My Marrakesh

Marrakech: and winged worries

Dear friends,

I once was a girl who had ordinary pets, the kind that bark and meow.  And while I still have those beloved family members, there is something about living in Marrakech, about living in this strange and magical place, that makes having.......ahem, nine peacocks in my garden seem, somehow, perfectly appropriate. 

Now before you start whispering about this little eccentricity of mine -- wondering if I am the Moroccan equivalent of the lady living in the attic with her 46 cats -- I want to assure you that I am actually not the only one to have peacocks in her garden.  This is Marrakech after all.  Unusual occurrences are known, well, to occur.

So the question for you is this:  are such feathered friends permitted once our guesthouse, Persian Garden, is open?  Peacocks, you see, are not the the quietest of creatures.  They speak a bewitched language all their own. (I am convinced that they are trying to tell me something -- I simply must find a way to break the code.) Peacock calls can be startling and even eerie, if one is not accustomed to hearing such things.  And I am worried that people come on holiday because they want to rest and recuperate.  In the quiet.  Shhhh.....

So I have a tiny quandary on my hands.  Oh dear.

I was hoping that it would be permissible for us to have two peacocks, maybe four, once our guest house is open.  Our parcel of land is quite big.  That way, a visitor might chance upon a peacock but not be too bothered by its occasional cries.  But what do you think?  I am hoping you don't say say:  Maryam, so sorry, but I have already been asked about peacocks eight times today.  You're a lovely girl, but it's all just a bit repetitive.  Because I do so value your opinion.

Your Marrakech bird lover,

Maryam

P.S. See more Sunday scribblings on Wings here. 

In protest to the Holiday Inn

I’m a glutton. It’s rather embarrassing to admit that. I know what it says about me – a lack of control, a lack of discipline. But a kind of chemical thing takes hold and no matter my promises to myself, no matter my good intentions, somehow I can’t seem to stop.

My husband, Chris, shakes his head. He gives me pep talks and tells me to be strong. But that all fades away when confronted with the colors, the patterns, the varieties. My brain moves into overdrive. I start calculating the exchange rate, tallying up the figures in my head, imagining the vast utility of this one and that one. In short, I start rationalizing – and once that process has started, it’s already too late. As if it weren’t me, within a matter of moments, I find myself transported to the cash register, I find myself handing over the plastic card with my name embossed on it, I find myself signing on the dotted line. And then it all goes black…

When I finally come to, I see that I have bought not one, not two, but eight. Yes, eight cotton, linen and silk jamdani saris, each hand loomed and hand printed. Each beautiful in its own way. I ask myself, Maryam, are eight really necessary? Might it not have been better to settle for, say, four? And my final analysis is this: No. I was on a quest, you see.  A quest to find saris for my guesthouse. And I did.

Each sari is five yards of fabric. Perhaps I will put small bells or a small antique coins to weight the their ends. Perhaps I will drape them over the four poster beds planned for the guesthouse. Perhaps I will canopy them inside the guesthouse rooftop pavilions. 

Or perhaps you have other ideas for me?

My friends who have guesthouses tell me not to do these things. To be more practical. To spend more time thinking of, say, bathmats. They tell me that guests won't appreciate the beauty of things like handmade saris. That they won't think of the loom, of the patient hands that spent hours making them. Maybe my friends are right.  But if I was going to make this guesthouse ordinary, to make it plain, to have all the rooms look the same, then I would have never bothered with this little venture in the first place.   Right?

~Sigh.  There I go rationalizing again... 

PS The saris in the top picture are not really a hot pink but rather a deep raspberry.  Vivid and lovely.  Picture it canopied over your head, tempered by white canvas seating. And a cool drink in your hand...

Dhaka: a girl, a boy, and a sari

I am back in Dhaka and the memory is beginning to dim.  It was so many years ago, you see.  But I remember that night when I first met him.  I was fearful that I was too ordinary some how -- that he would overlook me, that he would pick someone else.  I remember thinking, please, look here, pick me, and he did.  That was how it started. 

He took me on a boat ride on the Buriganga river.  There were others there but really, there was only him.  In the pictures - I still have them somewhere – my hair is blowing and his arm is around me.  I look so young, so happy.   And I was – the happiness magnified by the loneliness that had come before it.  Everything felt more than it was back then; I was like an antenna.  The static would only come later.

Days later, days spent with him, I went shopping with a Bangladeshi friend for a sari to wear to a party.  They were all so lovely, how to choose?  Finally, I chose a silk jamdani sari in a deep red.  My friend told me it was a wedding sari, and I just laughed.  I had never worn a sari before, and it made me feel so one-of-a-kind.  It was then that I understood the magic of saris, about their one-size-fits-all-yet-tailor-made-just-for-you quality.

The night of the party, my friend had to dress me.  I didn’t know how to wear a sari – how to wrap it, to tuck it, to pin it.  It was a complex origami for which I did not know the secret folds.  But she folded and folded, and pleated and pleated, so in the end, I was like a beautiful paper swan. 

At the party, I felt like more than myself .  It must have been the sari. But he wanted us to leave almost right away, to go back to his place, to be alone.  He told me later sitting on his couch that the sari was like the wrapping on a present. I told him no, not yet.  That I wouldn’t know how to put it back on.  To please stop.  He got angry, very angry.  He told me I was a foolish, foolish girl.  Then he told me to leave.  I still remember that he didn’t even get up to walk me to the door.

The next day he didn’t call.  Or the day after that or the day after that.  I saw him only once again.  He was across the room and looked at me, but then looked away. And that was how it ended.

Top image by Mr. Velvet Ear. Bottom image by twinkly persisting stars.

Morocco: and what to wear

On your way to Morocco?  Hmmm...what to wear?

 

Perhaps it’s better to ask what not to wear in Morocco.  Much simpler, as there are really only two rules:

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1) Be careful of going too native

I had an email from a mother recently.  She and her 17 year-old daughter were coming to Marrakech and were determined not to be “ugly Americans.”  Internet research had indicated that Moroccan women wore caftans, and with that in mind, could I suggest an online caftan purveyor, so they could hit the ground running.  I deleted this email by mistake and frankly, I have worried about it ever since. In my mind’s eye, I could see the two of them arriving in Marrakech in their newly purchased caftans, only to look around and find…. that they felt out of place.  Caftans, you see, are best left to important Moroccan occasions, such as weddings.  So if a Moroccan wedding is not on your schedule while in country, perhaps it’s best to leave them out of your suitcase.

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As daily wear, many Moroccans, men and women alike, do wear djellabas, the long Moroccan hooded robe reminiscent of Star Wars. (Ahem, the film stole its stylistic inspiration from Morocco and not the other way around.)  Yes, you could go ahead and purchase a djellaba to wear out and about during your Moroccan holiday but frankly, it’s not necessary and won’t likely earn you extra points from the locals.  The fact is that large swathes of Moroccans, especially in cities, wear western clothes.  And so, too, can you.

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2) Be careful of baring too much flesh

As far as clothing goes, Morocco is a rather modest country.  With that in mind, I would strongly recommend that women follow a daytime to-the-knee rule.  Short shorts and  short skirts really are not appropriate daywear, unless you are on your way to the beach or in the confines of your own hotel compound.  Additionally, midriff baring tops are a no-no, as are teensy-weensy tank tops.  I don't wear sleeveless tops by day either.  A little modesty goes a long way in ensuring that you are not unduly ogled in the streets.  Lest you start grumbling about these puritanical clothing strictures (I realize that you are on holiday, after all), do know that by night, you have much more latitude.  In many of Marrakech’s chic restaurants and clubs, lower necklines, shorter hemlines and what I refer to as “clingy little numbers” are entirely permissible.

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If I were in the market for a few new pieces to wear in my new home town of Marrakech, in addition to Tory Burch, I might pick up some items from Odd Molly.  Pretty, bohemian, and Di-approved, they look cool and comfortable.  Also, in an attempt to unlock my Moroccan inner-genie, I would purchase these shoes from Trippen.  Rather fanciful, don’t you think?

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Morocco: Just my cup of mint tea

Doesn't everything just manage to sound so much more posh with a British accent?  Well, do take a look at this.  It appears I am in the news in that land of great refinement.

PS Many thanks to the darling Benji Lanyado, Guardian reporter extraordinaire and fave blogster of mine.   Do check him out.

Image:  Abyssin Restaurant

A return to the banks of the Buriganga

A long, long time ago, when I was young, I was put on a plane and sent to a faraway land.  The city was not pretty; it was crowded, and it was polluted, and it was poor.  But it was beautiful on the inside.  The people of that place  were made differently than the people of other places  -- they were nine parts kind and only one part ordinary.  And I was grateful because I was a girl lost and on her own, trying to do a job that was not easy. 

I spent a week there.  I spent a month there.  I spent six months there.  I wore my first sari there.  I sheltered from the monsoon there.  I had my heart broken there.  And then I left that place, and I never went back. 

Until now. Or really, until tomorrow, when I pack my bags.

I wonder, are there still dolphins in the Buriganga river?

Top image by MONK, Bottom image by BabaSteve ******** PS I am thinking that the guesthouse pool should be the color of the Buriganga river in these photos. What do you think?

Morocco: and the benefits of looking up

It’s morning, and I am meeting my friend Benoit, a French interior designer.  We are meeting at Bab al Khemis, which means Thursday’s Door in Arabic.  All around Marrakech’s old city, known as the medina, there are babs, or huge carved entryways.  Each bab has its own name, and Bab al Khemis it is the entryway to the city’s equivalent of the flea market.  Outside the bab, vendors are beginning to throng, displaying broken bits and bobs, as well as an occasional gem or two.

Benoit arrives, and we kiss, French-style, on both cheeks.  For a number of years, Benoit designed interiors for the King of Morocco. Now he and his young family have moved to Marrakech and recently have bought a piece of land.  Close friends of ours, Benoit and his charming wife Zoo, also a designer, are giving us a helping hand with our guest house interiors. 

In T-shirts and cargo pants, we are ready for action.  Today we are looking for antique doors and other architectural remnants that will help give our guest houses some character. We have brought along with us one of Chris's employees, Khalid, who can be counted on to negotiate in Moroccan dialect so fast that it makes your heads spin.

We venture through the bab and down the narrow streets of the medina.  Old furniture spills out of shop fronts.  We stop briefly to look at a huge and somewhat battered birdhouse but the owner wants too much for it.  We then gaze wonderingly at a 15 foot high metal silhouette of a man playing tennis – he must have adorned a tennis club in the 1940s.  An antique door is examined but it is meant for an outside gate.  We continue to work our way into the medina, checking prices, snapping pictures, and taking measurements.  As I turn the corner, I spy something out of the corner of my eye:  two coffered ceiling panels from the Glaoui period.  The Glaouis ruled over a sweep of southern Morocco from the 18th century until Morocco's independence in 1956.  About the Glaouis, The Rough Guide writes:

"El Glaoui , the famous pasha of Marrakech during the French rule...was a personal friend of Winston Churchill. Cruel and magnificent in equal measure, he was also one of the most spectacular party-givers .... At the extraordinary difas (banquets) held in his Marrakech palace, nothing was impossible– hashish and opium were freely available for the Europeans and Americans to experiment with, and to his guest [he] gave, literally, whatever they wanted, whether it might be a diamond ring, a present of money in gold, or a Berber girl... from the High Atlas.”

Hmm... Berber girls from the High Atlas aside, these old coffered ceilings have real potential.  They are almost 9 feet tall, matching, and have just arrived in the shop from an estate.  Entirely hand painted in dark reds and deep golds with flower motifs, they are in very good condition for their age.  Khalid moves in for the negotiations.  He wheedles, cajoles and pleads with the store owner.  I stand nearby, saying nothing but offering my bag of peanuts purchased from the peanut-selling-man, just outside.  The shop owner chews and argues with Khalid, his hands gesticulating.  The price slowly begins to drop.  Phone numbers are exchanged. 

Back in the car, Benoit and I discuss how the coffered ceilings might be installed, if I were to purchase them -- perhaps suspended from the ceiling with a drop of a foot or so, or perhaps deeply inset into a recessed ceiling.  I can tell Benoit likes them.  I like them, too.  A lot.  I imagine guests lying on their beds and looking up.  Would they appreciate this expensive feature, I wonder.   My brain whirs.  Hours later, Khalid takes the crumpled slip of paper from his pocket.  He deciphers the strange handwriting.  He makes the call.

The ceilings are mine.

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PS  Blogger/Blogspot also is not letting me leave comments on your blogs.  I am electronically challenged.  ~Sigh.

Morocco: and beautiful embroidery...

You might know from here and here and here that I have a passion for embroidery.  I have collected old embroideries from Azerbaijan, India, Iran, Nepal and Pakistan, and there have been many more I have wanted, but couldn't afford.  Antique embroideries have become very expensive and with good reason.  Imagine the hand and needle, the tiny stitches, the intricate patterns.....  So time consuming.  Such a labor of love.    And old ones in pristine condition - well, just that much more difficult to find. 

Moroccan embroideries are especially beautiful.  I am particularly attracted to those in black and white  or deep red and white.  These days, there is also Moroccan machine embroidery, and while not nearly the same caliber as the handwork, still undeniably lovely.

Recently I came across the work of New York painter and designer Madeline Weinrib.  I find her use of Moroccan embroidery exciting; it makes her pieces come alive.  Her black and white embroidered pouf is downright glamorous  - I have seen nothing quite like it here in Marrakech.  And her range of Moroccan pillows, in assorted colors and styles, is stunning - I can imagine them paired with armchairs upholstered in white linen.  Ah, to have such wonderful things...

Madeline's other work is also well worth taking a look, including her ikat and suzani items; refreshing, they add refined ethnic charm to any setting. Madeline Weinrib's portfolio can be found on her   website.  Her pouf is sold at Vivre. 

Morocco: and adorn me...

Raised in a household with a Persian mother meant that I learned the value of jewelry early on.  My mother had an amazing jewelry collection, ranging from tribal pieces from Baluchistan to refined gold twists from Cartier.  When I was growing up, I used to watch her, mesmerized, as she got ready for cocktail parties. After doing her hair and makeup,  she would look thoughtfully through her jewelry, all stored in elaborate velvet-lined boxes, and choose one or two pieces to wear for the evening.  The chosen bracelet and earrings in place, she would then slip on her high heels, dab on her perfume, and be ready to go.  Never overdone, always in good taste, I thought she was quite possibly the most glamourous woman in the world. 

As I grew older, my mother bestowed on me careful gifts of jewelry on appropriate occasions --  the delicate locket, the small petaled earrings, the lustrous pearls.  These were to be looked after properly; if I treated something carelessly, she would store it with her own jewelry until  I pleaded with her to return it to me.

Jewelry has continued to mark important events in my life as an adult.  The day of my marriage -- a complex affair that included a full Persian wedding ceremony -- a case in point.  A Persian wedding is filled with as much fantasy as it is with reality.  At one point in the service I was asked three times whether I would accept the offer of marriage on hand.  The first two times a woman in my wedding party was charged with responding, "She is off picking flowers"  (even though I was sitting right there beside my husband -to-be).  That was the cue for the bridegroom's family to  come and shower me with  jewelry -- bracelets to be slid on the wrist and necklaces to be draped around the neck.  Of course I never informed my Catholic in-laws what was expected of them, embarrassed as I was by the presumptuousness of this little ritual.  Accordingly, they sat placidly in their seats until I finally said yes on the third request -- adorned only with the pearls at my ears and twisted in my chignon that I had come with.

Now a married woman, my parents have offered me gifts of diamonds and platinum for pregnancies and births.  I, too, store these in elaborate velvet-lined boxes.  My husband has also gifted me with treasured items.  But these days, in keeping with my bohemian ways, I tend to favor larger, more ethnic pieces.  I buy them for myself when the need strikes me and the pocketbook allows.  The  necklace  above was purchased just Tuesday for only $48  from etsy's Kathy Dornick.  I think it will look lovely glimmering at my throat with  a white collared tunic on Moroccan summer nights. 

I thought I might also share with you a few other pieces that caught my eye in Kathy's store.   The carnelian teardrop necklace is $42, the earrings $14, and the lemondrop necklace $21.   Just in case, you, too, are feeling the need for a little further adornment.  Because a girl can always use an extra bauble or two, wouldn't you agree?

Morocco: and feeling gypsy

I recently met an old friend I hadn't seen in quite some time.  She blinked twice before hugging me and peered at me curiously, as if I were something unusual and new.  Like it was me but not me; as if the puzzle pieces had been put together in a way that was different than the image she remembered on the top of the puzzle box.   

Several glasses of wine later, I learned it was the way I looked that had surprised her.  The way I was dressed -- in relaxed urban cargo gear.  The way I wore my hair -- loose, long and wavy.  It was the chunky ethnic silver jewelry hanging around my neck and from my ears.  She remembered the Maryam of the tailored suits. The one whose hair was in a low side-parted pony tail or an updo.  The one who wore matte lipstick and pumps.  It seems that that Maryam had been swapped out and replaced.  By a gypsy.

You see, Marrakech has that affect on some people.  On people like me.  Perhaps that is why I am so attracted to designer Tory Burch these days.  Her seemingly Moroccan-inspired clothes reflect a kind of refined bohemian that appeals to me.  Comfortable and yet chic.  Perfect for shopping in the souk, lounging by the pool, or meeting friends for drinks at Jad Mahal.  It's as if life were just one long vacation.  And even if both you and I know that that most definitely is not the case, there is no harm in dressing as if it were.  Is there?

 

But please, leave the hotpants at home. Or you'll start a riot in the streets of Marrakech. Which would be rather inconvenient since I have stashed my riot gear in the back of the closet, along with those tasteful black pumps...