Africa Travel - Part 8

Morocco: Listening to the Wind and Imdezan in Essaouira

by Inka Piegsa-quischotte

The name alone is pure poetry: Essaouira. Let the syllables roll of your tongue then listen to the sound as it is blown away by the wind. Because, you see, wind there is plenty.

Not for nothing is Essaouria called ‘City of the Wind’ as well as ‘The Moroccan Woodstock’. History, culture, art, crafts, music and a sin fin of water sport — all these things define the Moroccan port town on the Atlantic which has fascinated as diverse personalities as Winston Churchill, Orson Welles and Jimi Hendrix.

It’s a straight run from Marrakesh to Essaouira which makes for a great day trip if you are based in Marrakesh. The distance of 105 miles is covered by a nearly ruler straight highway which cuts through shrubs and the desert. This road is no coincidence though, because Essaouira is something of a historical curiosity.

The present city with its much admired walls and Medina is a creation, a purpose built sea port, commissioned by King Mohammed III during the 18th century. He wanted to develop trade with Europe and beyond and to establish a counterbalance to Agadir, whose inhabitants favored a rival of him. For twelve years, the king instructed and oversaw French engineer and architect Theodore Cornut, who designed the modern city, the medina and the international quarters. At the time, Morocco depended heavily on the caravan trade, which brought merchandise from sub-Saharan Africa to Timbuktu, then from there through the desert and over the Atlas mountains to Marrakesh and, finally, making use of the straight road, to the thriving port of Essaouira.

The word ‘highway’ has to be taken with a pinch of salt though. It’s fine for the first few miles out of Marrakesh, but then there are stretches which are so uneven and full of rubble, they make your teeth rattle. Our diver referred to that jokingly as a prime example for a Moroccan

Despite the more recent design which gives Essaouira its present appearance, the city has a long, long history. Excavations have revealed a prehistoric settlement. The Romans left their traces and, most importantly, Essaouira, then called Mogador was already an important port town under Portuguese rule during the 16th century.

The French followed and finally the Moroccans. Although the importance of Essaouira as a sea port has been reduced when the caravan trade ceased, it’s still a fishing port. One of the first things to do when arriving, is to go to one of the many shacks along the waterfront which offer the latest catch. You walk along the display, point at what you want, sit down on one of the communal tables and enjoy eating with your fingers and chatting other tourists and locals alike.

The long stretched island of Mogador protects Essaouira from the strongest Atlantic winds, but there is still plenty around to make the place a paradise for surfers and kite surfers. The wide, white beaches invite to sunbathing, swimming and any other imaginable kind of water sport.

The medina proper is entered through a vast stone gate and then you find yourself in a labyrinth of small alleys, lined with galleries, craft shops of wood carvers, leather shops and tiny cafes. The difference to the hustle, bustle and noise of the medina in Marrakesh is striking. Not only do clocks run slower in Essaouira, they seem to not run at all. Whereas the vendors in Marrakesh run out and shout, sometimes even grab at you, their brothers in Essaouira just sit patiently in their shops, smoke, drink mint tea and generally couldn’t care less if you buy anything or not. Everything is slightly run down, paint is peeling, the odd window pane is broken and the ambience of a favorite hippie hang out it once was definitely lingers. I call it the’ decadent charm’ of Essaouira which, I think, describes the atmosphere.

Small wonder that this picturesque, sedate and slightly melancholic city attracted such divers personalities as Churchill, Welles and Hendrix. Orson Welles even got honored with a statue, although his nose is now missing.

Music plays a great part in Essaouira culture. Each June there is the gnaoua music festival which not only attracts performers of traditional Moroccan music but also international, contemporary singers and bands; hence the moniker ‘Moroccan Woodstock’.

Imdezan explained

If you miss the festival, you can nevertheless enjoy Moroccan music on a daily basis. As typical as the fish, the imdezan are omnipresent in Essaouira. An imdezan is a group of four Berber musicians, with a lead singer and the others playing their drums and one string fiddle. They walk around the medina, from one café to the other and if you throw them a few dirham, they’ll be very happy indeed.

Full-Day Tour to Essaouira – The Ancient Mogador City from Marrakech

If You Go:

The best time to visit is between May and October. Due to the wind it’ll never be too hot and this is the time of year when it doesn’t rain much.

On your way to Essaouira, stop at one of the cooperatives which produce argan oil products. The argan tree is endemic to Southwestern Morocco and the oil is a luxury item difficult to obtain outside the region. It’s used in fabulous crèmes and lotions which you can buy in the cooperative’s shops. You can also observe the labor intensive process of extraction the oil from the fruit.

Bring your swim suit and make time for a spot of water sport on the fabulous beach.

If you want to spend more than a few hours, there are a few modern hotels along the beach and small, converted riads within the medina. Consult a list of hotels on www.tripadvisor.com.

About the author:
Inka Piegsa-quischotte is an ex-attorney turned travel writer and novelist. She writes for online travel magazines and has two novels and a travel guide to Galicia/Spain published. She lives between Turkey and Miami.

All photos are by Inka Piegsa-quischotte.

Travel in the Time of Coup

Madagascar

by Doug Downie

At the airport in Antananarivo the immigration kiosk was closed. A sign on the window told us that visas were €62. A handful of us waited, promised that someone would be coming to attend to us. It was hot and humid and most passengers had left for their varied destinations. Two men leaned against the kiosk and talked to each other of the business ventures they would be attending to in Madagascar. We smiled and sweated, nodding to each other with a strange air of camaraderie as we waited. I finally got impatient and strolled over to a man in uniform.

“Visas?” I asked, palms up, fingers splayed.

He immediately moved into action, speaking French to a group of loitering officials, and we were herded to the customs desk. The visas would be paid for upon departure.

Our guide to the hotel spoke a bit of English and periodically fed us tidbits about Antananarivo and the Malagasy people but his English was poor – we shouldn’t leave our room because of the political unrest. The traffic was the typical African phalanx of weaving cars and combis, pedestrians stitching their way through the speeding boxes of tin, a breath away from impact, rickety bicycles and rickshaws ambling along the roadside, men pulling carts of produce. As usual I was awed at the absence of collisions from such tight trajectories. We passed through rice paddies with compounds on patches of solid ground looking like hobbit houses. Great cones of dried rice husks sat among the houses. A Zebu or two plodded through the paddies or vegetated on the grass by the roadside. Bright mosaics of laundry were left to dry on the embankments, littering the grassy slopes with shirts and shorts and undergarments. The hills and houses of the city rose before us like a sloppy layered sandwich, rich with life.

We would be at the Residence LaPasoa our first and last nights in Madagascar. The name had a funny resonance for me that would grow over the next nine days, and on our last night, a day after the coup, lush with Three Horses Lager, I went out onto our balcony overlooking the narrow street and called out to the standers and strollers and hawkers below, “Residence LA-PA-ZOaa!”

The kind and gentle Malagasy people below smiled.

We were the only guests at Residence LaPasoa, as we would be elsewhere. There’s nothing quite like the threat of cyclones and a coup d’etat to keep the tourists away. After the coup, the journalists poked their noses into the pub, Ku De Ta, just for the name. It was all quite wonderful for us, but not for those gentle people who lived from tourism. But there was little to be nervous about. Life goes on; people go about their business because that’s what they have to do.

Unlike in Antananarivo, the porters at Ille St. Marie airport knew what the word no meant. A driver was waiting to take us halfway up the island to La Crique.

Marc, the owner, greeted us. “Welcome!”

We were almost alone. A French couple building a bungalow about 10 km up the island were having lunch. Rainy seasons and coups are terrors for the tourist business.

“But you came.” said Marc, as if we were courageous. He’d had more cancellations than he cared to remember.

I’m sure La Crique is lovely at any time of year or season of political unrest, but it’s especially nice in solitude. A group of women came for a night, a couple for a day. Mornings beneath the palms, the sea swaying and drumming a steady beat, the fishermen and sea traffic passing in lithe pirogues, as graceful and smooth as ice skaters, days crunching on broken coral, or ambitious snorkelling around the rocky islands ringing the bay, fine open-air dinners every night to the music of the ocean, nights filled with love and fun, by candle light after the generator was turned off. Marc loaned me his nylon stringed guitar after we’d jammed and I played beneath the herringbone of the thatched roof with rain beating down. It rained almost every night, but the days were filled with sun and splendour.

There are not many tourist activities on Ille St. Marie. Renting and touring on a motor bike is one, and there’s the pirate cemetery, or the zoological and botanical gardens. We chose to walk, in 40ºC heat, to have lunch at La Paradiso. It’s a small island but getting across its 10 km width is a mission. A new road has been built since cyclone Ivan but it’s difficult to imagine anything other than assault vehicles making the trip.

We had the dogs of La Crique with us, three of them, led by a little mutt who was a terror for chickens. With the emergence of a lanky Malagasy chicken from the rice or bush his ears perked and in two seconds the chase was on. The other dogs followed. They killed a chicken on that walk. I felt like I’d stolen from somebody. They weren’t even our dogs.

We passed a small village, people working in the fields, their backsides to the sky. They smiled and waved at us, or asked, “You need boatman?” high above the sea. There were patches of indigenous vegetation but the land has been well worked over.

We were greeted by Florance, who led us to his mother’s restaurant. Throughout lunch he regaled us with the many things he could do for us, for very little Ariary. But we had no wealth to spare; we weren’t that kind of tourists. What a lunch it was! Chicken in coconut sauce, shredded crab in the shell, unprocessed rice, Three Horses, a finger bowl with purple petals, and peace. All harvested locally and cooked fresh, every bite a delight. As we ate the little mutt chased a village boy and bit him on his ankles.

We walked a long way next day, 20 km, looking for a restaurant at the top of the island. But there was no restaurant. We walked through villages with houses built on platforms above the sandy soil that would course with the water that flows to the sea in the storms. Despite a nagging feeling of invasion of privacy, especially with the dogs of La Crique along, I was glad for those walks and the life we’d seen.

When our time at La Crique was over, everyone piled into the bakkie: Joseph, Serafine, Venise, and a mysterious old man who had appeared two days before, with a typewriter perched at his back window. On the one-lane road we encountered a large red lorry and as various manoeuvrings and jockeying for position were executed we finally saw a giant chameleon. Its blue and white body was poised on a fallen palm frond. With left boob on my thigh, C leaned over to take the picture.

You get to the tiny island of Ille aux Nattes by pirogue, though you can walk the channel. The boatmen line up and beseech you to vote for their boat. We stayed at Baboo Village, next to a place owned by a South African, Ockie. He too had only two guests, Dutch with some business on Madagascar. They were aimlessly chilling with Ockie, watching DVDs on the widescreen in the evening and in the mornings sitting on the deck with coffee and whiskey watching the pirogues cross the channel with their cargo.

There’s a sandy trail that circles the island and you can walk it in a couple of hours. Stop by the Maningory Bar and Restaurant and you might see one of the few lemurs left. You can take a pirogue around the island, stop for a bottle or three, for you and the boatman, swim in the clear water where the Madagascar Strait meets the Indian Ocean, and make it back to the lodge before sundowners and yet another French meal.

On the plane back to Joburg about a half dozen journalists were on board. The coup was over and they were headed on to the next story. We waited on the tarmac for twenty minutes for the last of them, carrying his satchel, talking on his cell phone as he mounted the stairway. A woman across the aisle from me lifted her flaccid arms and clapped, slowly but loudly, as he entered the cabin. There were calls and jests. I got the distinct feeling that they all thought that they were the only ones on the plane, the other passengers more like faceless manikins than real live people. At the queue at customs they were whisked off like royalty.

I thought of two little girls who walked with us, trudging barefoot to school ten kilometres across Ille St. Marie, a journey they made every day, with empty hands and stoic hearts, and smiling villagers on top of the hills asking; “You need boatman?” I thought of the woman at a spaza shop; “You want three, four…” I asked C. “…or five…” said the smiling woman as she opened the shop. I thought of Paki the pirogue man of Ille aux Nattes, and Joseph at La Crique, and musty cemeteries with midget crypts, and the lithe climber who pulled down coconuts to fall on the sandy trail, and the shopkeeper who couldn’t understand our requests for the title of the almost rumba music we heard as we passed, and the sage guitar of Manhi at the Zebu Bar and Lounge on our last night in Antananarivo – and many others we’d encountered, and I thought that the journos had missed the story, and I was glad to see them go, like cockroaches underneath the molding.

Coups come and coups go, but the people soldier on, barely blown by the breeze.

Don’t hesitate to go.

Cooking And Cuisine Tasting From Tana-Malagasy Fine Foodie Madagascar Tour

If You Go:

During the coup flights to Antananorivo were curtailed by many airlines. Things have stabilized somewhat since then, and it may be easier to get there. One can always fly to Johannesburg, and then on to Antananorivo on South African Airways or Air Madagascar. From Antananorivo flights are available to Toamasina on Ile St. Marie. La Crique will transport you to their premises. They will also take you to the beach on the south end of the island where you can catch a pirogue to Ill Aux Nattes. Check here for info about La Crique: www.lacrique-saintemarie.com and www.tripadvisor.com. Package deals are available. Languages spoken are Malagasy and French.

About the author:
Doug Downie is a semi-retired evolutionary biologist and entomologist,currently living in Sacramento, California, after eight years in South Africa. He also writes poetry and prose. Four books of his fiction can be found at www.lulu.com

Photo Credits:
All photographs by Claudie Hiles.

Durban: A Slice of Africa

South Africa

by Julie H. Ferguson

The city of Durban on the north-west coast of South Africa does not feature in most travelers’ plans. It is steamy in summer, allegedly unsafe, a bit dirty, and the beach strip is rowdy. So why go? To experience the “real” urban South Africa and enjoy value for money. Good highways, an excellent game reserve close-by, and warm hospitality are other draws.

Durban throbs with the rhythms of Black Africa that are not as accessible on the typical tourist track. The aromas wafting from stalls and cafés are unidentifiable, but worth exploring. Street vendors sell everything from beadwork to biltong (spicy, dried meat). The African taxis, actually ten-passenger vans, clog the city streets hawking for business and owning the road. Women carry grocery bags on their heads and kids on their backs. It’s high energy here and crowded.

Durban is price-friendly: a bottle of Heineken costs 13 Rand (Cdn $1.86), and the ubiquitous bed and breakfasts average about R300 to R400 per night ($48-$57), even in high season, and are clean and welcoming. The Indian Ocean boasts good surf on white sand beaches and a water temperature of 25C but, best of all, Durban is an easy drive in a rental car to one of the best safari parks. Hluhluwe-Imfolozi is cheaper, but no less comfortable than the famous and bigger Kruger National Park. You can see the Big Five here – lion, leopard, elephant, rhino, and Cape Buffalo – and it’s malaria-free.

Instead of staying in a western-style hotel on the beach or in central Durban, I choose to overlook the yacht basin in a hotel that is a Black empowerment project. Durban Manor’s faded grandeur acts as a time warp. Built as a Victorian gentlemen’s club in the 1890s, its twenty-foot ornate ceilings, massive furniture the size of rhinos, and threadbare carpets over marble floors are more British than Britain ever was. An ancient cage elevator is original. The hotel’s hearty breakfasts are straight out of a Victorian country house – silver chafing dishes filled with kidneys, kippers, and kedgeree on a vast buffet; however, dinner is the worst of 1950s British food. The Manor’s rooms are large, clean, and air-conditioned, if shabby. In tropical downpours, buckets catch leaks in the public rooms and bath towels sop up the rain pouring in around closed windows. I quickly appreciate Durban Manor’s eccentricities, price, and location, as well as a hotel staff who face their challenges with a cheerful shrug.

On day three, I take a city tour recommended by locals. Richard Powell and his Zulu assistant, Sthembiso, of Street Scene Tours treat me to a five-hour tour that costs under $40.00 including lunch. This is not your average tour, but an experience that exposes the beat of African Durban. The pair work as a tag team: Richard explains the city’s layout and history as we pass the colonial landmarks, and Sthembiso describes the African outlook and way of life as we meander through the Zulu markets and Muslim arcades.

We walk as much as we drive, which makes the experience better than most city tours and ensures good photography. The highlight is my visit to Warwick Triangle – the tangle of markets where Africans shop. Everything is for sale here – food, folkloric remedies, ceremonial items, electronics, and aphrodisiacs. This is not an area in which to walk alone or take photos freely due to illegal items on sale and some African’s fear of cameras, but I feel completely safe with my guides. I pass monkey carcasses and goats’ heads on sale in the Muti (meat) Market, balls of white and red clay used for body decoration, dyed horsehair for weaving, and all manner of plants and tree parts for traditional healers spread out in the Herb Market.

In the narrow, winding arcades nearby, I see brilliantly coloured skirts for Zulu virgins to wear at initiations, beads and weapons for young warriors, and vast quantities of housewares available to purchase for lobola or “bride-price.” Sticky and tired after wandering here for a couple of hours, Richard whisks me off for lunch in a Gujarati cafe.

Since Durban was settled, the large East Indian population has offered its traditional dishes all over the city. Their most famous is Bunny Chow. The Indians who caddied at the Royal Durban Golf Club never had time to stop for lunch, so Mr. Bunny created a unique curry sandwich they could munch on the go. He scooped out the centre of half a loaf, filled the hole with a spicy curry, and stuffed the bread back on top. I eat mine with my fingers, mopping up the hot sauce with pieces of bread and loving it.

Richard describes his tours as “Alternative” and, if his others are like today’s, they will be worthwhile. I’m sorry to miss the Township Tour but I leave tomorrow for my first safari. The Hluhluwe-Imfolozi Game Reserve is the oldest park in South Africa (est.1895) and once the hunting grounds of Zulu kings who later introduced the first conservation laws. Its name is pronounced “sh-shluey,” preferably with a spit! When a family of warthogs greet me and my travel companions at the park gate, our excitement surges. We wind up and down hills on the seven-mile road to Hilltop and encounter zebra, Cape Buffalo, and a tree full of squabbling weaver birds. Here regulations forbid visitors to leave their vehicles for any reason.

The thatched Hilltop Lodge overlooks a wide valley and is blessed with all the amenities of an excellent hotel, including delicious breakfast and dinner buffets. As I push open the door of our roomy cottage, my first sight is a warning about marauding baboons – the robust grills over our windows speak volumes. Harmless Vervet monkeys gambol all around us.

Game drives set out at dawn and dusk, so our meals have to fit around them. It makes for long days, late dinners, and short nights. A nap in the heat of the day while the animals sleep is mandatory if we want to survive; so are insect repellent, sunscreen, snacks, and water.

At 5:00pm, armed with my camera, a long lens, and binoculars, I scramble onto a high seat in the back of a 10-passenger Land Rover. The canvas roof shields the sun, but otherwise it is an open vehicle that delivers excellent viewing above tall grasses and shrubs. We drive along winding, rust-red trails over hills covered with lush vegetation and through treed valleys with rushing streams.

Abruptly the park ranger stops and points out a couple of Nyala (antelope) on a distant slope. Even with binoculars I can barely see them – is this as close as we will get to the game? Then over the next rise, a Black Rhino grazes not 50 feet away. We turn another corner and nearly run into a giraffe. After that, the game appears thick, fast, and close until the sun sets. But the best comes after dark, when we disturb a lion lying in the middle of the trail. He hightails into the bush but stops ten feet away and, with the aid of a spotlight, I can count his teeth when he yawns.

Over the next two days, the safari never stops thrilling – at dawn, seven White Rhino on a hilltop and two cuddling in a wallow, an elegant male Impala with his harem in a sun-dappled glade, five giraffe loping along ahead of us, owls and vultures peering from trees, a crocodile half-submerged in a stream, huge herds of jet-black Cape Buffalo, and one Spotted Hyena scavenging a lion kill.

We quickly learn where and how to spot game, and use our rental car to do a game drive through the southern section of the reserve before returning to Durban. We never see leopard or elephant in Hluhluwe, but the latter are to come in vast numbers – another two weeks of South African adventures lie ahead.

Hluhluwe Imfolozi Game Reserve Day Tour from Durban

If You Go:

KwaZulu-Natal Tourism Authority: www.durban.kzn.org.za
Durban Manor: www.durbanmanorhotel.com
Street Scene Tours with Richard Powell: www.streetscenetours.co.za
Hluhluwe- Imfolozi Game Reserve: www.sa-venues.com and www.kznparks.com
Amatikulu Tours: our package at Hilltop (Hluhluwe), which included two nights in a comfortable two-bedroom cottage, delicious breakfasts and dinners in the main lodge, and two game drives, cost Cdn $410.00 per person. (Additional drives – $42.00 each.) The baboons and vervet monkeys are free. For those who don’t wish to rent a car, packages are also available with transport from Durban. www.amatikulu.com
Car rental: Europcar from the airport or central Durban– www.europcar.com
Bed and Breakfasts and guesthouses in South Africa: www.bedandbreakfast.com

About the author:
Julie H. Ferguson is an addicted traveller, a serious photographer, and the author of 17 books, four of which are about Canadian history. She invites you to visit www.beaconlit.com and www.flickr.com/photos/beaconlit.

All photos are © Julie Ferguson 2011.

Marrakech, the Red-Rose City

Morocco

by W. Ruth Kozak

The beautiful Royal city of Marrakech, known as the ‘red city’ because of its pink-tinted buildings, nestles like a rose-quartz gemstone near the rolling foothills of the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains.

Surrounding the walled city, the rock-strewn fields turn into a desert with little vegetation except for patches of irrigated farmland where there are orchards and lots of old olive groves. The nearby villages are walled kasbahs dominated by imposing castles owned by wealthy landowners.

EXPLORING MARRAKECH

Marrakech is a spectacle of exotica. On a recent eight-day tour, I stayed at the enchanting old Hotel du Foucald, which is well situated for sightseeing in Marrakesch’s medina (old town). The hotel is just across from the famous Djamaa el Fna square with its labyrinth of side streets, hammams, caravanserai and bazaars. The souq is a maze of tiny covered walkways where everything is sold from embroidered saddles for camels, to potions for casting spells. On the bustling streets, donkeys are everywhere, some loaded with produce, others with pottery, some pulling carts heaped with mint for tea. The donkeys wear shoes made from car tires to keep them from sipping on the cobblestones. Weavers and coppersmiths work their trades. Herb doctors assure us their products are better than Viagra. You can buy almost any unusual medicine: goat hooves for hair treatment, ground up ferret for depression , and dried fox heads to use for magic potions.

At a spice shop I was given a demonstration of herbal medicines and blends of spices including the world’s most expensive spice, saffron. The merchant at the carpet store explained the distinctive patterns of his wares which are woven in wool and silk. I bought a small rug in the Berber colours of saffron and lapis blue. I call it my ‘magic carpet’ because each time I step on it I am immediately transported back to the souq in Marrakesh.

The busy Djmaa el Fna is a magic world of snake charmers, musicians, acrobats, water vendors wearing distinctive red suits and wide-brimmed hats and jangling bells, story tellers, ebony-skinned dancers in brightly hued costumes, boys with pet monkeys, and other assorted side-show attractions will entertain you — for a price. Don’t try to take photos of these colourful entrepreneurs without expecting to pay, and make sure you only pay no more than five dirham. Once you know your way around and have a feel for the place, it’s fun, and during the day not dangerous to wander on your own.

Marrakech is one of Morocco’s imperial cities, a Berber/Arab fortress settlement nine centuries old. Within its 11th century medina is the Koutoubia mosque with its elegant 65-meter high minaret. The golden balls on top are said to be a gift of a Sultan’s wife who melted down her jewellery as an act of penance because she ate three grapes during the Ramadan fast. There are several elaborate palaces such as the El Badi where storks nest on the ramparts, and the Palais el Bahia with its lovely gardens. I visited the Mausoleum of the Saadiens and the 16th century religious school for students who studied at the nearby Mosque of Ben Yussef. The mosaics and cedar carvings in the richly decorated spacious courtyard are a contrast to the sparse, cell-like rooms occupied by the students.

After a morning of touring the historic sites, I took a calèche (horse-drawn carriage) to the Jardin Majorelle in the European quarter. This beautiful garden estate was created in the 1920s by the French Orientalist painter Jacques Majorelle and is now owned by fashion designer Yves St. Laurent. It’s a tropical paradise of tall cacti and palms set against pink towered buildings and grill-worked gateways. Bougainvillea, hibiscus and flowering potted plants line the cobbled pathways. The colours of the buildings and clay pots are dazzling brilliant blue, turquoise, pink, yellow, and orange, all complimenting the colours of the flowers. Birds twitter in the trees and trellises hang with flowering vines. Many different tropical plants grow in abundance. The artist’s studio has been converted into a small Museum of Islamic art and displays St. Laurent’s fine collection of North African carpets and furniture as well as Majorelle’s paintings.

LASTING IMPRESSIONS

An eight-day tour is hardly enough time to see everything in Marrakech. On my last day, I walked down the Avenue Mohammed V to the Arsenal Artiste craft market. The King was in town, so the ornate lamp-standards of the avenue displayed the royal banners of green, white and red. Unlike the souq, the craft market prices are set so you can make purchases without haggling while watching the artisans at work. It’s pleasant to browse among the little shops where you can buy ceramics, woodwork, metal-work, clothing and even musical instruments.

Later I got a sense of what it would be like to live in a Moroccan home when I visited the Maison Tiskiwin, a 19th century house once the home of a Dutch anthropologist. It now houses a stunning collection of jewellery, clothes, fabrics and carpets. Houses in Marrakech are windowless, with rooms opening to a sun-lit inner courtyard; the walls hung with woven tapestries and floors paved with lapis and turquoise tiles.

That night I dined in my hotel on a delicious buffet of lamb tajine, salads and honey-drenched desserts. Then it was time to pay one last visit to the Djemaa el Fna. The velvet sky was ablaze with stars. The smoke of barbecues filled the air with the tantalizing aroma of the delicious tidbits sold by the street vendors. I sat upstairs in a restaurant, sipping hot mint tea, with a ringside view of the activities below. Few places are as colourful and exciting as this. As I watched darkness envelop the city, I marveled at the things I had experienced: the vibrant, kaleidoscope of colours; the fragrance of spices and mint that permeate the air; the lovely rose hue that enshrouds Marrakech city; the interesting, friendly and gracious people; the souqs and markets, especially the Djmaa el Fna with all its strange sights. For a traveler like me, who seeks the exotic, Morocco did not disappoint me.

Hidden Secrets of Marrakech- Private tour

If You Go:

Currency: Currency in Morocco is the dirham. $1.00 Cdn = 6.71 dirham or $1. US = 8.95 dirham at time of writing. You are not allowed to take dirham out of the country so when cashing traveller’s cheques make sure you cash only the amounts you will need to spend. Prices are cheap in Morocco and you’re sure to get lots of bargains for your money.

Passports & Immunization: Passports must be valid from six months of issue but no visa is required. You must show a return ticket. It would be wise to check the travel immunization clinic before leaving and take along medication for stomach upset.

Travel warning: Be aware of pick-pockets and backpack slashers in crowded markets. Wear a money belt, and never carry a purse on a strap or a backpack which can be sliced open. In the souq, be firm but polite. Haggling is part of the Moroccan experience. Just say “non, merci.” (Most Moroccans speak French as well as their Berber dialects). If you enter the souqs with either an official guide or hustler the price of everything you buy will be increased to include a commission for them, often as much as 40 per cent. Be prepared for the attentions of faux-guides. Modest clothing is advised for both female and male travelers to avoid hassles. Unescorted women might expect remarks, whistles, tongue-clicking and other unwanted attention. Violent incidents or attacks are rare. Women visitors might consider wearing a head scarf, especially if traveling outside large cities.

Taking photos: Vendors and performers in the souqs expect to be paid. Many Moroccans don’t like having their photos taken so be discreet when doing so. Respect their customs.

Tour groups: There are various tour companies offering group tours and treks. I went with Ramblers Holidays from London Eng. www.ramblersholiday.co.uk. Prices vary depending on season, and include airfare from London Gatwick, hotel, two or three meals, guide and transportation to trekking areas. From $750 up with an additional single room supplement. Tours range from 8 – 11 days. (Fares from Canada not included). See also: City Breaks Holidays at www.leisuredirection.co.ukand www.saharatrek.com

Guides: Licensed guides can be hired for about $30 Cdn a day for sight seeing in the city or trekking in the country. Side trips with group tours or private licensed guides can be arranged from Marrakech to the Berber villages in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains. For $25 a day you can hire your own guides to take you on these well-trodden routes.

Where to stay: For hotel information : www.morocco.com
or contact: Federation Nationale de l’Industrie Hotelieri
Address: Angle Ave Nado et Rue 3, Quartier Polo, Casblanca 20550
Email: fnih@iam.net.ma
There are well-organized campsites, youth hostels, self-catering suites and hotels of all categories available in Morocco. See travel.yahoo.com for more information on hotels.

Where to eat: For people-watching, sit in a cafe terrace and enjoy a cafe au lait and a fresh pastry. Moroccan food is delicious. Try the food stalls and juice stands. Provided it serves a crowd you can be sure the food is fresh. In Marrakech head for Marche Central, buy a picnic and enjoy lunch with a view. The Cafe de l’Hotel de Paris in the Djmaa el Fna has excellent views at sunset. There are many good hotels where you can dine. Morocco is a ‘dry’ country. Wine and liquor may be bought at the airport duty-free otherwise it is difficult to find a wine shop. Most five-star tourist hotels will serve wine or beer with meals. From the five-star Hotel Mamounia to the food stalls in the Djmaa el Fna, you will enjoy the spicy flavour of Moroccan food accompanied by a steaming cup of mint tea.

Getting around Marrakech: Riding in a hired caliches is a perfect way to see around Marrakech. You might also want to hire a certified local guide through the tourist office, usually for around $15 US for a half-day or $25 for a full day escorted tour. You can easily walk from the Djmaa el Fna to most of the museums and places of interest. A complete tour, starting from the Gate of the Gnaoua near the Mosquee de el-Mansour will cover approximately three kilometers and take five hours.

Museum sites: If you are traveling with a group the entrance fees are usually included in your tour price. Most sites are open from 8.30 am until noon, and from 2.30 pm – 6 pm. Prices of entry vary. There are a few sites such as the Koutoubia Mosque that allow entry to Muslims only. Avoid lunch time when most sites are closed.

Books: Essential Morocco is a small pocket guide published by AA World Travel Guides which I found useful in Marrakech. Both Rough Guide and Lonely Planet also have guide books on travel in Morocco.

Morocco on the Internet: For more information on Morocco see www.morocco.com

About the author:
Traveling to Marrakech was one of W. Ruth Kozak’s most exotic adventures. Her stay there included trekking in the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains and visiting several Berber villages. She’d love to do that trip again and spend a little longer exploring this magical city.

All photos are by W. Ruth Kozak.

Walking With The Dead

Luxor, Egypt

by Dr. Benedict Davies

For the ancient Egyptians, the West Bank at Thebes (modern-day Luxor) was their realm of the dead, an august “City of the Dead”, no less. It was a sacred domain where the transition from this life to the next began. The whole area of this ancient necropolis is graced with funerary monuments, each specifically designed to facilitate a safe onward journey into the Underworld. Most conspicuous amongst these architectural treasures are the royal memorial temples, such as Deir el-Bahari, the Ramesseum and Medinet Habu. Located not far from these cultic installations were secluded cemeteries for the kings, queens and lesser royalty from the ruling dynasties of the Egyptian New Kingdom (c. 1550-1069 BC). And all along the fringes of the Theban Foothills, where the Nile Valley cultivation meets the desert, the most prominent officials of the age constructed their own tombs as portals into the hereafter.

One of the main highlights of Luxor is, without doubt, a tour of the royal necropolis, better known today as the Valley of the Kings. Here, amongst some of the most spectacular tombs from the ancient world, one can still come face-to-face with the mummy of the famous boy-king Tutankhamun in what had been a makeshift and hastily-prepared tomb. Bedecked with arcane hieroglyphic inscriptions and puzzling iconography, the magnificence of these sacred sepulchres has been enchanting and astonishing travellers ever since the earliest Greek and Roman historiographers found them long-abandoned and robbed of their spectacular burial treasures.

Today most tour groups visiting the Theban west bank tend to combine the Valley of the Kings with a stopover at the memorial temple of the 18th dynasty female pharaoh, Hatshepsut. From afar, this temple’s magnificent edifice seems to have been hewn from the very cliffs of Deir el-Bahari by the gods themselves. If extremely lucky, your itinerary may allow you some time amongst the wonderfully decorated private tombs of officials that honeycomb the Theban hills. Yet, it is sadly regrettable that so few people find time to visit the ancient workmen’s village of Deir el-Medina. This remarkable site simply doesn’t register on the mainstream tourist ‘radar’. Yet, a visit to this wonderfully preserved settlement will be duly rewarded with a memorable experience.

Deir el-Medina was home to the royal artisans – the men who excavated and decorated the tombs in the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens. For anyone interested in the history, architecture and art of the tombs in the Valley of the Kings, the village is something not to be missed, an opportunity to get up close and personal with the king’s own workmen. The remains of the ancient settlement lie in a secluded and dusty valley at the southern end of the Theban necropolis. The environment here is extremely harsh. Cut off from the cooling northerly breezes, the site is hot, arid and devoid of any vegetation. The modern Arabic name of Deir el-Medina refers to the Coptic monastery that was later founded on the site. “The Village”, as it was known to its ancient inhabitants, was a state institution, specifically established to house the royal craftsmen and their families.

The village appears to have been founded at the beginning of the 18th dynasty by king Amenhotep I (c. 1525-1504 BC). From then on the settlement underwent several phases of expansion to the extent that it comprised at least seventy family homes by the time of its eventual abandonment, probably during the reign of Ramesses XI at the end of the 20th dynasty (c. 1099-1069 BC).

Nowadays, the majority of the village houses have been remarkably well preserved. Throughout the settlement, walls still stand to a height of several feet, clearly demonstrating the original living arrangements amongst the densely-packed terraced housing. Even the once-bustling main street remains a prominent feature, dog-legging its way through the centre of the village.

Deir el-Medina is also renowned for the quality of some of the tombs in the local cemetery. The workmen certainly invested heavily in all of the necessary funerary arrangements for their safe transition into the next life. Their tombs were beautifully decorated with religious iconography and especially well-equipped for life in the hereafter.

There is little doubt that the workmen were hugely influenced by the artistic conventions that they employed for their work in the royal tombs. Some can even be seen adopting excerpts from royal funerary texts that would have been so familiar to them. The best preserved tombs date from the first half of the 19th dynasty (c. 1295-1213 BC), a time of great prosperity for the workmen. At the time of writing, three tombs are open to the public, each having been chosen on account of their beautiful frescoes. They belong to two of the workmen, Sennedjem (TT 1) and Pashedu (TT 3), and the chief workman Inherkhau (TT 359). Decorated by skilled artists, these tombs bear a striking comparison to the royal tombs in the neighbouring valleys, hardly surprising given the fact that they were built by the same gang of workmen.

For the more adventurous travellers, I would strongly recommend following in the workmen’s footsteps by taking the ancient desert track that leads from the south-west corner of the village, over the mountain ridge and down into their place of work, the Valley of the Kings. It is by no means an easy walk, with the track becoming quite steep and treacherous in places. Simply put, it should only be tackled by the physically fit and those with experience of traversing uneven and tricky terrain. For first timers, it is definitely advisable to seek out the services of one of the local guides, who will gladly offer the service of a donkey for those unaccustomed or unable to make the journey on foot.

Approximately half-way along the mountain pass, at the point where it crests the ridge that separates the royal burial ground from the Nile valley, stand the remains of an ancient group of huts. These spartan buildings were put up by the workmen for their overnight accommodation during the working week in the Valley. It would seem that after a hard day’s back-breaking toil in the royal tomb, the men preferred to retire here for the night, rather than making the longer journey back to their families at Deir el-Medina. High up in in this splendidly isolated and lofty perch, the men would have whiled away their evenings talking about the day’s events at the worksite, singing songs, telling stories or discussing private business matters.

This is a breathtaking walk, and one that is richly rewarded with spectacular, panoramic views out across the valley cultivation to the mighty River Nile as it serenely charts its perennial course towards the shores of the Mediterranean. Without doubt, this has to be the most uplifting way by which to reach the Valley of the Kings. With plans now afoot to replace tombs such as Tutankhamun’s with full-scale replica models, time is clearly running out for those who have yet to visit these marvels of the ancient world!

One Day tour to Luxor from Cairo by Flight Visiting Best Of Luxor City

If You Go:

Audio guides to the Valley of the Kings, Deir el-Medina and the Tomb of Sennedjem are available at www.iconicguides.com.

About the author:
Dr. Benedict Davies is an Egyptologist, traveller, freelance writer and the founder of MP-3 audio tours “Iconic Guides”. He also holds a PhD in Egyptology from the University of Liverpool and is a leading expert on the community of royal workmen of Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings. A seasoned traveller, Benedict is particularly interested in the culture and art of the ancient Near East and the Far East.

All photos are by Dr. Benedict Davies.