Veronika is departing for Paris via Agadir. I am exhausted. She is indeed a force of the universe, me a mere smattering of tarmacadam now pulverised into a footprint beneath her steamroller of good intent.
“ You Ave to go to Ouarzazate Keem! Eeet is beautiful!”
I’m sure it is but I’m not convinced I will enjoy the 5 hour bus journey on the CTM bus. I wasn’t thrilled with the 2 hour one from Agadir, and I had a spare seat next to me on that one.
“Then you must take the bus over the mountains to Marrakech! Eet is magnifique, tres bien! Why you want to go to…come tell me the name?”
‘Esswearia?” I attempt.
“NON! ESS – SOW- IIR – A! You do not listen! You are typical English! Why do I bother?!I spend all my day telling you about Ouarzazate and you say you will go, now you say you will go to Essouari instead. You can’t even say Essouari.”
I can’t actually say much; Veronika commandeers most of the conversation.
I have tried to explain that fond though I am of glorious scenery, I am not a lover of hairpin bends over mountains. Frankly the roller coaster of death in Jordan, experienced a decade ago cured me of that romantic fascination completely. Google earth and a comfortable armchair being far more to my taste.
I like calm, and pretty, and people. I am no near death, adrenalin junky. Crossing the road to the market was quite enough of a fix for me.
We stride round the market as Veronika sulks and chatters to Sarami.
Sarami is open faced and charming, making sure that I am keeping up and not lost to the colours, smells and sounds of the market.
It turns out he is 62 and used to be the chef at Salem Palace. His first wife died and he later married her niece. He now has two families and, according to Veronika , “Eees house et magnifique!”
Perhaps he should put on his bicycle ‘My other car is a Porche’.
I am none the wiser as to his relationship with Veronika.
I like to think they were lovers and that he was kinder to her than the man in Ouarzazate, who she obviously had strong feelings for and who relieved her of a good part of her fortune, before returning to the domesticity of his other life.
Perhaps that is why she is so determined I should visit the place. To allay her ghosts vicariously.
The faces in the market are extraordinary. The produce, aside from the fresh fruit and vegetables, less so. Rows and rows of trestle tables laden with Oxfam style jumble sale clothes and brightly coloured scarves. Goats tethered by their ankles and wrapped around Arab shoulders, weakly bleating for mothers they will never see again. Every stall has a generator and each its own sound system, the stall holders noisily clamouring for attention. It sounds like a thousand calls to prayer.
One man fascinates me. Surely he is a medieval monk? He sits cross legged on the ground behind his kaleidoscope of herbs and spices nestled in plastic bags. His face is ruddy and round. He wears a coarse wool monk’s habit complete with hood, but it is his eyes that intrigue. The palest blue.
I shudder. There is something unkind behind those eyes. Veronika wants to “make photograph”.
A riot nearly ensues. My malevolent Friar Tuck is having none of this. Those pale blue eyes narrow as he leaps to his feet and aggressively moves towards us. Sarami spreads his arms wide and makes a thousand apologies. Veronika, becomes more vocal. Friar Tuck glowers at her. He patently speaks no French (I suspect he speaks little Arabic either).
He is a Berber (I discover later), an angry Berber. A crowd gathers. I lower my eyes and wish I had black hair, brown eyes and a burka. Veronika finally apologises. Many Sarami smile’s and spreading of arms later, we escape with our lives.
In the afternoon, I decide to explore on my own. I have a vague idea of the way to the market square and, despite getting lost in the souk yet again, I eventually find it. Past the shop that sells live chickens, cooked chickens and eggs, that beggars the question ‘Which came first?’ Past the bakery and its wonderful smells, past the mini square that seems to sell bits of everything; bits of beds, bits of tables, the odd shoe, a thousand strawberries.
I recognise a chest of drawers, well the front of a chest of drawers, painted pale lilac and know I am nearly there.
The square is full of beggars, entertainers, stalls, a group of men gambling, the occasional tourist and ‘Oh my god’ my Friar Tuck. I pray he doesn’t notice me.
He doesn’t.
My first taste of Tajine in Taroudant is exquisite. Tender pieces of succulent chicken cooked in a thousand spices with onions and garlic and olives, and served with warm Moroccan bread and the freshest salad.
I ignore the chips.
I ignore the beggar woman, who reminds me of a wild Vanessa Redgrave witch in Macbeth, or Mr Rochester’s wife before she perished in the fire. A hag who I am sure could cast a spell so terrible I would wake up with a million suppurating sores.
I try to ignore the cats.
Having shared my Tajine with the cats, well one was the tiniest of kittens how would it survive if I didn’t give its mother a few morsels? I set off through the souk hoping to find the wonderful date stall and replenish my supplies.
I didn’t.
Find the date stall.
I did find the exit and my way home and am joined in my walk by an Arab and his bicycle.
Here we go.
He asks if it is my first visit? Where is my husband? Where am I staying? He is pleasant enough though his teeth are in serious need of attention. He is saddened by the death of my husband but I am young, he tells me. I will find another…Oh, very good.
They are charming, that I grant, but I am old and wise so despite his kind offer of taking me to the desert to stay with his sister, I decline. It’s enough. In the south they know their limits. He says, if we meet tomorrow, he will show me the orphanage I have been looking for and tells me I am Berber.
Excuse me! I am nothing like Friar Tuck!
Berbers it seems have blue eyes and that is why I am a Berber. He is a desert man (alas no Omar Sharif) and that is why his eyes are brown.
We say goodbye at the gates of Palace Salam and I promise nothing. I have to find the incorrigible Veronika and bid her farewell. Tomorrow I need a day by the pool.