Sometimes, a girl needs to play tourist in her own city.
Marrakech is affectionately (at times) referred to as the “Red City.” In my opinion, that has little to do with the color of the city walls and is more related to the extreme lack of flora. My nearby city of Tameslouht, in true younger-sibling fashion, likes to play copycat. Apart from the government-planted and maintained-by-no one twigs (leafless, lifeless saplings?) lining the main street in Tameslouht, there is like, one other plant in the whole town. We’re more of a earth-tones crowd here. And that’s fine most of the time, really. But when summer is starting to play peek-a-boo with the thermometer (up to 100 during the peak of the afternoon, down to 70 at night), I begin to associate anything that isn’t lush and green with a slow, painful death. Which, as you can imagine, isn’t conducive to daily living. But where in the (local) world of red can a girl go to get herself some green, shady, cool nirvana?
Turns out, right in the (red) heart of Marrakech.
I can’t lie, it wasn’t a case of divine intervention that led me to paradise. I’ve heard just about every Peace Corps volunteer whose parents have come to visit Marrakech absolutely gush about the Majorelle gardens. “It’s totally worth the 50 dirhams!” they’d always tell me, and I’d always respond, “Yeah, I’m totally gonna go there soon!” meanwhile visualizing just how much candy 50 dirhams could buy me instead. Life’s about choices, right? And if it wasn’t the candy, it was, meh, I’ve got this (insignificant thing) or that (planning for a class that doesn’t show up) to do…I’ll get around to visiting one day. Well, honeychild (this is apparently how I talk to myself?), my time in Morocco is swiftly drawing to a close. A few weeks ago, when Vivian Swift– who journeyed from America to France and scheduled a little reprieve (she’ll laugh at that word choice) in Marrakech– recommended that I visit the garden ASAP, I moved up the Majorelle Gardens from the recesses of my mind to something a little more frontal-lobe. Vivian wasn’t too keen on a lot of the other touristy areas of Marrakech, so I listened a lot more intently when she praised the gardens for their green splendor. Also, this girl is writing a book about gardens. She obviously knows a garden worthy of visiting when she sees it! Since her visit, my work has slowed down significantly…actually, can I say “slow down” if I really don’t have any? My students cancelled their respective classes to study for their end of the year exams (I know, the irony is not lost on me either), so I’ve been doing a lot of goals 2 & 3. And actively hating the impending heat (it takes a lot of energy). So, with a clear schedule, I dragged my poor Mustapha into the city today with the promise of “something exciting!” meanwhile crossing my fingers that this 50 dirham walk-in-the-park was better than my mental pile of candy.
If the thousand words that this picture is allegedly worth didn’t answer you, YES, IT WAS WORTH IT.
The gardens were incredible. فن. The heat just dissolves when you walk through the bright blue front door and into the otherworldly forest of every green and blue imaginable. Mustapha and I probably spent 2 hours marveling at the beautifully curated alcoves of nature. Apparently, Mr. Majorelle was quite the plant collector, bringing together every type of succulent and cactus known to man and pairing them artistically with other hot-weather-loving trees and shrubs. The result? Utopia. The plants have grown so high that there is literally a green canopy guarding everyone beneath it from the scary Moroccan sun. Bright blue trenches that direct water through the grounds also serve as a sort of guide for the tour guide-less, directing you to each sacred spot along the way. There are geometric lily pad ponds inhabited by baby turtles (surrounded by British tourists marveling at the fact that they’d nevah seen a frag on a lily pad befohr), blue and green tiling surrounding bubbling fountains, plants potted in blue and yellow ceramic vessels that line every walkway, and curved archways embellished with carved plaster to make you remember exactly what country you’re in.
Like any place that realizes it can sell things at astronomical prices to tourists (they know how much candy you gave up to pay the 50 dirham entrance fee…so they know how much money you have to burn!), there was a trendy little cafe and two gift shops just begging for people to visit. We didn’t stop in the cafe, but we did browse through the book store and artisan goods. Biggest find? A Delacroix print!!!!!!!!!!! It was priced reasonably at 19,000 DH (that’s a massive pile of candy, well over $1,000) and was absolutely beautiful. It was the one thing I couldn’t take a picture of, but it’s definitely still in my heart. Along with the French-Berber dictionaries (…really? How many French people do you know who are going to learn Berber of all languages?).
The artisan gift shop had some truly gorgeous items, but they were also a tad pricey. There were several pairs of balgha (traditional Moroccan house shoes) available for over 3,000 dirhams. Just for comparison’s sake– in the city, an expensive, high quality pair made from artisans might run you a tad north of 100 dirhams. I dunno, maybe Yves Saint Laurent touched them at some point (or something). But Mustapha and I were totally combing through the items for ideas that we could take back to our artisans. True artists steal, after all. I think the lady who worked there was catching on, though, so she sprayed me with some super noxious (and most likely expensive) perfume, so we left.
There was also a cute little gallery, aptly named the Love Gallery, located beside the “there’s a Delacroix print in there” room and the “is that price in reales?” room. It was curated with large prints of collages made by Mr. Yves that he apparently used yearly as greeting cards for all of his swanky friends. Every year, the theme was love. Sigh. He also included some Warhol-like tributes to his dog, Mouijik. I think me and ol’ Yves woulda been good friends.
It was a great day to play tourist and escape the unforgiving Moroccan heat. Not only did I have a handsome companion (groans, I know, but Mustapha reads this too!), but the gardens did not fail to disappoint or be too “toursity” of a destination (minus all of the well-meaning but slightly bumbling tourists). Not that this is Trip Advisor or anything (which sends me ENTIRELY WAY TOO MANY EMAILS FOR FILLING OUT JUST ONE REVIEW), but I would highly recommend this place to anyone who is visiting Marrakech, any time of year. It is definitely a beautiful physical testament to the strange melting pot of Western culture that is so ingrained in Marrakech’s history.
So yeah, GO.
