Jamilla and I hired a car in Casablanca and drove to Marrakech, passing at speed through lunar landscapes made earthly by lines of dead cactus and mud villages almost invisible against the baked-brown hillsides.
Arriving in the fabled pink city, we left the car in a dusty carpark on the edge of the medina, at Bab Aylen.
We followed Didier, our Airbnb host, under a medieval stone archway and into the thronging, noisey thoroughfare, the tall, grey-haired Frenchman flicking the occasional "Salaam Alicum" to Arab acquaintances he passed.
 |
| The entrance to the riad |
Deep in the popular quarter, a series of cobbled alleyways led to Didier's riad. Its unprepossessing entrance belied a pleasant, courtyard home into which you descended through a cast-iron security door.
Inside, a bougainvillea climbed towards the light and was alive with tiny, chattering birds. Although Didier's heart was in Marrakech, a cluster of fascinating artefacts betrayed his Madagascar dreaming.
 |
| Didier's riad |
 |
| the archway leading to Didier's Marrakech riad |
No comments:
Post a Comment