Lining the wall of the Moroccan nursery, infants slept.
Twisting my hair in her tiny hands, her brown eyes,–no–her entire body laughed. Even before I picked her up, she shook with glee, stiffened her legs, and tried to jump from the straps of her baby seat into my arms. I thought of my own little girl at six months so precious and full of life. One by one we unbuckled them from seats lined in front of cartoons and held them. The sunny room was abuzz with babies four months to a year old smiling, blowing bubbles, crawling, playing.
Except one. His eyes followed the jingly toy but without expression.He seemed to be observing quietly but didn’t reach, didn’t move, didn’t respond to us. I raised him above my head and flew him like an airplane. He smiled, then chuckled. I laughed and cried.
Jodie, one of my coworkers, went to an older boy who lay staring at the lights on a toy truck. She asked one of caretakers the Arabic word for truck and began talking to the boy. Though he couldn’t walk, he came alive—delighting in playing with Jodie, then creating a game of crawling away at lightening speed and being carried back giggling upside down on Sylvie’s shoulder. In another room Bev and Jason played with other disabled children confined to beds by disabilities.
In the midst of an orphanage in a troubled world, beautiful bright-eyed babies look into eyes of older souls in a two-way exchange of wonder, poignancy, and peace. The Association Enfance Espoir Maroc or “Crib of Hope” cares for healthy and handicapped children, most aged 0-3 who were abandoned and found on the streets. Moroccans may adopt them, and volunteers may donate time or resources. Sponsoring a child for one year costs 1000 dirhams ($100 USD). For more information on how to help go here. We were asked not to photograph the children’s sweet faces, but you can see their home (for now) below.
I spent a perfect Marrakesh afternoon recently with Brigitte, owner of Kosybar and Dar Beija, with Andrena, her longtime friend. Andrena and I were off from work for Moroccan Independence Day so we were thrilled to enjoy lunch in the sunshine. Later we walked it off through the newly refurbished Jewish Quarter to Brigitte’s beautiful boutique hotel.
BrigitteAndrena (right)
Day or night the three-story restaurant is a gathering place. I’d been to Kosybar before, a favorite Happy Hour hangout of coworkers and other locals and expats. In a city where riad and restaurant rooftops are so close you can hopscotch your way across the skyline, Kosybar’s sunset view is one of the most unique places in town to sip and see the sky change colors. Perched in their gigantic nests just above patrons, the famous storks of El Badi Palace, began in 1578 by Arab Saadian Sultan Ahmad al-Mansur, keep watch over dusk. The tourist attraction is home now of the Marrakech Folklore Festival.
First trip to Kosybar last spring with Annie and Lexi
Through the gate below Kosybar is the El Badi Palace (below)
As we spoke over lunch, Spike, a talented and gregarious Canadian singer who fills the dance floor downstairs Thursday-Sunday nights, stopped by the table to say hi. Three other expat guests—one who had returned home but like so many others had been drawn back by the “Marrakesh spell”–did the same, giving Brigitte–a Moroccan kisses on both cheeks. She has a sensitive, sweet spirit that friends and regular customers find soothing.
Our lunch prepared by Japanese Chef Nao Tamaki was delicious–a fusion of Asian, French, and Moroccan fare. Though not usually a dessert person, I LOVED the apple turnovers. In addition to lunch, the restaurant serves a tapas menu afternoons and a dinner menu evenings. They have a full range of cocktails including a good selection of wines. The mojitos are the best I’ve tasted in town.
It was a poignant day. Sad and shocked by the Paris bombing, Brigitte talked of the tragedy and her daughter’s decision that they keep their plans for an upcoming trip to the City of Lights. Brigitte said though it is safe in Morocco it had been quiet the last few days as it is every time such a tragedy happens. She agreed with her daughter that we can’t be ruled by fear and they should go to Paris as planned rather than cancel.
Despite disturbing world events, we so enjoyed the day we’d been given. As moms born on three continents (Andrena is Scottish), we spoke of our children. Brigitte shared some of her family history. She and her husband, Nabil, started their journey as high school sweethearts 25 years ago in Meknes. Together they attended University of South Florida in Clearwater, Schiller University, and University of Nevada in Las Vegas where they received degrees in Hotel Administration, Hospitality, and International Business. Their oldest child was born in Clearwater, the other three in Las Vegas.
They returned to Morocco and in 2005 opened Kosybar. Of her staff, she said, “We’re family.”
On the square beneath, workmen continuing renovation.
She also shared local history. The previous owner of the riad which is now Kosybar was a Jewish clockmaker. Moroccan kings have always protected Jewish residents and many pilgrimages are made here to burial sites of their saints. Many of the Jewish houses had tunnels under the city to the palace in case of attack. One of the many things I appreciate about Morocco is its historic and present tolerance of the religions of foreigners. In the Marrakesh Mellah, one of several Jewish communities in Morocco, Jewish and Muslim merchants work alongside one another. Brigitte said of her childhood: “My dad was French, and my mom was Moroccan. Her best friend was Jewish. We all grew up together.”
I remembered on the first tour I took of Marrakesh our guide began at the spice shop just across the street (below). I couldn’t believe how bright and shiny the neighborhood was compared to when I first visited—dust, exhaust fumes, and years of use washed and refinished.
Entrance to the Lazama Synogogue
Dar Beija, a boutique bed and breakfast riad
Riad rooftop with a panoramic view of the Marrakesh Medina–palaces, sanctuaries, and the Atlas Mountains
Thank you, lovely ladies, for the pleasure of good company and conversation. Truly it was an afternoon of pure peace.
The third stop on my November beach hop along the Moroccan Atlantic Coast was Paradis Plage Surf and Spa Resort. Owners take pride in being the first hotel in Morocco to combine yoga and surfing—a dynamic duo since yoga prepares and repairs the body after surfing. The property invites guests to ride waves, climb camels, or salute the sun as it rises and sets. Here couples, families, friends, and solo travelers enjoy over 100 suites with terraces or balconies opening to pool or sea. Recreation varies from four area golf courses and an outdoor cinema. Located 30 minutes from Agadir and 50 minutes from an international airport connecting to European capitals via 3-hour flights, the resort is where westerners love to play.
Started by Kabbage Abbes, one of the first investors in Agadir hotels, who teamed with Francois Payot, head of Rip Curl Europe, the resort is a work of art run by Abbes’ daughter, Naima, and her husband, Vincent. Furnishings were created by locals and the gorgeous green spaces and gardens are by Spanish landscaper, Sergio Castaneda Beltran.
Photo by Paradis Plage
Excited to learn more about surfing and to practice yoga, I was shown to a gorgeous oceanfront suite. At the Surf House beach bar while sipping my Flag (local beer) and waiting for a Mexican burger (rare in this region), I saw horses and camels waiting patiently on the sand while cats lounged in the sun. Later, everyone returned for the golden orange sunset.
Simo, instructor here and in video above, is from Rabat. He has taught in Hawaii and on the US East Coast. He guarantees by the end of the first lesson every student will be up on their boards.
In partnership with Rip Curl, legendary Australian brand, Tarik Wahbi, surf pro from Tétouan, is ranked one of Morocco’s Top Ten surfers. Manager of the surf program, he leads a team of gregarious guys who hook up guests with equipment, instruction, and guides to the best waves.
Photo by Pardis Plage
Photo by Paradis Plage
Paradis Plage Surf and Spa Resort nurtures total wellness that fits the unique needs of each guest. Surf and Yoga packages are available for two or five days. Surf School Packages are available for 5 days—2 sessions per day.
Yoga and Spa packages range from two days (daily yoga course, a sensory hammam, and a massage) to five days (yoga course, two hammams, one body scrub, and two massages).
The resort shares with clients the secrets of Moroccan women’s beauty. All cosmetics are 100% natural Taroudant Argan oil, essential oils from Marrakech gardens, pebbles from Imi Ouaddar’s beach, facial treatments using Sous Massa prickly pip, Taliouine saffron or roses of Dades Valley.
Traditional Hammams consist of a black soap scrub, Atlas ghassoul wrap, Atlantic Coast seaweed wrap, Imouzzer honey, and spice scrub. Sensory Hammams fuse fragrances of in orange blossom and eucalyptus to relax and rejuvenate. Managing massages and other spa services is Marie France Riera.
Important Tip: Schedule spa services, especially massages, and yoga classes before you arrive or at check-in because appointments and classes fill fast.
Photo by Paradis PlagePhoto by Paradis Plage
Yoga group classes, the highlight of my getaway, are offered three times daily:
8-9:15 Sunrise Yoga (for all levels)—breathing, flexibility, strength, muscle toning, body opening
11-12:15 Easy Yoga (all levels but especially great for beginners) Asanas postures and poses; precision of body alignment, rhythm, balance
5:30-7 Sunset Yoga (all levels)– detoxification, relaxing based on Vinyasa flow systems
Also available are classes in Yin Yoga Therapy (gentle practice using blocks, pillows, restorative and relaxing to relieve tension in muscles and joints, relax spine and pelvis), Aerial Yoga (hammock used for suspension), Prenatal, Power Flow (ultimate workout for athletes), and 108 Greetings. Custom sessions can be arranged by Karim Fadali.
Photo by Paradis Plage
Classes are typically held in the Yoga Shala which consists of two beach studios connected by a lotus pond and facing the sea. Groups may rent the space for private retreats as they did during my stay so guests met in an open air space (see below). Sara, our excellent German instructor, lives in Cairo. Like the best teachers, she is creative, kind, soulful, and a learner herself. She was excited about taking her first surf lesson after our yoga class. My classmates were European as well– some there with partners and others solo. We “sent love to the flies”–pests in the Taghazout region at times– but packing insect repellent might also be a good idea. The small community made it possible to meet other guests in classes and connect with them at the poolside buffets or bars later.
Photo by Paradis Plage
I left feeling refreshed and restored by the beauty of nature and yoga. I loved seeing smiles on surfers’ faces when they did what we all must do to navigate and enjoy life– conquer fear, be flexible and strong, and stand tall as we ride the waves.
Thanks to Paradis Plage for a restful retreat. As always, the opinions are my own.
A brilliant beam lasers through the blue wooden shutter. Now awake, I push open the window to catch the sun rising slowly, then bursting boldly from behind buildings on the beach. I’m singing Cat Stevens. He loved the Moroccan coast as I do.
Morning has broken like the first morning…
Mine is the sunlight, Mine is the morning, Born of the one light Eden saw play. Praise with elation, praise ev’ry morning, God’s recreation of the new day.
The afternoon before, I’d been picked up at the bus station in Agadir and driven along the coast to Taghazout. The stretch reminded me of the route my kids and I took one summer in a convertible from Santa Monica to Malibu. We’d stopped to watch surfers at Zuma Beach. This time my destination was Surf Berbere to practice yoga, learn about surfing, and live in community with the people who do it.
As we rolled into town I smelled fish sizzling. Minutes later at reception I met a friendly blond girl the age of my daughter. She, like everyone, was dressed in shorts and a tee shirt and radiated sunshine. In Marrakech it was sweater and boots weather, but here, just three hours south, it was summer (my favorite season) again. Since moving to Morocco I’d gotten serious about yoga, and when my instructor spoke of retreats on the coast, I added another destination to my Bucket List. I’d wanted a fertile climate where my inner flower child could bloom. Here banana trees abound, the sun shines 300 days a year, and people relax. Seemed I’d found the place.
She led me to the Vista Apartment all shiny clean and spacious. Flinging my suitcase on the bed, I turned and was stunned by the sight of nothing-but-sea out my window.
As on my first beach solo trip to Costa Rica, I felt broken by beauty. I’d planned to rest or write before yoga class and dinner, but thoughts began churning within like the waves without.
Reliving our California trip had made me again miss my children in Nashville. Simultaneously experiencing this amazing Moroccan place made me again realize how much I’ll miss this country one day. My thoughts were like the tide mightily pushing and pulling me in two directions. How can I live abroad much longer so far from people I love across this ocean? How will I go back after all I’ve seen and felt here? How will I give up the beauty and adventure of this place?
Thankfully, by morning future fears robbing me of the present had washed out to sea, leaving diamonds—not smoke– sparkling on the water. The night waves pounding the shore below my balcony had somehow soothed my soul as nature and its creator always does. I woke rested and ready.
As the campers of Surf Berbere had gathered around burgers on the rooftop grill the night before, we shuffled toward breakfast from our apartments to the café terraces that morning. Under clear, blue skies, fat cats chilled and a cute puppy begged as beginners and intermediates wondered which beach our instructors would choose for the day. The pros—many who had lived there for months—mapped their route for chasing waves as well. Van Morrison sang “Into the Mystic” as I finished my coffee.
I’d loved summer camp when I was a teen, so much so I became a counselor. I’d learned to ski on Kentucky Lake as many learn to surf on Hash Point. Nights at both places we circled up to tell tales of days on the water. Here some seemed to be old friends, but most campers were traveling solo and had only recently met. It seemed they, too, had decided to stop waiting for someone else to rock their gypsy souls and had shown up confident they’d find what they were seeking with strangers who’d bond over shared passions for sea, surf, and yoga.
By nine we were grabbing boards and suits at the surf shop, then bouncing on Taghazout’s main street (really only street) toward Anza Bay. In our van the campers were as eclectic as the playlist. Two girls from Cologne, Germany and another from London—aged 27-31—were excited for their first lesson. A guy from Ghent, Belgium had surfed the Great Barrier Reef. New friends from Sweden, Norway, and Switzerland were in the other van. All were on holiday from careers or retired from public service, as was the man I met from the same area of Wales as my grandmother’s family. All identified me as the only American but were surprised I now live in Marrakech—a city all travelers described as too intense and frenetic.
Later that afternoon two experienced surfers traded stories of battle scars–one a West Australian travel blogger whose fin sliced open his butt. Though it still hadn’t healed completely, he had recently gone swimming in the Nile.
“So you have a gnarly scar!” laughed the UK girl who’d been in wine sales, moved to Surf Berbere, then Sri Lanka, now Surf Berbere where she is taking the surf instructor’s course. She’d had a friend whose board rope wound so tightly around the tip of his finger, it popped the joint off. Both were energized rather than afraid of injuries, but when he said he was traveling a year, she sighed and said the same words another woman spoke at lunch the day before: “I don’t know if I can ever go back again to the western world.”
The Moroccan surf instructors, Imad and Rashid were patient, skilled, and fun. After warm ups and the lesson, they stayed in the water for one-on-one coaching throughout the day. I quickly understood the close relationship between surfing and yoga. Upper body strength, flexibility, and balance are key. Like dancing, surfing can be graceful and beautiful once techniques are learned and practiced. Like life, it’s about being in the moment rather than over thinking. It’s about catching the wave when it comes and riding it out.
Imad
Rashid
Fueling us was Chef Mohamed who served huge portions of home cooking including the best burgers and spaghetti (packed for lunch) I’ve had in Morocco. Friday I enjoyed the international fusion of favorites– traditional cous cous with apple crumble for dessert. Managing with Hamza and Beth for James, the warm and welcoming London owner, is Marie. Like many creative campers I met, she is a travel blogger from Frankfurt (where I’ll go next month as well as to Cologne thanks to the girls who said the Christmas markets in their hometown are must -sees). When Marie isn’t custom planning each guest’s daily schedule, she’s writing her Masters thesis in Brand Management. She gave me a sneak peak of her uber-cool line of surfing tights. You won’t see her without a smile.
Marie (front) and Clare (back)
As for all the campers, they were tenaciously teachable, grateful, and kind. Truly some of the nicest people I’ve met in one place. Wherever I am living a year from now, I’ll remember beginning yoga with sun salutations that were literal goodnights to the golden orb as it turned orange and melted into the sea. I’ll remember ending class with Savasana under a navy-black sky of stars above. And I hope I (and single empty nesters like me) remember the words of the instructor: “It’s not selfish to take care of yourself. It’s not selfish to love yourself. It’s necessary.”
Check out pricing and book here. Apartment rentals are here.
Thank you to Surf Berbere for an amazing retreat. As always, the opinions are my own.
And thank you, Marie, for my first Christmas card of the season. Peace to all from another traveler, Odysseus:
“Come, my friends, It is not too late to seek a better world.”–Tennyson
Ouzoud Falls Quench Thirst for Adventure, Beauty, and Relationship
Yesterday I was ambushed by monkeys, then drenched by a waterfall.
The first incident felt like being on the set of Scarface as Tony Montana’s compound was seized by Sosa’s drug cartel. What followed was like playing opposite Harrison Ford in yet another Indiana Jones movie filmed in Morocco.
Ok, maybe not that dramatic, but life here is sometimes like the movies– a mix of realism, magic (like the sandstorm that blew up outside my apartment as I wrote this as if on cue), and moments of Monty Python. Yesterday’s road trip was to Ozoud Falls, located150 kilometers from Marrakech, in the province of Azilal. We began at 8 AM in a van arranged by Ismail Amzilo of Morocco Desert Adventures. Our journey was cathartic providing fright, wonder, and laughter. It quenched thirst for adventure, beauty and relationship–especially because it was shared with a community of coworkers that functions like family when living abroad. Together we weathered the long ride (3 hours each way fraught with bathroom stops behind bushes and in some scary Turkish toilets). Still we pressed past queasy stomachs, even rain that prevented the full hike we’d planned, but in the end were rewarded with much fun including a couple of surprises.
So about those monkeys…while seated on a café terrace watching the waterfalls and waiting for tajines,
Monkey #1 climbed out of the rocks onto the bamboo ledge that wound around our table. His eyes were fixed and unreadable as he slinked toward us like a model on a New York runway while we, the paparazzi, breathlessly snapped photos. With one swift leap, he dove into trees behind and below our table and was gone.
We all sat down again, thrilled with the close encounter. Emily was sitting beside me, her back leaned against the bamboo where the monkey had disappeared. Suddenly, with the stealth, stoicism, and surprise of the assassins who scaled the walls surrounding Tony Montana’s mansion, the monkey’s paws, then terrifying grin appeared beside Emily’s ear. At our screams (and my unfortunate “Oh Shit!”) he again vanished. Emily moved to the other side of the table, and I scooted close to her, while Bethany and Jon said they weren’t afraid and would keep watch.
Clockwise from head of table: Jen, Rachel, Eliza, Jon, Ali, Bethany, Audrey, Emily, Ben, Jason, Julie
While we finished dessert, a large female monkey– Big Mama– appeared on the ledge at the other end of the table. She stared, unblinking, at us, then began her strut down the runway.
Jumping up, we again grabbed cameras. One…two…three…four steps…
a quick leap to the right…and she POUNCED on the middle of the table. Brazenly grabbing the breadbasket, she took off, rebuked by Jon who had seen his 3rd grade teacher bitten on the butt by a monkey at school. That poor woman had rabies shots and stitches.
Thankfully, the ones we saw on the trail the rest of the day were smaller and not aggressive. And though Jon’s story (and another he told in the van about an alligator who bit an elephant’s nose) had us worried about the man we saw with a monkey perched on his shoulder, I hoped his turban would protect his ear should the creature take a nip.
We headed down to the platform where we posed, snapped poses, and were posed with.
Photo by Julie TuSpaz
And then our descent began down what seemed to be hundreds of steps–a great workout considering a storm looming prevented our mountain climbing.
New customers had taken our seats on the ledge. Wonder if the monkeys made an encore appearance?
At the bottom were more photo shoots before we boarded a Moroccan-style gondola for our ride into the cascades.
Photo by Jon Wommack
Back on the van we heard a story from one of our tiny troopers about giants wearing flip flops. The waterfalls made us all feel small again with their Jurassic Park size and spray. As our guide rowed us into them, I’m not sure I’ve laughed that hard since carnival rides with my sister at the Wilson County fair or Opryland’s Grizzly River Rampage. And there were two more surprises. Who says life isn’t ponies and rainbows? Yesterday we enjoyed both.
I spent my second Eid al-Adha, “Festival of Sacrifice,” in Morocco perched again in my favorite holiday nest above Essaouira. I love Jack’s Apartments–especially numbers 6 and 7–positioned above the medina and wall hailed by history, Hollywood, and HBO. From the balcony all I see is sea. All I hear are seagull shrieks slicing through blue sky and roaring winds, waves crashing into rocks, then spewing like geysers below.
I returned to be calmed by the churning ocean and to be broken by beauty. To rest on the ramparts–a visual reminder of God’s protection everyday.
Here I can relax and remember what I too often forget–that prayers have been and will be answered. Though I’m usually optimistic, in seemingly impossible situations or when I’m tired of waiting for answers about the future to come, I’m tempted to think change will occur “when pigs fly.” Translated: Never or in a long, long time. Here pigs don’t fly because there are none. But goats do. It’s easy to be hopeful, to be grateful in Essaouira. Here my faith is strengthened in the quiet, the calm, the time to simply breathe and remember and cling to promises that I’ve been given for my good.
Thanks to my friend and coworker, Ritchie, for photographing the goats climbing Argan trees to feed. She joined me the last day of the break and her bus driver stopped, unlike mine, to allow passengers to get shots.
On this wall anything seems possible. Orson Welles became Othello in Shakespeare’s play of a biracial couple hundreds of years before South African apartheid and south America’s Jim Crowe laws were abolished. Here Game of Thrones’ Danerys—a widow and queen—raised an army from men she freed and commanded her dragon to destroy an evil ruler.
Danerys and her army–photo from link below where you will also find Tom Rowsell’s “Game of Thrones Holidays in Morroco” which includes a video of the scene to which I referred. http://www.essaouira.nu/culture_movies.htm
Here Mogador, original name of Essaouria, defended herself since she was founded by the Phoenicians in the 6th century agains Roman, Arab, Portuguese, and French rule. Pirates, an earthquake, and a tsunami couldn’t destroy the city that, like the Phoenix, rose from ashes.
I’ve always been revived by the sea. A mermaid in Marrakesh–a sometimes fish-out-of-water– I need its salt as salve. I feel small next to the ocean and the horizon–reminders of how big God is. His love washes over me. Though I still miss my children on the other side of the Atlantic every single day and find this empty nest thing one of the biggest challenges of my life, I’m thankful for this new season away with God where he provides new adventure, beauty, and relationship.
On a rooftop with a 360 panoramic view I wonder where I’ll be a year from now. One of my biggest lessons of last year–of this move–was in a book I taught, Life of Pi: “All of life is letting go.” I’m still working on more trust, less worry. I only know the same hand that stirs the surf and tames the tide holds whatever is to come. As is said here by Muslim friends (as well as Christians and Jews in the Middle East and parts of Africa)… In sha Allah. As God wills.
Apartment 6
Jack’s Apartments–#7 just below rooftop and #6 below it
Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is art.—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Let the beauty of what you love be what you do. ― Rumi
It is very, very difficult to feel sad for long in Morocco because you can never be alone in Morocco. You are surrounded by beauty…It really is a place, I think, that nourishes the soul.–John Pittaway
A picture from Persian poetry, gorgeous girls in red swung open a heavy, studded door. They beckoned me over a threshold for refuge from the dust, glare, and chaos of the Kasbah. Immediately taking my overnight bag, their attention turned to relieving me of the burden my face and body still carried.
“Welcome. Please sit. Would you like some tea?”
Like Dorothy, swept into a black-and-white Kansas cyclone, then dropped into Technicolor Oz, I had been disoriented by a painful situation but, upon landing in a dream, became distracted from it by beauty. The terra cotta maze of the medina had morphed into a sanctuary of ruby, aqua, green, and gold.
Riad Hikaya Marrakesh
Riad Hikaya
I had read that everything I saw on walls and floors, sat on, sat under had been designed by Jane and John Pittaway, English owners of Riad Hikaya, and handcrafted by Marrakshi artisans. I spoke with John that afternoon who studied Arabic at University and also speaks French, Spanish, and the local Moroccan dialect, Darija. Though he has lived in many parts of the Middle East including Egypt, Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates before moving to Marrakech, we discussed what makes this place unique…the creativity which brims here…. the tension of chaos and tranquility…the balm of beauty that banishes bad.
By dinner on the rooftop under a full moon, I was fully settled in the Rahma suite (Arabic word for compassion) — able to breathe; to let go; to accept, see and savor the gifts of kindness and peace around me. Not only had the girls turned back my bed, sprinkling rose petals on the duvet and in the tub…not only had Fadoua fed me fresh Tabouleh, the best Lamb CousCous I’ve had, and Celebration Orange and Chocolate Cake which, trust me, is reason alone to celebrate…but Sana, at my request, stopped serving and sat down for a chat over dessert.
The next morning the moon was gone. The sun met me on the rooftop instead. After breakfast and a read in the jacuzzi, I told the girls bye. I left again grateful for the kindness of strangers-now-friends. I remembered John’s words about a 2-year planned renovation that took five years instead. So true of life in many ways: “Anything is possible…It was an interesting journey..a way of learning.”
(from the website) Rahma, (Arabic for compassion), is situated on the first floor of the riad overlooking the smaller, mirrored courtyard.The traditional bed, fashioned from tadelakt and zelij, is framed by a hand-carved ‘muqarbas’, or bedhead, with an ornate zowwaq finish. Cactus silk curtains line the tadelakt walls and frame the artisanal, wooden shutters. Hand-painted plaster motifs, soft kelim armchairs and vintage Berber carpets complete the luxurious feel.
A stay at Riad Hikaya is a dream experience.
Like everything else at Riad Hikaya, the robes are custom-designed and made locally in Marrakesh.
Spa
Hand painted tadelakt bath and a monsoon shower crafted from zelij and maillechort, a metal favoured by Marrakshi artisans which in English is known as nickel silver
Rose petals in the sink and tub create an even more luxurious bath.
Rose petals on the bed make guests feel special.Couscous at Riad Hikaya is delicious.
Sana was a superior server.
Lighting, cacti garden, olive trees — perfect evening on rooftop under a full moon.
This delectable dessert… no words.
Pool by night
Roses fill the tub at Riad Hikaya
Laughing Without an Accent: Adventures of a Global Citizen by Firoozeh Dumas was a fun bedtime read.
Coffee in bed
Outside my room
Fresh roses are arranged daily at Riad Hikaya
Fresh fruit, pastries, and juice
A southern girl’s treat in Morocco — a huge breakfast omelet
A rooftop read in the whirlpool at Riad Hikaya
A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases…it still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.–John A “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” —Keats
What a difference a day makes. Thanks to Riad Hikaya for the stay. As always, the opinions here are my own.
“The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden. If you don’t want paradise, you are not human; and if you are not human, you don’t have a soul.” –Thomas More
Enter the magical arches of Jnane Tamsna, the portal to a garden paradise souls seek.
Oh how I love this view. Jnane Tamsna is paradise.
My love of gardens began in my grandmother’s backyard. She told me the names of heirloom flowers, shrubs, and trees transplanted from her childhood home and my grandparents’ farm, Mockingbird Hill. On weekends in Marrakesh, I play in secret gardens that I read about in fairy tales, Song of Solomon, and Arabian Nights. They hide behind walls from the Medina to the Palmeraie, and I seek. The way to my dream garden is through magical arches. The entrance of Jnane Tamsna is a portal to the garden paradise souls seek.
As with all things magic, our eyes must be open. If we’re not fully present, we may miss it. The first time I went to Jnane Tamsna, my sight was blurred with tears. My heart was elsewhere. My friend, Kate, made lunch reservations for Mother’s Day as a distraction because our kids were so far away. I was also weepy because I’d missed being with my daughter on her 25th birthday.
I could see her on her 5th birthday. She and her friends were wearing wide-brimmed hats at a garden tea party that I’d planned for her since she was born. I, the “Flower Fairy,” hid pearl necklaces in fifty rose bushes and left a note instructing the girls to find them. Under our oak tree dripping with ivy, a table was topped with a bouquet of purple hydrangeas big as soccer balls. Cole, my son, was sitting in the grass under the white table cloth playing with our kitten.
A couple of weeks ago, I entered that paradise again for a longer stay. I was ready to explore the passion project of Meryanne Loum-Martin and Dr. Gary Martin recognized by press from The New York Times to Architectural Digest to Gourmet. I was drawn back to the quiet of this Edenic place of sprawling size and biodiversity for which Gary, an ethnobotanist, received recognition last March. Janane Tamsna and Villa Oasis, Madison Cox’s creation, were the only two gardens chosen for private tours by the Botanical Symposium on the Mediterranean Flora of Jardin Majorelle. I was also eager to meet expats and tell them I appreciate their commitment to the local community.
I was led to my gorgeous room to drop off luggage, then to a poolside garden where Meryanne and Gary had just finished lunch with a guest.
Tunnel vision is a beautiful thing at Jnane Tamsna. Beauty blooms about you everywhere. Sweet dreams are easy here.My gorgeous sitting area in my suite
Hello Beautiful World!
My private patio at Jnane Tamsna
My own private patio at Jnane Tamsna.
They’d been talking awhile, so as they invited me to sit, we all shifted chairs into the shade. Quickly I knew what Laura Werner meant when she wrote in Forbes, “Staying at Jnane Tamsna in the Palmeraie is like being at an extended dinner/house party.” And by the time I left, I understood why Hugh Jackman, a regular, did the Happy Dance by one of the their five pools. Privacy and peace are premium here.
Magic happens around tables set under palms and beside pools at Jnane Tamsna.
At Jnane Tamsna you can enjoy not only secret gardens but multiple secret pools
Pools and palms
Pool set for two
Pool outside a private villa
Villas for families or couples on a romantic getaway
Advocates for culture and education, they’d hosted salons where authors, such as Esther Freud (I’d read her memoir of Marrakech a year ago upon moving to Morocco) and historian William Dalrymple, had read from their works. I learned their daughter had graduated from the school where I teach, and they’d just returned from Paris early to see Suddenly Last Summer performed for a fundraiser in Tangier — the city that inspired Tennessee Williams (my favorite southern dramatist) to write it. The murder in the play segued to another book set in Savannah and gardens there I love, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. This literature lover and mother had found kindred spirits. When I told Meryanne I’d been there briefly on Mother’s Day, she completely understood. She, too, misses her children.
They headed to projects and I to the pool, where lounges like gentlemen in crisp, white dress coats joined me in saluting summer and bidding my last day of vacation goodbye.
Pool beside the dining areaJnane Tamsna Main Pool
Like smooth music, the afternoon soothed my soul. That night, the moon escorted me to dinner.
Victrola at Jnane TamsnaCurl up with a book in the shade.Snowy bougainvillea frames patios.My cup — or in this case, urn — overflows with gratitude for garden spaces.
Meryanne Loum-Martin designs her table settings with the bounty from their gardens.
Gazpacho made with tomatoes and basil from the gardens.
“A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in–what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars.” ― Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
The next morning I woke to wander the property and gardens.
“The Venus flytrap, a devouring organism, aptly named for the goddess of love.” — Tennessee Williams, Suddenly Last Summer
Though Gary doesn’t have a Venus flytrap…yet…he has over 230 varieties on a lush list hailing from the Chilean Andes to Madagascar, from Australia to Hong Kong that continues to spread on 8.5 acres. He has accomplished his “childhood dream of a botanical garden with signs giving the common English name, Latin name, botanical family and geographical origin of species.” A walk through it taught me a lot as did his address (excerpt below) to the Botanical Symposium:
Facing nearly nine acres of water-stressed palm grove, I first set out to create our own organic orchard garden (arsa) where the scent of orange blossoms and mint could waft around colorful aubergines, kale, tomatoes and many other vegetables. Then I put in a border of transplanted olive trees – part of the ‘rescue horticulture’ I practice, saving fruit trees from areas of urban sprawl elsewhere in Marrakech. This created a pathway to our bustan (Arabic for garden from a Persian word that means ‘a place of smell’), which is resplendent with angel trumpets, Japanese mock orange, white iceberg roses and climbing jasmine.
Every bustan needs its water feature, and ours is a zen swimming pool where guests can take a dip before enjoying lunch in the garden, shaded by prolific date palms and mulberry trees. Our two interior courtyard gardens (ryads) feature frangipani, gardenias and star jasmine as well as some rapidly growing olive trees with native viburnums and Mediterranean ruscus in their understory.
pomegranate
On that morning walk I heard in my memory my grandmother humming her favorite hymn: “I come to the garden alone. While the dew is still on the roses…” I thought of a favorite quote by Emma Goldman, “I’d rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck,” and saw my daughter at five, plucking pearls from roses. And I realized that when I am present and thankful for now–even when missing my children on Mother’s Day–I can receive beauty and thus feel them there with me. And when I stop fretting about future plans and dwell in the now– of birds having breakfast with me or the moon looking down upon me and those I love a continent away, peace is no mirage. It’s an oasis in the desert.
Thank you to Jnane Tamsna for my stay. As always, opinions are my own.
Whispers within as lanterns flicker, casting silhouettes on white canvas. Stars without, winking from an ebony sky at the palm grove beneath. All is silent but green leather leaves rustling in a restless breeze.
Since I was a child, Hollywood has fueled my love affair with tents. Though Tarzan never slept in one, the adventurous women on African safaris did. So did leading ladies in my favorite romantic movies–Beyond Borders, The English Patient, Lawrence of Arabia. At Manzil La Tortue my adult fantasy of nomadic nesting made chic by sheiks was finally fulfilled. Merging my love for camping and country (Dad’s only idea of vacation involved a campfire, and our grandparents took us every Sunday to visit relatives on farms), my stay at this rural retreat was heaven. As Paula (see video below) said after welcoming me with mint tea, “This is our own little piece of paradise.” I’m so grateful they shared it with me.
I had booked a Sunday pool and lunch day with friends the weekend before. My fish was delicious, the molten chocolate cake amazing, and the pool was perfect.
I couldn’t wait to return for a weekend stay when I’d wander and photograph the property. When I arrived last Saturday with my friend, Jasna, who photographed me for this post, Paula walked us past the herb gardens. Outside our tent we could smell the orange and lime trees, but the breeze also carried mint, thyme, lavender, rosemary, and scented geranium which reminded me of home.
As we passed the hen house I thought of my cousin, Sonjia, who showed my sister, Penny, and me how to gather eggs. I remembered my cousin, Brock, who showed prize rabbits as we passed the thatched area where bunnies were munching on breakfast.
We passed through a gate to a private area where our tent awaited. I hadn’t looked online to see if because I wanted to be surprised. My mind flashed back to last fall when my friend, Monica, and I rode camels to a campsite in the Sahara Desert. I had expected a white canopy cloud blowing in the instead. Instead our guide disappeared to fetch dinner so we stumbled by the light of my phone into a pitch-black tarp where we slept on 2- inch burlap mattresses tossed on the sand.
As I walked inside, I was stunned. By contrast, Manzil La Tortue provided so much more than I expected… glamping at its finest.
Tour the deluxe Koutoubia tent in the video below– an immense 61 square meters/656 square feet. Waking up to morning light illuminating the colorful canopy was as delightful as falling asleep to the wind’s breath causing the canvas to rise and fall.
The rest of the weekend I felt like a kid again in my own secret garden.
As a Southern girl who values beauty breaks in bucolic settings and family, I love that this peaceful place is owned and run by a team of great people: Fouad Housni and his wife Meriame, manager of two companies, Unitours Moroc and Morocco My Way, providing excursions for guests; Fouad’s mother, Paula; and two adorable girls, Lina and Salma. I enjoyed hearing Paula’s romantic story (video below) of passing through Casablanca in 1970 headed to Canada but never making it. She moved to Marrakesh with Fouad in 1981.
Breakfast is included, and half board and full board is also available for lunch and dinner. As a mom who grilled nightly on my deck in Tennessee and a girl whose dad grilled on every camping trip in Kentucky, I was excited to try their specialty, Planchas, plates of food grilled by guests at the table. Not quite sure what to do with so many olive oils and spices, I was assisted by Brahim, the waiter, then Chef Abdelhaq, who showed me how it is properly done. From Abdessamad, pool tech and security, to Naima who served breakfast, the staff made us feel welcome.
Seafood Plancha
Beef fillet with mashed potatoes, apples, and apricots
Moroccan chicken tagine with prunes
Gazpacho with home grown tomoatos
Marrakesh is a frenetic place–a speedway of honking taxis and zooming motorbikes. Malls and even grocery stores blare “disco” music, and at my last pool in the Palms, the speakers that hung over every lounge chair vibrated from a DJ who made relaxation impossible. Sometimes we need wide, open spaces…especially when the road ends here. Fouad can assist with transportation.
Manzil La Tortue, thankfully, is a No Noise Zone. All I heard were brilliant blue birds singing; fat, white doves cooing; and hens clucking. Whether your “tent thing” is Gatsby, Game of Thrones, or a childhood version in the backyard, here you can play.
Lina and Salma watching a child’s program on a tablet
For the Manzil La Tortue picture gallery, go here.
Thank you, Manzil La Tortue, for a wonderful experience!
At my home in Nashville, Tennessee my favorite room had no walls. On my second-story deck my kids and pets would swing and I’d grill dinner most every night. Every day started under the trees with coffee, a Quiet Time, writing until heat drove me inside. I taught three streets from my school and Friday nights Wildcats would swing by after the game. The first night my nest emptied, I cooked Italian for the salsa girls, serving sangria under the stars so I wouldn’t fall apart after delivering my son to university. From here Precious the Persian and Ella the lab mix watched squirrels play tag in the yard below and on branches above.
At my apartment in Marrackesh I have a balcony. From here I can see people, mountains, and pink sunsets. From here I can host friends. On my deck were herbs for cooking and flowers for hummingbirds. Since moving to Morocco in August, I’ve longed for green and pink, yellow and white blooms…LIFE… outside the glass doors sliding open to a balcony extending from my bedroom to living area. Finally I found a “plant guy.”
His name is Rachid and his stand is located across from the Koutoubia Mosque across from Jemma-el Fnaa. He gave deals to my friend, Jasna, and me. On Sunday he was out of some of what we wanted, but said if we came back the next day he’d have those plants and more. Monday after work he greeted us like old friends. And he had exactly what I wanted– yellow, pink and white jasmine, lavender, rosemary, mint, thyme, and geraniums. While I pointed placement, he and a coworker planted them in ceramic urns that took two men to carry. Best of all– he delivers for free. But when I showed him the address, he said through another game of charades, (the one we’d played when I chose and he priced the plants), that he didn’t know the place, so he and his driver would follow our directions.
“So you have a truck and want us to get a taxi?”
He shook his head no and motioned in a Meet- the- Parents -Robert -De -Niro- Circle- of- Trust- gesture that we were to go with them.
“With the plants? But in what? Where is your delivery truck?”
I realized it was behind me as they began loading into a cart balanced on two wheels pulled by a motorcycle. “He wants us to ride with the plants,” Jasna said. But where? I wondered since the cart was about full, and he had disappeared. “Voila,” he said, producing two plastic chairs for us to sit in and offering his hand in a your-carriage-awaits way. So, giggling, we climbed in. Knowing he had to help the driver carry the urns and we had no more room in the cart that seemed destined to dump us onto Mohammed V as we made our way to Gueliz, we asked where Rachid would sit. He jumped on the bike’s running board by the driver, balancing himself with the cart. A man steadied the cart and launched us into traffic that terrorizes tourists. Most swear they’ll never be caught dead in it…for fear they”ll be caught dead in it. A boy on a bike riding amidst the motorcycles, cars, and taxis hung onto us whether to steady us or hitch a ride I’m not sure.
(As I write this I shiver thinking about earlier tonight. Two teens on a motorcycle cut around a curve as I crossed the street. Swerving close to scare me or just being boys, they lost control and the bike skidded out from under them, then slid on its side across the street. I was one step from being taken down in the wreck. They got up, laughed, and walked it off the road. I was thankful no one was killed.)
But riding home in the back of that cardboard covered cart, all I could think was I was thankful to feel so alive. Drivers must have wondered who was laughing on a Monday night from behind all the branches and blooms.
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