The Ramblings of Boots

It’s hot and sunny.

The old bag is delighted with herself.

A visit to the souk and hardly got lost at all, despite the fact that someone had bought my lilac chest of drawers’ landmark.

Managed to say F*** off charmingly to all attempted boarders and feel …almost a local.

It looks different every day, the souk that is. This time my route was paved with fabric and furniture, I’m sure they were selling shoes and bags here yesterday but no matter.

Found the market square and the cigarette kiosk.

Settle for a new cafe. Delicious fresh tomato salad and,  if possible,  even nicer bread than yesterday. Best of all, not  cat in sight…all mine.

Sated… people watch.

The square is full of Medieval hooded  monks. Green monks, aubergine monks, saffron monks, dark blue monks, terracotta monks and just your average run of the mill brown monks.

I’m sure Friar Tuck has brought out his entire army in retribution for Veronika’s “make photo”

Any minute now I expect Richard the Lionheart to appear with his crusaders,  all on motorbikes, black smoke belching from their Harleys as they attack the square.

The monks will take position on the north side of the square, Richard and  the Crusaders (was there a band called that?) the south, the James Dean, leather jacketed, Arab youths the West side, and Errol Flynn and his merry men will rain arrows down from the battlements as crazy eyed, Vanessa Redgrave cackles her oaths.

Enough. It’s too warm to write nonsense and time to tan.

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.

Jean Willoughby almost knocks me off my feet as I walk through the gardens to breakfast.

Jean Willoughby at least I think that is her name, so surprised am I at hearing my native tongue with only the slightest hint of an accent the niceties of names seems irrelevant, nearly sends me flying as she charges into me, binoculars in hand.

“ Jean Willoughby.  Sorry, just missed a heron”. She is surely the most unlikely  suspect in an Agatha Christie murder?

‘Lancashire?’ I yelp with delight.

“American I suppose” she crushingly replies, arching an eyebrow in contempt.

Having mortally offended each other, and missed the heron, this delightful, Yorkshire, Hercule Poirot suspect,  stretches out her hand.

“Bird watching holiday.”

‘Ah, a twitcher’,  I say, knowingly. I am not entirely ignorant.

She frowns, irritated.

“Are you determined to insult me? You won’t catch me chasing hundreds of miles at some unearthly hour and missing me breakfast. I’m no twitcher. I’m a bird watcher.”

‘Sorry.’ I am entirely ignorant.

She smiles, apology accepted, insults forgiven.  We shake hands and for the next half hour I let Jean Willoughby’s soft Yorkshire vowels, wash over me in waves, soothing, familiar.

I hate her of course. She is 75 and has a flawless English rose complexion. How can anyone of 75 have a complexion like that? I peer at her unlined face and reach for my first cigarette of the day as she, mid flow, leaps back with the agility of an impala, to avoid the curling smoke…ah perhaps that’s why she looks so good.

We talk of travel insurance for the aged and the ‘Most Perfect Marigold Hotel’ and how it reminds us of Salam Palace. In  truth Jean Willoughby does most of the talking, I am just thrilled to listen, like a child who, once lost in the park, is now safely reunited with  its scolding parents.

A brief half hour later and the rest of the twi….bird watchers, prise her away, leaving me once again linguistically orphaned as Beatrice flounces into the dining room.

Beatrice shall from now on be known as Veronika (her chosen nome de plume). When I told her I would write about her, she was delighted. When I said that I would almost certainly mention all her past Moroccan lovers and describe in detail the heartbreak they inflicted on her and suggested she might prefer anonymity she demanded:

“What will my name be?’

“Euguene?” I timorously suggest, thinking that the choice of another princess would flatter.

“PAH!” Non! I will be Veronica!”

I write it down on my note book.

“NON! NON!” she snatches the pad and pen.

“V-E-R-O-N-I-K-A!”

She is not to be argued with. Aquarian, independent, 62, dark and sensual, I am sure Bea…Veronika is a traveller I can learn much from.

“We’re late! Come!”

I hadn’t realised the Sunday market had a time limit.

We hail a passing horse and carriage and fifteen minutes and 10 whatevers poorer, we are deposited on the outskirts of the market.

‘We wait ‘ere!. E ees late! I ATE late!”

Having no idea who it is who ‘E’ is but hopeful that it my be one of Be…Veronika’s past lovers, I wonder how big an appetite Veronika has. She ‘ATE’ cold, she ‘ATE hot, she ‘ATE bad manners.

An impeccably dressed “E is tres elegant”, Arab draws up on a bicycle, (he may be tres elegant but he certainly isn’t loaded).

We shake hands, Veronica kisses him on both cheeks and introduces me “This ees Keem”, she speaks no French!”

Without a clue as to what the gentleman’s name is (Sarami, I later discover), Veronika grabs my arm and, propelling me to certain death, we cross the road to the market.

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.

Today I could stay here for six months, the rest of my life even. Today nature’s neon has all bulbs blazing. The sun is high in a cloudless sky,  turning grey water turquoise and grubby sand golden.

The walk to the beach bombards the senses.

Plumbago is the only understated flower. Its delicate pale blue petals, like virgin wall flowers at a Jane Austen ball, trampled into insignificance by the trumpets of blowsy red Hibiscus, Scarlet Johannson lipped Geraniums, and Mesembryanthemum (a flower with no idea of colour coordination) screaming to be noticed as they litter the base of towering screw pines. Giant, lush, green foliage (of the house plant variety), affording welcome shade and putting the glass houses of Kew and Wisley into perspective.

This is my Africa.

My blisters and I meander down alleyways that in the evening, are full of Alibaba shops selling all things twinkly, now shuttered in soft colours, greens, blues and damask pinks to keep out the heat of the day.

The beach is perfect. Miles and miles of golden sand, the Atlantic beckoning seductively. Tankers, far out to sea carry the oil that will light a thousand cities, fuel millions of cars and keep economies, and wars, alive and well.

Don’t knock it, woman. Without it you wouldn’t be here, tapping on a hardly inexpensive Mac, luxuriating in the beauty of nature. Someone’s work pays for this.

All along the promenade are hotels, those further away, as with most holiday destinations, still under construction. On the beach in front of each hotel, battalions of sun loungers and beach umbrellas, reminiscent of Rimini or Marbella, but Agadir, charmingly, still has much catching up to do.

True it’s out of season and, for now, the beach is pleasantly uncrowded, the majority of holiday makers being the baby boomer, French and German couples we have met before, or honeymooners, hen weekenders, or just locals going for a walk or a run.

The cafes, open and expectant, must surely struggle to break even. Hopefully the summer hordes will make their efforts and manners worthwhile.

The vendors aren’t pushy, just don’t engage in conversation, (not hard if you don’t speak French or Arabic), keep your eyes down and your body decently covered.

Oh yes, yesterday and the dubious condition? All put to rights and I had the best sea bass I have ever eaten, filleted with more finesse than at Claridges and at a fraction of the cost. The concierge recommended ‘Scampis’ restaurant, and it was a delight. Simple but clean and impeccable service.

This afternoon, I intend to work on the English condition “the pinkening of the skin’ and finish book number 2.

Tomorrow the bus to Taroudant and mountains. I am a very lucky girl.