder what we were actually discussing if it wasn’t autistic children?
Tomorrow Beatrice is taking me to the market.