My Marrakesh

Peacock Pavilions: and the flowerless quest for a landscaper

You had heard about her landscaping woes already but unfortunately the botanical hand wringing continued unabated.  Imagine Peacock Pavilions nestled in among olive trees and scorched earth.  Oh dear.  The blogging girl had to, had to, find a landscaper.  It was urgent.  She placed all her bets on the annual garden show, Jardin d'Art, taking place in Marrakech.

When attending the show, six-year old Skylar suggested that they dress up as flowers in order to attract landscapers.

When the flower get ups didn't work, she tried drawing attention to herself by wearing a fantastical garden hat and murmuring the names of plants under her breath while milling through the crowd.....  But everyone just ignored her.

The blogging girl then tried questioning a particularly attractive plant (surely, surely, she would know a landscaper) .... but the plant just flung a long flowered tress over her shoulder and answered melodramatically:  a garden without a landscaper is like the night sky without the moon.... 

She then tried starting up conversations with complete strangers (who might just be landscapers) in the garden show's charming cafes.... but people just thought she was odd and moved away.

She even asked the fellow behind the beautiful tiled counter if he wouldn't happen to be training as a landscaper, would he? (Kind of like Hollywood where all the waiters are really actors).....  He replied no, but said he was an expert chicken sandwich maker in case she needed one of those.

All seemed lost.  So the blogging girl went home and wept into her lone cactus (who put up with this sort of appalling watery behavior on a regular basis).

That night she dreamt that she was peering through an intricate garden gate behind which grew potted rows of night jasmine, and acres of lemon and fig trees.  She rattled the gate  but it was locked.  She then tried calling out, Helloooooooo......Is there anyone home...? But all she heard was the sound of her own voice echoing faintly over the vast terrain.

Marrakech: Peacock Pavilions and a tale of botanical woes

Once upon a time, in a real kingdom far, far away, there was a blogging girl named Maryam who was fond of plants.  Indeed, so enchanted was she by the silvery branches of olive trees, that she bought a small olive grove in Marrakech.  Imagine that.

For a time, it seemed like Maryam and her olive trees might live happily ever after.  But, like all fairy tales, it soon became evident that things were not as they should be.  Because although the trees had the family's love, as well sun and water, they had few other plants with which to share their leafy feelings.  Lonely and depressed, olives began dropping from their branches for no reason at all.

Now Maryam wanted her trees to be happy.  So she timidly bought cypres, agave, bougainvillea, and roses......but they felt lost in the vast expanse of 8.5 acres of land.  It soon became evident that the family required help of the expert variety.  A fairy god landscaper was needed.  Maryam tried numerous tricks to evoke a fairy god landscaper. She rubbed random lanterns with genie potential in the Marrakech souks.  But......nothing happened.  She clicked her heels and tried spells purchased from magicians on the Jemaa el-Fna square.  But....the spells appeared to be broken.  In sheer desperation, she even sent a polite email to the fancy American landscaper who had done the plan for the American School of Marrakech.  But he didn't bother to reply to her - it appeared she wasn't important enough to even merit politeness.  Sigh, where were she and she and she when Maryam needed them most?

All seemed lost.....It was then that a Moroccan landscaper showed up on the land, unannounced.  He drove a pumpkin coach, err, a pickup truck and called plants by their Latin names.  Impressed, Maryam invited him to walk the property.  And - as in all fairy tales - she also told him her three wishes:  1) an Andalusian garden with drought-loving plants; 2) clipped rosemary hedges with their heady scent; and 3) an organic vegetable patch with seeds carefully sourced.  Much to her surprise, the landscaper told her that she could have more than just three wishes (Oh my!).  Maryam hired him on the spot, of course.  He asked for an advance (even fairy god landscapers get paid these days) and she said......... yes.

The months passed, and the would-be fairy god landscaper was behind schedule, waaaaaay behind schedule.  Maryam began to grow worried.  She knocked on his office door and called him on the phone, first weekly, then daily, seemingly to no avail.  Finally, when her fingernails had been bitten down to the quick, she received a message that the landscaping plan was done.  She crossed herself, made a namaste, and did a left sided and a right sided cartwheel.  She alerted the Peacock Pavilion olive trees, who alerted the sparrows, who alerted the ladybugs.  And everyone felt, well, happy, in the sparkliest way possible.

However..... it appeared their happiness was premature...... The landscaping plan turned out to be a measly set of stapled-together pages of nothing at all.  And after fruitless discussions to try to rectify the situation, the architect husband -- normally so kind -- threw the "landscaping plan" straight into the trash..........

Oh dear.  They had been swindled.

This fairytale does not have a happy ending.......but perhaps.... it is still a tale-in-the-making.  For the time being, however, sad Maryam and her sad olive trees are scanning the horizon, hoping that someone will show up soon to apply for the vacant fairy god landscaping position at Peacock Pavilions. Oh please, let it be this week or next. 

(Warning to all charlatan landscapers:  the dungeons at Peacock Pavilion are rumored to be a very scary place, indeed, absent of all light and populated only by man-eating cacti.   Don't make me take you there....)

To be continued......

PS  Take a peek at this pretty, pretty vintage Moroccan wedding blanket I sent darling Jeanine at one of my fave blogs, AphroChic.  This lovely blanket has dark embroidered strips among the fringe and the sequins.  Yowza!  I have new stock of vintage Moroccan wedding blankets - so please let me know if you would like one (maryam at mtds.com) .  I also have some delectable vintage Moroccan Beni Ourain and other carpets - I will be posting on those soon.

Morocco: a little Janis Joplin in your garden?

Saying their name almost makes me want to blush.  It sounds a little X-rated.  Not very Good Girl, if you know what I mean.  So let me get this over with:  succulent.  Ahem, do you get my drift?

So I apologize if you went to Catholic school.  But sometimes a little succulent does a soul good.  Especially when it comes to agave plants.   Now you might know that Marrakech is a desert oasis.  Yes, a real oasis.  So these agave desert plants fit right in.  And now, 68 of them are mine, bought on whim several days ago on a sunny afternoon in Marrakech.  To be planted somewhere on our land for guests to admire when taking their strolls. 

Now I can't be sure, but I think the variety we bought are the Agave Americana 'Marginata'.  These are hardy plants that are easy to grow and are said to require almost no maintenance.  They have bright-green leaves with yellowish stripes along the edges, and are armed with small brownish-red hooks.

If you ask me, these plants look more rocker girl than porn star.  A little bit tough with their tiny pointed hooks. Their yellow stripes along leaf edges looks like exotic eyeliner.  Now all I need is for one of them to belt out some Jewel, and I will  be all set....

Morocco: a tale of hoped for forgiveness

Dearly departed olive trees,

You put your faith in our hands and we failed you.  But although you are gone, you  are not forgotten.  In your name, we have planted 108 small cypress trees.  They will live on our land, just a stone's throw from your previous Marrakesh home.  There they will stand guard, running along two walls.  We dug the Moroccan earth with our own hands to plant them.  We thought loving thoughts.  We measured the distance from the wall so that they would be placed just right.  We patted the ground with care.   We bought a special drip hose to make sure that they won't go thirsty.  We planted two beds of flowers nearby so they could gaze on loveliness. 

I know it's not enough.  I know that these small trees can't replace your majestic beauty.  But does it help to know that cypress can grow very tall, 50 feet, 100 feet or more?  And did you know that cypress may live more than 12 centuries?  And perhaps most out of the ordinary, some scholars consider cypress the right translation for Gopher wood, used by Noah to construct the ark. 

And so you see, we did not choose just any tree to replace you, but something special. 

For you, this humble offering.  Gone but not forgotten.

Love,

Maryam in Marrakesh

Morocco: They let us call our lawyer, before the cuffs go on, right?

You realize of course that we managed to buy a whole olive grove knowing absolutely nothing about olive trees other than....that we liked olives.  Preferably the large, green ones that taste of lemon or the small, wrinkly black ones that taste of the sea.  Oh, you mean they don't grow that way on the tree?

Our search for the olive grove user's manual left us empty handed.  How is it, exactly, that we are to take care of these trees?  We are the most unfit of parents.  I tell you, I live in fear of someone calling Olive Tree Welfare Services and blowing the whistle on us.  You know how it works don't you?  Just when the olive grove is looking a wreck -- with huge piles of sand up and down, and tons of brick here and there -- and streaks of mud on our nose and left cheek.....suddenly, we hear the door bell ring:

Her:  Hello, this is Olive Tree Welfare Services. May I come in please? 

Us: Uh, this isn't the very best time...We were just...(voice weak) getting ready to do....something....

Her:  This will only take a minute.

(In walks tidy looking woman, with hair pulled back in a neat pony tail, spotless Smith & Hawkens gardener apron tied around waist, impeccable rubber gardening boots.) 

Her:  (Looking around, with worried expression)  I can see that things appear to be...in a state of... flux here.  If you don't mind, just a few questions.  First, how might you describe your tree-raising philosophy?

Us:  (attempting a cheery tone of voice)  Tree raising philosophy? Well, personally we believe that trees need, ummm....sunlight.  And did we mention water?  Yes, watering now and again.  You know, that sort of thing.  Of course, our tree raising philosophy is much more elaborate than that.  Much more.  But we're sure you know, exactly what we mean, don't you?  (Hopeful lilt in voice.)

Her:  Well, actually, no I don't know. 

And from there...things just goes from bad to worse before Ms. Olive Tree Welfare Services reads us our rights and explains kindly but firmly that the trees will have to be put into protective custody.  For their own good.  We may be allowed privileges to visit the trees under guided supervision once we have demonstrated our mastery of Ph balances, pruning cycles, the pluses and minuses of manure, the advantages of the drip system versus trench irrigation, and how to make olive oil with our bare hands. 

(Much wailing and carrying on, with exclamations of But we love those trees as if we had raised them since they were wee saplings, etc.  Burly men appear out of no where to "help us" to the door.)

Then I wake up in a cold sweat....

Morocco: And the horticultural dancing girls

Would you look at what found its way under my Moroccan Christmas tree this year?  Isn't she gorgeous?  So showy.  So confident.  So fully assured of her own good looks.   Why, if she were allowed, I think that she would star in her own Broadway musical.  With you sitting mesmerized in the audience.  While pretending to enjoy the music, you can't stop gazing at her, the mean part of you hoping that she doesn't really look like that every morning when she wakes up.  And just as the devil is whispering in your ear, she smooths back a long tendril before looking at you in the audience (How did she know you were thinking that?!) and  you realize with full certainty that she is, in fact, that lovely even without a speck of makeup. And charming, too.  You can't help but like her. ~Sigh.

And thanks to my parents, she is mine and 139 just like her.  Bougainvillea in the most amazing deep rose color.  In the Moroccan climate, they thrive.  Still at a tender age, they will live on the Marrakech land, climbing their way up the compound walls, their vines covered with flowers.  Unquestionably flirts. I am so grateful that my husband is not attracted to the plant species in that way.  Otherwise, I'd be in trouble. Deep trouble.

Morocco: and the swing never swung

I am feeling sad. I am feeling blue. I am feeling weepy. A massacre of sorts has taken place on our land of depressing proportions. You might have thought otherwise – but it is not all happiness and light here at My Marrakesh. Far from it, I am afraid.

If you have been following this story, you will remember, that in the beginning there was the land. And on the land there were the trees. But for me, you see, it was the other way around. It was all about the trees. I thought I would order up a little land with my trees, a little coffee for my cream. But now, the coffee tastes sour. What have we done?

I knew it was necessary, I knew that some trees had to go - some of my beloved trees from my beloved Marrakesh olive grove. We had to make space to build the houses -- there was no other way. My husband strode around the land in purposeful fashion, marking this one and that one. You over there, with the bushy branches, I am sorry you have to leave. And you, with the massive trunk, I’m afraid you’re next in line. I followed him with gesturing hands, pleading: Oh please, not that one – he is so beautiful. Any way to spare this one? Her leaves are so silvery? But the soon-to-be houses were ravenous. It appears that they eat olive trees for breakfast. And sadly, so sadly, for lunch and dinner, too.

But all was not lost! Or so I was told. A promise was made that the olive trees would find new homes, in upscale locations. A new patch of grass right here in the corner and there near the wall. My husband assured me that men had been hired that moved trees for a living. Ha! I say, throwing the most scathing of glances at this man I have married. Because after they moved our trees and were paid for their efforts, those tree-moving-men (voice heavy with sarcasm) scurried off, never to be seen again. And of the 13 trees moved with their stories to tell – only three have survived and even those are not looking so well.

So now they are dead. Their leaves have all fallen, their branches dried up. Poor things, only husks of their former selves -- not the least bit of green. 10 trees less for sparrows to build nests. 10 trees less for small children to climb. No tree forts in their futures. No soon-to-be swings hanging from their boughs. Quite the opposite, in fact. For their destiny is burial by cremation in the crackling fireplaces of those gluttonous houses.

The land is in mourning. And so, too, am I.

IMAX and my little olive grove

I know it's blurry, I know it kind of looks like an old dishrag...but try, please try to see a little magic in this picture.  Because my pockets are emptied inside out and what I have in exchange is this picture.  Of this little Moroccan olive grove.  No backing out.  No running back to my home town of Wellesley Massachusetts and doing the sensible thing. 

The final papers are signed, the hundreds of thousands of dollars have been handed over.  I am officially a woman with a mortgage.  We are a family in debt.  We are the owners of 8.5 acres in Marrakech.

So if you could -- and I know that it requires great feats of imagination -- when looking at this picture, try to picture yourself at an IMAX movie.  That's it - squint your eyes a little.  Can you see it 3 dimensionally yet?  See those trees sprout up over your head 15 feet or so?  Can you hear the birds?  There are so many.  Can you you reach down and pick one of the random wild flowers growing by your feet?  You can tuck it behind my daughter Skylar's ear.  Can you see our dog, Rocky, running through the grove to that open clearing in the back?  Go ahead, you're in no rush, walk back on that little dirt road that runs from front to back. There is a row of fragile, young lemon trees on the right hand side.  Okay, are you at the end of the dirt road?  Now turn right.  Yes, right there - right in front of you - are the Atlas mountains, in full view in the winter months.  They're so beautiful that they make you want to hug yourself every time you see them.

I wish I had something more special that I could share with you to tell you how I feel about this land.  But this is all I have, courtesy of Google Earth. 

So thank you for coming to my little IMAX viewing today.  Please check your seats to ensure you haven't left valuables behind.  And if you wouldn't mind, if there is any popcorn left..please email it over.  All this traipsing about on the land online has made me a little hungry.

Morocco: Baby, you’re the one….

Today I feel a little like Sonny and Cher (when they were still in love, of course). Like Neil Diamond who has somehow roped Shakira into his act. Like Johnny Cash when he finally knew that June Carter was his forever.

********

Yep, this morning I’m the small town singer who gets a call from U2 saying they want me on tour as the opening act. “Who, me?” I ask. “Yes, you,” they reply. It appears that all I’ll need is a really cool outfit and a little sparkly eye shadow.

*******

Why, you wonder? Perhaps because hands have been shaken, papers signed, a humungous deposit put down. The landowner’s promise has been transformed into legal documents of the most official kind. The land – the one with the beautiful olive trees is ours – or almost anyways. No way for the landowner to back out unless he pays an amount equivalent to a year or two’s salary on top of our deposit. We’re one major step closer to our dream house.

*******

So can you see why our agent (that would be me) thinks our record is finally going gold….. ?

*******

It’s enough to make me SiiiiiNG while break dancing. I am pure Abba. I feel giddy. I’ve got Coldplay surging through my veins. I feel happy, so, so happy.

Morocco: Paradise found?

Dateline Marrakesh.  One more ride. One more piece of land to be seen. As we drive up, I turn to Chris and say, look at those trees. No one is there, so we find a break in the cactus that serves as a natural barrier around the land and we climb through. Olive trees 15 to 20 feet high. Olives so abundant that the branches are heavy with the weight of them. There are 6 acres of mature olive trees and 2.5 acres of open land with beautiful views of the Atlas mountains. We walk quietly through the tall grass, commenting on a palm tree here, a mulberry tree there. The land is set back from the Moroccan village nearby so it is private. A large house is in construction on the property next door and down the road Italians have built a lovely place called Africa House.

*

Driving through the village back to the main road, people are milling about in their jellabas (the long hooded cloaks worn by Moroccan men and women). Children are playing in the street. People all wave as we pass by.

*

The land is 15 minutes outside of Marrakesh and only five minutes away from the American School of Marrakesh. The main street leading back to the city is home to the Royal Golf Club and the Amelkis Golf Club, both beautiful courses where Chris hits the greens with his friends. Also on the same street leading into the city is the Amenjena hotel. Morocco’s most expensive hotel, where rooms start at $850/night and range well into the thousands. Property on the outskirts of Marrakesh is highly sought after – particularly nice for residents and visitors who prize open air living and privacy, and yet crave easy access to the city’s sights and vibrant nightlife.

Can it be?  Is our search over?  I think I might just be in love.