ARCHIVE – Marrakech – part 5 – rain in the Medina
Rain and Marrakech are two separate worlds, not much rain in this part of the world, the water that made the birth of this city possible was coming from the Atlas mountains through a system of tunnels called “Khettarha”, we had the pleasure to explore along with the geology faculty staff of the University of Marrakech (FAC for those familiar with the place).
The Sultan that founded the city tried to avoid a inevitable clash over the water resources of the Atlas mountains that belonged to the Berber population, so hired a group of Jews that had experience in the water supplying systems in desert areas, and so it was that this part of the world could have a sustainable agricultural micro climate.
Now the khettaras are dry empty tunnels, a danger for the kids that might fall in the digging/maintenance wells some deep up to 50 meters and also a problem for the new buildings rising all around Marrakech, that might need some special foundations to prevent from collapsing in the ground.
The khettaras are the reason why Marrakech was an endless garden, with palm trees that now are disappearing, dieing of a non curable disease. The population has lost memory of the scenario when everything was irrigated by the underground tunnels, there were fishes in the khettaras, there was life in and around the catch basins, there was life and now there is a desert and a forest, but the latter is made of pillars, with branches for the air cooling systems to grow and a storm of satellite dishes on the roofs.
This is the counter offer of the government to a lifestyle, the one you can still witness in the Medina and that of the rural settlements once outside the city walls. It’s all politics, it works, as the Romans used to do: “Divide et impera”.
Create monads with no doors or windows, so that envy can grow and ignorance can flourish.
Rain in the Medina is just a drop in this ocean, a cleaning hand that will wipe off the superficial dust, people are still digging in the dirt.
ARCHIVE – Marrakech – part 2 – the blue vase
The demiurge is a concept I got acquainted to when I was in architecture school, it was something that professors wanted us to understand, because it’s not just a “maker”, it is someone that instils its soul into what he creates, it can be identified with G*d, but not necessarily, a human can be a path through which a specific essence can be inherited by the objects of art he makes.
This is what the story of the blue vase is all about.
Madame reached Marrakech at the end of her career, a life made of meetings, deadlines, business proposals. The big holding she was working for had its branches in different areas, she was primarily involved with the travel and hotels field all she was after was organizing resources and plans for the leisure time of the customers.
A life arranging other people’s travels brought her to the point of thinking about a retirement somewhere far from the grey skys of France, the vineyard area in the south was out of reach and the cost of life, since the arrival of the euro currency was not an sustainable any more.
Memories of the past and a youth spent travelling, when the world was a place to discover and the lonely planet and routard guides had not pornographically revealed all the secrets, unveiled a place tha had been sitting in the back of her mind for a while, Marrakech, the colourful and vivacious city where many europeans from France or England used to go, set of so many movies that the landscape was by that time familiar.
Restoring the beautiful riad a friend spotted in the Medina was taking a while, it was a plan she had fully detailed, nothing was to be left behind, details, crafts, knick-knacks and a variety of products coming directly from the suq.
The dedalus of streets, when you have a purpose, opens up its beauty, it reveals the colours you are looking for, to match the paint of the court, the pale ceramic white needed a stroke of blue that could remind immediately of the blue sky left outside the door as you enter the riad.
It took a few weeks to find the right tone of blue, the vase was still in the making, when Madame started her research, at the furnace of master Eyal Solomon, his hands crafted a fine shape, as big as a newborn baby, with a nice cap and a handle on top of it as small and graceful as a nipple of a young woman.
The vase was exposed in the window of the Solomon’s family run shop, but it did not last for so long, the time was right for Madame to spot it and bargain over it, the price they agreed upon made both parts happy about the deal. The vase had a discreet grace of typical of those things that hold a spirit within, a spirit that speaks about home, cozyness and style.
The vase had the grace of the new owner and the identity of the demiurge, the unspoken agreement was for the master potter to enhance the first, and for Madame to carry the latter in her new house.
Madame brought the new purchase home, proud of it, she would look at it here and there, hold it in front of her, look at it under various light scenarios, trying to prefigure its shape and presence in her life.
The place for the new china was found in the entrance hall, right by the main door.
A few hours after the arrival of the new purchase at the house the door was hit by a rock that left a void in the heart of the lone tenant of the three storey building, not too long and another stone was to reach the thin wooden surface, more where to come after, but the only thing Madame could see as she opened the door were the thin legs of kids fleeting.
No day would pass without a few rocks would reach the door flying, two or three in a row, the aim was to make a loud noise and then the sound of little feet running away.
Madame was surprised and shocked, there was no reason why all of a sudden, after a few months she decided to move to that riad, her house was under attack by the kids of the quarter. She decided to question one of the closest neighbour, that had disappeard as the stones throwing season started.
Hussein, a hard working mason, living in the neighbouring riad with his large family, could not bear the fierce glances of the little strong lady: “Madame, je suis desolé, je ne peut pas parler de ce sujet”.
The stones kept on falling on the thin door, the lads kept on running, without laughters.
Hussein was questioned again, there was no answer.
The morning after the taste of breakfast was bitter and sugar would not have made it any sweeter as she kept on staring at the vase.
The rocks kept on falling since one day Madame was able to catch one of the kids right before he could fleet and her grasp was filled with wrath as the eyes of the little boy where wondering what his destiny could be.
“Quesque qui se passe! Pourquoi tu jette des pierres contre ma porte!”
“Le vase, tu est le vase!”
Madame let the hold, the boy ran away, the question remained, what is this story about the vase?
“Hussein, Hussein!” Madame was calling her nighbour while slamming the brass hand shaped knocker on the door.
“Quesque voulez vous Madame?” a door filtered voice answered.
“Quesque c’est l’histoire du vase! Je ne comprende pas la relation entre le vase et les pierre!”
“… le vase … est fait par maitre Eyal … n’est pas?”
“… oui je suppose, c’est le magasin où je l’ai acheté, il y a quelque probleme?
“Nous ne voulons pas des juifs dans notre quartier”
Madame is not Jewish, but she felt like one in that very moment, and this is a true story heard in a glooming night in Marrakech. The rocks did not hit Madame’s door any more, but she has them all, piled up by the vase.
This story is inspired by a real event that took place in Marrakech but names and charachters have been modified if not invented.