After the catastrophe the Moroccan environment protection
After the catastrophe the Moroccan environment protection is stressed on the fight against the huge deforestation in these areas afflicted by the torrential erosion of Mediterranean climates.From spin to spin the bus goes down on the cleared road .We reach Taddert at the bottom of the pass and make a short break for lunch.Then the vehicle proceeds in a valley occupied by oaks, shrubs and olives trees.Later the palm grove of Marrakech appears in the soft pastels of the winter afternoon.A short while after the bus enters in the ancient imperial town.Founded in 1070 AD, Marrakech was with Fez, its rival built in 800 AD, the historic heart of Morocco.Since XI cent to XIII cent, it was the Berber capital of an empire which included the Muslim Europe under the Almoravides, then the Almohades, and the Saadiens .The Alaouites the reigning dynasty left it for Meknes, in the XVIIcent.Since the XXcent Marrakech has found again a prominent place with the tourism development.Added to the magnificence of its monuments it too the door of the South Moroccan and the desert.My problem when I leave the bus is to find in the old city, the Medina, a pleasant lodge for 2 or 3 days, before my return to France by Casablanca.I decide to let the chance make the choice for me . I take a taxi with a local guide .We leave it in the pedestrian part of the city to look at possible lodges. But today I don enjoy the narrowness of the alleys and the blind walls of the Riads,( some very cozy and expensive) .I want a large panorama from my room because I am used to the large horizons of the South.Eventually I find my affair after a tiring walkwhile my back and my small trolley give signs of exhaustion.It a room at the top of the Foucault Hotel, at the terrace level, with a fantastic view on the near Koutoubia Mosque. I obtain it for a very reasonable price. ..... .Koutoubia at Marrackech.I am relieved . I will be able to visit the town from this fabulous center.In the same evening I go out to praise Allah of my luck at the Koutoubia Mosque, for Maghreb prayers.The minaret of the Mosque of 77 meters.height overlooks the place.The mosque name comes from the numerous book- shops settled around in the past, (from Kitab: book).
I have no problems to enter in the women wing of the mosque, I keep always with me my conversion certificate, in case of checking by security people in plain clothes at the gate.A man says to me our scarf doesn cover enough your hairs. I ignore him and make my way towards the large room covered with carpets between marbles.pillars. There are few women inside.I ask myself if I am watched as a foreigner.Later I savor my dinner at the restaurant of the hotel .It a couscous with 7 vegetables,( and chicken) .I wander then to the famous place Jemaa-el-Fna. It was upon the tale, the ead sector. where criminals were executed in the past. Nowadays it the most lively place of Marrakech after sunset.I can see stalls selling fruits, juices or handicrafts, men showing their dancing snakes, travelling acrobats, local singers, story-tellers, tattoo artists. The entrance of the covered bazar is packed by a slow flow of local and foreign tourists .It a joyful crowd, during Eid end of festival, under the vigilant glances of the security services posted beside their vehicles.I come back to my hotel at 11pm walking alone through the Foucault Gardens .Sunday January 15.8 am. I wake up enjoying the good weather .A mild breeze pass above the high trees of the Gardens, where hundreds of birds flutter in a deafening cacophony.I take the time at breakfast to read the book guide in the large dinning room decorated in oriental style.I prepare a program me of visits for to-day. It impossible to see in one go, all the palaces, shrines, gardens and palm groves of the imperial city.I choice the ardens of Menara.for the pic-nic . I will go there by taxi.The entrance by the long alley under olive-trees is frequented by a lot of Moroccan families in this end of festival. People are busy to take snaps even the lovers walking hands into hands.Among them there are students wearing hijab-jeans-jacket .Some western families are recognizable by their blond hairs and pale complexions.Little farther in the garden a gracious building front of a large pool reflecting the high snowy mountains of Atlas, was upon the tale, in the past, the romantic dates of the sultans with their elles.I turn around the large ornamental pond which reminds me with nostalgia of Wah Moghol gardens , near Islamabad.By moments I miss Pakistan in an acute way.Then I think only to take a flight and come back there to find again my previous life.But it an illusion.I am ageing and my stamina is lower to transplant myself again in South Asia like I have done after the death of Pierre when I was forty five years old.Actually only dreams are possible for me.
I have no problems to enter in the women wing of the mosque, I keep always with me my conversion certificate, in case of checking by security people in plain clothes at the gate.A man says to me our scarf doesn cover enough your hairs. I ignore him and make my way towards the large room covered with carpets between marbles.pillars. There are few women inside.I ask myself if I am watched as a foreigner.Later I savor my dinner at the restaurant of the hotel .It a couscous with 7 vegetables,( and chicken) .I wander then to the famous place Jemaa-el-Fna. It was upon the tale, the ead sector. where criminals were executed in the past. Nowadays it the most lively place of Marrakech after sunset.I can see stalls selling fruits, juices or handicrafts, men showing their dancing snakes, travelling acrobats, local singers, story-tellers, tattoo artists. The entrance of the covered bazar is packed by a slow flow of local and foreign tourists .It a joyful crowd, during Eid end of festival, under the vigilant glances of the security services posted beside their vehicles.I come back to my hotel at 11pm walking alone through the Foucault Gardens .Sunday January 15.8 am. I wake up enjoying the good weather .A mild breeze pass above the high trees of the Gardens, where hundreds of birds flutter in a deafening cacophony.I take the time at breakfast to read the book guide in the large dinning room decorated in oriental style.I prepare a program me of visits for to-day. It impossible to see in one go, all the palaces, shrines, gardens and palm groves of the imperial city.I choice the ardens of Menara.for the pic-nic . I will go there by taxi.The entrance by the long alley under olive-trees is frequented by a lot of Moroccan families in this end of festival. People are busy to take snaps even the lovers walking hands into hands.Among them there are students wearing hijab-jeans-jacket .Some western families are recognizable by their blond hairs and pale complexions.Little farther in the garden a gracious building front of a large pool reflecting the high snowy mountains of Atlas, was upon the tale, in the past, the romantic dates of the sultans with their elles.I turn around the large ornamental pond which reminds me with nostalgia of Wah Moghol gardens , near Islamabad.By moments I miss Pakistan in an acute way.Then I think only to take a flight and come back there to find again my previous life.But it an illusion.I am ageing and my stamina is lower to transplant myself again in South Asia like I have done after the death of Pierre when I was forty five years old.Actually only dreams are possible for me.
ocenic - 6. Mai, 07:05
