Western expectations...

I consider myself to be reasonably well travelled. Having spent nearly a third of my life abroad, both holidaying and living, I believe that I should be experienced enough in the ways of other cultures to be both flexible and accepting. During our recent explorations I have come to the conclusion that in reality, I am sadly somewhat lacking in both of these foundational traveller skills.

To be fair this is not a wholly new discovery. In Thailand I would regularly air my frustration at the fact that many people have a deeply set inability to walk in straight line without dragging their feet along the floor, or that it always took three people to do one person's job, or the absolute impossibility of all parties in a group having their food on the table at the same time. But as has happened once before when I left Thailand swearing I would only return in transit, in the face of other cultures habits, I have found myself longing for the relatively forward thinking nation that I called home for six years. This may be a case of simple 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' or it may be that generally in Thailand you knew what you were getting. If you go out for fast food, it's fast, if you order breakfast, yes one will be late, but at least you get to start on the first one, and if you pay for a relaxing weekend away in a nice hotel, you get a relaxing weekend away in a nice hotel. And yes, I am carefully omitting to mention all the stress you usually had to encounter getting there, but that's the nature of writing...

Living in Morocco we have found that nothing is ever simple; a car journey that should take 4 hours will take six, even if you are on track for the first 3.5 hours of it and you think that this will be for a change a journey that goes to plan, you are doomed to encounter some hitch that scuppers you and leaves you steaming with unhealthy frustration; when out shopping or eating you remind yourself of all the tricks of the trade and keep your wits sharp so as to not get conned, only to get blind-sided by a totally new tactic for ripping you off; when searching for a cosy weekend retreat you instead find yourself shivering under the covers in a beautiful but unheated room cursing the failing hot water system. To us, these are not luxurious things that we long for. They are simply the things that we have come to expect and take for granted with our western upbringings. Is is too much to ask to make a journey on time, get what we paid for or have hot water in a room. We have turned into critiques of the worst kind. The simple pleasure of having a bedside light can fill us with joy the minute we walk in a room. We are finding that we are spoiling one of our favourite pastimes that we cultivated so well in Thailand... the desire to explore.

An example of this frustration occurred when we were travelling back from the south of the Atlas Mountains. Preparing ourselves for a undoubtedly longer journey than expected we left with plenty of time and unlike the day before allowed ourselves time to search out somewhere that would serve us food for lunch (not as easy a feat as expected). While exploring Todra Gorge we spied a pretty place with a view of a palm plantation. Due to yet another bad experience of being really ripped off recently when we sat down to order we made sure we asked to see the menu to avoid getting stung by ridiculous prices. To our dismay we say that they were in fact well overpriced and we decided we'd had enough of being ripped off and started to leave. At this point our hosts brought us out tea that we had not ordered as it was stinking hot sitting in the sun. This was very kind as it was free, but it now meant that we were running late and still had to find lunch.

Making our excuses and leaving we then set off in search of lunch. We didn't want anything fancy, just a Berber omelette and salad so we stopped at a rather sad and very empty looking roadside café as we thought it should be cheap and quick. After confirming and reconfirming price and menu just to cover our bases, our host was thrilled to have us and insisted on taking us in to the enormous old house they were converting into a guest house. He was incredibly friendly and tried to speak in English when we ordered. After this we waited. And waited. And waited. Our host had disappeared until we caught glimpses of him running after kids in the street. When I sought him out he said something along the lines of 'quality fresh food takes time' and that it was coming 'very soon'. When the omelette eventually arrived we were so frustrated we had just about lost our appetites. The omelette was enormous, big enough to feed about 8 people. This immediately set all the alarm bells ringing that they had found just another way to over charge us. We ate very little of it and went downstairs to pay. We were irritated and tried not to be too abrupt, saying that we had left most of it as it was enormous and we did not have time to stay and eat it as it took so long. He just smiled and asked “but was it good'? We confirmed that indeed it was, but that was not the point. We were requested to pay what was agreed and then left.

It was only when driving away that I calmed and reflected with some clarity. This poor man who was trying to improve his struggling business when faced with the arrival of what must be quite scarce foreign visitors, had probably only wanted to impress us. He wanted to give us as grand a meal as he could where as we just wanted as quick a meal as we could. He had gone out of his was to wow us and we were ungrateful. This was a true case of western expectations getting in the way of Moroccan hospitality. I will hold a sense of guilt over this incident for quite some time to come.

With this in mind I will set off today for two days in a farm. I will try my hardest to be flexible, accepting and not simply a hotel critique.

The Bloom

As many of my previous posts have mentioned, our explorations here have led us to see Morocco as a country made up of vast expanses of barren dusty land interspersed with the occasional lush oasis nestled within a hidden valley. On our recent trip north to Melilla we drove through a land so changed since our last visit six weeks ago it was like driving through a different country. With rain comes spring and the ‘bloom’ has arrived.

The road north is a very picturesque route, even when it is dry and barren. Mountains, plains and a lake or two interspersed with the occasional small town. A lack of people keeps the rubbish to the minimum. This is one of the worst countries I have known for bushes blooming plastic bags or the national flower as they are becoming known.

This is one of the dump sites that are all over the place. At least here it's reasonably in one place and not all over the landscape.

Driving through after the rains have passed and dusty rocky slopes have been replaced with a variety of iridescent greens of fresh grass. It has become a Telly Tubby land of rolling green that doesn’t look real. It left me with an irrational desire to jump out the car and skip and roll in it like a 5 year old. Fat happy donkeys wonder contentedly in shoulder deep grass. Wild flowers run riot and as the sun dips the landscape shimmers with gold.

The strength of my reaction to this green surprised me. Having spent a disproportionate amount of my childhood sitting in fields I should be more than used to a little grass around me. We have more than enough rain in Manchester for the fields to be green year round. Living here has given me a new found appreciation for grass. I don’t take it for granted any more. Witnessing hundreds of kilometres of apparently unfertile brown land transform into waves of green billowing in the wind has to be one of the most spectacularly refreshing seasonal changes I have ever encountered.

Melila

I was quite convinced that having already eulogised the wonders of our local Spanish enclave that there would be little to write about on our recent visit. We had already experienced the cheap shopping, the café culture and being ridiculously taken advantage of in a tapas bar, how could we top that?

Ok, so this trip we did not get given ten free drinks in the first bar we walked into, it was only four. However this was perhaps a good thing as after a day of school followed by a 500 kilometre drive, we would never have made it out to do any shopping the next day. As it was we returned to Casa Marta where the same waiter over-enthusiastically topped up our drinks and gave us extra tapas before to our surprise plonking a plate of four steaks and tempura vegetables on the table. When we asked for water in an aim to slow down the alcohol consumption, he laughed and said “I no have that!” with a devious smile. Yet again he was not keen to let us leave without sneaking another drink into us. How often do you have to try and work out a tactical escape plan to pay and leave and avoid the free alcohol? Do we really look that deprived?

Feeling more fragile than we had planned the next day we still managed to get everything done we had intended, this included another ridiculous alcohol shop (we now have about 37 litres… must not panic buy) and a long lazy seafood lunch in the sun. That night we decided for the good of our health we should avoid Casa Marta and find another tapas bar. 

We went to Entrevinos. Reasonably full when we entered we were forced to stand at the bar. After the attentive care of our friend in Casa Marta we felt a little lost in Entrevinos, eye contact was hard to make with the waiter and the tapas situation was confusing. This was obviously not the place where we’d be getting free food and drink. Part way down our first drink the man next to me offered me a chair and bought us a round before he left. We then found a table and were given a steady stream of tapas and then free drinks at the end of the night. Why that man bought us a drink I have no idea. He didn’t talk to us and he wasn’t the manager like I first assumed. We obviously do look that deprived.

Entrevinos was a very interesting bar. For the first hour or so there was a constant stream of model like women coming in in groups. This was obviously the place to be. True this is no great achievement when as yet we have only found two tapas bars in town. And believe me we have tried. At around 10.00 when the place was packed with women, the men started to arrive. They arrived in packs. They may always chose to travel this way or it may have something to do with the fact that a Barca match had just finished. The thing was the long narrow bar was so busy by then that all the women ended up on one side and all the men on the other near the entrance. From these positions they then not so surreptitiously eyed each other up with the occasional brave individual breaking rank and heading over to the other side.  This was still going on by the time we left, hangovers having gotten the better of us.

Wondrous Water

After two weeks of near solid rain, I thought this was an appropriate post. While I have frequently highlighted the wonders of Moroccan mountain weather, what with the refreshing experience of seasonal temperatures, the endless cloudless skies and the crisp dry air, I have given little thought to the poor farmers who make up the bulk of the population who have been suffering from the worst drought in well over a decade. Having been raised in Manchester where it often seems like half an ocean is thrown out of the sky over the course of most months and then Thailand where it feels the same only larger quantities and faster while also living in a city that is sinking into a swap, there has rarely been an occasion to consider the effects of too little water. 

It was with talk of this 'perfect' Moroccan weather that I welcomed my friend from Manchester a few weeks ago. After far too long at home I felt that the blue sky and warm winter sun of Morocco would be just what was needed. For those who are familiar with luck of Mancunians and weather will not be at surprised to learn that after arriving in Morocco in darkness we awoke the next day to the first clouds in months. Not only clouds but later typical Mancunian drizzle. Bar a day or so it has not really stopped raining since. Maybe I could market this strategy to the Moroccan government as a future drought solution. Just fly in some sun deprived Mancs. We had our first snow of the year and a week of solid rain after our mums visited in November.

The drought

Unlike Manchester the weather here has been unusually dry. In Ifrane it is normal to get a metre or so of snow. This year we have had nothing more than a few heavy flurries. We put this down simply to the fact that we had lugged a snowboard all the way out here like idiots. As the bitter weather has warmed still the rain didn’t come, instead we have had the most perfect spring weather you could imagine. There are certain smells you associate with different times of the year. Spring has a unique morning freshness that bodes of a great day to come. While it has gone unnoticed to us newbies up in Ifrane, the rest of Morocco has been worried. Driving around the country you pass through endless dusty, barren landscape and hundreds of vast dry empty riverbeds that look impossible to fill. The spring flowers that people talk of are not everywhere like predicted but confined to small pockets. The standard greeting between locals is ‘Salam Alakum’ meaning ‘Peace be upon you’ this is now also followed by ‘we pray for rain’. There is no grass, the animals are dying and the crops are failing. For the majority of the nation who survive on less $200 a month from farming, this has been a huge concern.

And then the rain came

Thankfully with the arrival of my Mancunian rain bringer, the drought was broken. Rain lashed the length of the Atlas Mountains. Driving through it back from Marrakesh we got to see the water table rise as the days passed. For about three days the rain just soaked into the ground. It seemed like no matter how much rain fell even the bitumen of the road was absorbing water. There wasn’t a puddle to be seen. After three days pockets of water appeared, after five days dusty barren riverbeds started to trickle then flow. Everywhere farmers we out getting wet tending their crops and re-digging irrigation channels. After a further soaking this week and occasional sunny spells of 24 degrees C, we woke up this morning to a thick layer of snow. This is weather in the extreme. Yet as cold and  miserable as it is, the farmers will still be celebrating.

Water... what makes us so miserable in Manchester is seen as life saving in so many less fortunate places. Sadly, although much of Ifrane and the surrounding hills have turned lush green, and the livestock is now feasting like it’s Christmas, the rain has come too late for a few areas. What is already a hard life will be much harder this year. What is worse is that may well be a cycle that is set to continue.

River deep, mountain high

Here's a very delayed post, got hijacked by an Austrian with a bottle of wine and a very punctual carpenter....
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When living and working in Morocco for some time, you come across a variety of Moroccan tourism publicity posters. Some of the most highly photographed areas in Morocco are not on the easily accessible coast or in the large tourist towns, but out in the middle of nowhere on the south of the High Atlas mountains. It was as a result of this ‘picture envy’ that we set off on the second part of our Spring break and on yet another mammoth journey. Heading south from Marrakesh and over a mountain pass we figured four days would be enough time to comfortably make the 700 kilometre drive home. 

Tizi n Tichka

Driving south from Marrakesh the first major obstacle you meet is the High Atlas Mountains. Climbing steeply to peaks over 4000 metres, this is as imposing as a fortress wall. There are only two windy roads that cross the 400 kilometre long mountain range. Tizi N Tichka is the only one that has two lanes. As a result you not only have treacherous bends with vertical drops to contend with, but also the overloaded gas bottle laden trucks that have to come onto your side of the road just to make it around the corner. Once you get your head round the driving conditions the scenery is mind-blowing.  The road winds along the valley floor passing cafes, rock sellers, oak trees, walnut groves and colourful pockets of manicured vegetable gardens and blossom trees.

As you begin to climb the landscape becomes more lunar. Vast slabs of grey rock which the road has been carved out of. The air cools and you are torn between admiring the view and cringing with fear every time you go round a bend faced with drop off or the solid and slightly out of control bulk of a lorry.

The road climbs to 2192 metres and while the view from the top is worth the climb the best view is seen from the car just before you reach the top. Look back at the way you came and the road snaking down the mountainside to the valley floor far below.

When you reach the top you are faced with a very different landscape from the one you have just left. Acting as a giant weather divide, the Atlas Mountains separate the Saharan influenced climate of the south from the Mediterranean climate of the north.  Now into martian surroundings it is all barren and empty with bright red clay and rock stretching down the mountainside until it reaches the dusty plains below.

Ait Benhaddou

Located just outside Ouarzazate otherwise known as ‘Ouallaywood’, Ait Benhaddou is a UNESCO protected Ksar that has undergone a number of facelifts to become one of the best known Moroccan monuments. Sitting alongside a vast and mainly dried out river bed, this Ksar or fortified city has been used in the films Lawrence of Arabia, Gladiator, Jewel in the Nile, Alexander, Time Bandits, The Mummy, The Last Temptation of Christ, Prince of Persia and many many more.

Ait Benhaddou has been at the top of my Moroccan wish list since we arrived here. It was therefore to be expected then that we would get heavy grey clouds and eventually torrential rain during our visit. Months of endless blue sky and on the day we visit it was barely worth getting the camera out and the best view we got was from the inside of a cave where we stopped for coffee.

Needless to say we will be going back in search of the perfect picture.

 

Dades Gorge

Most if not all of the landscape south of the Atlas Mountains is uninspiring. Endlessly empty and barren, your view is broken only by the occasional empty and dusty long forgotten village. This is an unimaginably hard life for those born into it. With little opportunity for work or escape these places are cheerless and closed down. Having driven through constant brown for hours, it is with a sense of wonder that you find yourself in Dades Gorge. It is truly an oasis. Raggedy red rock hills fold down in unique melted wax formations into a valley with a floor of green. Date palm plantations give way to almond and fig lined vegetable gardens, made all the more spectacular by the pink and white blossoms. Everywhere you look there is an abandoned Kasbah. Perched on rocky outcrops or riverside cliffs and lining the valley floor. Kasbah life has not long passed but these impressive buildings sadly fall into disrepair quickly when people move out.

Arriving in the gorge we were cold, wet and hungry. While the rain didn’t suppress the beauty of the place it did stop us from exploring as much as we planned. Instead we were welcomed by the fire at Le Cinq Lunes a guesthouse owned by a local musician. As well as great food and a fireside sofa for an afternoon of reading we got to enjoy listening to CD’s of traditional Berber music played by our host. Along the walls were pictures of him playing around the world with people like Carlos Santana.

The next day we took a short walk down into the valley with a local Berber guide. He took us to an abandoned Kasbah and gave us a lesson on Kasbah life. His childhood was split between life in a Kasbah and up in the mountains with the nomadic shepherds.  It was fascinating to get a local's perspective on life in the valley, but this is for a later post.

Before leaving Dades Valley we drove further into the gorge. The valley seems to open up before taking a turn for the dramatic. Narrowing quickly and climbing steeply the road winds up to a grand Kasbah style hotel. From here it is possible to look back and see a climb not quite as high but equally spectacular as Tizi n Tichka.

Todra Gorge

Less than an hour further east from Dades Gorges, you reach Todra Gorge. Highly recommended by a friend who does guided photography courses around the world, Todra is known as the more dramatic of the two gorges. Todra Gorge is created by a huge fault that has caused a narrow river filled canyon to form. Whereas Dades Gorge is soft and welcoming, Todra is grand and imposing. Vertical rock faces close in on you as you take the road that runs through the gorge. Deep in the gorge a hotel has been built for those brave enough to stay. It is somewhat claustrophobic and dark surrounded by the towering rock walls.  However, if you can time your visit right you are lucky enough to see the morning sun stream briefly into the gorge illuminating the walls with a soft pink glow.

I guess that’s another thing we’ll have to return for. This is one of the perks of living here. And one of the reason we plan our holidays so far in advance. We want to do a two week hike from Todra into Dades gorge. So, think we can fit that in sometime around November 2013.

Planes, trains and auto mobiles.

A warning in advance, after a few weeks off, getting back into writing mode was painful. This is distinctly lacking in eloquence.

I am sure for many people following our exploits, it appears that we are always traveling and on holiday. With a teacher's calendar and about fifteen weeks holiday a year that is something of a reality.

For our Spring Break we had planned yet another grand tour encompassing the front and the back of the High Atlas mountains. We planned to drive down the front of the mountain range, crossing over them at Marrakesh and then returning along the desert side. Due a the sad loss of a family member our plans had to be changed to include a trip home for a funeral. This could only be a quick trip as we had a friend booked on flights to meet us in Marrakesh. It was this time restriction that led us into our own version of Planes, Trains and Automobiles all so we could scrape forty hours of time at home to be with family.

Our journey commenced with a 1 hour drive to Fes Airport, where we might have had to wait just as long for coffee and stale croissants if Nick had not suggested to the incompetent woman behind the counter that it would be quicker if he went behind the counter and made it himself. We then had a 3 hour flight to Paris where we had a 6 hour stop-over. This we filled 1.5 hours of when we went into Paris to meet friends for a sunny beer in a park. Then back to the airport to wait for a 2 hour delayed flight to Liverpool before a 1 hour drive home. Door to door in just under 16 hours.

We learned two important things that day. Never buy coffee upstairs in Fes airport, it is probably one of the most uncivilised international airports in the world, and never plan on eating dinner in Charles De Gaul airport, it is only marginally more civilised than Fes airport, and you have to walk about three kilometres before you can do anything.

From Manchester to Marrakesh....

 

Up until now Fes has been the biggest tourist centre we have seen in Morocco. There are endless places to stay and guides leading tourists on winding trails through the medina. While Fes has undoubtedly the best medina, Marrakesh has got the pick of accommodation. Fes has a large number of riads, but these are overpriced and dated when compared to what's on offer in Marrakesh. Not only are the riads trendy, modern and affordable, there are also numerous kasbahs in the surrounding area offering glamorous rooms and large swimming pools for $16 a night. 

Our first night was spent in possibly the best budget riad we have seen. Riad Al Az overlooks the palace gardens and has six spacious rooms overlooking a colourful plant and cushion filled courtyard. For a change all the decorative lanterns actually got lit at dusk, bathing the whole place in a warm welcoming glow.

Djemma el Fna

First on our checklist of places to visit while in Marrakesh was Djemma el Fna, a grand square on the edge of the medina. This vast area is part market, part meeting place, part road, and at night a giant restaurant. As the sun goes down people scuttle in with tarps, poles, tables, chairs and BBQs. Smoke begins to fill the air and the party begins. There are over a hundred stalls selling more or less the same thing, barbecued meat, Moroccan salads and cous cous, and they are nearly all full. This square is the place to be. Not only is it the main eating area, it also hosts the worlds oldest street theatre. Snake charmers, bell ringers, story tellers and witch doctors all do their stuff to the constant beat of drums that come from pockets of musicians sitting amongst the chaos. Navigating through this smoke and darkness around people crowded around their performer of choice is tricky, especially as there seem to be no rules for road traffic, cars and bikes appear to criss-cross through the people willy nilly. You have no idea which way to step to get out of the way.

We enjoyed exploring the chaos and happily settled at a choice table, ordered food and watched the world go by. Sadly, and it really pains me to say this, we had not learnt from our recent lessons and got completely scammed by a wily restauranteur. Thinking back to the days of Thai street food we failed to demand a menu and as a result got brought things we had not ordered in great amounts. A meal that should have cost at most $30 cost $50. this left us with a slightly bitter taste and a now mantra of 'always check the price first', 'always check the price first'. Not the best way to have to begin your eating experience. 

Marrakesh surrounds

As well as showing Philippa around Marrakesh, we felt the best way for her to get some much needed de-stressing time was to escape the congestion of the city and head for the hills. Hire car collected we set off on our windy route up to Oukaimaden. The last time we went up to the Moroccan mountain resort there was snow. Snow draws crowds and being there on the busiest weekend of the year we were there to witness hordes of Marrakeshis descend on the snow and cause absolute chaos in a farcical way. This time couldn't have been more different. There was no snow so all the car parks were empty, the stores closed and all the restaurants deserted. Staying in the Club Alpine Français was spooky, empty rooms and corridors. You expected Jack Nicholson to jump out brandishing an axe at any minute. Apart from the shepherds, numerous wild dogs and odd hopeful ski equipment seller, we had the place to ourselves.

 

Ourika Valley

From the highs of the mountain to the lows of the valley, we drove down into Ourika valley the next day. This is a lush river filled valley filled with gardens, fruit trees and riverside restaurants where sweltering Marrakeshis escape the scorching heat of the Marrakesh summer. After the basic accommodation of the CAF refuge we were in for a bit of luxury at Ourika Garden Hotel. This is a small hotel set on a hill with fruit and herb gardens, swimming pool, two inside eating areas, and twelve terraces all for four guest rooms, each with own fire place and lounge. The rooms are rustic and decorated in colourful Berber style. During our stay here we discovered two new Moroccan favourite foods; Zaaluck – smoked aubergine salad, and beef and fig tajine. Surrounded by lush green and red poppy fields and blossom filled fruit trees with the backdrop of the Atlas Mountains with a skilled Moroccan chef at your beck and call, it is a magical place to unwind. 

Venturing out from Ourika Garden was hard, but we were beginning to feel guilty about showing Philippa Morocco fomr the inside of hotels and inside of a car. The next morning we set out with the determined air of explorers. We were going to drive up the valley and hike to one of the nearby waterfalls. Sadly as there are so many small riverside restaurants along the valley and so few tourists this year, the restaurant touts were out in force, not just being pushy but also aggressive. There is nothing that riles us more than people who lie to you to make you stop. When one man said that we had to park at his restaurant because the road ended round the corner it riled Nick so much that he stopped on the return journey just to wind the guy up. We know they are just trying to make a living, but is annoying nonetheless. In the end this onslaught from the locals squished our motivation to get out and explore. We nipped out to take our picture on one of the many precarious rope bridges across the river, the rest of the time we sheepishly viewed the valley from the safety of the car. This is a place we will return to and hike through on foot one day.

Marjorelle Gardens

One of Philippa's finds from her fanatical reading of an additively good guide book was the Marjorelle Garden. This surprisingly small garden is an absolute haven of piece and quiet. Surrounded by high walls secret garden style, and with picnics and children banned, it is really my kind of garden. Designed by French expatriate artist Jacques Marjorelle, it is this garden and in particular a distinct cobalt blue he used all over the place that he has become famous for. The garden is serene, cactus and bamboo filled with quiet corners and relaxing water features at every turn. It was for this reason that Yves Saint Laruant bought the garden in 1980 and requested his ashes be scattered upon his death. As well as the piece and quiet, it is the colours that make this place unique, as well as the blue, there are bright yellow and orange pots which contrast brightly against the green foliage. This is a photographers dream, and whether you are a fan of gardens or not, it is a must see in while in Marrakesh.

  
Last night disappointment...

During Philippa's visit I had gone to great lengths to arrange a broad spectrum of Moroccan life. We had seen traditional riad, basic mountain refuge, rustic Berber cottage and finally for our last night a bit of modern riad chic. There are literally hundreds of riads to choose from in Marrakesh, choosing our last night rooms at Jardin des Reves took a lot of research. Having been ill and more than a little lack lustre for the duration of my oldest friends visit had left me with the guilty feeling of a poor host. The thought of our last night of luxury eased this guild some as I knew that it'd be an experience even if I couldn't leave the room.

Upon arrival we were settled by the plunge pool while relaxing music played and we were served tea and Moroccan pastries. This was the riad experience I have been waiting for for a while. Sadly after about half an hour of friendly chat from the owner we were informed that they had not received our full booking and only had one room available. This was apparently no problem at all as they had an equally nice riad next door. Alarm bells started ringing at this point and sadly rightly so. If I hadn't had such high expectations of our stay I would have been quite happy with the other riad, but as it was it felt like the forgotten cousin. The finishing touches just weren't there. Sadly I completely succumbed to a major sulk and had to be put in a hot bath before I could make it out the room. A very disappointing last night's stay. 

I had anticipated lots of amaing photos from here, but what's the point of taking pictures of the place 'you nearly stayed'. Here are some from around the medina instead.