Marrakech, Part 1: Paradise Lost

Views of the Mountains from our Hotel: Welcome to Morocco!

Finding ourselves obligated to leave the Schengen zone because we lack a long-stay permit in Italy, Urie and I decided to go to Africa. (Our other choice was Scotland, which, though attractive, remains cold in February… and expensive at any time of the year.)

Our flight was uneventful but our arrival in the airport terminal should have given us a hint of what was to come. Before we had recuperated our sole suitcase for this ten-day trip, we were in a line that curved in itself more than the number of days we are to spend in this country. There were literally thousands of people who had had the same idea as us or who were simply returning to their homeland (and I am NOT exaggerating here); thousands, I tell you. It took more than an hour to clear customs (and get our much needed passport stamp, establishing that we had, indeed, vacated Italy for the required time).

Life Right outside of the Sangho

The taxi ride was interesting: a sign stuck on the hood of a car, no meter or ID card to legitimize the profession of our driver, and complete lack of knowledge in regards to our hotel (no GPS either). At one point, our cabbie stated he believed the hotel had closed or was under repairs, which, thank goodness, was not the case. I don’t know what I would have done in either case.

After calling a “friend,” our driver finally found out where to take us; somewhere beyond the Palmeraie, where Alain Delon and Gilbert Becaud have houses. (For those who don’t know: the former is a French movie star, still active but better known in the 60s and 70s; the latter is a singer, whose hits were written by a Marakechki.)

We finally made it to our hotel completed the registration papers, and were taken to our room, tired and hungry.

Welcome to the Sangho!

Looks Are Deceiving

My impressions of the hotel: It reminds me greatly of Hot Springs, Va. Not in architecture or style, but in purpose and unmet expectations. If anyone’s been to Hot Springs, you know that it is a turn-of-the-previous-century resort that wants to be glam (and probably was a long time ago) but cannot shake off a sense of passé and better times. The Sanghho Privilège, in the same vein, has seen better days though the personnel will do everything in its power to keep the illusion alive. It is comfortable, organized, and exclusive. The fact that it is about 7 km from town adds to the aura of protection from the outside world it wishes to convey.

Welcome Center

Internet Conncetion 

Leads to Our Room

Reading Nook, Part of Our Room

Yet, something is not quite right. I don’t know if it’s the fact that it’s a small gated community,  or the idea that most of the rooms to the main building are empty and give it a sense of “oubli,” but we are living in a sort of limbo while we are in the Sangho. There are three or four restaurants in the complex (only two opened as far as I can tell), a theater whose doors remain closed, two pools (one of which is a well-kept secret), a gym I have yet to find, a spa where I’ve seen only two people braving the experience (30% off in February and March!), and infinite activities listed that only take place “when we have enough people.” (Thus, I have yet to see a demonstration of a promised exotic “danse marrocaine.” The  daily 10:00 a.m. yoga session was offered during the weekend only, and the volleyball tournament boasts a net over the pool but no players.)

From Our Small Balcony

What we have is a simple case of ghost town. Is it because we are in the off-season or simply because other hotels have trumped the business of the Sangho? I don’t know. What I do know: there’s a group of Swiss semi-pro soccer champs here spending the week training (they are rather quiet), and an influx of German retirees who come around 7:00 p.m. every night to enjoy the gastronomic buffet of the place. 

Grown on the Premises, Eaten on the Premises

The dining room has more signs in German than in Arabic or French. In fact, we have been greeted with a “Guten Abend” on our first night to get something to eat quickly (and some confusion when I answered the salutation in French). Either, 1. my pseudo resemblance with Germans comes out loudly—anywhere I go in Europe I am mistaken for a Deutsch citizen; OR 2. I look like I could be retired, living my last years in Marrakech with my grand-son (or a boy toy).

Conference Room from the Outside

Urie is enjoying himself tremendously. Give him a pool and an internet connection, and he is in pseudo heaven. While there are two pools, the internet connection is a little more questionable. It’s taken us three days to connect to the Wi-Fi (which worked once the weekend crowd disappeared and only in the main building. Urie likes the décor and general ambiance, the abundance of clementines at meals, and the five cats that roam the pool area. If he is happy, so am I. But I can't help thinking that this is not Morocco. This is any resort area in any city of the world. We will have to explore the country, one step at a time.

In and out on a jiff!