It began with flowers from the Peacock Pavilions rose garden.
Cat Blinky oversaw their placement in the fountain. ...
and in vases on the table.
Chef Ellis from Australia, was concocting in the kitchen.
And the food was served in Moroccan mosaic patterned dishes.
There was eating.
And, then of course, dessert.
Talking went on late into the night.
And in the end all that was left as a reminder were the lanterns -- still lit -- swinging from the ceiling.
It started out with a dream. That's all.
And then it became a hope, a wish. And then....then it became a quest.
There were tears, there was hand wringing, there were moments of desperation. Because in the face of obstacles it's all too tempting to look behind you longingly at the path whence you once came.
But there was perseverance, too.
And what was once this. Became this.
Peacock Pavilions. A guest house in Marrakech. Handmade with love.
Now taking reservations:-)
I wasn't prepared, you see. No, I wasn't prepared.
For the beauty.
For the organic right-ness, rising up out of the dust.
Like a thing for which words haven't yet been invented.
The Great Mosque at Djenne, Mali. Centuries old. Forever contemporary.
I was in Mali, I was in Djenne, when I met him. He was there in front of the mosque selling string. Selling magic string.
My Malian colleague was deep in discussion with him, and money exchanged hands. When I asked what was on offer, I was told it was string. It was magic string to cure bad backs. One simply tied it around the waist against bare skin and there it would do its business until your back felt better, so much better. Really, I said. How very interesting, I said. Tell me more, I said.
I asked the seller how the string's magic had been procured. He and my friend both gave me a sharp look. It appears that was a terribly impolite question; after all, everyone knows that magicians don't reveal their secrets.
And so I asked the next best thing -- if there was a money back guarantee. And the seller peered at me straight in the eyes and said, Yes. Yes, there is. And so it was that I dug in my pocket and I paid for my string. My very own magic string.
In the days to come, morning after morning, night after night, my Malian colleague exclaimed that his back -- his aching back -- had never felt better. It was remarkable. Why, he was positively nimble.
And deep inside my bag, safely in a pocket, there my string lay, waiting, just waiting, one day to do its magic. For me.
