Marrakech, heaven can wait
Dear guardian angel,
I traveled to Morocco in a sleuth mood. Only a bloodhound could be so sharp to find the exact things I was looking for not because they were too few, but because they were too many! The first target was acquiring a battery of perfume oils, two bottles on the head owner, for each of my grandchildren. You will get the list. There shouldn’t be two essences alike. I planned to give them to the carriers of parts (let’s hope for the best) of my genetic formula when I hit 80 accompanied by first-quality good wishes. The parents were kindly asked to touch each mastoid process (just behind the ear) of their outsprings every evening before or after kissing good night. The purpose of this bright idea (of course mine) was to keep any nightmare away from the charming little heads, some curly, and reinforce family ties. The demand of the elder of these little gentlemen and ladies to bring him a djellaba opened a new line of action and a similar set of rules: firstly, they should all be served with equal quality goods, and secondly – those should be different enough to avoid lifelong rancor. The third target was personal, I am still, alas, a human being. Therefore I felt a serious need to undertake meaningful research of a dish that I fancy particularly: the couscous. I hope that everybody recognizes the essential modesty and striking restraint of my purposes. There wasn’t any plan to return to decadent Europe with a mighty harem (7), belly-dancing houris wrapped in semi-transparent veils (we have plenty of brown to black coverings around) to drive everybody nuts. Modesty before anything else…whatever the else may be! Then, taking into account the time-space I allocate to myself, my tasks, my purse, and my age, I concluded that the three amazing cities (two imperial ones and the once literate one – gone, gone…) will fit me: Marrakech, Fez and Tangier and that I should behave. A little bit heavy note is necessary here. I was warned that the weather is rotten, rainy and cold. What could I do? I am offensively deaf and I am not God, I cannot change the weather! I wonder if God still does. He seems to have relinquished most of his prerogatives all over and in certain countries some very cruel people named themselves instead. Whatever, to ignore the conditions was a big mistake, some people die of that! At one past midnight, I arrived at the Marrakech airport. It has a name, I ignore. The enormous hall, arrivals cum departures I guess, made on me a sinister impression. I am ferociously emotional despite my appearance. It was empty, poorly lit, and displayed the ugliest modern version of the once-famous Muslim decorative art. Houris none, some fat apathetic policemen yes; the single ray of hope coming from the center of the entrepôt where was located an aquarium-like cabin with the magic inscription: CHANGE. I got there the holy cash and some instructions that I failed to register because of hour and age. I remarked immediately that the driver who should wait for me was missing and that the rain was not furious; it was only steady and abundant. Attempting to conceal my despair I went out and after a while I found an individual pressing a piece of cardboard against his chest. After fighting with him like Jacob with the angel, I discovered marked on the cardboard, in uneven majuscules: Riad Itry. It was my destination. The shine of raindrops under the rare flickering street lights and the deep red walls on which irregular shadows and flimsy lighted patches were continuously dancing – created an eerie, spooky, and if you don’t mind enthralling atmosphere. I was elsewhere! A man with an umbrella was waiting for us somewhere in a Medina (old city) spot from where the taxi couldn’t continue. He was kind, the streets were dark, torturous, and narrow, and the sewer overflowed. I felt it with my right leg which became perfectly wet. We got into the central hall. Most of the Riads are built like square chimneys with a set of floors around a central court and open to the sky. Under an arch, a man was lying on a bunch of cushions, intensely under the influence. Kif kingdom! I asked for some mineral water or tea and got informed that notwithstanding the warm teapot near to him, whatever liquids that are not coming from the sky I should get the next morning. My natural murderous instincts increased exponentially, but I felt too tired to start an argument. He brought me to a room on the roof. Toilets cum bathroom were located between the floors, the steps were high and water was pouring freely from the sky reducing whatever difference between the staircase and gutter to nil. Any attempt to reach necessities will end with multiple fractures.
The room had the temperature of a full working refrigerator, a heap of wet linen was thrown on a bed, there were no bed sheets, and the extremely dirty bed cover should have served to protect horses during the rainy season. Greasy horses! After giving me, with some reluctance, a partially wet towel the man left accompanied by my wish, to slide into the steep staircase and break the essentials. Nothing happened. Well, something did! DEATH came to visit me, he/she was seated on the floor in the corner and started smoking…I went fully dressed under the horse blankets, covering well my head, to avoid seeing, so to say, my visitor, without being able to warm up. More, every 10 to 15 minutes I had to alleviate. That was done in the frame of the door, it was out of the question to head towards the bathroom or even use the roof under the steady rain. To perform I had to take off the only pair of dry socks I had and put them back when I was returning to the cocoon. Sorry to give these physiological details but without them, the story is trivial…Death was stalking and, in between, a little horse had joined the company, probably the son of the owners of the blankets; the minuscule room was ready to collapse. The body, mine, was able to take the stake but the mind was failing…An imminent HEART ATTACK provoked by stress, by endless reproaches I made to myself, for not listening to wise people and for making such a poor choice were turning in my head like a squirrel in a wheel; add to that that I hate any cold and that I felt invested by a wave of self-pity….There were little doubts that a good infarct became, more and more, a solid option..Years of meditation helped and some giant chance too. Eventually, God did a miracle. The internet was working in and out. I hired while hiding under the horse covers, during the time that I was trembling with rage and cold, a room in another Riad, more expensive with the IN SITU BATHROOM and intense heating. They said! I decided that I am going in PERSON to see and touch! Thomas was always my preferred saint! At the first ray of light, I left the ordeal room, locked it with my lock, gave some rude words to Death, snorted towards the little horse (I cannot be too harsh on animals), and headed in the direction of the Riad Chennaoui located at the other end of the Medina, near Mellah, the old Jewish quarter. On the road I stopped in a bistro for the poor, got a very hot thick, soup of chickpeas or lentils, or something similar, added a quantity of harissa that provoked the admiration of the public, walked bravely forward, no taxi please, I was not trusting anybody anymore, stopped again in a classic coffee shop, for the gentry, male I mean, in front of the Koutoubia tower, had a splendid double espresso, and from there with no hesitation, I headed towards my new harbor. Just off the record, the Koutoubia minaret, the major city landmark, deserved two mosques built one after the other by Berber Almohades rulers in the XIIc. in a desperate effort to obtain the right alignment with Mecca. They missed it twice. The first – was 5 degrees astray, the second, alas 10!!! Perfection is not of this world. I can live with that, especially after that I realized that the Riad Chennaoui was a dandy (relatively for its price) and its clerk, the precious and polite Mr. Nabil, treated me as a devoted son does for his beloved father. That was priceless!With the trust in me beefed up to new heights I decided to handle the souk and from the giant plaza Jamal-el-Fna, I plunged through the Mouassine street in the heart of a wondrous realm. Should for the sake of life go for the shorter sequence of essential characteristics I will qualify it as the world of color and taste, smell and skill, opulence and tradition. It is a city in a city and I have to reckon that I have rarely seen such a large population engaged in folk and decorative art, production and selling, of any quality, the best included! For those who had the slightest exposure to One Thousand and One Nights, this souk may be felt as the indisputable, frame and background of each of the tales. Did I forget something? Sure, the souk is by definition a highly interesting, appealing, effervescent place of trade. With very few exceptions the merchants, forget the buyers, and are gentle and polite; they do not stick to the customer leech manner, as Indians do, or do not abuse him ruthlessly as Palestinians do. Give respect, get respect that is the formula here. Modestly speaking, I am passionate, and uh! an educated souk activist. Here is my credo! Say hello, when coming in, say hello, when going out, do not tell how exceptional the merchandise is, fact that brings you immediately into the IDIOT category, compare the qualities of the objects belonging to the same sequence, do some mental mathematical operations, that is my weakest part, vendors are doing that in milliseconds, tell crudely what you want to pay, do one or two slight moves, I mean incremental up offers, and leave immediately with or without the product. I became interested in negotiating when I realized that the merchant despised the PIGEON. He does not intend to, but it is stronger than him. The little or high jumps in adrenaline level seem to be appreciated by both sides. Not only you are gambling, but the vendor too. Also, don’t fool around, be quick and drink your coffee or tea at home. If I like something very much I can come the next day offering the same price again. I avoid offering ridiculously low prices that are irritating the vendor and I am generally proposing from 50% (India 35%) to 70 % of what I was asked for (question of feeling) and never go over the upper limit. To be sincere I gather some previous information and bother people on the street if they have something that I like and ask how much they paid for and where. Speak only with locals. A lot of them tell. In less than two days kids and grandfather were ready for the masquerade djellaba and babouches included.The new city (Gueliz) is located out of the walls of the Medina of course. They share the same color, this glorious red of the pisé, a brick made of pressed mud or earth tempered with chalk, gravel or lime. Color only, otherwise the new city is completely different should architecture, building materials, the opulence of the stores, the beauty of the houris, restaurants, and hotels prices, people dresses and especially the dentition be considered. In the old city, a non-governmental contraption like Dentists without Borders will have work for centuries. I went there to meet the most famous Moroccan perfume maker: Abderrazzak Benchaabane. Well, the old man was not there, his shop or temple – Parfums du Soleil Benchaâbane, it depends on who is speaking, was located on Yves Saint Laurent Street across from the Majorelle Garden. I forgot to tell you that Marrakech, notwithstanding its desertic location, is a paradise for palm trees and a high place for parks, public and private. Jacques Majorelle (1886-1962) was a French painter who created during 40 years an enchanted garden. The garden is already down the hill. was acquired by Yves Saint Laurent who engaged the botanist Benchaabane to restore it. After, he encouraged the very talented fellow to create a line of perfumes. I bought a phial of 10 ml, Soir de Marrakech – citron vert, amber, vanilla, jasmin, fleur d’oranger, patchouli, musc, santal. Now that you have the formula, you can just go to work but the price was too high for me to furnish with that exquisite essence – my blessed descendance. I adore them but I don’t plan to get ruined. Into the Majorelle Garden, I didn’t go. There were 300 people, that means 299 too many, waiting under a drizzling rain, and I left towards the Medina for the museum of perfume belonging to the same veteran distinguished craftsman and olfactive designer. Located at 2, Derb Chérif, Rue Diour Saboun, Le Musee du Parfum is a marvel and to quote a bloke who is hitting Trip Advisor from time to time: If I could have left 6 stars, I would have. ME TOO! (Thank God that we can use the term in other context than RAPE!) I will tell you. The building which houses the museum was wisely and accurately restored. The exhibition is splendid, elegant, emotional, sticking to essentials, totally referent to the homeland and its culture, country, people, and sources, and at the same time subliminally didactic. Knowledge and understanding are instilled in your subconscious without even being aware of them. The museum functions also as an initiation center where the regular Joe ( me) can produce his brand of perfume and a school for those, more serious people, who want to learn the subtle craft both under the guidance of the incomparable master. To get an idea, which is still far from the level of experience, just click on the link – https://www.benchaabane.com/lemuseeduparfum By divine grace I was the only visitor. Most of all I was impressed by the PERFUME ORGAN. This is a semicircular desk whose exhibiting surface is increased by a raised shelf which doubles the number of essential oils the perfumer can combine to create a signed product. However, he has to manipulate vials, bottles, pipettes test tubes, beakers, and absorbent paper stripes, and more than anyting his hands and his nose to perform his alchemist craft.
And then an idea of genius struck me with the intensity of the one which hit in his sleep the emperor Constantine and transformed him from a wild pagan into a wise Christian. (Less than 150 years later the empire was kaput because of that, but who cares?) I will build a real perfume organ consisting of glass cylinders ending with extremely thin metal tubes leading to a small silver bowl which is both, a container and centrifuge. Everything is controlled by a computer console that opens the small valves of the cylinders, activates the centrifuge, channels the product in one of the tiny bottles to which the bowl is connected, brings the precious liquid in contact with an absorbent paper stripe, and send the stripe on which are marked composition, quantities and the number of the bottle to a results’ tray. After the silver bowl cleans itself with a secret solution which renders the surface free of any chemical and electrical memory. In one hour or less the aspirant wizard can dispose of ten to twelve samples of accurate, exact records of his creative drive, and perfumes, never done and never tried of course. The psychological and even the financial rewards can be considerable. The only difficulty I may think of is that one has to have a PROFESSIONAL NOSE. And BULBS like those come one in five to ten million people, a French NOSE told me years ago. So what to do? And here a second great idea invaded my mind. Quantity can replace quality IN a certain measure. Dogs have two to three hundred million olfactive cells which tower the human poor barely five million allocations. So some mercenary doctor should take a piece of olfactive nasal mucosal from a properly anesthetized dog, let as recompense a kilo of first quality Charolais beef filet near him to foster a pleasant return to reality and plant the pink piece of valuable endothelium in the aspirant NOSE’ nose, children play for the today surgical craft that very soon will be able to replace EVERYTHING from a human body including the body itself. All this for a moderate fee which should cover also the price of the above-mentioned first-quality meat.
I am compelled to note two enormous last-minute occurrences that explain my feelings before departure. I did, alone again, a visit to the Tiskiwin (housing the fine Bert Flint collection) museum dedicated to the material culture of the Saharan and sub-Saharan populations. The place is, let’s stay into the precious, a real Pearl judging by the quality of the exhibited material and the coherence of the display. I discovered there with glee that the Touareg women (you know the Blue People, mostly Berbers with some proud streaks of black genetic material) who were wearing impressive fibulas, a custom that they inherited from the Romans, were filling the two openwork pendants touching their breasts with amazing perfumed substances able to confer to the above mentioned splendid female attributes a rainbow of enticing celestial odors. And then, at the very last moment, I discovered that the railroad station, located on the stupendous Atlas mountains’ snowed peaks background, was as beautiful as the airport was clumsy. Maybe it was an illusion but I am ready to swear that I suddenly saw a sublime flock of marvelous, gracious young model houris of the gazelles brand on high heels, (what can I say?) flying out of it. I do not even attempt to depict my enthusiasm. Sometimes one needs so little to feel happy. It is no wonder that after traumatic beginnings I left this superb city of Marrakech by train to Fez drunk with admiration.