The Terrible Cafe Lemsid

 Excerpt from Chapter 7 of my forthcoming book ---Travels with My Hat, 85,000 words 8 pages pictures.         Chapters on Ethiopia, the Royal Tour of Arabia, Pakistan, Egypt, Iraq, Yemen. Pictured is the terrible                      Cafe Lemsid in the Western Sahara, from the final chapter on Morocco.

                                                                

...I’ve often thought I’d found the middle of nowhere on my travels, only to realise that I was on the edge of somewhere, but the Café Lemsid was definitely in the middle of nowhere. Caramel and raspberry red, it resembled a giant lolly that had fallen off a desert transport and surrounding it lay the detritus of local civilisation: burst tyres, perished fan-belts, broken lobster-traps and empty port-a-gas cylinders. A rug was stuffed in a hole in the wall to keep out wind-blown sand, and among items stacked behind its counter were boxes of Gunpowder tea, flour, candles, packets of “Tide”, balls of string and inevitably— tinned sardines.  It’s owner said fresh fish arrived daily from Boujdour, so that even in this god-forsaken place I was able to sit down at a broken table for lunch (grilled dorade).  A lame, fish-eating chicken hopped about for scraps: it would never be killed and eaten, I decided; it was much too horrible. As I settled my bill, a grand-taxi pulled up and I half expected it to disgorge a host of characters from a Fellini  film—dwarfs, transvestites and dancing bears—but they were merely crushed passengers from Dakhla, relieved for the chance to stretch their legs on their long journey up to Agadir...

EPIC WALK - GREAT READ

SAHARA: by Paula Constant

It is with regret that I have reached the end of SAHARA, the account by Australian writer Paula Constant of her epic walk across the Western Sahara, to Mali and ‘not quite’ Niger where authorities forbade her to continue across this volatile belt of Africa with on-going Tuareg dissent and latterly, an active al-Qaeda cell.

Indeed God knows what might have happened had she continued her journey. While courageous, the plan must be seen as politically naïve considering the events, sometimes tragic, that have befallen travellers in this desperate part of Africa.

SAHARA is long — almost 400 pages, but I found it gripping from beginning to end, and while I hold the above view, I found it a rivetting read.

Though haunted by a failing marriage (the least interesting part of the book) and plagued by difficult guides, perpetual interest in herself — as a lone white woman walking with camels — burrs catching in her clothes and a urinary tract infection about which she is brutally frank—Paula still managed to write a diary after walking an average 25kms a day, from well to desert well.

Her writing is achingly descriptive of a landscape that often has little to describe. And it is never repetitive. We encounter the nomad tea-making ritual on a dozen occasions, but something colourful is always included to make it different to the last one.

Her character comes across as tough, honest and determined, and her writing flows easily from page to page, like the great dunes she crosses with her camels.

I particularly loved the part where on hearing the evocative music of the Saharoui, she and her two guides jump up, stamping out a rhythmic dance on the desert sand. “Madani and I dance with our arms up and out to the sides ..he stamps his feet and cocks his hand over his head…I hold my arms out and turn my hands, my hips roll and twist beneath my melekhva.” ( the sari-like dress worn by Saharoui women).

Paula Constant is one cool head and one helluva writer and I feel her publisher—Bantam— might have done her better in the choice of paper, and a cover that does not buckle up.

And while the writing can stand alone in this powerful account of ‘love, loss and survival’ it begs for pictures of the splendid and maddening people she met en route. Especially her nomad guides— M’Barak, Madani, Mohammed, Ali and Ibrahim.

Bantam 2009— ISBN: 978-1-74166-929-9

Images of the Western Sahara: www.copix.co.uk

MOVE OVER MARRAKESH- Taroudant is the hot new property spot in Morocco

On a recent visit to Morocco to write about real estate, I nearly ended up buying a house! It was a lovely old-style village house, completely renovated, with 3 BR, living, dining, patio-garden and swimming-pool. Price EUR120,000 (approx. £95,000).

The property was on sale in Taroudant, a quiet Berber market town in the Souss, the long valley extending inland from the Atlantic coast to the Anti-Atlas mountains.

While the popular resort of Agadir is only 40 miles distant, Taroudant has never really caught on with tourists. Why? Largely because the town itself is dry. There is no nightlife, and while its ramparts are among the best preserved in Morocco, there are no big monuments to catch the eye. Tourists either visit on a day-trip, or rush through it en route to the Sahara.

Taroudant is how I remember Marrakesh sans touristes in the sixties. The pace is slow, people shop in traditional souqs, and in spring the entire town is bathed in a scent of orange blossom from surrounding orchards.

“Taroudant is a magic place. Only 3-4 places in the world have the same effect,” says Sibyl de Beaufort, one of the first to buy and convert a house. In fact she bought two houses. The second was demolished to provide a swimming pool for Dar-el-Hana, her lovely riad tucked away in a corner of the medina.

Unlike Marrakesh whose medina numbers nearly 1000 foreign-owned riads, properties for sale in Taroudant are located in outlying douar (villages) whose owners are moving into modern flats. Rather like farmers do in rural France.

Leading local agent Immobiliere Taroudant has 300 such places on the market priced from from EUR42,000 (£37,000). Clearly they require renovation, but labour is cheap. A skilled artisan costs only £12 a day. A handyman less. And everything from tiles to taps (and alcohol!) is available in Agadir.

Until now buyers are mainly middle age, middle class French looking at retirement. Or as an investment.

The first five years are tax exempt after which tax is levied on the annual rental value. If sold within five years, capital gains tax is charged at 20% of profit and while values have slipped 20-30% in Marrakesh, 15% + is guaranteed in Taroudant. I heard of one man who bought a village house for EUR 15,000, did nothing to it, and sold it 8 months later for more than double this price.

One of the most ambitious projects was tackled by Marc Caburet, a former pastissier from Lausanne, who has transformed 4 acres of land into Dar Zitoune, a superb rural-style riad whose 12 de-luxe bungalows stand in gardens of fragrant plants, fruit and olive trees.

The bone-dry climate of the Souss is ideal for gardeners and arthritis sufferers will feel in heaven on earth. My advice is to leave your glucosamine behind and take advantage of current bargains. A select group of property owners includes Farah Diba, former Imperial Empress of Iran, who owns several houses in Taroudant and surroundings.

www.dar-el-hana.com

www.darzitoune.com

http://www.immo-taroudant.com/

IBN BATTUTA: the greatest traveller ever

On a visit to Morocco last month I found the tomb of Ibn Battuta, the 14th century Berber Muslim whom many consider to have been the greatest traveller of all time.

Ibn Battuta was born in Tangier in 1304. Aged 21, he completed an arduous pilgrimage to Mecca from where he extended his travels to the Middle East, India, Central Asia and ultimately to China.

My own fascination comes from having visited many of these countries and exotic ports such as Mocha, Basra and other cities mentioned in his journals.

But while I`d been to Tangier on many occasions, I was unaware until this recent trip, that the traveller whom I most admire is buried there.

`Yes, his tomb is here,` said the woman in the tourist office - `Mais je ne suis pas sur -- ou.`

So I set off along the Boulevard Pasteur, crossing the Grand Socco to the Rue de la Kasbah where I began asking: `Pouvez-vous me diriger vers la tombeau de Ibn Battuta?`

`Up the hill and first right,` said a man standing in the doorway of a Tabac.

`Left, then straight on. Suivez-moi,` said a man carrying bunches of mint.

On we went, round this corner, down that alley, up many steps. Then he stopped. Unsure of what he was looking for. But there it was - in a shadowy corner of the medina, washing drying on a line above, a woman filling her jar at a fountain below - the tomb of Ibn Battuta.

I touched it, humbled by the experience: travel in far-off lands is trying enough today. What difficulties and dangers were faced some 700 hundred years ago?

My return to London coincided with the release of the film Journey to Mecca recounting Ibn Battuta`s pilgrimage around 1325-6 to the sacred shrines in Saudi Arabia.

Financed by the King Abdulaziz Public Library and King Faisal Center for Research and Islamic Studies, the short movie essentially illustrates the importance of the hajj to Muslims of whom two million make the annual pilgrimage. (the Qur`an requires that every Muslim of good health and means performs the hajj at least once in his lifetime).

Since Christians are forbidden to visit Mecca - highway signs advise to this effect - the film is a must see for anyone interested in the Muslim rites observed both here and at Medina.

The scene of white-robed pilgrims swirling around the ka`aba in the Prophet`s Mosque is an awesome piece of cinematography. So too are the shots of the 'great Damascus caravan of more than 10,000 pilgrims with 500 camels' embarking on the journey- filmed in stunning locations in southern Morocco.

But while Journey to Mecca is a colourful and emotionally engaging epic, to me it does not rise above a movie made in the Cecil B. de Mille mould.

Considering the amount of bureaucracy which would have been involved, it is likely a miracle the film was made at all, but I feel that Ibn Battuta deserves a far bigger tribute than simply as the subject of a PR exercise for Islam.

BFI Imax Cinema at London Waterloo.

Images: www.copix.co.uk

DAR ANEBAR: AN EXOTIC HOME AWAY FROM HOME IN ANCIENT FEZ

A riad is a traditional house located in the medina - the old residential and commercial heart of ancient towns in Morocco.

A typical riad is a three or four storey building whose thick stone walls enclose a central courtyard open to the sky. Smaller riads may only be the width of the height of a date-palm whose trunks were used as beams. Others owned by prosperous old merchant families have carved cedar ceilings and walls adorned with elaborate plaster-work and zellige tiles. To ensure a family`s privacy there are only tiny exterior windows, but a roof terrace catches cooling breezes and provides a panorama of the skyline.

Many old riads abandoned when their owners left either to seek work or to upgrade to a modern villa, have been bought by foreign investors who have transformed them into luxurious Maison d`Hotes, a trend started by American architect, Bill Willis in the 1960s when he transformed a run-down riad in Marrakesh into an exotic town-house.

More than 500 riads -mainly in Marrakesh, Fez and the lovely coastal resort of Essaouira have now been restored by foreigners using local artisans and drawing on the abundance of crafts sewn, hammered and tapped out in the souqs.

On many trips to Morocco over the years I`ve stayed in a variety of accommodation ranging from the famous Mamounia in Marrakesh to the simple Pension Mauritania in Tangier - even a crumbling funduq once used by wool merchants visiting Fez.

On a recent visit to Fez to collect material for my new book, I stayed at the Dar Anebar, a true "Arabian Nights" style riad which has been returned to it`s former glory by Moroccan businessman Ahmed Azami .

"It was my grandfather's riad and my dream was to restore it, not just for our family use, but so visitors might experience Fassi hospitality in traditional surroundings," said Ahmed as we sipped mint tea in the calm oasis courtyard.

"Tourists can stay here from EU90 a night. If we are not fully booked, we upgrade at no extra cost. I want people to feel it is their home. They can even go into the kitchen and watch Naima making Berber bread."

Fez is considered the culinary heart of Morocco and Naima's cooking lives up to this reputation. I dined on regal dishes such as bstilla made from flaky pastry stuffed with quail, and lemony tasting tajines using chicken and olives, and lamb cous-cous smothered in toasted almonds. A wine list featured the best of Moroccan wines: even Flag beer for any Australian visitors!

Dar Anebar's five large bedrooms with king-size beds overlook the courtyard. A personal touch is a flagon of argan oil, a nutritive emollient sold in Fez for over a thousand years and recently declared a 'miracle oil' by French cosmetic firms.

"We wound our way through the medina and walked into a world of wonder and warmth," one of hundreds of comment in the Guest-Book, resonated with me after a fall on one of my daily walks through the centuries old souqs.

Down I went among cages of hens, boxes of sardines and baskets of snails as everyone from the butcher, the baker and the candlestick-maker rushed to my aid. Back at Dar Anebar bandages were produced, my shirt was spirited away and washed, and a glass of freshly pressed orange juice was brought to my room.

When I offered to pay, I was waved away and Ahmed himself drove to me to the CTM station to catch my bus to Tangier.

Further information: http://www.daranebar.com

See comments : www.tripadvisor.com

For travel arrangements in Morocco: http://www.olivebranchtours.com

Images from: www.copix.co.uk

THE BLUE DJELLABAH

Visiting Marrakesh recently, I decided to eat at one of the thriving foodstalls on the Djemm el F`na, the old slave market site opening off the souqs.

It was barely dusk, but the famous square was already heaving with people. Water-sellers, acrobats, child-boxers, Moroccan families out for an evening stroll and of course thousands of scantily dressed tourists.

Picking my way through people wanting to sell me rugs, to extract my teeth and to tell my fortune, I stood in front of an array of delicacies grilling on the charcoal stoves: would I have liver or kebabs, squid or sardines, or maybe even half a lobster?

Finally I sat down at the end of a long, wooden table with a tin plate of crisply cooked calamares, salad and chips which was to cost me £3.

While enjoying my meal, I was able to observe the crowd, circumambulating the square like clothes in a tumble dryer.

One woman in particular caught my attention. Wearing a black veil and a turquoise blue djellabah, she kept passing my end of the table, disappearing, then reappearing a few minutes later.

When I stood up to pay, she darted over and snatched three chips I had left, stuffed them into her mouth and vanished.

I searched for the blue djellabah until it was dark. I wanted to buy her a proper meal, but I never saw her again.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: Place Djemm el F`na Marrakesh

Source: www.copix.co.uk